Francis isn't exactly a fan of hanging out in the torture room either, honestly. Last thing he wants is for those doors to lock again and have to go through the whole game of invisible encouragement all over again. The man grabs his arm, and Francis doesn't fight it as they head back outside. At the question he hums, considering. Sure, there's the hotel bar, but there's not much around that's private, so he shrugs a little. It's probably fine.
"Guess I can take you back to my room, if you want. It's quiet and has a door, which is more than I can say for most places around here." Francis has always been a little bit impulsive, and right now isn't much different. It's honestly practical more than salacious, since he's sharp enough to know there are probably questions, and not necessarily ones that Francis wants to talk about in public. Although he does lean a little into the arm around his shoulders almost on reflex, but he disguises it for the most part in shifting to let Bullseye get a better grip. He's still on edge though, and Francis has always been touch-starved.
"Everyone always says I have his eyes," he comments quietly. It's the sort of compliment that cuts, even if there's a sort of warmth and good intention to it. He'd never really met Kate, she'd been dead by the time he was old enough to have remembered much about her. Maybe a blur of dark hair and a tone of voice if he thinks really hard, but no details. Just a name, his dad's stories when the memories didn't hurt too much to talk about.
"Well, with the sort of world I used to live in, someone had to." It's his excuse, the one he hides just how dirty his hands really are behind. The idea of necessity. Like he's never taken pleasure in it. Never been shaking out of his skin so bad that blood and violence was the only way to breathe straight. Clint's hands weren't pristine either, but you could always tell that he really did regret it. And the one here had been so soft it made his chest ache.
"You were Hawkeye?" There's a tilt of his head, a look there, and it means something. Hawkeye was a name with weight to it for Francis, even if it was sometimes something to hide behind. There's a breath, a pause as he tries to slot the pieces of his father's old stories together. "Was that when he was doing the weird ninja thing?" It's also a curiosity, wondering just how the lines of space and time line up here.
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"Guess I can take you back to my room, if you want. It's quiet and has a door, which is more than I can say for most places around here." Francis has always been a little bit impulsive, and right now isn't much different. It's honestly practical more than salacious, since he's sharp enough to know there are probably questions, and not necessarily ones that Francis wants to talk about in public. Although he does lean a little into the arm around his shoulders almost on reflex, but he disguises it for the most part in shifting to let Bullseye get a better grip. He's still on edge though, and Francis has always been touch-starved.
"Everyone always says I have his eyes," he comments quietly. It's the sort of compliment that cuts, even if there's a sort of warmth and good intention to it. He'd never really met Kate, she'd been dead by the time he was old enough to have remembered much about her. Maybe a blur of dark hair and a tone of voice if he thinks really hard, but no details. Just a name, his dad's stories when the memories didn't hurt too much to talk about.
"Well, with the sort of world I used to live in, someone had to." It's his excuse, the one he hides just how dirty his hands really are behind. The idea of necessity. Like he's never taken pleasure in it. Never been shaking out of his skin so bad that blood and violence was the only way to breathe straight. Clint's hands weren't pristine either, but you could always tell that he really did regret it. And the one here had been so soft it made his chest ache.
"You were Hawkeye?" There's a tilt of his head, a look there, and it means something. Hawkeye was a name with weight to it for Francis, even if it was sometimes something to hide behind. There's a breath, a pause as he tries to slot the pieces of his father's old stories together. "Was that when he was doing the weird ninja thing?" It's also a curiosity, wondering just how the lines of space and time line up here.