1965-03-30 - Wow. This is. Barely recognizable...
Summary: Fire, bad. Two SHIELD agents battling it? Bad ass
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
clint fitz 

OoOoOooh fire's usually a bad sign! There should not be smoke pouring out of the lab. The end of room was blocked off with blast doors. Fitz grabbed a nearby fire extinguisher, pulled the pin and… threw it? Well at least he was quick at ducking his head. Something went pop like a thick balloon and then… a sizzling.

Where there's smoke, there's fire. And where there is fire, there's Clinton Barton. Safe bet, at least. It's like a signal fire. If he isn't there already, he will be shortly.

Clint finds the lab a second too late, casually sweeping his gaze around the space. At the smoke. The ducked down engineer. The smell of something exciting happening. "Why do I miss all the good stuff?"

Fitz coughed into his sleeve and looked up to Clint with a furrowed brow, "Just doooon't ask how it started. Suffice to say I might be right rubbish at making presents." He paused and thumbed at the door, "Might be weaponized still if you're interested. No guarantees for safety."

Clint stares at Fitz, sticking near the door in dead stop position with his hands in pockets. Elbows loose at his sides. Blinking dumbly at Fitz with a numb silence. Yes. Silence. He blinks and looks around, shifting his weight slightly from one foot to the other, seeming to try to grasp for something just out of reach. When he does speak, it's very quiet and thoughtful. "I'm. Trying very hard to think of something other than asking how it started." Another long pause, he gives up and shrugs. "Yeah, I've got nothing."

Fitz paused in rubbing his face with all eight fingers, parted them, and peered at Clint warily. "Ooooh fine, ask away." The scientist shook his head and cracked the door open again. One hand was gingerly placed to the door and then rest on the door. Okay that was cool to the touch. Fire suppression was working. "Look a normal 100w light bulb should not be reaching temperatures above 101 Celsius. Now while the filament direct can reach 2537.7 c? I don't think all of that was needed for ONE cookie. SO everything started off fine; as always fine. Then the bulb exploded, nutmeg conflagrated, and the lab started to go up."

clicking back into motion after his momentary stall, Clint angles a crooked smile in Fitz's direction while he meets the guy at the blast door, peering with low key vibrating interest. The explanation is eventually given a slow, boggled look back at Fitz. "Were you…making cookies in an EZ bake oven? And /this/ is what happened?"

Fitz knew, knew he was going to spend a while doing proverbial time for this one because Barton would never let him live this down. He didn't need three masters and a PhD/D. for that. The pained expression confirmed before he admitted in his rolling brogue, "Yeeeeees. Alright? Yes. I thought-" He paused and turned red in the face and shook his head starting over, "I thought Kitty would appreciate it as she's been up three nights on a coding project for us. What I don't think is that she'll appreciate coming into everything spelling of fire and burnt nutmeg."

"You thought /Kitty/ would appreciate cookies baked by a light bulb," Clint repeats. Oh yes. Fitz was going to catch flak on this. "Look at you, Cassanova, making baked goods with kids toys for chickies." Yeah. So much teasing. It was Clint's job as a friend and coworker. "Why not just use a normal oven, though? The novelty seems pretty, well, eh, limited…"

Fitz squint at Clint and waved his hands in circles, "Because I haven't been home in almost thirty hours, which is probably almost 48 in metric, and…admittedly they turn out so much better on the tiny stove from the bakery. I can't explain it." He hit the button for the blast doors that let out a seam of billowing smoke, "Good heavens that's a lot of smoke for one bulb. Besides I don't have anything like a cookie sheet. You got one?"

Clint's eyes roll upward briefly when Fitz makes the conversion to metric with time, as if he were doing the math, then purses his lips and nods. Yeah. Sounds about right.

The blast doors get cracked and Clint takes a step backward, letting the billowing smoke cascade through the door first. "Damn. Yeah it is… are you sure that nothing else was in that batter? Like C-4?" The archer tilting his head to the side and another step back. "No. But I've got six new stolen pint glasses that I didn't pick up. I think I have a teleportation portal in my apartment. Do we have a 'magical sciences' division. Think that's above my paygrade?"

Fitz flipped on the air fans and paused. "Well if they apparated via manifestation that might not constitute being 'stolen' unless the solid matter belonged to someone before hand." He paused and wrinkled his nose thinking on that one. "I'd ask Agent Maximoff or possibly Kitty about thinks that might transubstantiate." He held a sleeve up to his mouth to breathe. "You could be haunted by teh ghost of a bartender I guess. Or hobos. Not even like ghosts of hobos."

"Well, they're all inscribed with different bar names, so the theory is that they belonged somewhere else once upon a time." Clint continues casually, still boggling over the amount of smoke with a slow and wondrous shake of his head. "I am actually /impressed/ by the amount of smoke, Fitz. I mean, usually this kind of chaos is reserved for, well," Clint grins, bold and cocksure at Fitz. "Me."

"The Scarlet Witch? Yeah, I don't need to know about it /that/ badly." Clint decides with a low grunt. "hobos. Hobos are a possibility."

Fitz let the fan clear things out. "Yeah, I know. You must be very proud of me. Still… one cookie shouldn't be capable of making this do that." He wasn't a chef but from the point perspective of quantum physics? Yeah no. He grabbed a set of safety thermal mittens usually reserved for lab equipment that might be unfortunately or appropriately hot. In this case, both. "So hobos are still on the table. Look it's not my business but there is an impressive possibility you did that when you weren't paying attention." It was then they finally got enough of the smoke cleared out that they were looking at the shrapnel on the EZ-bake oven. Fitz got another fire extinguisher; proper one, not the foam grenade like the other, and looked to Clint. "This has a great many more parts than it seems it needs.

"I am actually sort of proud," Clint admits, then squints back at Fitz. "Is that weird? Doesn't feel weird. Ah." disregarding the concern a moment later in favor of checking out the chaos that Fitz has wrought. "Wow. This is. Barely recognizable," Clint laughs into his words, grinning at Fitz. "Well, you're not a great baker, Mittens." He reaches over and claps the brilliant man on his shoulder, giving him a wiggle. "It's good to know you're still a mortal man, Fitz. I was starting to wonder."

Fitz had to snerk at that. "Yeaaaaah well-" words were cut off the some red light blinked. It was a gut instinct that should not be a gut dinstinct but as a force of pure reaction Fitz smashed the red blinking light with the butt end of the fire extinguisher. His eyes were huge like saucers waiting… something. Finally when nothing came he slooooowly looked to Clint and said, "Let us never speak of this again."

The light blinks and Clint jumps, eyes going wide, grabbing Fitz's coat with one curled fist. "Kill it! Kill it!" Once it is decidedly dead, he nods. "Agreed." Staring down at the wreckage with a goofy half-quirked smile on his face.

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