Logs:Operation: W.H.I.S.K.E.Y.

Operation: W.H.I.S.K.E.Y.
Watching Honored Institutions Shamefully Keeping Equity Yonder
Dramatis Personae Clint, Natasha	2020-08-25 "At least there aren't any skulls on our uniforms, huh?"
Location <NYC> Clint's Apartment - Hell's Kitchen
Though small, this studio has tall, stately windows that let out onto a fire escape with a commanding view of the streets below. The entryway is flanked with a closet on one side and a bathroom on the other, and is the only uncluttered space in the whole apartment. Brightly colored banners adorn the walls and all manner of puppets and stuffed animals line the shelves such that the entire place looks like a carnival in miniature. The floors are covered with busy central asian carpets and littered with plush cushions, except in the kitchenette, where the narrow counters are crowded with jars upon jars of custom seasoning blends and locally roasted coffees, all with ridiculous names. A tight spiral of floating stairs leads up to a loft half taken up by a big, fluffy bed and an armoire, the remainder of the space there given over to an L-shaped workbench below a pegboard laden with tools. It's a cool night, the windows thrown wide to let in the moderately fresh city air. The place is a wreck, honestly, the dining table barely visible beneath two stacks of pizza boxes and Jack Daniels' bottles, empty or near-empty--evidently Clint's primary source of nutrition lately--and a much-bookmarked copy of The Book of Mormon. The sink is full of novelty coffee mugs, and several more sitting on the counter beside it. There's a pile of dirty clothes in one corner beneath a post-it note that reads 'DIRTY!' and beside it two open sacks from Wong Laundry Service beneath a 'CLEAN(ish)!' sign. Clint has just emerged from the shower, hair spiky-damp, wearing old black pajama pants. He drifts over to the CLEAN(ish) laundry bags and, after some rooting, comes out with an ancient tatty purple t-shirt to pull over his head. There was a much-bookmarked copy of the Book of Mormon there, anyway. It has vanished, along with Clint's dog -- both book and Arrow up in the loft in the somewhat haphazard custody of one Natasha Romanoff, casual in black jeans, boots, and ribbed red tank. She leaves off her one-handed belly rubs to lean up against the balcony above, waggling the scripture up by her head. "Must've been a lonely year if you've already hit the contemplating joining a cult stage." Clint narrows his eyes as he turns toward his dining table, his posture shifting dramatically from lazy-slow to intense to lazy again the moment he spots Natasha. His expression goes through several permutations--surprise, relief, something like joy, perhaps, then settles back on relief. He lumbers over to the dining table. "Want pizza?" He keeps an eye out for her reply as he flips open the topmost box to reveal most of a cheese pie. "Or vodka?" He's pouring himself a glass of Jack, pizza evidently abandoned. "I'm not joining a cult," he assures her as he takes a sip. "But it has been a lonely year. You ever read that?" Book in hand, Natasha meanders back down the stairs, pushing a couple of bottles aside to clear room for her to hop up and sit on the edge of the dining table. "Well, I finished a chunk of Nephi while you were showering." She's flipping the book back open, resting it on one knee as she fishes out a slice of pizza. "Pretty sure there's better Bible fanfic out there. You finding God in here?" "Oh if it's the first Nephi, that's before things get *really* racist*." Evidently the company was enough to remind him to eat--Clint grabs a slice of pizza for himself, folding it lengthwise and taking a bite. Arrow has followed Natasha down the stairs and is now sitting politely, his gaze bouncing back and forth between the two humans expectantly as his tail wags. Clint shakes his head--unclear whether at the dog or the book. "No. Just...met a guy while I was undercover who made me think there might actually a God to find in there." His lips twitch, not really a smile. "How are you, Nat? That was a long one." "They do start right in on how evil the Jews are, though." Natasha's fingers drum against the page she is on. "Musta been some guy. Or some assignment." She takes a bite of her pizza, breaking off a small piece of its crust to drop it toward Arrow. Her eyes stay fixed on the dog while he snatches the crust out of midair. "It was a long one." "It gets worse," Clint assures her. "It turns out America was the real Promised Land and Native Americans are Jews that God cursed with dark skin as punishment for their sins." He crams more pizza into his mouth, washing it down with whiskey. "It was both." He hesitates. "You heard of Prometheus Project?" "Subtle." Natasha looks up, brows raised. "I know Leonid Concepcion came out of there." "Yeah. I met him when he was in there." Clint tosses the remainder of his slice to Arrow and downs the rest of his whiskey. "Haven't slept a decent night since." Natasha exhales slow. She looks down at the book on her lap with a sudden wider-eyed realization. Closes it, setting it aside on the table. "Heard stories." Now she's eyeing Clint's empty glass -- after a moment of thought she reaches for the bottle to uncap it, take a swig straight from it. "How long were you in?" "About a month." Clint stares down into his glass. Finally sets it down. "Felt longer than all of lockdown. Fury's making me see a shrink, but..." He takes the bottle from Natasha and drinks from it. "There's more labs out there, and we're surveilling the ones breaking in to rescue all those people." "Well. They're absconding with someone's intellectual property." There's a certain dryness to Natasha's tone. She isn't eating her pizza anymore, either. "All the fuss about terrorism but they're trying to nail Concepcion for theft." Her lips have compressed slightly; she tosses another torn-off hunk of pizza to the dog. "Don't think S.H.I.E.L.D. could stop the U.S. government even if we wanted to." "Fury said he'd talk to some people," Cline says quietly, taking another swig before he passes the bottle back. "I believe him, for what it's worth. But even if we can't stop it..." He slumps against the table, leaning back heavily against Natasha. "I'd feel a lot easier about this if we weren't going after the people fighting it." His lips press together. "At least there aren't any skulls on our uniforms, huh?" The breath that Natasha lets out is sharp, half-hissed through her teeth. The tension that grips her shoulders flees again quickly as she takes the bottle back and downs another swallow. "Shit," a quick twitch pulls at one side of her mouth. When she switches to signing it is, actually, considerably more comfortable, less stilted than the last time Clint saw her. 'We have uniforms now? I was gone a long time.' Clint guffaws. "S'only for when we're cosplaying real agencies, and even then?" He arches an eyebrow at her, finally sinking down into a chair, one hand dropping automatically to muss at Arrow's floppy ears. "Pretty sure Fury's favorite kid can wear whatever the hell she likes." He pauses, starts to lift his right hand, then drops it. "Your signing's better than mine now. I stopped going to events." Nat's brows lift again. "Please tell me the nerds haven't also harangued you into going under FitzSimmons' knife." She takes another, smaller mouthful of whiskey, then offers Clint the bottle back. 'S'a poetry jam this weekend out in Jersey. I'll take you.' "It's tempting some days just to shut them up," Clint admits. "But no. I've seen what happens to enough of their toys. Not interesting in being one." He takes the bottle back, drinking deep. "Jersey. I'd like that." Just a ghostly crook of a smile, tired but warm. "S'good to have you back."