banner by enigma731

A Gift From: i_llbedammned
Type Of Gift: Fic
Title: Just His Luck
A Gift For: perpetuations
Rating: PG
Warnings: None that I can think of
Summary/Prompt Used: Noir/Crime/Roaring Twenties AU: It don't mean a thing if I give you my heart.
Author's Note: I tried to highlight the war feeling of the WWII/Noir Era and tried to give their own spins on the classic Noir themes. I also really liked writing Natasha and Clint on a mission because Clint's style to me is a lot more fly by the seat of your pants and hope for the best where as Natasha is carefully reasoned and measured.


A saxophone crooned its melody over the bar covering everything in a thick silken layer of blues. It was a shame that it was three in the afternoon and most people would never get to hear the beauty of the song. Clint Barton, P.I., sat with one arm slung across the bar and the other cradling his double scotch on the rocks against the bruise beginning to bloom along the left side of his face. He could have sworn that he was quicker than that mobster, but apparently he was slowing down in his old age. Better hope that Barney didn't find out about that, otherwise he would never hear the end of it.

He lowered his glass to take a sip from it and dug around in the inner pocket of his suit for a cigarette. The last job was a bust, that much was clear from the throbbing pain in his head. When a simple investigation into a missing dog turned into a showdown with the mob he figured that it was high time he broke the contract. He found the cigarette pack and took one out, flicking his lighter open and taking a deep drag. It was much better to be a coward and alive than honorable and dead.

But how was he going to make money now? It was all well and good to have principles, but principles didn't pay the bills or put food in his belly.

"Got a light, tiger?" asked a low female voice and he turned his gaze to the side. She was a knockout, a beautiful red-head wearing a long slinky green dress and a similarly colored purse slung over her left shoulder. One of the lounge singers, he guessed.

"Yeah," he grunted and extended the lighter to her. She bent low and despite his better judgement he couldn't help but stare a little. A girl this beautiful had to be bad news, especially considering the last bombshell of a girl that had marched through a bar's doors and into his life had nearly had him eaten by demons- accidentally she claimed. Bobbi, he knew he could never forget that face or the feeling of those claws in his arm.

The red head slithered into the stool next to him even though there was plenty of space down the bar and ordered a glass of red wine that Clint didn't recognize the name of. Yep, definitely bad news.

"So," she asked, taking a pull and letting the smoke roll off of her crimson lips, "Do you come to this bar often?"

"No, miss, I don't." Clint sullenly replied, forcing himself to turn away from her and focus his attentions on the mirror behind the bar. He could see her turn towards him in the glass and tried to focus on the array of bottles instead.

"That's a shame. You new to town then?" She purred.

"No, miss. Just don't go out much." He didn't know why he chose to lie, but something in him said that he didn't want to broadcast the fact that he had just rolled in to town this morning. People that new got taken for suckers and Clint Barton was no sucker.

"You should let me show you around then. I know a few good places to get lost in this town." She leaned in closer to him, her hand lightly brushing over his wrist as she reached for the ash tray and pulled it closer to her.

"No thanks, miss. I get plenty lost on my own as it is." Irritation was beginning to set into his voice. This girl just kept coming, she was relentless.

"Maybe I could help you find your way then. It's a big city if you've spent all of your time at home."

"I'm fine. Thank you." Each word came out of his mouth with control, a little too measured and a little too neutral.

"Did I do something to offend you?" she asked, pulling back a little, her posture becoming tense in the mirror.

"No. Yes. I mean," he swiveled towards her, "What's your deal, lady? I'm just trying to have a drink here and you keep yammering my ear off so you have to have a deal."

She shrunk back and the smile vanished off of her face, "You just look like the sort of man who could use a job or company or both."

He wanted to bark something at her, something that would make his mother ashamed of him, but he held back. The dame could be bluffing, but he wasn't about to turn down any one who could offer him a job right now. He took a deep breath and lit another cigarette to buy himself a little time to think.

His voice came out kinder when he next spoke, "Sorry. I'm full up on company right now; the last one left me with a bad taste in my mouth. But if it's a job you're after, I'm listening."

She relaxed and a knowing smile came across her face, "I knew you'd see reason." She laughed though there was no joke, "I have to warn you though. The job is going to be a little strange."

Clint snorted, "Try me sister, my whole life has been strange."

"Well I need you to help me rob my employer. Ex-employer actually."

His eyes flew open with shock, "Robbery? Sorry you've got the wrong detective. I think all the ones still in the pocket of the mob are down at the station." He got up to go leave.

Her hand shot out and grabbed him in a surprisingly strong grip and a look of terror shot in to her eyes, "Please don't go. I can't turn to the police; they'll arrest me for ever working with them. Please just hear me out."

He knew he shouldn't listen. He should just take his drink and drown his sorrows in the music. But there she was, beautiful and scared and oh so close to him and smelling like roses and cigarettes. If he turned and walked away now, he would never be able to live with himself. Those pretty green eyes would haunt his nightmares with visions of what could have happened if only he had stayed and helped.

So Clint Barton sat down, already mentally calling himself a sucker without hearing the job, "Woah there. Slow down. Arrest you? Why would they arrest you?"

The woman seemed to be in quite a state, "Well you see I didn't know they were doing wrong when I

started working for them. I just thought it was a secretary job, that's all, I swear."

"I believe you."

"But as I was working there I began hearing all these dark rumors, I thought they were ridiculous until I saw it myself."

"What? What did you see?" Clint was leaning forward now, rapt eyes trained upon her.

Her eyes locked on to his, sending a jolt through him that he wasn't sure was from adrenaline, "Nazis. In this country."

Clint flicked a glance down the bar. The bartender was on the other end tending to some patrons and the scant patrons were milling about the lower levels trying to drown their sorrows or idly listening to the band. Good, they were safe. The country was crazy right now and any mention of the Nazis could send people into a veritable riot. "What are you saying, that we got spies among us?"

"I don't know, I just don't know." She remarked turning and putting her arms on to the bar and putting one hand up to her head as if she could physically hold up the burden it bore. Clint let her have her moment; a situation like this was a lot for him to take in as well. He took a drink from his scotch and wished that he could wave the bartender over for another, but it would be worse if the bartender overheard them. She lit another cigarette and put the lipstick stained remains in the ash tray.

After a minute she regained her senses, "Sorry. All this is still a little much to take in. But I know I don't want to go to the police, not yet at least. I don't have any proof and the word of a secretary versus theirs won't be worth much. I need their files, the ones I saw them exchanging with the man with the swastika armband and the braided gold band."

Something struck Clint as being funny. Who in their right mind would wear so blatant of a symbol of the Nazi party so close to New York? His ice blue eyes narrowed in suspicion. "They were wearing swastikas?" his voice came out disdainfully.

He could swear he saw the barest trace of a grin pass over her face, but only for a split second before a look of desperation replaced it, "I know it sounds crazy, but that's what I saw." She reached into the purse she carried and took out an envelope, "I have money. It's not much, but I can get more if you help me."

She slid the envelope over the bar and Clint took it into his hands, opening it to inspect the contents. There was a lot there, so much that he had to force down a look of greed from his face. He didn't want to be arrested, but with money like that he could afford to be picky about his jobs for at least the next three months. Besides, his troubles could hardly get worse than the ones he had gotten into. Only way to go was up, right?

"You sold me, miss." He reached into the inner pocket of his suit and took out a notebook and a pencil, "Can you give me more details of the situation. You said you saw files. Any idea where those would

be kept?"

She nodded and drained the last of her wine, "I saw them file them away in the vault of Mr. Strucker. It's carefully guarded, but I can help distract them."

Clint eyed her carefully, "You're coming along? You know it's a dangerous job. I don't want you getting hurt."

She looked over at him haughtily, "It's a brave new world. We all have to do our part to help make sure the Nazis don't take over. Like the posters say "We Can Do It!". I can handle myself." She cracked open the purse, angling towards him and he could see a M1911 sitting there nestled among the lipstick and a spare set of earrings. That girl was not messing around, a .45 like that would take a man's limb off if she knew how to aim it properly. Clint swallowed hard and hoped that he didn't get on her bad side. The thought of that baby being aimed at him made him shift in his seat.

She looked over at the clock on the wall, "Looks like it is that time. I'll meet you outside of the West Park Savings next door to the building at noon." She rose up and Clint rose with her.

"Should I be in disguise or something?"

"Wear a suit. Make it a nice one Mr. Barton." With that she turned on her heels and started making her way towards the door.

There was the other shoe dropping. Clint rushed forward, his hand extended forward as if the catch her even though she was too far away for that to be realistic. "Wait a second, how did you know my name?"

"I know all about you. You didn't think I'd just offer any man in a bar a job this important, did you?" She laughed and blew him a kiss. "Tomorrow. Noon. Don't forget."

He watched her go, halfway in a trance. It was only once the only thing left of her was the trace of her perfume and cigarette ashes that he remembered he never got her name.

The next day was cloudy and chill as Clint stood outside of the pillared bank building of the West Park Savings. He leaned against a wall and lit a cigarette so he didn't look like he was just loitering around. His nerves were racing a mile a minute, a fact not helped by his breakfast of two coffees. The woman had to show up; she had paid far too much money to just hang him out to dry. Mentally he went over the layout of the building. He didn't know how, but someone had left building plans in the room of the hotel he was staying at.

Like a vision she walked towards him out of the crowd, her hair now tied back and her clothing looking as normal in shades of brown. If he hadn't been looking in her direction he would have passed right over her, a huge change from last night where his mind went wild with possibilities. Then again he supposed he looked very different in a more professional dark grey suit with dark green tie. She looked him over appraisingly, "You clean up nice, tiger."

"Who are you?" he asked, annoyed more so at himself for not thinking to ask sooner.

"You can call me Natasha." She grinned, "Follow me, we have to get moving. Lunch will be happening soon and no one thinks clearly this close to lunch."

"Lead the way, miss." Clint straightened his tie and made sure his shirt was tucked in all the way around.

Together they made their way through the throngs of people that never seemed to cease. The building was a plain affair, just brownstone with a gold plaque out front reading, "HexCorp. Building a Better Tomorrow." In the back of his mind Clint began to wonder what they did here. What if someone asked him what his job was as they were sneaking in? He let Natasha take the lead and she made her way into the front desk. A few security guards waved to her, but started to move towards him.

"Easy boys. He's a new recruit, first day. Don't scare him off." She laughed and handed them a paper with an official looking signature on it. From where he was standing it looked to be signed "John Strucker" at the bottom. Damn, this girl was good.

Clint grinned and shook the security guard's hands, "Please to meet you boys. I hope that I can run a branch like this one day myself. Wouldn't that be something?" He laughed and they laughed too, opening the door for him.

Inside the lobby was all smooth edges of wood. Natasha took a seat at the desk and flipped a switch to unlock the door. There was a silent moment where she sat at the table and started taking notes on the typewriter. "This is where I stay, Mr. Barton. The rest is up to you. Yell if you need help."

Clint walked through the wooden door and found a surprisingly mundane office. Men sat at desks looking over paperwork. A few had calculators, their ribbons snaking all over the ground around them. The trained gaze of Clint searched one of the desks as he passed by. Papers signed by government officials for the trade of weapons between a factory. The same factory was on all of the papers, Stark Enterprises, but the agency requesting munitions was always different. Were these people arms dealers? What had he gotten himself into this time?

The building was a lot emptier than it should have been. Only a few men working through lunch were still here. That was good; less people around if things went awry.

Feeling marginally more confident and building a story in his head as he walked forward the P.I. kept his eyes peeled for a door labelled "Strucker". Moving deeper into the base he found a door guarded by two large men with Tommy Guns in their hands. In a pattern much like most of Clint's luck, the door behind them read "Johnathan Strucker". He took a deep breath, inhale, exhale, before going forward. His eyes were trained forward and his walk left no room for questioning.

"Let me in." He said, trying to make his voice as bored as possible as if he faced down heavily armed men inside of a possible Nazi hideout every day.

The two men shook their heads in unison. The one with scars all over his face said in a deep baritone,

"Can't do. You need Mr. Strucker's permission to go in."

Clint looked at his wrist watch, "Mr. Stark will not be pleased at having to wait."

The guards exchanged glances. The scarred one responded again, "You have some sort of proof you were sent by Mr. Stark, sir?"

"Yeah I got a letter right here." Clint walked closer, painfully aware of the fact that he had naught but a wallet on him. Guess it was time to get really creative.

As he got closer to the guards he braced himself for a fight. He took a forged letter out of his pocket, the one with the indistinct signature and vague officials sounding language, hoping for the best. They looked at it carefully while his nerves threatened to overtake him. They screamed at him to run or fight, not stand here while those men had those Chicago Typewriters so close to him. His caution paid off as they handed him back the letter. "Our apologies, Mr. Miller." The door swung open.

"I understand, boys. You have a job to do." He gave them a small grin before entering in.

The walls were decorated like an explorer from the Victorian era had just gotten back from a trip to Africa. Spears, bows and arrows, and stone swords were all hanging from the walls alongside pelts of tigers and leopards. The pictures all seemed to be professional though, gatherings outside of colleges and clippings of newsprints about HexCorp.

Clint began to search behind the pictures for a safe. It had to be hidden somewhere within the room. Methodically he made his way, starting by the door outside of the view of the guards through the frosted glass and around 'til he got behind the desk. The glint of metal caught his eye. There, under the desk! He pushed aside the wooden chair to reveal fully the small nob. Kneeling behind the desk he pressed his ear to the ground and turned carefully. He prayed that this old trick worked, it had been ages since he had run with the bank thieves in the circus.

The tumblers clicked into place with a minimal of mess ups. Mentally he congratulated himself as the door swung open and he took out the files. He opened them and could see the name "Wolfgang von Strucker" emblazoned across what looked like a police file. There were pictures of him shaking hands with Hitler himself. At that moment the alarms throughout the building went off.

Cursing Clint climbed to his feet, shutting the file and being careful so that nothing would fall out. He made his way to the wall before the door became a ground up piece of pulp under fire of the Tommy Guns. The desk, apparently made of a stronger material than he first assumed, took the bullets but did not seem to be any worse for the wear. As the guards came through the door Clint grabbed the first thing on the wall and threw the wooden chair in their direction as he dove once more behind the desk. Once he was out of the range of their fire, though he could hear another drum being slammed into place, he inspected what he had grabbed off of the wall. Bow and four arrows. Great. At least the bow had a string attached; he could count that as a blessing.

Bullets once more began to pepper the area around him and he could hear the heavy footsteps walking

steadily towards him. Here went nothing. He waited for the break in the bullets to his left and quickly drew back the bow, leaving the safety of the underside of the desk to fire off a shot. The arrow hit true, like he knew it would, burying itself in the man's neck. His partner looked over shocked at the audacity of him to hit back and he used the opportunity to knock another arrow back. The shock was over quickly and the man went to aim the gun at him. This was it; if the man fired Clint would be nothing but a bloody smear on the ground. The arrow fired and Clint rolled to the other side of the desk to buy himself some time in case the death convulsions sent a few bullets in his direction. He wasn't worried about his shot not hitting- he didn't miss. It was good he did, the clack of the typewriter barked behind him belatedly.

The building was springing to life around him. With the files tucked under his suit jacket he tried to fix his hair as he left the room. There was no sense leaving stealthily if he looked like he had just been in a fight. Quickly, but not nervously, he made his way through the building as everyone rushed towards the room where he had just been. He was sure, at least eighty percent sure, that no one had seen him exit the room. If they had, they certainly didn't stop him from leaving.

He didn't make eye contact with Natasha as he came to the lobby, he didn't need to. She feigned fear and clung close to him as he wrapped his arm around her to guide her out as the police came rushing forward. In the chaos they both slipped away from the building and got lost in the city.

Another day, another bar; they sat next to each other on the stools of another lounge, this one with a sultry female singing some Dean Martin songs. Before them a couple of drinks laid finished, soldiers of another type of war.

"You were surprisingly good at the job, tiger. I wasn't expecting you to keep so calm."

"I'm surprisingly good at everything I do." He laughed, "A lot of the job is keeping down your own panic. After all I have a glamourous life of stopping bad guys. It's what detectives do."

"You're a detective now?"

He paused, realizing that he had just said something he shouldn't have, "Used to be. Got kind of complicated a while back."

"I understand complicated," she said, her voice heavy with some unknown burden. What could have gone wrong in such a dangerous woman's life to make someone like her feel the weight?

The singer began to sing "Sway" and Natasha's face lifted. "Come on. Let's see if you are good at dancing too."

They took the floor by storm. He was good and she was better. There could have been the eyes of princes on them and they wouldn't have noticed it though. Their eyes were trained on the other one too much. They whirled closer until at last she pulled him off to the side. It was unexpected, at least to Clint it was, but he certainly wasn't going to complain. Good scotch, a paid job, and a beautiful woman who wanted him- what more could a man ask for?

She pulled away and looked almost sad. "Sorry about this, tiger."

No need to apologize for a kiss is what he wanted to say, but something hard and stinging was in his ribs. His jaw wouldn't function anymore and his limbs wouldn't obey him. The world faded to black.

When he awoke he was in his bed in the hotel, perfectly dressed and laying on his back. Cautiously the former detective moved into a sitting position, a stinging hornet's nest apparently had made its home on his left ribs. He looked down and could see holes in the shirt and after unbuttoning the lower buttons he could see the area was burned. A piece of paper fluttered to the ground as he looked around the room.

"See you around, tiger. No hard feelings about the job. I need the files, but I can give you my heart. It don't cost nothin' to give you my heart. -Natasha"

With a sigh Clint folded the paper again. He checked the envelope where the money used to be and wasn't even surprised to see that it was gone. The envelope felt too heavy to be empty though. A key fell into his hand as he shook the contents loose, marked with the name of the West Park Savings on one side.

A smirk passed across Clint's face. He didn't have a paycheck, but at least he had a lead. First he would like a cup of coffee and a nice shower then he had a busy day ahead of him. He should have known this was too simple of a job; no woman that beautiful would be in to him without a catch.