albinomilksnake | Open RP: Smutty nonsense

[Twelve different numbers in his pocket, one of them a mathematical equation meant to be a solution to something he can't remember except for the way that magnificent bombshell's bright red lipstick formed around the words as they slipped out and into his ear. He's forgotten more than just that, though: why S.H.I.E.L.D. sent him here, how long he's been chatting it up on the front lines, how many empty glasses he's tossed off onto the floor. Clint's hand is a distant tug, the shift in scenery nothing more than running colors till he's face down in down, fingers curling into and catching on recognizably (even to his drunk mind) expensive fabric.

And a few minutes later, he's pegged in the back of the head with a wayward water bottle. Perfect.

Plastered and barely able to stand, he still knows there's only one fella in the joint willing to throw quite literally anything at Howard Walter Stark.]

Jesus Christ, pal, watch it, would you?

Edited 2013-05-15 03:30 (UTC)

That's what I'm getting paid for.

[ well, watching howard. not watching it in the colloquial sense, but he figures literal answers are a kindness when someone's as drunk as stark is right now. clint's momentarily distracted by whatever he's reading on the screen (as distracted as he can be, anyway), and then he shuts the laptop with a casual disregard for its safety.

then he stands, heads to the coat closet and starts shoving howard's fancy suits out of the way to get to the cot at the back. ]

I'm sleeping in here.

[ just to keep you updated on the situation with absolutely zero elaboration or context. helpfully. ]

[It's a feat to pull himself up onto his hands. An unsteady, dangerously off-balance feat, but one Howard manages nonetheless. He huffs out one vodka-infused breath, reaches forward to fumble uselessly with the bottle and shoots a curious glance over his shoulder.]

What, in the closet?

Edited (I am too tired for this what am I doing how English) 2013-05-15 04:19 (UTC)

No, in your room.

[ only mildly impatient. he's used to dealing with drunks, this is hardly anything new. he's pulling out the cot as he says it, dragging it to the end of the bed without fuss. ]

Code red.

[ which isn't a real term, not for babysitting duty, but it gets the general point across. there might be hostiles in the area, or enough of a threat to merit SHIELD telling him to be wary (not that clint knows why the hell there would be, because they're here to talk about gadgets - although that's been more than enough reason for violence in the past). and he's managed to get howard stupid drunk, so that means a tight perimeter. ]

[For a moment Howard actually looks offended by that idea; his space is his, and (as always) when push comes to shove, it doesn't matter if the order comes from the President himself, Howard does what Howard wants.

Besides, the mention of the color red reminds him of-- of..what's her name. The dame he'd been scoping out by Monet. Clint doesn't get a word till Howard's done reliving all the fuzzy memories of it.]

Out of the question, kid.

[He's getting laid.]

Don't call me kid.

[ it's said without any real offense, more matter of fact. he's pretty sure he's older than howard is, so long as they don't factor in the weird timeline gymnastics.

clint doesn't care what howard thinks of the arrangement. orders are orders, and although he leaves without a word, it's just to get his duffel from the next room over, lock everything up over there before he comes back and chucks said duffel onto the floor unceremoniously. ]

You should drink your water.

[ also matter of fact. please sober up at least a little bit, it might make his job easier. or not. it's debatable, knowing howard. ]

[Fine. That's it. Howard gives up any and all attempts at unscrewing the cap-- gives up on the water itself-- and gives the cot one surprisingly solid kick off.]

Listen, they hired me to do a job, and I'll be damned if I'm getting locked in here while the party's in full swing out there.

[His feet hit the floor and it doesn't take more than a half step before he's well on his way to hitting the floor.]

[ clint doesn't care about the cot. it's not like he's sleeping now anyway; he'll just fix it later, assuming he sleeps at all.

but then howard's trying to leave, and then he's confirming the fall-down drunk theory. he'd very much like to just let him fall flat on his face. in any other circumstance, one where he wasn't personally responsible for howard's safety, he definitely would.

the problem is that he is responsible, and there's about a 60% chance that howard's head is going to hit the media stand, not the floor, so clint very reluctantly steps in to bring that down to zero. meaning an armful of howard, and that second-hand vodka smells very intense from here. nothing new; he'd dragged him here in the first place, after all. ]

Then consider yourself damned. There'll be another party tomorrow, Romeo.

[ and, about as unceremoniously as he'd dropped his duffel, clint tries to drop howard back onto the bed. ]

Besides, you try to get back downstairs and the only thing you'll be making out with is the floor.

[ because yes, he's onto the fact that when howard says job he mostly means ladies. ]

Edited 2013-05-15 06:37 (UTC)

[It's a Stark thing, really. A little too much booze, some variation of the words 'no' or 'party's over', and the inevitable tantrum slips right out as natural as an exhaled breath. It's not conscious, it's not even something he's dimly aware of aside from the frustration burning low in his belly alongside countless cocktails. All he knows is that it's late, and he's Alone in a world that's not his, and that if he spends too much time face down in a bed without a dame to distract him, he'll go right off the deep end.

And Clint's arm is the barrier between him and that necessary solution.

Howard reaches up and shoves one uncoordinated palm flat against Clint's cheek. He feels limp and weary, there's so little give he's not entirely sure he's applying any pressure at all.]

Then call her up here--

['Her' being anyone; he's forgotten all about lipstick and Monet.]

[ well this is definitely reaching new and undignified levels. he's going to have to ask fury for a pay raise. clint takes the offending hand by the wrist and pulls it away from his face; then, with his other hand, he picks up the discarded water bottle and shoves it into howard's palm instead. ]

Not an option. At this rate you'd start spilling state secrets instead of cheap pick-up lines, and then I'd probably have to kill you.

[ ... actually, that's kind of a tempting thought. also tempting is the idea of smothering howard with a pillow, but that's likely a bad idea without any real kill orders first. ]

[Howard looks about ready to try jamming the bottle down Clint's throat. Then again, that might just be him struggling with nausea or--]

Open it.

[Because he can't. He can't get the cap off and that pisses him off just as much as those locked doors.]

[ finally, progress. sort of. the attitude's nothing new, and it doesn't really bother clint. he stands up straight again, ditching howard on the bed, but he does take the water bottle, opening it without complaint.

then he pours some of it on howard's face, then he hands the remaining 2/3rds over. ]

Yes sir. Probably best to stay alert, sir.

[The shock is unsurprisingly instantaneous, but once it wanes-- and it wanes quickly-- Howard's upright in a surprisingly sober manner; feet apart in a wide, aggressive stance, bottle raised well above the line of his shoulders.

But he doesn't go for the throat. Or Clint's eye, or jaw. Instead, he hurls the open bottle right at Clint's chest, spattering the laptop, the bed (and everything in between) with streaks of water. ]

You rotten son of a--

[No. No, Howard. Get a grip on it.

He reaches up to comb a few soaked strands of dark hair out of his face, scowling out from underneath the shadow of his hand.]

Pal, don't push it. I've been hitting on all fours as a favor to your bosses all week. Keep this up, and I'm calling it quits so you get the honor of explaining to them exactly how you blew it.

[ he deflects the bottle before it hits him, but it doesn't prevent him and everything else in the room getting sprayed with water. the laptop getting wet is kind of a pain in the ass, but this is better. he'd rather deal with an alert and annoyed howard than a horny and plastered one, if he absolutely has to choose between two awful options.

clint takes a quiet second to wipe the water off of his face, but then he holds both hands up in a gesture of casual surrender. it's not like this week has been a cakewalk for him, but it's nothing he's not used to. soldiers don't complain. ]

I need you ready to move. Mission accomplished.

[ which is minimalist for just doing my job, although the truth is there were probably more professional ways of going about it. ]

Open RP: Smutty nonsense

NO ONE EVER KNOWS WITH HOWARD

CLIMBS ON LOVINGLY

BREATHES ON YOUR FACE hi

HI

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