Clint must've been feeling decidedly charitable that day because he was sitting on his couch- well, it was Phil's couch technically. But Clint sat on it way more than he did. So it was his now. Anyway, so he'd been filling out a good old fashioned T-56 when he'd flipped to consult a dossier and his eyes had caught something he'd never heard before. And well, hiding the ceilings had a way of getting you quite a bit of information you weren't supposed to have. Frankly, there wasn't much that went on his SHIELD that he didn't know about. Which meant that when he did happen across something that he had no prior knowledge of, he was sort of like a dog with a bone.
After years in the army working undercover ops and now his years at SHIELD spent doing a lot of the same, it was almost a reflex really. Hide. Listen. Gather. Record. Report. Kill target. Okay, well, the killing bit was optional sometimes. But basically he knew shit. So why the hell didn't he know about this? He tried not to sound personally offended when he asked: "What the hell is the Avengers' Initiative?"
Phil barely looked up from his paperwork as he reached for his coffee. "Nothing important."
Clint glared over at him, scrutinizing. If he didn't know about it, it meant that no one could talk about it. "I think you're lying to me. In fact, I know you are."
"Oh?" Phil could say more with a single raised eyebrow than most people could in their week. Clint would be lying if he said he didn't respect him for it.
He gave one last glare just for effect before looking down at the paper, his eyes scanning over the limited information a budget sheet could provide him with. Plenty of numbers sure, but not much else.
"Something 'not important' shouldn't have this kind of budget," he decided quickly enough, doing the math in his head to calculate the inflation because apparently some of this stuff dated back to World War II.
"This is a lot of money," he whistled appreciatively as he finally came to a figure.
"Barton, leave it," Phil said shortly, clearly meaning business. But Clint had never been one to let sleeping dogs lie.
"Oh come on. I've worked with you for a year now," he whined, flinging his feet onto the coffee table as he sunk back into the surprisingly plush couch. "No one ever lets me know anything around here."
"You're handling highly classified papers right now," the agent said flatly as he sipped from his mug. Clint could recognize it as the one he'd give him for his birthday last month from the bold black typeface on it that read: World's Best Agent. He'd actually had to order away for it. SHIELD really needed to get a gift shop or something.
"Yeah, but nothing good. I don't really give a shit that Agent Woo's team sighted Banner in Tennessee—
"Language, Barton," Phil snapped, but Clint knew there was no real heat behind it.
"You're just upset because Fury's making you go deal with Stark," the archer pronounced as he tossed the paper aside and made a mental note to trample it on his way out just to be annoying. "While I get to go to Malaysia with Tasha."
"Yes," the other man sighed. "I'm obviously jealous of you being loaned out to CIA's Wetworks. That's the only possible explanation."
"Knew it," Clint grinned happily, ignoring the annoyed, yet obviously fond look Coulson was sending his way. He leaned down to grab the paper he'd dropped to hide the light blush dusting across his face.
"When do you leave?"
Clint looked up to find Phil still staring at him, his unfinished paperwork set aside for the moment.
"Wheels up at o'eight hundred."
"Are you all packed?"
He nodded as he set the paper down on the table and went about shoving it and it's mates back into the manila folder he'd pulled them from. "Basically. Natasha's taking care of civilian clothes- apparently I don't have anything 'appropriate'," he made a face at that, his fingers trailing over the CLASSIFIED stamp on the folder. "Other than that, my equipment is all packed and I've just got to report to Medical for the pre-mission once over."
Phil must've caught his grimace because he sighed and stood from behind his desk. "You know you need that shot. We don't want a replay of the last time you missed your dose."
"I know," Clint grumbled as he ran a hand through his hair. "Shit just gives me a migraine."
"Better a migraine than a seizure."
He looked up to find Coulson standing over him, offering his hand. He sighed and took hold of it, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet.
Clint wasn't entirely sure what the hell his pills did exactly- someone had tried to explain it to him, but like he'd said before: medical shit wasn't his field of expertise. Maybe one day he'd google what the doctor had told him, but in the mean time he just knew it kept him from freaking the hell out and convulsing all over the place.
"Why don't we grab dinner?" Phil suggested as he pulled Clint along, grabbing the coat hanging from the rack and flicking off the lights with his free hand.
"What'd you have in mind?"
The man shrugged and went to say something when they were interrupted. "Hey! Guys!"
Phil subtly let go of his hand and Clint had to resist the urge to reach out and grab it again as Woo came barrelling down the hall towards them, his own coat thrown over his arm and looking ready to leave.
"A bunch of us are heading out to the pub down the street. You in?"
Phil looked hesitant, and while Clint had been looking forward to having dinner just the two of them, Phil really needed to be more social.
"Sounds good."
His handler glared at him.
"Oh come on Phil," Clint pestered, pulling at his sleeve. "You never come out with us. If you're not careful they're all going to think it's because you don't like them."
Coulson sighed before nodding and pulling on his jacket.
"That's the spirit, you need to spread your wings," Clint said knowingly as he buttoned up his sweater.
"A social butterfly I am not."
There'd never been a truer statement. "We'll fix that. Besides, they've got your beer on tap."
When Phil said he wasn't a social butterfly, he wasn't exaggerating. He wasn't a shut in or anything, but he preferred the company of a few people and didn't stray too far from his set social circle. That and he was so tone deaf he couldn't even carry a tune if his life depended on it. Other SHIELD agents in general didn't seem to share his difficulties because whenever they got together with any sort of alcohol everyone reverted back to their university days as they shouted into a microphone while the karaoke versions of just about every song from the 80s blasted through the bar's speakers. It always ended up like High School Musical had met Suits. It was weird and sometimes embarrassing.
Ties and heels alike were abandoned around their tables and buttons undone as they all knocked back shots, pitchers of beer, and martinis. Another problem was Phil wasn't much of a drinker, he'd have enough beer for a bit of a buzz, but he was much more reserved than his colleagues. And no one ever wants to be the one basically sober kid at the party.
The 'pub down the street' as Woo had called it, was in fact down the street, down a different side street and then down an alley. It was the kind of establishment health inspectors loved to shut down but everyone else loved it for the cheap drinks, good sound system and relatively small number of clientele. Agents had been going there since before Fury's days and would probably continue after all of them had retired. There was a theory that the bartender had signed a confidentiality agreement because nothing loosens someone's lips like four pitchers of beer, some body shots and a late night.
When they arrived Barton pointed towards the back where Natasha was already sitting with a drink in hand. Phil let himself be dragged along, waving to his different co-workers as he went. More than a few of them called after Clint, wanting him to join them. To the archer's credit he smiled and said he'd be there soon, but didn't let go of Coulson's hand until they climbed into the booth.
The table was covered with crate paper and Natasha pulled a shot class filled with crayons from the self set into the wall and grabbed a black one for herself before tossing the purple in Clint's direction. He snatched the crayon, idly drawing a little rabbit as she set up a game of Hang Man. Phil relaxed back into his seat, loosening his tie as Woo dropped a pitcher and some glasses off. He nodded his thanks as he poured some for himself and Clint.
"So, do you two come here a lot?"
"Often enough," Natasha answered, putting down her crayon to signal that she was done. Clint glanced over at it and quickly began running through all the vowels before switching the Russian. The redhead quickly filled in a few spaces before Clint hazarded a guess. When she nodded and finished the word he broke out into laughter before both of them began chatting in quick fire Russian.
Phil smiled around the rim of his glass, just watching the two of them. He'd never learned Russian- he'd taken Korean instead- but he could tell they were enjoying themselves.
Eventually Sharon Carter managed to pull Clint away for a round of shots and a song, and Coulson watched him leave, already missing the warmth against his side.
"You're both pitiful," Natasha huffed as she downed the rest of her drink and reached to finish off Clint's abandoned beer. He stared at her for a moment, signalling for her to continue.
"Don't pretend you're not crazy about him. You might be hard to read, but believe me; you're not that hard to read."
He glanced over to where Sharon and Clint were both hunched over on the stage, scrolling through the list of songs. A few words passed between them before Sharon smiled and nodded. She glanced towards the drum kit set up for live bands before she settled upon a guitar propped up against the wall. Coulson ignored the flare of jealousy that burned like wildfire in his chest as her hand settled on Clint's arm when she leaned in to ask him something.
Natasha must've noticed some sort of look of his face judging by the rather unbecoming snort she let out as she twisted around to settle her back against the wall so that she could stretch her legs out along her seat. "Hopeless."
He glared at her but she didn't have the decency to look cowed and instead just smiled right back at him in that unnerving way of hers.
The sound of a few chords being strummed started up and they both turned to see Clint holding the guitar, his fingers dancing across the strings with a look of concentration on his face.
"I didn't know he could play," the Russian commented as she munched on a few peanuts she'd grabbed from the bowl on the table.
Neither did Phil actually.
The look of concentration was slowly slipping from Barton's face as he seemed to relax into the instrument. He nodded to Sharon who clicked play and the opening beat started of some song Phil couldn't identify. As Clint broke in with the guitar he instantly recognized the tune and couldn't help the smile that snuck onto his face as the archer started singing the opening lines of Stuck in the Middle with You. Sharon began clapping out the beat as they started harmonizing into the microphone.
The agents who'd been crowding around the pool tables began making their way to the dance floor in pairs- mostly women at first, but eventually the men joined them and soon enough everyone had joined in singing.
"A man of many hidden talents."
Natasha only nodded in agreement, eyeing Agent Woo as he approached nervously.
"Agent Romanov," he started. "I was just uh- wondering- if you would um—
Natasha huffed, shucked off her leather jacket and slid across the booth, offering her hand to the stunned man. Phil hid a laugh as he took a sip of his beer, watching the stunned look that played across Woo's face before he seemed to get a hold of himself and took her hand to lead her out to the dance floor, Natasha's stiletto boots clicking all the way.
When the song finally wound down everyone burst into applause, cheering as they held up their glasses in salute. Sharon and Clint took a dramatic bow before hopping off the stage to make way for the next singer. Clint began making his way back to the booth, people clapping him on the back as he went and suddenly Phil realized just how many friends Clint had within SHIELD.
It didn't take a genius to figure out that Barton had some abandonment and trust issues, but looking at him surrounded by smiling people, all of them calling out for him to join them, well it was obvious Clint had made a home for himself.
A swell of guilt rose up in Coulson's chest as he wondered if William Brandt had had many friends in the IMF. If they missed him as much as everyone at SHIELD would miss Clint if something were to happen to him. While he'd never had the pleasure of meeting Brandt before the accident, his file had been filled with notes from past partners, teammates and COs, all of them practically gushing about his work in both the field in the office, but what had really struck him were the more personal notes. They'd been proud to know him. They'd been proud to be his friends. William Brandt had been a good soldier, a good person, and he'd been loved.
Phil was startled from his maudlin thoughts as Clint practically threw himself down into the booth beside him. He rolled his eyes as the archer snatched his beer and took a sip before settling down in the seat, leaning into his side just enough that Phil's heart gave a little flutter.
"What's got you looking so depressed?" He asked, leaning away a bit to get a better look at his face.
Coulson sighed, shaking his head. "Just thinking."
"Yeah, well, stop. Did you forget? You're here to learn to be a social butterfly," Clint growled playfully, elbowing him lightly in the ribs. "Get off your ass and go flutter or something."
"Another night maybe."
"I'll hold you to that."
"I know you will."
"This isn't about Stark is it?" He asked dubiously, reaching out for Phil's beer again. The agent sighed and shoved the glass in his direction.
"Yes, the mere thought of being in his presence sends me into a downward spiral of depression." Actually...that wasn't far from the truth. Stark was a bigger pain in the ass than Nick Fury, Clint Barton, taxes, and jury duty combined.
"I dunno'. Seems like an interesting guy if you ask me," Barton shrugged, his fingers tapping on the table top to the beat of the terrible rendition of Uptown Girl that a few agents were trying to screech out. "But then again, I've never met him in person."
"And be thankful you never will," He chuckled, his eyes trailing to the dance floor where a now more relaxed looking Woo was still dancing with Natasha. From where he was sitting he could spot five other men eyeing her. Not that he could blame them. She was quite the eyeful with her tight jeans and long red hair. The accent didn't hurt either- although that was beginning to fade as she continued to work with SHIELD's language coach.
"Who knows? We might meet some day," Clint pointed out before he took a sip of what used to be Phil's beer. The thought of Clint and Stark in the same State, let alone the same room was a frightening one. If they hated one another...well, there was nothing anyone could do about that, but oh god, what if they got along? The two of them were bad enough individually. Together they'd probably cause some sort of international incident.
"Maybe," Coulson replied casually, because his poker face was legendary and had helped him pay off most of his car with a few trips to the local casino. But Clint burst into laughter and it took Phil a moment to realize the other man had seen right through him.
When he finally calmed Clint just grinned at him for a moment before asking, "So when do you leave?"
"A few hours after you and Natasha. I should be back a few days before you're due to report in if all goes well."
"I expect my cookie when I get back."
Phil smiled helplessly, nodding as he did. "I know."
And God, if the smirk that Clint sent back in his direction didn't make his stomach twist and his face grow hot, but all he could think was name redacted. Because there was someone out there who'd probably felt the exact same way whenever William Brandt had smiled at them.
Someone called for Clint to come and get in on a game of pool and the younger man reached out with fingers still damp from the condensation on his glass to give Phil's hand a squeeze.
"Flutter," he said pointedly, before climbing out of the booth to go join the others.
Coulson sat back and watched him go, content to stay where he was and just observe the other man as he slapped Agent O'Brian on the back and grabbed a cue from the rack.
William Brandt might've been a good man- a great one even, and people had loved him, there was no doubt about that. They probably missed him just as fiercely as they'd all miss Clint and his heart went out to them. But to regret what they'd done to Will would be to regret Barton's existence. And maybe Phil was a little biased because he'd never met him and- and maybe he had...feelings...for Clint. But Will was gone now and instead there was Clint Barton. And he was just as good and just as loved as Brandt had ever been.
The next morning it looked as if half of SHEILD's upper agents were hung over to various degrees. Agent Woo had been passed out on his desk when Coulson had come in around six after being called in due to a roster change in some ongoing missions that involved him and his agents, and when he'd gone to grab coffee at seven Woo had still been there, drooling on a sit-rep.
He'd already gotten a hold of Natasha to tell her of the changes, but Barton had a tendency to set his phone down in random places and forget about it. Generally it was passed around from agent to agent until one of them could track him down. Today, Agent Sitwell had picked up when Phil had called. Apparently he'd found the mobile sitting in a planter in the courtyard, beeping with seventeen missed messages. Thus, Barton had to be tracked down through word of mouth and through good old fashioned searching- which often involved tapping on random ceiling tiles with a broom stick to see if he'd pop out.
Eventually Phil spotted him coming out of the range, armed with a compound bow rather than his favoured recurve that was probably already loaded onto the plane. He called out, catching Clint's attention before he could disappear down the nearest hallway.
"Did Med send you? Because I'm heading over now," the archer answered as Phil made his way over.
"Change of plans. Widow is heading to do some undercover work with Stark for a few weeks so you're being loaned out alone for this mission."
"What about you, sir? Thought you were all amped up to head out there yourself," Barton smirked.
Coulson glared as his phone gave a beep and reached down to check it.
"So what, Natasha gets to go live it up with Stark while I crawl around some godforsaken jungle and get malaria?"
"You won't get malaria," he replied distractedly as he shoved a clipboard he'd been carrying under his arm so that he could have both hands to text. "...but essentially yes."
Clint huffed, looking put out as he fiddled with one of the pulleys on his bow. "Whatever. But next time, I get to seduce the rich—
Coulson grumbled as he once again began a valiant battle against autocorrect. There'd been several incidents already involving it that had resulted in some very expensive cover up operations. So he struggled to get his phone to stop changing Tony to tiny for a few moments before he realized that Barton had never finished what he'd been saying. Phil glanced up from his phone to find the archer standing stock still, his bow clutched tightly in his hands.
"...Barton?"
He shoved his clipboard and phone into the arms of the nearest junior agent who'd been happening to walk by as he carefully made his way towards the younger man. "Barton?"
He waved a hand in front of the Clint's face, but the grey blue eyes didn't even attempt to track the motion. It was like a switch had been flipped; the lights were on but nobody was home.
"Hawkeye," he tried a little louder as agents began crowding to see what was going on.
"Hey!" He clapped his hands, trying and failing to get Clint's attention.
"Sir," one of the junior agents started hesitantly. "Should I go page Medical?"
Coulson reached out and gently pried the bow from Barton's fingers, but his arm and hand remained taught, as if they were still gripping the weapon. He passed the bow off to another agent and took Clint by the shoulders.
"Clint," he started, staring into his eyes. "Can you hear me? Someone, help me get him down," he called when he got to answer. A few agents rushed forward to help him lower Clint to the floor in case he started seizing. He was stiff under their hands, his body resisting as they tried to bend his arms and legs.
"Somebody call Sitwell. Tell him to get a hold of the CIA and to tell them that we're going to have to pull Hawkeye from their roster for this mission. And someone get Medical down here with a stretcher!"
With that dealt with Coulson turned back to Clint who was staring up blankly at the ceiling.
"Clint," he tried again, bracing his hands on either side of the other man's face and trying to ignore the uncharacteristic panic that was tearing through him. "Can you hear me?"
Barton only continued to stare up at the ceiling, barely even blinking.
"Sir, Medical is on their way, and Agent Sitwell has been notified as has Black Widow. Unfortunately, she's already on route to the mission location," a junior agent told him, squatting down beside him to take Barton's pulse.
There was a clamor as people made way for several nurses along with Dr. Alison who came crashing into the hallway with a stretcher.
"What happened?" she asked as she practically crashed to her knees on the tile floor at Phil's side.
"He just froze," he told her uselessly. "I thought he was having a seizure, so we got him down on the floor, but he's been fine."
She pulled a penlight from her pocket and shone it into Clint's eyes. "It sounds a bit like an absence seizure, but they don't last for this long," she muttered worriedly as he tucked away her light to check his pulse. "Agent Barton," she started her voice slow and clear as she went to pick up his hand, struggling a moment because of how stiff he was. "Can you hear me? If you can, try to squeeze my fingers."
When she got no response she waved the nurses over who then grabbed a scoop stretcher. Phil was pushed aside as they set it up and carefully lifted Barton onto the actual stretcher to transport him to Med Bay. They began to wheel him off but not before Alison crooked a finger in his direction, signalling for him to follow.
The other agents watched on worriedly as their colleague was taken away until Phil snapped at them all to get back to work and sent them scrambling.
"Is this some side effect?" he asked angrily. "We've basically been feeding him poison for the past year and a half."
Alison sighed, her heels clacking solidly against the floor as they hurried after the nurses. "I can't be sure what this is until I've done some more tests, but chances are it's something to do with the medication. What was he doing before he became unresponsive?"
"We were just talking!" Phil growled angrily and his phone suddenly began ringing up a storm in his pocket. No doubt Fury had heard about the commotion. "We were going over some roster changes, and he was- he was just joking about getting malaria," he finished, his throat tightening.
Clint had been fine. There'd been no sign- no way to know- and he'd just suddenly- he'd just stopped.
They conducted every sort of scan, preformed numerous tests, and yet everything came back inconclusive while Clint still remained unresponsive to any outside stimulus. They'd pricked his fingers and toes, hoping to get any sort of reaction only to come up short. They'd hooked him up to all manner of machines to monitor his heart rate, blood pressure, and brain waves but they all basically told them nothing. And all the while Phil watched from his place in a chair at Barton's bedside, trying again and again to call him back to awareness.
"His brain activity is as normal as his gets," Alison said as she consulted one of the screens. "It's like he just decided to take a break to think things over."
"Did R&D say if anything in his medication could cause this?" Coulson asked, his hands white knuckled as he dug his nails into the arms of his chair.
"Nothing like this is impossible," she said carefully. "But at this point, with how he's responded to the pills and injections so far, it's improbable."
"He didn't take his dose this morning, could—
"A little delay wouldn't have caused such a severe reaction. Seven hours from now, it would likely result in a reaction, but not within this time frame, no. And we've already administered his normal dosage, so if that were the case I'd expect to see some improvement by now."
"Then what is it?" he snapped, his temper slipping away from him.
The doctor looked lost as she ran a hand through her bangs. "I don't know," She admitted. "I've never dealt with anyone in this type of situation before. But he's not in any danger. Like I said, it's like he just stopped to think about...What were you talking about before this happened?"
Phil stared at her questioningly before answering. "He was joking about malaria. Widow was supposed to be his partner on a mission but she was switched to another operation. He was joking about that."
Alison hummed thoughtfully, tapping her nails on her stethoscope. "His brain activity is mainly centered in the hippocampus."
"He's remembering something?" Phil guessed, a sense of dread creeping into his stomach.
"Or, what you were talking about triggered something. A memory maybe, but his brain might be trying to suppress it. If I were to make a comparison, I'd say it's like a computer rebooting to protect the software."
He stared uselessly at her for a moment before she continued, gaining momentum.
"The drugs we've been giving him for the past year and a half are meant to suppress his memories- they're essentially, along with a lot of other things, doing carefully controlled damage to his hippocampus. It's like putting Alzheimer's on a leash. Whatever you said, it might've clicked somehow, but it was like a computer detecting a virus- it realized a file should've been there, but instead found a hole, an infection. So it temporarily shut down so it can reboot, protect the rest of the files, and try to fix itself."
Coulson stared at her for a moment, trying to figure out if what she'd just said actually made any sort of sense. Sensing his scrutiny, she glared at him, crossing her arms in indignation.
"You want to come up with a better analogy?"
"No," he sighed finally, leaning back in his chair as he struggled to release his death grip on the arms. "I think that'll do. But I want some conclusive results within forty-eight hours."
He looked over to where Clint way lying, his eyes glassy as they stared up at something that none of them could see. He looked a little pale maybe, but otherwise he seemed alright; nothing like those first few months of thrashing and pain and starvation.
But unlike that time, now Phil knew what he was missing. Back then Clint had just been a body to watch over; a project to finish but now, now he had entangled himself so deeply into everyone's lives that it was hopeless to even think of removing him.
"When will he wake up?' he asked, reaching out to take Clint's hand into his. He rubbed his thumb gently over the smooth skin of his knuckles and took in the feel of the calluses that rubbed against his own hand.
"I'm afraid that's up to him."
Ethan stared down at his beer, running his fingers along the rim of his glass as Luther sat across from him. They made a point to meet up every few weeks or months, depending on their schedules, to talk. It always started off with the personal side of things, but the conversation always fell off that edge and landed on work. Luther had been around more the past few months and while Ethan would never admit it, he knew his friend had been doing it to keep track of him. See how he was handling himself. How he was doing.
It'd been a year and a half now. And maybe...maybe he was doing okay. At least, that's what he told everyone, even himself. He might've been a liar, but he was damned good one, because even he was starting to believe it. The new apartment he had helped, keeping busy with missions helped even more. Avoiding anything that even remotely reminded him of- of him, had been even better. But one day he'd woken up and decided that he'd been in denial for long enough and really, who wanted to go through the rest of that shit? So he'd skipped straight to acceptance. Will would've called him impatient
("You can't just skip steps, Ethan. They're there for a reason.")
But he'd called it efficiency.
("If I know I can just skip them, why waste the time?"
"This is why all your IKEA furniture is falling apart.")
Oh yes, he was nothing if not efficient. Even in grief.
He'd just come back from Burma and was going to ship back out to Berlin in a few days, but a little down time was welcomed.
"So, I was talking to one of my contacts from the CIA," Luther started, breaking the comfortable silence that had fallen over their table.
"You still talk with Greg after what happened?" Ethan laughed. It got easier and easier every time he did it.
"Course. Took awhile, and a bit of some rather classified information, but we're back on good terms," the other man smiled warmly, his teeth a flash of bright white against his dark skin.
"Anyway," he continued, picking up a fry from the plate resting between them. "Apparently, they'd got this one guy on loan to Wetworks- can't remember his codename. Hawk maybe- And it didn't work out in the end, he got real sick or something and was pulled from the mission roster last minute, but they say he's the best marksman in the entire fucking world."
Ethan frowned, dipping his own fry into a mix of ketchup and pepper. "How good could he be? A lot of people claim to be a crack shot."
"Greg said this guy was the real deal. It took them a lot to have their request for him even considered. He's not one of those mutants either, one-hundred percent human. But he never misses. Specializes with a bow if you can believe it, but he's the best sniper in the world."
"A bow huh?" Ethan said, considering. He'd actually never met an agent who favoured the bow. "Sounds like an interesting guy."
Luther nodded, leaning back in his chair to flag down their waiter. "You're telling me. Sounds like a guy the IMF could use, right?"
"Who's he with now?"
"SHIELD."
"Ah, that's no good," he chuckled, the idea that'd been forming in his head dissipating. "You know how protective they are of their agents. As soon as we came calling we'd get the door slammed in our faces. But still," he continued lightly as their waiter walked up, ready to prepare the cheque.
"I wouldn't mind meeting a guy like that."