(2014-11-04) Running with the Tracksuits
Running with the Tracksuits
Summary: After being caught by the Russian Mafia, and using their various talents to get away, Hawkeye and Domino join up to discuss the situation. (Language Use)
Date: IC Date (2014-11-04)
Related: None
NPCs: None
Scene Runner: NA
Social/Plot: Plot

Close encounters with the Russian mob, Tracksuit variety or otherwise, tends to be bad for one's health. Maybe it's sheer luck that the three managed to get away, some in better shape than others. Days later Domino decides to call Barton's phone, leaving a message if she has to. Come find her at the East River, she'll be here until three in the afternoon.

Here is where she sits, perched on the very edge of a crumbling cement ledge overlooking the river with her legs tucked in close, huddled into her trench for warmth against the cool wind off of the water. There isn't much sun to be had, the world painted in shades of steel grey with the bustling pulse of the city only a few hundred feet to her back. Two tall styrofoam cups sit beside her, slapped with the logo of a high name coffee shop which guarantees she paid through the teeth for the privilege of parading their logo around.

The brew isn't half bad, either.


Barton got the call, got the message. The fact that he didn't answer it wasn't out of lack of desire; he just couldn't drag his sorry ass out of bed. Not without taking a liver lethal dose of ibuprofin before the attempt.

Call him crazy, or call him dedicated, or even curious, but the archer is keeping the 'date' on the riverfront. With hands dug deep down in jeans pocket, and layers of t-shirt, sweatshirt and hoodie, Barton makes his appearance, looking a little worse for wear in the bruises and scratches that can be seen on his face. Still, he's vertical, and if anyone asks him, it's an improvement over the past couple of days.

Wandering up, along the side, one hand comes out to snag the cup of coffee. Lifting the cup with his 'good' hand at the top, he tilts the hot drink to take the first tentative swallow before his greeting. It's remarkable, how things can be filled in a single utterance; concern, a relief to see the other, and a host of other messages.



Domino turns with the greeting, looking up at the archer with a narrowing of her eyes. "Jeezus, you look like shit."

Once Captain Obvious has made his guest appearance she motions to the concrete slab beside her before looking back out across the river, her chin hovering just over the armored pads of her knees. "Didn't really go according to plan, huh."

Yet, by comparison..she's looking quite good. Real good, in fact. No bruises, no cuts or scrapes. Maybe it's hidden beneath her armor but she doesn't seem to be moving with those stiff, sore motions of someone that had recently gotten their rear handed to them.

"Heard they gave you the boot at twenty miles an hour. Never been a fan of that exit strategy. Though hey, welcome back to reality," she offers with a mock lifting, then actual drinking, of her own coffee. "I'm guessing they did the ol 'tenderize then threaten about staying out of their town' catch and release program."

Another glance at the archer has her adding "Bet I can identify which road they threw you across, too."


Clint shifts to sit down on the slab next to her, slowly. "You say the sweetest things. Just this morning, I was hearing your voice in my head uttering those same words." Once he's down, a long, soft exhale escapes the man as he makes the attempt to get even vaguely comfortable on cold concrete. Blue eyes look out on the expanse of the river before he snorts a laugh that is empty of humor and casts his head sideways to look at the merc. "You think?"

He takes a moment of quiet to swallow another half-mouthful of the warm liquid before settling it to cradle in his hands. "It was better than thirty miles an hour. I was getting a little nervous on the Cross Bronx Expressway." At least he's got a sense of humour about that.

"They can't kill me and they know it." Another glance is given Domino's way, and his brows rise. "What'd they do to you?" She's looking… clean. "You have a healing ability I don't know about?"


"Definitely just in your head," Dom replies with a thin smirk. "Nice to know you're thinking about me during the high points of your life."

The description of his 'great escape' makes the smirk grow a little further. "Twenty, thirty, kudos to you for having the time to look at the speedometer before they flung you back out into the wild. Learn anything else of use, like what their mileage is? If they're past warranty we can really lay the hurt on 'em."

Then there's the kicker. She takes another drink from her cup then tucks it in close with the rest of herself. Her attention remains locked onto the river, eyeing a fish which braves the trip to the surface in order to snap an insect out of the air. There's only one way to answer such a question. It's not her fault that life isn't fair.

"They offered me a job."


"It's what keeps me going," is given in a deadpan before Clint tilts the cup again and takes a couple more good swallows. "Thanks for the coffee, by the way." Have to get that out of the way.

Now, the SHIELD agent moves such that he can get just a little more, or rather, a little less uncomfortable. "One of their tires is going flat, and they need an oil change in the worst way." With that response, Clint can't help the soft chuckle as the difficulties of the last few days are recalled. If one can laugh at it later, it means no psych eval for another year.

It's the waiting, and her own shifting of position that begins to give Clint a few clues. She's got no bruises, no scrapes, nothing. Either she's just that good, or—

For a long moment, Clint says nothing. Does nothing. His own gaze is locked on the river beyond, and watches as the seagulls cavort over the water for fish that may never surface. It takes him a few more moments that hang between them before he asks -the- question.

"You accept?"


The thanks is responded to with a dip of the albino's head, one of those 'don't worry about it' motions. "Somehow I just knew you were going to bring up the oil. No one ever checks the damn oil."

The silence which follows her ultimate admission is allowed to play out in its own time. There's things to watch, things to listen to, caffeine to ingest, warmth to try and cling to. The incoming cold still isn't enough to make her shy away from her fingerless gloves.

"Of course. It was either that or Chuckles was going to start carving pieces out of my leg after I gave him one worthy of fourteen stitches. It's not even the forced contract work, they've promised pay."

In fact, she got to set her own rates!

"Things are going to get a little more interesting," she says while freeing up one of her hands long enough to reach into a jacket pocket. One item is retrieved, then gently set on the dull grey berm between the two sitting forms. It's a single bullet, with Cyrillic characters carefully formed upon the shell casing.

"First one's a hit, straight up. 'A show of good faith.' You remember my Mexican gun runner buddies in Gotham?" she asks with a sidelong glance passed Clint's way. "Yuri knows I've got an in with their crew. Next I get to burn that bridge and declare myself on board with the Ruskies. He's going to ignite an all-out war between the two and throw my ass in the middle of it all. Lucky me."


"Can't miss the clackity-clack of the engine."

Still, Clint's more than happy to remain silent over the rest of it. Once the coffee is killed, he sets his cup along with the refuse of thousands of others during the course of several years and shoves both hands into his jacket pockets. "You gotta do what you gotta do to survive." He understands. He really does. Hell, Barton would get it if -he- was the target. Years of his life play out just like this, and those nine words have been repeated many times over the years.

It comes as no surprise that the Mexicans are in on this deal, and he finally looks beside him. "Paid, too, huh?" A soft whistle sounds before he inquires, "Pay better than the Mexicans?" Probably not. The bratva are cheap sons of bitches.

Though, as he considers her position, Clint shakes his head slowly and his tones are genuine, "We can protect you. And don't use me as an example. I didn't ask and I won't."


"Normally," Domino confirms regarding the pay, and the quantity of compared to the Mexicans. "But, this isn't normal. I've got my techniques. They're willing to pay what I demand, but I need to prove to them first-hand that I'm worth my going price."

Here she takes the bullet back, a very large bullet that might seem more at home with hunting grizzlies than people, then rolls it around in her fingers while eyeing it like she's appraising the value of a piece of jewelry.


"What makes you think that I'd need the protection?" she pointedly asks. "Or that I would want it? Barton..haven't you figured it out yet?" she asks while turning to make eye contact. "I -live- for this shit."

With emphasis on the 'live' part.

"All of this SHIELD 'yes sir, no sir' bull isn't what concerns me. It's a stupid game but one I've played before. I don't want life in the Division to keep me from having -fun.-"

"This bullet," she continues while unhooking one of her legs to hang off of the side of the berm, coffee getting set aside, "is a three-fifty grain Action Express. Only a handful of weapons will take a fifty, and I don't own one. The -target- does. I get to bust in on the kid, -take his gun from him,- drop this into the tube, then put him down with his own iron. What other career path is going to give me that kind of challenge?"


The gaze lingers as Clint studies her, listens to the life under her words, the vitality. The thrill of the kill. Here, it's right here where they differ. Mostly.

Okay, somewhat.

Taking a deep breath, his smile tightens and finally he looks away and back over the river. "I'm not going to stop going after the Russians. At one point, they're gonna have you come after me." His hands remain shoved in those pockets as proof against the growing chill of the day, and of the season. "You know that, right?"


"Of course I do," Domino quickly replies while tucking the bullet back into its designated pocket. "And by that time I'll know the ins and outs of their operation enough to yank the rug right out from under Yuri's wrinkly old ass. I don't take sides or call allegiance to one band of thugs over another, Barton. If the coin is good, so's my work. But, if I put a slug through your head then my working relationship with the Division is going to take a very ugly turn. This is part of why I called you in the first place."

Because for as neutral as she tries to be, claims to be, she's never going to forget that she's getting paid to do the dirty work of the people that ran over that poor woman with a city bus. Just to send a message. Things like that cannot be forgotten, as much as she tries.

Turning slightly with her arms draped around the one raised leg, she gives the archer her undivided attention. For once. "These guys have been a problem for you. It's personal. Fortunately, they tend to not ask the right questions." Like why she was outside Clint's apartment a few nights ago. Or why she had been walking beside him the day of the bus accident.

"I'm offering you a chance to have eyes and ears on the inside. At the same time I'm helping clean up some of Gotham's street-side gun traders. I'm such a fucking hero, right? Now, I'm -hoping…- that you'll be able to do me a solid here and keep SHIELD off of my tail while I'm busy helping both you and all of the GCPD with their own troubles."


"I don't want to have to get a kill order on you because you're looking like a wild animal that has to get put down," Clint comes back with. "I can't promise you you're not gonna show up on SHIELD radar." But, he might be able to mitigate it. But— and there are more than a few buts in this, apparently.

"If you want SHIELD off your back, you're gonna have to play ball with them first. Which probably means joining up in some way, and them handing you a handler. That's just the guy that is the middleman between you and the Agency."

Even he had a handler. And so did 'Tash. Still do, after a fashion. It's just that their 'handler' is pretty damned high-ranking.

"I can't go too far off field without a damned good reason, and this turns my personal problem into a problem for the Agency, and I'm not sure I like that." Could be another reason why Clint lives where he does. And how he does.

A small stone is picked up, and he tosses it into the river, it landing with a soft *plonk*. Another one follows it, landing in virtually the same spot. Over, and over, he tosses the little bits of stone and concrete.

"I want to say 'yeah, go for it, Domino.. I do. But I can't promise a damned thing." Intel is one thing, and that's how she'd gotten paid before by him. Now… now it's flat out killing, and if she's caught?

Clint exhales in a sigh and shakes his head, his attention swinging back to the woman beside him. "I'll do what I can."


"Tell 'em you've got a tracker on my neck," Domino suggests. "That always works, right? Look, I may enjoy what I do but that doesn't make me a feral." She still drinks top-shelf coffee, thank you very much. "All I'm asking for is some effort on your part. The more slack you can give me with those boys the more damage I can do."

Too soon?

"Well, this is a pickle," she follows with some of the energy pulled out of her tone. "I can't well join them now when I'm trying to prove to these Tracksuit bitches that I'm batting for their team. Even if I could, do you guys expect me to stroll right into the Division's headquarters and ask for a freaking application? Thought this was a by invite only kinda gig." Oh, and "Nice aim," she sides with an incline of her chin toward The Spot in the river. "Do that enough and you'll have a little island where you can put all of your troubles."

Yep. Trying is all she can ask of the guy. "I'll keep bribing you with coffee," she casually replies while pulling herself upright (and -there's- some tell-tale joint stiffness. She did go through a plate glass window not too long ago.) Once upright she passes a hand down his way to help him return to the land of verticality.

"Let me give you a little something more to work with. A bit of control over the situation to appease your Divisionite Gods. When," and not -if,- "this starts to get too ugly, you give me a call. I'll exfiltrate so quickly it'll make their heads spin. If they know you've got one hand on the kill-switch for this op they oughta give you a little more to work with, which means I get a little more to work with."

It's also the best offer he's going to get.


'Nice aim' is given a look, one long and deadpanned. Not a hint of anything is on that face before a smirk slowly rises. "It's what I do."

Clint gets it, he does. He does it all the time with his partner. When she's on assignment, even, he's covering for her where he can. A shift here, a movement there; everything ends up falling into place, eventually. It's how he operates.

Sliding around so he's got feet back on shore, Clint shakes his head and rises to his feet deliberately. "I got this." Once he's on his feet, hands are shoved back into his jean pockets, and he begins to answer.

"I'll do what I can, Dom. Promise. It's not that much different from my SOP. It really isn't. Only at other times, they're on the team."

The car that he came in is park a short walk away, and he nods in that direction. "Walk with me," comes as a request. More a statement, but the request is somewhat implied. "If you give me the kill switch, that'll help. A whole lot."

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