"I wouldn't know about that - I didn't go to college, or even want to. I just joined up as soon as I could." Sure, some of his teachers had made vague motions in the direction of college - his gym teacher had been certain he could've gotten a baseball scholarship if he'd just been willing to be on the team - but Clint had been alone since he was a child, with no parents to take care of him and funnel him money. And for a kid from farm country, where there were already a lot of problems of getting to college even with the full support structure in place, it just wasn't worth it. "It got me out of Iowa and that's what I cared about."
Okay, yeah, there was more to it than that, but he doesn't know Laura Mackay yet, not really, so he's not getting into the nitty gritty details. And he'd liked the army a lot more than he's letting on, but again, not something he's gonna talk about the second time he's face to face with someone. But he doesn't mind her curiosity about his hair, and instead of describing himself - and his former haircut - he pulls a slim billfold out of the back pocket of his jeans and turns to easily toss it to her. Inside there's cash and a couple cards, the most prominent of which is his driver's license in a special plastic-fronted sleeve right up front, and in the picture he is indeed sporting a crew cut that's not quite military length but is definitely a lot closer than the ear-length mop he's got now. He's also scowling like he's going to murder the photographer, which probably isn't a surprise since no one takes a good picture at the DMV, but there's also faded traces of scars of some sort along the left side of his face that are mostly invisible and can really only be seen if she's looking close and obviously can't be blamed on the poor DMV employee.
While she inspects that, Clint pops open his toolbox and pulls out a tape measure. He trusts her, but he wants to make sure she got the right window since she's not really familiar with this kind of handiwork. "I bet you're a pretty good teacher," he comments as he measures the broken window still in the wall, before moving over to the new one to compare. "You talk well." ...Wait. "I mean you speak good, when you speak to other people." Shit. "I mean you pick the words with sense, you know, they string together and it all fits and-" He breaks himself off with a bitten-off word that's very likely a curse, groaning a little and letting his head thunk lightly against the wall, glad he's not facing her because his entire face is brilliant red underneath his tan. "You talk better'n I do, that's for sure."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2017-10-02 03:19 am (UTC)Okay, yeah, there was more to it than that, but he doesn't know Laura Mackay yet, not really, so he's not getting into the nitty gritty details. And he'd liked the army a lot more than he's letting on, but again, not something he's gonna talk about the second time he's face to face with someone. But he doesn't mind her curiosity about his hair, and instead of describing himself - and his former haircut - he pulls a slim billfold out of the back pocket of his jeans and turns to easily toss it to her. Inside there's cash and a couple cards, the most prominent of which is his driver's license in a special plastic-fronted sleeve right up front, and in the picture he is indeed sporting a crew cut that's not quite military length but is definitely a lot closer than the ear-length mop he's got now. He's also scowling like he's going to murder the photographer, which probably isn't a surprise since no one takes a good picture at the DMV, but there's also faded traces of scars of some sort along the left side of his face that are mostly invisible and can really only be seen if she's looking close and obviously can't be blamed on the poor DMV employee.
While she inspects that, Clint pops open his toolbox and pulls out a tape measure. He trusts her, but he wants to make sure she got the right window since she's not really familiar with this kind of handiwork. "I bet you're a pretty good teacher," he comments as he measures the broken window still in the wall, before moving over to the new one to compare. "You talk well." ...Wait. "I mean you speak good, when you speak to other people." Shit. "I mean you pick the words with sense, you know, they string together and it all fits and-" He breaks himself off with a bitten-off word that's very likely a curse, groaning a little and letting his head thunk lightly against the wall, glad he's not facing her because his entire face is brilliant red underneath his tan. "You talk better'n I do, that's for sure."