Put On Your Face & Let's Pretend (PG)
Title: Put On Your Face & Let's Pretend
Rating: PG
Word Count: 820
Summary: Two men, after the blue light has faded and they are their own again, go for a drink.
Clint waits outside the lab doors for the scientist. He tilts his head in invitation and the older man nods heavily. The sky is dark, rain clouds rolling in.
“Should have figured you'd find me,” Erik says, once they're seated in the dim lighting of a bar that's seen better days. “You always see too much.” He stares back at Clint as the marksman looks him over. Selvig has gained most of the weight he had shed under Loki's nonstop machinations but his hair is going grey at a faster rate than before.
There are dark circles under the doctor's eyes and Clint knows they match his own.
The waitress interrupts the silence with the crackle-pop of her gum. “Beers are on the house for veterans,” and sets them on the table with a girlish smile.
“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Clint murmurs. Erik's lips twist up wryly.
“This is us, home from war.” Both men wait until the frost has receded from the handle of the tankard; too many memories bound up in ice and cold to consider touching it voluntarily.
Sipping liquid as companions, it takes three beers for Erik to unwind. Clint has sunk further into his seat but his eyes remain alert.
“Do you remember?” The marksman's voice is low, hardly louder than the other patrons. Erik sets his glass down heavily and his shoulders hunch in.
“I have flashes,” the other man admits. “I'll be working on calculations and they'll be finished before I know what's happened. I wake up in the night and reach for a pen, the equations produced are unlike anything I've seen before. Even your Mr. Stark doesn't fully understand some of them.”
“No doubt he's giving it his best attempt,” Clint contributes. He doesn't say anything about the missing time on the range, the nightmares tinged in blue, the fear that his body still isn't his own, months later.
Erik shreds a napkin between his hands, white paper fluttering in strips to the scarred wooden table. “I wonder what I did to deserve this,” the man muses. His beer is nearly gone and Clint waves the waitress over for more.
“Wrong place, wrong time.” Clint says with finality. “There was nothing either of us could have done. Humans against a crazy psycho god? We didn't stand a chance.” He drains his beer and reaches for the fresh one.
“If only you sounded like you believed that yourself,” Erik responds. “It is easier to believe that it was simply a matter of that, rather than we had been singled out for some glorious purpose.”
“Glorious purpose?” Clint scoffs. “You were haggard and weeping on the roof when let go. So the cube showed you fancy things, that doesn't mean you should try to continue its work. In case you forgot, you nearly died from exhaustion and malnutrition.”
Erik's eyes narrow and bore into Clint's. “And what did you see, Hawk? You who hold yourself above, watching us all like ants from your perch.” Alcohol spills with a careless gesture, dripping down his fingers.
“I had a measure of peace,” Clint snaps. He falls back in his seat, like the words have broken something in him. The bar around them grows hushed, but it’s merely a lull in others’ conversations.
The astrophysicist shakes his head and drinks some more. Clint follows suit.
“It’s not enough to try and recreate it,” Erik says some time later. There are empty bottles on the table now, a half-wall set between them.
“It’s not the same,” Clint mutters. He uses blunt nails to begin peeling the paper labels off the sweating bottles in front of him. “It was a power that SHIELD got greedy with, just like everything else they touch.” Erik raises an eyebrow and calls for the check when it’s clear Clint is done baring his inner thoughts and that's all that is forthcoming.
They stumble back to the train and west over to Erik’s studio apartment that isn’t within SHIELD purview. (No doubt it’s bugged, doubly so post-attack, but Clint lets sleeping dogs lie once he catches sight of the couch against the wall and the effects of alcohol drag his limbs down.) He falls onto the cushions with a grateful but quiet sigh, echoed by Erik spitting toothpaste in the sink, flushing the toilet and the quiet click of the door shutting.
Morning light and sobriety will occur in scant hours and the men will forget they met for beer after beer and discussed the elephant in the room. Come morning, the conversation will never have happened and Erik will go back to his lab and research, Clint will go back to the range and his nest.
They will not interact but if they exchange looks every now and then in the cafeteria or hallway, it is their business. Their masks are airtight but to anyone who has been in their shoes.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 820
Summary: Two men, after the blue light has faded and they are their own again, go for a drink.
Clint waits outside the lab doors for the scientist. He tilts his head in invitation and the older man nods heavily. The sky is dark, rain clouds rolling in.
“Should have figured you'd find me,” Erik says, once they're seated in the dim lighting of a bar that's seen better days. “You always see too much.” He stares back at Clint as the marksman looks him over. Selvig has gained most of the weight he had shed under Loki's nonstop machinations but his hair is going grey at a faster rate than before.
There are dark circles under the doctor's eyes and Clint knows they match his own.
The waitress interrupts the silence with the crackle-pop of her gum. “Beers are on the house for veterans,” and sets them on the table with a girlish smile.
“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Clint murmurs. Erik's lips twist up wryly.
“This is us, home from war.” Both men wait until the frost has receded from the handle of the tankard; too many memories bound up in ice and cold to consider touching it voluntarily.
Sipping liquid as companions, it takes three beers for Erik to unwind. Clint has sunk further into his seat but his eyes remain alert.
“Do you remember?” The marksman's voice is low, hardly louder than the other patrons. Erik sets his glass down heavily and his shoulders hunch in.
“I have flashes,” the other man admits. “I'll be working on calculations and they'll be finished before I know what's happened. I wake up in the night and reach for a pen, the equations produced are unlike anything I've seen before. Even your Mr. Stark doesn't fully understand some of them.”
“No doubt he's giving it his best attempt,” Clint contributes. He doesn't say anything about the missing time on the range, the nightmares tinged in blue, the fear that his body still isn't his own, months later.
Erik shreds a napkin between his hands, white paper fluttering in strips to the scarred wooden table. “I wonder what I did to deserve this,” the man muses. His beer is nearly gone and Clint waves the waitress over for more.
“Wrong place, wrong time.” Clint says with finality. “There was nothing either of us could have done. Humans against a crazy psycho god? We didn't stand a chance.” He drains his beer and reaches for the fresh one.
“If only you sounded like you believed that yourself,” Erik responds. “It is easier to believe that it was simply a matter of that, rather than we had been singled out for some glorious purpose.”
“Glorious purpose?” Clint scoffs. “You were haggard and weeping on the roof when let go. So the cube showed you fancy things, that doesn't mean you should try to continue its work. In case you forgot, you nearly died from exhaustion and malnutrition.”
Erik's eyes narrow and bore into Clint's. “And what did you see, Hawk? You who hold yourself above, watching us all like ants from your perch.” Alcohol spills with a careless gesture, dripping down his fingers.
“I had a measure of peace,” Clint snaps. He falls back in his seat, like the words have broken something in him. The bar around them grows hushed, but it’s merely a lull in others’ conversations.
The astrophysicist shakes his head and drinks some more. Clint follows suit.
“It’s not enough to try and recreate it,” Erik says some time later. There are empty bottles on the table now, a half-wall set between them.
“It’s not the same,” Clint mutters. He uses blunt nails to begin peeling the paper labels off the sweating bottles in front of him. “It was a power that SHIELD got greedy with, just like everything else they touch.” Erik raises an eyebrow and calls for the check when it’s clear Clint is done baring his inner thoughts and that's all that is forthcoming.
They stumble back to the train and west over to Erik’s studio apartment that isn’t within SHIELD purview. (No doubt it’s bugged, doubly so post-attack, but Clint lets sleeping dogs lie once he catches sight of the couch against the wall and the effects of alcohol drag his limbs down.) He falls onto the cushions with a grateful but quiet sigh, echoed by Erik spitting toothpaste in the sink, flushing the toilet and the quiet click of the door shutting.
Morning light and sobriety will occur in scant hours and the men will forget they met for beer after beer and discussed the elephant in the room. Come morning, the conversation will never have happened and Erik will go back to his lab and research, Clint will go back to the range and his nest.
They will not interact but if they exchange looks every now and then in the cafeteria or hallway, it is their business. Their masks are airtight but to anyone who has been in their shoes.