1965-05-03 - Clint's Very, Merry Un-Birthday
Summary: Fitz presents Hawkeye with the newly engineered warheads for his arrows for the upcomming mission, Clint gets to see more of his long term finely crafted plan come to fruition, and it is absolutely not actually Clint's birthday…but the receptionist doesn't know this! She doesn't get that clearance
Related: None
Theme Song: None
clint fitz 

Fitz was still working even late and now there was a new new easy bake over propped up by the remains of the old one. Welding equipment was out and there were familiar smells not unlike Clint's workbench that was scorched. Of the bay of monitors he seemed to be using one to pull up a schematic, in formula and ascii blueprint for a wiring plan. "noooo, noooo…why did they…. this won't work."

"Are you working on a new rig for Hasbro?" Clint comments casually as he enters the space. He's still half way in uniform, which for him looks nothing like standard SHIELD issue because FUCK YOU, THAT'S WHY! Still, the flexible-armored vest is unzipped and hanging open in front over skin tight black underarmor shirt. His quiver hangs from one shoulder laxly, bow in the attached holster.

His pants are not unzipped. Lucky day.

Hands in his pockets, Clint peers over Fitz' shoulder at the schematic, tilting his head slightly. "I'm not telling you how to do your job, but you could probably throw the old one out. I don't know if it's doing ya a whole lot of good."

Fitz was biting his knuckle and did a double take arching an eyebrow, "I thought you were still asleep hiding under Director Carter's desk. I didn't tell her." Spinning in his chair he pointed to teh desk, yon, "Well," began the Scotsman, "If by working for Hasbro you mean making toys for children? I suppose. Those toys in the briefcase are for you."

"Getting your eight hours is important, Leo," Barton adopts a most calm and soothing tone, mocking the SHIELD therapist's tone. Still squinting at the schematic. Right up until Fitz turns around in his chair and points yonder. Clint's attention snaps right back to him with indeed childlike excitement for a brief moment. "Really? It is my birthday?" Heading in that direction, he mentions as an aside as he adeptly spins the briefcase around and gives the latches a flick, "I'm really asking. I don't remember and it's redacted on my paperwork. I've just been /telling/ people I'm a Libra. I've got no idea if it's true or not." He opens the case up.

|ROLL| Fitz +rolls 1d20 for: 18

Fitz arched an eyebrow and considered this. He swiveled and flicked a switch holding up a finger not to speak. "Ummm, allo? Pamela do you copy?" He waited for a scratchy "Pamela here." "Um, yis, did you get the memo we left you? About the surprise cake for Agent Barton's birthday?" You know, when you a European Scientist everything sounds incredibly official doesn't it? Fitz likewise had a gift for sounding curt and incredibly impatient when he needed to be. "Um, I don't have… Yes I think it was here a moment ag- Yes. Of course it is. It's on it's way, sir." Because no receptionist likes to look disorganized. likely someone was scrambling like mad right now. With a sigh he spoke back into the mic , "Good because he'll be back soon and this is important." The sigh sold it.

He spun back in his chair looking at Clint deadpan, "Apparently, it is… Also cake sounds pretty sterling fortoday doesn't it?" Inside the case was what looked like a small array of six 'bullets' to the layman. For Clint's eye he'd be able to discern those had screw tips for an arrow shaft on them. This… was some manner of arrow delivered payload.

Clint is busy examining the new toys that Fitz has supplied to him, eyeballing the tips, he doesn't seem to even pause to make sure nothing is going to bite him before he's picking one out of the fitted foam and giving it a look over, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger.

Right up until he hears 'cake', and Clint's attention veers wide in Fitz's direction.

Ohhhh poor, poor Pammy.

Clint goes back to loking the tip over curiously. It looks innocuous enough, but of course he immediately knows what it is. C'mon now. Balanced well, aerodynamic. Clint pulls out one of his arrows and unscrews the oddly shaped payload from it to screw the new one one.

Clint's got the arrow knocked and aimed casually at the far wall of the lab, testing the balance on the pull when Fitz finally turns back around. "You really are an evel genius, Fitz. I'm glad we're friends. So. What's this puppy do? Other than compliment my natural sexiness."

Fitz folded arms in his labcoat proud of himself. Oh yes, the smug was showing. "Weeeeell, since you asked nicely." So pleased, "And since it is apparently now your birthday, which, many happy returns, Four part set in six small warheads. Those with a copper head on them are a low and high level EMP. Now they're sensitive electronics. When the head makes impact the contacts connect inside the head of the device. The one there with one orange band around it will take out the thing it is touching. Three bands will kill electronics in a 60 meter radius. That' s umm… just under two hundred feet imperial. Thaaaat one there in the aluminium is magnetic and will pull a shortrange magnetic field, and the aluminium withthe red tip? Syncs withthe BF Reader and operates as a tracking device. Again, sensitive electronics in there so we couldn't put them inside apistol soooo… looks like you're going to be having some fun with those in field." He paused noting, "and I want standard feedback forms filed so I know what's working."

Still internally waiting for the day that he pulls back on one of those arrows before Fitz tells him what they are, and the Scottsman freaks out over some volitile, world ending stuff… … Clint will need to wait another day while he listens to Fitz explain the variations in each type. He relaxes his stance and peers at the case and the myriad markers on each of them. A crooked smile, deeply gratified when Fitz tells him that it's too delicate to fire from a gun.

Suck it, everyone else.

The mention of standard feedback forms getting filed lifts a wry chuckle straight out of his chest. "Yeah," answering sarcastically. "Sure." Smiling, Clint looks back at Fitz and his brows pop upwards. "Oh, you're being serious."

Fitz furrowed his brow. "Ya know, Barton, I give you a gift and the least you can do is give a guy some notes so I can continue to improve my work. It's how I actually contribute to our team and our success, thank you." He laughed shaking his head, "C'mon, it goes both ways. You want groovy gadgets you have to give me something to work with." Veryserious! As serious as the all too familiar car parked on camera 4.

Clint groans as if Fitz were putting the screws to him. He puts the one fitted arrow away in his quiver and shuts the case again, leaving the remaining tips to play with later. "Okay, okay, quit it with the guilt and the logic, I get it." His tone shifting to that of the measured cadence of a kindergartener, prompted to say a rehersed line to a teacher. "Thank you Fitz, for making me fun toys to play with and helping us all keep the world safe. You are an inspiration, and way, way, way smarter than me. I will do my paperwork." Flashing a sly smile at the man with every good intention to make good on that promise. Really!

Sharp eyes flick over the monitors again. "What were you working on—" Then leap toward the security monitor on camera four, Clint walks in that direction, pulled there by compulsion, he squints, then slowly smiles. Not smirk, not snicker, not leer, he's smiling. "Good job…"

Fitz seemed satisfied with the pain in the details that Clint was giving him that he'd do it. Yay. "Hey if I didn't thi- yeah alright I can move, geeze. You hear about the assignment yet? We'll be getting briefed soon. Short story on the emp the longrange one will scramble any computers and video feed and radio transmission in a contained radius, but the deployment has to survive. Soooo you might have gotten volunteered based on versatility. I dunno. Been a while since I've run an op to be honest."

The feed on camera four was in fact that of a very distinct '64 GTO. As a black and white feed it was hard to tell more but that the seats weren't black left the plausibility that yes, the mid-tone grey was a red leather interoir. And there foes Pamela running her ass off across the parkinglot keys and handbag in hand. This was the look of 'of yehah THAT cake, of course- oh shit we need a cake and I lost a memo scuttle(tm).

Clint's attention becomes separated, pivoting one foot out so he can flick his attention easily between Fitz and the monitor, but he's definitely distracted wheen he replies. "Nah, I haven't gotten it yet, but I haven't checked my alerts, yet." Because NAP. "What're we, uh, taking out?" Chuckling as Pam goes hustling across the street. "There she goes…" His eyes flick over the myrad other camera feeds, looking for the person who belongs to the car on any of them.


Clint's smile expands again as he turns fully toward the monitor, missing whatever Fitz says after a certain point, hearing just the Peanut's Teacher WUH WUH-WUH-WUH, WUH-WUUUUH while he watches the awkward exchange of the plant agent in front of the store, asking JP if he's here to pick up or if he has an order, wondering why the hell the guy is scoping out the place. It's suspicious activity, and it's not like JP is particularly stealthy in a joint like this, looking around, rather than in a bar. The plant gets a little twitchy and Clint mutters under his breath, "C'mon…play it off smooth."

|ROLL| Fitz +rolls 1d20 for: 15

Fitz was carrying on in an excitable drone of technical jargon. There was a pause where the droning stopped replace by a clear, "Barton, I swear talking to you is like trying to have a meaninful conversation with a marmet. She's bringing the cake back! it's not like she's going to eat it in front of you like…say… a danish, ya great git." Point to FItzy there.

Where Wing Sing was concerned? To be fair it IS a functioning restaurant. He's just going to ask for an order that he was here to pay for and pick up. Reservation under Jean-Pierre, or Lapin perhaps… and likely having to fight through a wall of two clashing heavy dialects before seeing the man on camera bury his face in his hands when the woman offers him a pen and paper to write down what he's trying to say. There is the payoff point of frustration but he gave it a go. Finally seeing the tag on the counter he sighed looking pained and pointed. THAT. ONE. Finally!

Barton still gives vague 'uh huh's as Fitz launches into excitable talk, but he really is not listening at all, even when Fitz mentions that Pam will be back. He flickers a glance over at long last toward the end. "Oh yeah. I owe you one of those, don't I? Sorry. I'm listening, really."

No he isn't. He's smiling like an idiot when he sees the frustrated worker hand over a container of spring rolls over to an equally frustrated Jean-Pierre. His instructions as to what to write into the inside lid has Clint looking rather satisfied with life at the moment. "Well, I shouldn't be here when she gets back, and I gotta check my box if you're saying we got a mission coming up. It's not this weekend is it? I sort of have big plans on the 5th."

Fitz sighed and said flatly, "A few billion Terrans have business on the fifth, Barton. I don't know when deploy is going to be. Fury or Coulson likely have the details on that." In short: Fitz didn't know either. He sighed and pulled out his other tray of 'things he's working on'(tm). "Barton, just… be back in an hour or I'm going to eat that cake without you." Nope! has not forgotten about that danish, sir!

On the camera There seemed to be a man with dark hair and almost as many bruises on one bandaged arm as he had on shirt. They seemed unhindered by this as they offered over money for the food and there was a pause as he poked through the bag and looked at the older woman manning the cash register giving her a wry smile; one hand making a pinching motion. Was he asking her about a lobster? Ah! Fortune cookie. It was a show for anyone who ready subtle body language and pantomime. For Barton it came across clearly as 'I dunno what those folded cookies are called but I need one and may be your best friend, kind lady.' Smart play though: asking for a cookie with a memo in it. He did crack the lid on teh spring rolls and there was a look of triumph. The man had no guile, truly. If he was angry, ya knew it. If he was happy, you knew it. If he was messing with you he definiately knew it. This? This was someone who looked like they discovered Legos for the first time. He stuffed the ne spring roll in his face and had a dance in his step be-bopping back out to his car. The door opened on its own to greet him. The best part of that skill made it very easy to dine and drive. But for now the car just sat there withthe open container sitting on the dash being observed.

"And send me pictures of yourself doing it, too?" Clint comments to Fitz with a crooked smile. Yeah, he had that coming. He lifts the case and shoulders his quiver, watching the figure practically dance out of the building and onto the street back to his car. Clint's smile softens and then brightens before coming to resolve at a low thrum of warmth. Yeah. That was amazing.

But it made his stomach feel weird.

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