Clint walked along the rows until he found the book he was looking for and pulled it from the shelves.
“Red Sky, Black Death: A Soviet Woman Pilot’s Memoir of the Eastern Front,” she read from the cover, before looking up at him, face unreadable. “Women flew in World War II?”
“Yes. I have three different books on the subject if you’re interested,” he said, hoping that he had succeeded.
She smiled, and he was once again left breathless from the way her face lit up.
“No, I think I just take this one. How did you know this is something I’d want?” she asked.
“I didn’t. I guessed,” he admitted. “I thought a woman like you would appreciate another woman fighting against the odds, and a story of triumph that doesn’t have a happy ending.”
“Is that a line you give all your customers?” she asked, playful.
“No, I usually get them with the pretty dresses or the cute animals,” he responded.
She took a step closer to him, and Clint couldn’t help but weigh the ethics of asking her out before she left.
The bell above the door chimed, again. It was turning into a relatively busy morning.
“I should probably talk to this customer,” he told the woman, regretfully. “Did you want more time to browse?”
The woman’s reply was interrupted by a man calling out.
“Natasha? Are you in here? C’mon love, let us get a photo.”
Clint eyes widened as realized what his subconscious had been trying to tell him all along.
“You’re Natasha Romanoff,” he whispered.
Her smile faded and he put a finger to his lips, eyes pleading.
“Is there a back exit?” she whispered.
Clint nodded, and motioned for her to follow him. The door chimed again, as someone else entered the shop.
“Are you sure you saw her go in here?” one man’s voice said.
“It was somewhere in this row of tourist bullshit shops,” another man replied, from close by.
Clint was halfway between indignation and anxiety. He could hear the man’s footsteps getting closer. He waved at Natasha to get her attention, and pointed to where the back room was.
The man’s footsteps sounded ever closer. Clint took a deep breath and rounded the corner. The man on the other side, a tall gangly man with bad skin, jumped at his appearance. Clint was careful not to smile in satisfaction.
“Can I help you?” Clint asked, every inch the professional shop owner. “Something on the history of photography?”
“Have you seen Natasha Romanoff?” the tall man asked, not even bothering with the pleasantries.
“Is this a joke?” Clint asked, affecting the attitude of the kind of snob that many people thought ran his sort of shop. “It’s hard enough running a bookstore in the twenty-first century without practical jokes.”
The tall man rolled his eyes at Clint, and didn't even bother to give a response.
“Let’s check out the coffee shop. Maybe we can get a photo that makes her look fat," the tall man called at his partner.
“Or pregnant,” his partner called back.
They left, and Clint breathed a sigh of relief, before heading to the back room. His coffee sat on the table, no doubt ice-cold by now, Clint thought with a frown. Natasha was nowhere to be found, but there was a fifty dollar bill and a piece of paper on the table where there hadn’t been before.
Clint pocketed the bill, and read the note.
Thanks for the book – NR
The keys at his belt jingled as he reluctantly poured out his pot of coffee down the sink. He froze, mid pour. How had Natasha Romanoff gotten through a locked door to which he had the only key? He moved to the door and checked the lock, noting the tiny gashes of silver peeking through the rust. It was his turn to laugh. A world famous actress had bough a book at his shop and picked the lock on her way out. That certainly didn’t happen every day.
Re: Fic: untitled, G, no warnings, 2/2
Clint walked along the rows until he found the book he was looking for and pulled it from the shelves.
“Red Sky, Black Death: A Soviet Woman Pilot’s Memoir of the Eastern Front,” she read from the cover, before looking up at him, face unreadable. “Women flew in World War II?”
“Yes. I have three different books on the subject if you’re interested,” he said, hoping that he had succeeded.
She smiled, and he was once again left breathless from the way her face lit up.
“No, I think I just take this one. How did you know this is something I’d want?” she asked.
“I didn’t. I guessed,” he admitted. “I thought a woman like you would appreciate another woman fighting against the odds, and a story of triumph that doesn’t have a happy ending.”
“Is that a line you give all your customers?” she asked, playful.
“No, I usually get them with the pretty dresses or the cute animals,” he responded.
She took a step closer to him, and Clint couldn’t help but weigh the ethics of asking her out before she left.
The bell above the door chimed, again. It was turning into a relatively busy morning.
“I should probably talk to this customer,” he told the woman, regretfully. “Did you want more time to browse?”
The woman’s reply was interrupted by a man calling out.
“Natasha? Are you in here? C’mon love, let us get a photo.”
Clint eyes widened as realized what his subconscious had been trying to tell him all along.
“You’re Natasha Romanoff,” he whispered.
Her smile faded and he put a finger to his lips, eyes pleading.
“Is there a back exit?” she whispered.
Clint nodded, and motioned for her to follow him. The door chimed again, as someone else entered the shop.
“Are you sure you saw her go in here?” one man’s voice said.
“It was somewhere in this row of tourist bullshit shops,” another man replied, from close by.
Clint was halfway between indignation and anxiety. He could hear the man’s footsteps getting closer. He waved at Natasha to get her attention, and pointed to where the back room was.
The man’s footsteps sounded ever closer. Clint took a deep breath and rounded the corner. The man on the other side, a tall gangly man with bad skin, jumped at his appearance. Clint was careful not to smile in satisfaction.
“Can I help you?” Clint asked, every inch the professional shop owner. “Something on the history of photography?”
“Have you seen Natasha Romanoff?” the tall man asked, not even bothering with the pleasantries.
“Is this a joke?” Clint asked, affecting the attitude of the kind of snob that many people thought ran his sort of shop. “It’s hard enough running a bookstore in the twenty-first century without practical jokes.”
The tall man rolled his eyes at Clint, and didn't even bother to give a response.
“Let’s check out the coffee shop. Maybe we can get a photo that makes her look fat," the tall man called at his partner.
“Or pregnant,” his partner called back.
They left, and Clint breathed a sigh of relief, before heading to the back room. His coffee sat on the table, no doubt ice-cold by now, Clint thought with a frown. Natasha was nowhere to be found, but there was a fifty dollar bill and a piece of paper on the table where there hadn’t been before.
Clint pocketed the bill, and read the note.
Thanks for the book – NR
The keys at his belt jingled as he reluctantly poured out his pot of coffee down the sink. He froze, mid pour. How had Natasha Romanoff gotten through a locked door to which he had the only key? He moved to the door and checked the lock, noting the tiny gashes of silver peeking through the rust. It was his turn to laugh. A world famous actress had bough a book at his shop and picked the lock on her way out. That certainly didn’t happen every day.