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be_compromised2017-12-20 07:31 pm
inkvoices) wrote in be_compromised2017-12-20 07:31 pm
Entry tags:
Secret Santa: Radio Nowhere (Wrong Number, Right Time)
A Gift From: ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kiss_me_cassie
Type Of Gift: Fic
Title: Radio Nowhere (Wrong Number, Right Time)
A Gift For:geckoholic
Rating: Teen & Up
Warnings: bad language, nightmares, mild discussion of guns/gunshot wounds
Summary/Prompt Used:I called the wrong number but we struck up a deep conversation AU
Author's Note: I sincerely hope you like this and that I did comics!Clint justice.
Radio Nowhere (Wrong Number, Right Time)
He was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming because it was the same nightmare he always had, with the same shapeless pursuer and the same creepy circus tent.
The dark and shadowy thing - person? - was never fully formed, but it was always chasing him. No, not chasing. Stalking? In the dream, he could never quite tell, but it was always out there, waiting for him. Waiting for him to head back to the empty, cavernous, main events circus tent, with its dark shadows and hidden alcoves, where no one would think to look for him until it was too late. Waiting, with its harsh, labored breathing and restless pacing. Just waiting. Waiting until there was no way for him to escape. Waiting, waiting, ready to pounce -
The blaring of his cell phone startled him, and he groped for it, automatically hitting accept before even looking at the screen. A flood of words came rushing at him - dark, guttural words - and for a few disorienting moments, he thought he was still dreaming.
"What the hell, Duquesne? Why are you talking in some damned foreign language?" he hissed, his brain still fuzzy with sleep. "And why the fuck are you hiding in here?"
The flood of words stopped immediately.
"Dammit! This isn't Alexei, is it?" came the answer, the words in English this time.
That got his attention, and it helped to shake the last of the dream from his head.
The speaker was a woman; definitely a woman and not Duquesne. And whoever she was, she sounded slightly frantic, although things were still fuzzy without his hearing aids in.
"Well, you definitely aren't Swordsman, so that means this definitely isn't a dream," he said dumbly as he twisted an aid into his ear.
"Shit!" There were more muted curses - some in English, some in the same guttural language as before - and then the woman came back on the line, hope and despair equally evident in her voice now that he could hear her clearly. "Whoever this is, Alexei isn't with you, is he?"
"Nooooo," Clint drawled, his brows knitting together as he started to focus on the woman. "I don't think… I think you must've gotten a wrong number."
He was about to hang up, but was stopped by the sound of her voice again. The husky rasp of it sent a little shiver of pleasure down his spine, but he couldn't concentrate on that because there was something… off... about her tone, something that made him sit up and take notice. And not in a good way.
"Fuck. I'm sorry. I needed him to…" He heard a loud, hissing intake of breath and a gasp. "Gimme a minute."
Whatever was happening, it didn't sound good. He pulled the phone away from his ear and frowned when he noticed the time on the screen. 2:53 am. Not exactly prime time for a social call.
Sitting up in bed, he wedged the phone between his shoulder and his ear.
"Hey, are you ok?" he asked while he pulled on some sweatpants.
There was a pause and for a moment he thought she had hung up. Then her voice came back on the line, a little hoarse and laced with pain.
"Define ok," she said.
That didn't seem like something that needed defining.
"Ok as in not in trouble," he said before quickly adding, "Either physically or mentally."
There was another long pause and he waited impatiently for her to answer, worried that something life threatening might have happened to her. He got up and paced the small area by his bed, running a hand through his hair as he nervously waited for her reply.
"Hey, you still there?" he asked.
"Yeah. Still here," she finally said.
"And? Are you ok?" he asked again, worry making his voice sound harsher than he intended.
Her voice was grim when she answered. "Maybe."
"Maybe?" he exclaimed. "That's not really one of the choices."
"It's the only answer I've got."
He tried to hold back his frustration. "Then get a better one."
She sighed and then said, quite matter-of-factly, "I've been shot."
He yanked the phone away from his ear and stared at it like it was on fire. "Shot? Like, with a gun?"
"Yes," she repeated calmly. He could practically picture her shrugging. "It's not that bad. Hardly more than a graze."
"You say that like it's an everyday occurrence."
"You'd be surprised," she said dryly.
He could hear her shifting around and then the rending of fabric. She uttered another quiet curse before muffling a cry of pain and he imagined her fashioning a bandage of some sort around her wound.
He felt a little woozy picturing it and sat down hard on his bed. "Listen, I know I'm not Alexei and you probably don't want to share too many details with me, but can you at least tell me if you're safe?"
There was a pause. "As safe as I can be for now."
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
"I'm not sure," she said grimly. "Probably not."
"What about the police?" he asked.
She snorted. "No. No police. I'm not exactly on the up and up."
"A hospital?" he tried.
"Not much better than the police. They'll ask too many questions."
"There's gotta be something I can do or someone else who can help you," he said, desperate to help. He couldn't just leave her on her own, with no one to turn to.
People didn't just get shot and then walk it off like it was nothing, did they? Not that he had much experience with guns or gunshot wounds. He was more familiar with the kind of damage done by fists, arrows, and knives; and he sure as hell knew wounds caused by those last two required some sort of serious care.
"I did have someone. Alexei," she was saying. "I wound up with you instead."
She didn't exactly sound mad, more like resigned. At least he hoped that was it. The line went silent again and he wondered once more if she'd hung up.
"Still with me?" Clint asked. He didn’t know why, but he wasn't quite ready to have her hang up yet.
"Yeah. But I'm tired," she admitted with a muted sigh. "I wish I could get some sleep."
Crap. Tired wasn't a good thing. Tired meant too much blood loss and other things - bad things - didn't it?
"Don't," Clint said, his voice taking on a vague sense of urgency. "You can't… Listen, do you have a name? I don't even know your name."
"It's Natasha," she said and he swore he heard a hint of a smile in her voice. It had to be his imagination, though, or the blood loss. Maybe the blood loss was making her loopy?
"Natasha,” he repeated. "I'm Clint. Don't fall asleep, ok? You have to stay awake."
She laughed softly. "You've watched too many bad movies. I told you, it's not much more than a graze. It's not pretty - I'll probably end up with another ugly scar - but I'm not going to bleed out."
"But you said -"
"That I was tired?" she asked, amusement still lacing her voice. "I am. I'm tired of running, of the fear, of… a lot of things. I'm just plain tired. I haven't slept in who knows how long."
"I can't pretend I know what your life is like but you could always try and change things. Head in a new direction, make a different call."
"Maybe." She sounded doubtful.
"Maybe if you did, you might sleep better. Or at all," he said softly.
He had no idea if it actually would help - turning over a new leaf certainly hadn't kept away his nightmares - but it was definitely worth a try. And who knew? Just because it hadn't worked for him, didn't mean it wouldn't work for her.
She interrupted his thoughts with another heavy sigh. "I need to go. I still need to track down Alexei and figure out this mess."
There was a brief pause while he tried desperately to try and come up with something to make her stay on the line and then, "Thank you, Clint. I appreciate you listening."
"Wait! Don't -"
But it was too late. She had already hung up.
---
Clint spent the rest of the night tossing and turning. He couldn't get Natasha off his mind. Was she ok? Had she found the mysterious Alexei? Was she safe? Would she stay safe? Or would whoever shot her come back and find her again and finish the job?
The thoughts kept running through his head, no matter how hard he tried to tell himself it was none of his business and she wasn't his responsibility.
Unfortunately, his head didn't seem to agree. There was just something about her that refused to let him forget the sound of her voice or the hopelessness in it.
At around four in the morning, he finally gave up, brewed a pot of coffee, downed about half of it, then threw on some running clothes, hoping that a long run would help clear his head.
When he finally made it back to his apartment a few hours later, Kate was there, waiting for him.
"Jesus, Barton. I've never known you to willingly get up this early before," she said. "I thought I'd have to drag your ass out of bed this morning."
"Yeah, well, I didn't sleep much last night." It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her about the phone call from Natasha, but something stopped him. He grabbed the pot of coffee and took a gulp of the tepid brew.
Kate shot him a disgusted look.
"Is that for the coffee or something else?" he asked curiously, well aware that she hated when he drank out of the pot.
"Both," she said, narrowing her eyes at him. "Why didn't you sleep?"
That was the problem with Kate; she knew him too well. For a brief moment, he reconsidered telling her about Natasha. But why bother? It wasn't like he'd ever hear from her again, so why get yet another person worried or involved?
He shrugged and turned away from her probing gaze to dump the coffee pot in the sink with all the other dishes that still needed washing.
"I had some bad dreams," he fudged, not feeling too bad about omitting the part about the phone call from Natasha. He had had bad dreams. They just hadn't been the thing that kept him awake until dawn. "Stuff about the circus."
Kate's mouth twisted into something that was half frown, half scowl. She opened her mouth, about to make a smart ass comment, then seemed to think better of it. She grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the door. "C'mon. We're going to the range."
"Aww, Katie, I wanted to take a nap!"
"Too bad. I've already made up my mind," she declared. "If you stay here, you're just going to mope and think about the thing and I'm not gonna let that happen."
---
By the time he got back home, he was exhausted. After taking a quick shower, he dug out a fresh t-shirt - or as fresh as he could find in the mess that was his bedroom floor - and tugged it on. He settled down on the couch for an epic tv marathon, but even as he lost himself in Dog Cops, he couldn't stop thinking about Natasha.
Grabbing his phone, he frowned at the screen for a little while before pulling up the number from last night and staring at it uncertainly, wondering if he should call it or not.
He let his thumb hover over the call button for a few seconds before finally moving it to the delete button, resolutely erasing the number from his phone's memory forever.
There. It was done. No more Natasha. No more wondering or worrying. No more staying awake all night. He hoped.
A while later he woke up on his couch, feeling more than a little achy from lying on the worn cushions. With a groan, he got up and stumbled into his bedroom, collapsing onto the messy sheets, hoping he'd manage to sleep for just a few more hours. But after an hour of tossing and turning, he finally gave up and headed to the kitchen to grab a slice of cold pizza.
He may have deleted Natasha from his phone, but he definitely hadn't managed to delete her from his thoughts.
He was just reaching for the refrigerator door when his phone suddenly went off, making his heartbeat immediately speed up.
Taking a few deep breaths, he willed it to slow back down. What were the odds Natasha would call him a second time? About a million to one, that's what. It had to be Kate, calling to give him shit about how bad he'd been at the shooting range today. It couldn't possibly be Natasha.
With nervous fingers, he pulled out his phone and stared at the unfamiliar number that popped up. So apparently not Kate. His heartbeat sped up again and he hit accept, barely managing to croak out a hello before being stopped cold by Natasha's husky voice.
"So Alexei stood me up again," she said without preamble.
His hand dropped from the refrigerator handle and he stared out into his darkened kitchen in shock. "Natasha. Are you ok?"
He could hear the smile in her voice as she countered his question. "Define ok."
He wanted to be mad at her flippant tone, but he was too relieved to do anything more than slump into a kitchen chair and say, "Seriously? After worrying half the day that you were dead in a gutter somewhere, that's what you're going with?"
"Only half the day?" she teased, before her voice suddenly took on a much more serious tone. "Yeah, I'm ok. I found a friend - not Alexei - and she was able to help me out. Found me a safe place in New York where I can lay low for a while until things cool off."
His forehead scrunched in confusion. "I'm glad you ditched Alexei; he's an asshole for abandoning you the first time. But if this other friend was able to help... why are you calling me?"
"Because you helped me out, too," she said. "By lending an ear during a low moment and reminding me there's still some good out there in the world."
Clint snorted. "If you needed a poor schmuck like me to remind you of that, you need some new friends."
"Yeah, no kidding."
"Listen, I'm by no means an expert or anything, but I meant what I said last night. It is possible to turn your life around," he told her. "I've gotten through some bad situations myself. If I managed to get past them, I'm sure you can get through whatever mess you're in, too."
"Oh yeah?" she said doubtfully and he could hear the low hum of traffic and the murmur of voices in the background. "What things happened to you that were so bad you needed to 'get past them'?"
He laughed. Although really, it was more of a self-conscious snicker than anything else. "Do you want to hear about my typical crappy childhood with an abusive parent and a string of foster homes, or about my sordid past with the circus and criminal underground?"
She whistled, low and sharp. "My! You do have quite the checkered past, don't you?"
"And then some," he admitted grimly.
There was the sound of a car horn somewhere near to her and he wondered briefly where she was, but was stopped from further wondering by her next comment.
"Suddenly, my escape from the Russian mafia doesn't seem quite as colorful when compared to the circus."
His eyebrows shot up. "Russian? Is that what you were speaking the first time you called?"
"Yes. You didn't recognize the language?" she asked in surprise.
"My hearing's shot, the result of one too many beatings with a belt, and I was half asleep when you called," he explained, surprising himself with how easily he shared that information with her. "Could've been pretty much anything."
She was silent for a moment and then her voice came back on the line, quieter this time, more serious sounding. He strained to hear her over the traffic. "Hey, Clint?"
"Yeah?"
"Know why else I called you?"
"Why?" he asked, curious.
"Because I wanted to hear your voice again," she admitted softly. "And you were kind. It's been a really long time since anyone was kind to me or cared if I was ok."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"Hey," he said suddenly, unwilling to let her go again. "You mentioned you're in New York. Whereabouts are you?"
"Just walked past Washington Park in Brooklyn."
"That's not too far from where I live. Wanna meet for coffee?"
There was dead silence on the other end of the line.
"I'm not sure," she started hesitantly.
He rushed to reassure her. "We don't have to. But there's a little place called Mike's on Dekalb. Well lit, multiple exits, great coffee, and the waitress hates me. If anything happens, she's much more likely to help you than me."
"I'm safe for now," she said, and he swore he heard a hint of longing in her voice. "But I can't guarantee the guys who were after me won't be back. I don't want to put you in danger."
"I can handle myself. C'mon, you have nothing to lose," he coaxed. "And possibly a new friend to gain. What do you say?"
Another long silence stretched out and he worried that he'd overstepped any tenuous boundaries they'd established.
"Natasha?"
"I say you're buying," she finally answered. "Fries and a milkshake."
"It's almost 1 am," he protested.
"A milkshake."
"Fine," he said, feeling lighter than he had since she'd hung up on him last night. "I'll even bring bandages in case you need them."
Her laugh at his lame joke made him smile.
"Deal."
kiss_me_cassieType Of Gift: Fic
Title: Radio Nowhere (Wrong Number, Right Time)
A Gift For:
geckoholicRating: Teen & Up
Warnings: bad language, nightmares, mild discussion of guns/gunshot wounds
Summary/Prompt Used:I called the wrong number but we struck up a deep conversation AU
Author's Note: I sincerely hope you like this and that I did comics!Clint justice.
Radio Nowhere (Wrong Number, Right Time)
He was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming because it was the same nightmare he always had, with the same shapeless pursuer and the same creepy circus tent.
The dark and shadowy thing - person? - was never fully formed, but it was always chasing him. No, not chasing. Stalking? In the dream, he could never quite tell, but it was always out there, waiting for him. Waiting for him to head back to the empty, cavernous, main events circus tent, with its dark shadows and hidden alcoves, where no one would think to look for him until it was too late. Waiting, with its harsh, labored breathing and restless pacing. Just waiting. Waiting until there was no way for him to escape. Waiting, waiting, ready to pounce -
The blaring of his cell phone startled him, and he groped for it, automatically hitting accept before even looking at the screen. A flood of words came rushing at him - dark, guttural words - and for a few disorienting moments, he thought he was still dreaming.
"What the hell, Duquesne? Why are you talking in some damned foreign language?" he hissed, his brain still fuzzy with sleep. "And why the fuck are you hiding in here?"
The flood of words stopped immediately.
"Dammit! This isn't Alexei, is it?" came the answer, the words in English this time.
That got his attention, and it helped to shake the last of the dream from his head.
The speaker was a woman; definitely a woman and not Duquesne. And whoever she was, she sounded slightly frantic, although things were still fuzzy without his hearing aids in.
"Well, you definitely aren't Swordsman, so that means this definitely isn't a dream," he said dumbly as he twisted an aid into his ear.
"Shit!" There were more muted curses - some in English, some in the same guttural language as before - and then the woman came back on the line, hope and despair equally evident in her voice now that he could hear her clearly. "Whoever this is, Alexei isn't with you, is he?"
"Nooooo," Clint drawled, his brows knitting together as he started to focus on the woman. "I don't think… I think you must've gotten a wrong number."
He was about to hang up, but was stopped by the sound of her voice again. The husky rasp of it sent a little shiver of pleasure down his spine, but he couldn't concentrate on that because there was something… off... about her tone, something that made him sit up and take notice. And not in a good way.
"Fuck. I'm sorry. I needed him to…" He heard a loud, hissing intake of breath and a gasp. "Gimme a minute."
Whatever was happening, it didn't sound good. He pulled the phone away from his ear and frowned when he noticed the time on the screen. 2:53 am. Not exactly prime time for a social call.
Sitting up in bed, he wedged the phone between his shoulder and his ear.
"Hey, are you ok?" he asked while he pulled on some sweatpants.
There was a pause and for a moment he thought she had hung up. Then her voice came back on the line, a little hoarse and laced with pain.
"Define ok," she said.
That didn't seem like something that needed defining.
"Ok as in not in trouble," he said before quickly adding, "Either physically or mentally."
There was another long pause and he waited impatiently for her to answer, worried that something life threatening might have happened to her. He got up and paced the small area by his bed, running a hand through his hair as he nervously waited for her reply.
"Hey, you still there?" he asked.
"Yeah. Still here," she finally said.
"And? Are you ok?" he asked again, worry making his voice sound harsher than he intended.
Her voice was grim when she answered. "Maybe."
"Maybe?" he exclaimed. "That's not really one of the choices."
"It's the only answer I've got."
He tried to hold back his frustration. "Then get a better one."
She sighed and then said, quite matter-of-factly, "I've been shot."
He yanked the phone away from his ear and stared at it like it was on fire. "Shot? Like, with a gun?"
"Yes," she repeated calmly. He could practically picture her shrugging. "It's not that bad. Hardly more than a graze."
"You say that like it's an everyday occurrence."
"You'd be surprised," she said dryly.
He could hear her shifting around and then the rending of fabric. She uttered another quiet curse before muffling a cry of pain and he imagined her fashioning a bandage of some sort around her wound.
He felt a little woozy picturing it and sat down hard on his bed. "Listen, I know I'm not Alexei and you probably don't want to share too many details with me, but can you at least tell me if you're safe?"
There was a pause. "As safe as I can be for now."
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
"I'm not sure," she said grimly. "Probably not."
"What about the police?" he asked.
She snorted. "No. No police. I'm not exactly on the up and up."
"A hospital?" he tried.
"Not much better than the police. They'll ask too many questions."
"There's gotta be something I can do or someone else who can help you," he said, desperate to help. He couldn't just leave her on her own, with no one to turn to.
People didn't just get shot and then walk it off like it was nothing, did they? Not that he had much experience with guns or gunshot wounds. He was more familiar with the kind of damage done by fists, arrows, and knives; and he sure as hell knew wounds caused by those last two required some sort of serious care.
"I did have someone. Alexei," she was saying. "I wound up with you instead."
She didn't exactly sound mad, more like resigned. At least he hoped that was it. The line went silent again and he wondered once more if she'd hung up.
"Still with me?" Clint asked. He didn’t know why, but he wasn't quite ready to have her hang up yet.
"Yeah. But I'm tired," she admitted with a muted sigh. "I wish I could get some sleep."
Crap. Tired wasn't a good thing. Tired meant too much blood loss and other things - bad things - didn't it?
"Don't," Clint said, his voice taking on a vague sense of urgency. "You can't… Listen, do you have a name? I don't even know your name."
"It's Natasha," she said and he swore he heard a hint of a smile in her voice. It had to be his imagination, though, or the blood loss. Maybe the blood loss was making her loopy?
"Natasha,” he repeated. "I'm Clint. Don't fall asleep, ok? You have to stay awake."
She laughed softly. "You've watched too many bad movies. I told you, it's not much more than a graze. It's not pretty - I'll probably end up with another ugly scar - but I'm not going to bleed out."
"But you said -"
"That I was tired?" she asked, amusement still lacing her voice. "I am. I'm tired of running, of the fear, of… a lot of things. I'm just plain tired. I haven't slept in who knows how long."
"I can't pretend I know what your life is like but you could always try and change things. Head in a new direction, make a different call."
"Maybe." She sounded doubtful.
"Maybe if you did, you might sleep better. Or at all," he said softly.
He had no idea if it actually would help - turning over a new leaf certainly hadn't kept away his nightmares - but it was definitely worth a try. And who knew? Just because it hadn't worked for him, didn't mean it wouldn't work for her.
She interrupted his thoughts with another heavy sigh. "I need to go. I still need to track down Alexei and figure out this mess."
There was a brief pause while he tried desperately to try and come up with something to make her stay on the line and then, "Thank you, Clint. I appreciate you listening."
"Wait! Don't -"
But it was too late. She had already hung up.
---
Clint spent the rest of the night tossing and turning. He couldn't get Natasha off his mind. Was she ok? Had she found the mysterious Alexei? Was she safe? Would she stay safe? Or would whoever shot her come back and find her again and finish the job?
The thoughts kept running through his head, no matter how hard he tried to tell himself it was none of his business and she wasn't his responsibility.
Unfortunately, his head didn't seem to agree. There was just something about her that refused to let him forget the sound of her voice or the hopelessness in it.
At around four in the morning, he finally gave up, brewed a pot of coffee, downed about half of it, then threw on some running clothes, hoping that a long run would help clear his head.
When he finally made it back to his apartment a few hours later, Kate was there, waiting for him.
"Jesus, Barton. I've never known you to willingly get up this early before," she said. "I thought I'd have to drag your ass out of bed this morning."
"Yeah, well, I didn't sleep much last night." It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her about the phone call from Natasha, but something stopped him. He grabbed the pot of coffee and took a gulp of the tepid brew.
Kate shot him a disgusted look.
"Is that for the coffee or something else?" he asked curiously, well aware that she hated when he drank out of the pot.
"Both," she said, narrowing her eyes at him. "Why didn't you sleep?"
That was the problem with Kate; she knew him too well. For a brief moment, he reconsidered telling her about Natasha. But why bother? It wasn't like he'd ever hear from her again, so why get yet another person worried or involved?
He shrugged and turned away from her probing gaze to dump the coffee pot in the sink with all the other dishes that still needed washing.
"I had some bad dreams," he fudged, not feeling too bad about omitting the part about the phone call from Natasha. He had had bad dreams. They just hadn't been the thing that kept him awake until dawn. "Stuff about the circus."
Kate's mouth twisted into something that was half frown, half scowl. She opened her mouth, about to make a smart ass comment, then seemed to think better of it. She grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the door. "C'mon. We're going to the range."
"Aww, Katie, I wanted to take a nap!"
"Too bad. I've already made up my mind," she declared. "If you stay here, you're just going to mope and think about the thing and I'm not gonna let that happen."
---
By the time he got back home, he was exhausted. After taking a quick shower, he dug out a fresh t-shirt - or as fresh as he could find in the mess that was his bedroom floor - and tugged it on. He settled down on the couch for an epic tv marathon, but even as he lost himself in Dog Cops, he couldn't stop thinking about Natasha.
Grabbing his phone, he frowned at the screen for a little while before pulling up the number from last night and staring at it uncertainly, wondering if he should call it or not.
He let his thumb hover over the call button for a few seconds before finally moving it to the delete button, resolutely erasing the number from his phone's memory forever.
There. It was done. No more Natasha. No more wondering or worrying. No more staying awake all night. He hoped.
A while later he woke up on his couch, feeling more than a little achy from lying on the worn cushions. With a groan, he got up and stumbled into his bedroom, collapsing onto the messy sheets, hoping he'd manage to sleep for just a few more hours. But after an hour of tossing and turning, he finally gave up and headed to the kitchen to grab a slice of cold pizza.
He may have deleted Natasha from his phone, but he definitely hadn't managed to delete her from his thoughts.
He was just reaching for the refrigerator door when his phone suddenly went off, making his heartbeat immediately speed up.
Taking a few deep breaths, he willed it to slow back down. What were the odds Natasha would call him a second time? About a million to one, that's what. It had to be Kate, calling to give him shit about how bad he'd been at the shooting range today. It couldn't possibly be Natasha.
With nervous fingers, he pulled out his phone and stared at the unfamiliar number that popped up. So apparently not Kate. His heartbeat sped up again and he hit accept, barely managing to croak out a hello before being stopped cold by Natasha's husky voice.
"So Alexei stood me up again," she said without preamble.
His hand dropped from the refrigerator handle and he stared out into his darkened kitchen in shock. "Natasha. Are you ok?"
He could hear the smile in her voice as she countered his question. "Define ok."
He wanted to be mad at her flippant tone, but he was too relieved to do anything more than slump into a kitchen chair and say, "Seriously? After worrying half the day that you were dead in a gutter somewhere, that's what you're going with?"
"Only half the day?" she teased, before her voice suddenly took on a much more serious tone. "Yeah, I'm ok. I found a friend - not Alexei - and she was able to help me out. Found me a safe place in New York where I can lay low for a while until things cool off."
His forehead scrunched in confusion. "I'm glad you ditched Alexei; he's an asshole for abandoning you the first time. But if this other friend was able to help... why are you calling me?"
"Because you helped me out, too," she said. "By lending an ear during a low moment and reminding me there's still some good out there in the world."
Clint snorted. "If you needed a poor schmuck like me to remind you of that, you need some new friends."
"Yeah, no kidding."
"Listen, I'm by no means an expert or anything, but I meant what I said last night. It is possible to turn your life around," he told her. "I've gotten through some bad situations myself. If I managed to get past them, I'm sure you can get through whatever mess you're in, too."
"Oh yeah?" she said doubtfully and he could hear the low hum of traffic and the murmur of voices in the background. "What things happened to you that were so bad you needed to 'get past them'?"
He laughed. Although really, it was more of a self-conscious snicker than anything else. "Do you want to hear about my typical crappy childhood with an abusive parent and a string of foster homes, or about my sordid past with the circus and criminal underground?"
She whistled, low and sharp. "My! You do have quite the checkered past, don't you?"
"And then some," he admitted grimly.
There was the sound of a car horn somewhere near to her and he wondered briefly where she was, but was stopped from further wondering by her next comment.
"Suddenly, my escape from the Russian mafia doesn't seem quite as colorful when compared to the circus."
His eyebrows shot up. "Russian? Is that what you were speaking the first time you called?"
"Yes. You didn't recognize the language?" she asked in surprise.
"My hearing's shot, the result of one too many beatings with a belt, and I was half asleep when you called," he explained, surprising himself with how easily he shared that information with her. "Could've been pretty much anything."
She was silent for a moment and then her voice came back on the line, quieter this time, more serious sounding. He strained to hear her over the traffic. "Hey, Clint?"
"Yeah?"
"Know why else I called you?"
"Why?" he asked, curious.
"Because I wanted to hear your voice again," she admitted softly. "And you were kind. It's been a really long time since anyone was kind to me or cared if I was ok."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"Hey," he said suddenly, unwilling to let her go again. "You mentioned you're in New York. Whereabouts are you?"
"Just walked past Washington Park in Brooklyn."
"That's not too far from where I live. Wanna meet for coffee?"
There was dead silence on the other end of the line.
"I'm not sure," she started hesitantly.
He rushed to reassure her. "We don't have to. But there's a little place called Mike's on Dekalb. Well lit, multiple exits, great coffee, and the waitress hates me. If anything happens, she's much more likely to help you than me."
"I'm safe for now," she said, and he swore he heard a hint of longing in her voice. "But I can't guarantee the guys who were after me won't be back. I don't want to put you in danger."
"I can handle myself. C'mon, you have nothing to lose," he coaxed. "And possibly a new friend to gain. What do you say?"
Another long silence stretched out and he worried that he'd overstepped any tenuous boundaries they'd established.
"Natasha?"
"I say you're buying," she finally answered. "Fries and a milkshake."
"It's almost 1 am," he protested.
"A milkshake."
"Fine," he said, feeling lighter than he had since she'd hung up on him last night. "I'll even bring bandages in case you need them."
Her laugh at his lame joke made him smile.
"Deal."
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And then picks a place to meet that has multiple exits and a hostile waitress she can turn to for backup...it's just very Clint.
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I really loved the tone of the conversations you set up between Clint and Natasha and the connection they have even before they meet.
And Clint's relationship with Kate just feels so natural.
<3 <3 <3