(Teen | possession of weapons and Natasha’s suspicious speculations)

I'm still working on a fill for you for last year (oops?), but here's something else:

Welcome To The Neighbourhood

Natasha glares at the door to her apartment, like that’ll help.

What kind of door locks automatically when it shuts? Okay, except annoying hotel room doors. And apparently doors in this damn building.

Come to New York, Fury had said. I’m putting together a specialist response team and I want you on it.

She should have stayed working the long undercover jobs that are her speciality. Then she’d have had her emergency kit on her, because undercover means never being off the job, instead of not having so much as a hair pin or an underwire from a bra she could pick the lock with. She wouldn't be here, stuck outside her new apartment wearing nothing but bright pink yoga pants and an old Ulitsa Sezam t-shirt that don't belong to any of her aliases, just her, because she’d decided to take advantage of an opportunity to just be herself for a change.

There’s a soft little meow sound from near the ground and Natasha transfers her glare to the stupid, skinny black cat pawing at her angle. It gazes back up at her beseechingly.

“I’m blaming you,” she tells it.

She’d followed the damn stray to make sure that it went out and stayed out - not because it was limping and she wanted to check that it was okay, not at all - and, well, the cat is definitely out of the apartment.

It’s just so is Natasha.

She can break in, but it’s too late in the evening to get a broken door fixed and she’ll have to barricade it for the night, which means she’ll be too on edge to sleep well, if at all. She could use the fire escape and smash a window, but: same problem. And having to explain either would be a great introduction to her new landlord - hi, I moved in two days ago and I already damaged the place.

She hasn't met him yet, just Simone who works from home - one of the third floor apartments - handling all the paperwork and day-to-day stuff. Natasha had signed a lease at the dining table while her kids were watching cartoons.

Natasha looked at places with better security, but people there were too nosey and she’d rather rely on her own security measures anyway. This is secure enough, but also laid back enough that she should be able to slip in and out without comment. It’ll do for now, while she’s adjusting to being stateside again.

Maybe she can get some recommendations for better places when she starts her new role on Monday. First time in... shit, almost a decade she’ll have been to SHIELD’s New York site.

“Um, hi?”

Natasha inspects the guy coming up the stairs: mid thirties maybe, hearing aids, short sleeves showing off a beautiful pair of arms, and carrying a bow, of all things, with a quiver slung over one shoulder. Great. A jock.

“Hi,” Natasha says flatly, looking away after she’s given him the once over.

“Have you… locked yourself out?”

She ignores him, because obviously.

“Yeah.” He runs a hand through his hair and rubs the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “I keep meaning to replace the doors with something less...mean. Can you hold this for a minute?”

He hands her his bow. It’s heavier than she expected. And he’s an idiot for handing a complete stranger his weapon, even if he's used to viewing it as sports equipment.

“Okay, just let me - ”

Robin Hood rummages in a compartment at the base of his quiver, produces a set of lock picks - well-used, to Natasha’s professional eye - kneels down, and gets to work. He looks like he knows what he’s doing, which bodes well for Natasha getting back inside pretty soon with minimal damage. Although she’s not sure how she feels about sharing a building with someone this proficient at B&E.

“What are you doing?” she asks, pretending ignorance as an excuse to lean closer so she can keep an eye on what he’s up to.

“Well, it’s kind of my fault you locked yourself out of your apartment and you’re really cute and I can help -” he blushes as his brain catches up with his mouth. “Um, please don't ask why i’m carrying lockpicks.”

“Or I could ask why you’re carrying a bow?”

The lock clicks open, he gets to his feet, and she hands the weapon in question back to him. There’s something in the way he holds himself that reminds her of a ready fighting stance and makes her think he’d be just as dangerous without it, so she might as well give it back.

“It’s a hobby,” he says with a small smile, ducking his head, and if he’s not lying he’s at least not telling the whole truth.

Curious. She wonders if he's ever shot someone.

He pushes open the door, presumably to demonstrate that the problem is solved, and plants a foot in the gap to keep it that way. The cat strolls back inside and, whatever, Natasha doesn’t know what the policy is in this place about pets and how likely this guy is to rat her out when the odds are good he’s some kind of criminal, but the cat is definitely limping and way too skinny and Natasha doesn't have the energy to chase it out again.

“Thanks,” she says politely, ignoring the whole ‘cute’ thing. If he was mocking her Russian Sesame Street t-shirt she doesn't want to know. Sesame Street is educational gold and he can go to hell.

“No problem.” He moves his foot out of the way as Natasha walks past him. Before she can close the door in his face though he adds, “And, just so you know, I’m your landlord, not a burglar or anything, I promise. I’m Clint.”

He holds a hand out for her to shake. He has some interesting calluses.

Natasha has guns and explosives and god knows how many knives in her apartment behind her, not to mention her own lockpicks, and experience in using them. Far be it for her to judge. Although if he brings trouble back to this building while she's here, she's not going to put up with that shit.

“Natasha,” she replies, in the kind of tone that says this conversation is over now. As interesting as he’s starting to seem, he’s probably not worth the attention.

“Hi,” Clint says again, smiling and really not getting the hint. “So, um, do you have any hobbies?” he asks, waving his free hand at her t-shirt and apparently… Yes, he’s attempting to flirt.

“I shoot,” Natasha says. “Competitively.”

That's usually enough to put off most boys. Clint though, he breaks into a genuine grin of delight. It’s a good look on him.

“There's a great range I use four blocks away. Feel free to - y’know, if you want - ”

“Clint! Hey,” a young woman demands, coming down the stairs - late teens or early twenties, long dark hair tied back, and wearing casual clothes. “What’s taking so long?”

“Shit.”

“S’alright.” She waves away his guilt and eyes Natasha up and down, very obviously judging Natasha’s fashion choices and finding them amusing. “Just the pizza’s getting cold.”

“This is Kate,” Clint says. “Kate, Natasha just moved in.”

“Did she.”

“She shoots competitively.” He sounds very happy about this and Natasha has to bite her lip to stop herself from lecturing him on keeping his emotions in check rather than putting them on display for the whole world.

“Does she?” Kate smirks. “You should come to our range sometime.”

Natasha only refrains from rolling her eyes because she lives here and she doesn't want to have to move again right away just because she pissed off the landlord and his partner.

“Would you like me to beat you or your boyfriend?” slips out though. Natasha blames the fact that she's spent most of this evening with her guard down. It’s absolutely nothing to do with the kid’s attitude.

Clint blushes, but Kate laughs.

“Not my boyfriend. And if you can beat him I seriously wanna see that.” She grabs Clint by the wrist and tugs him away towards the stairs. “C’mon, Casanova.”

Natasha closes her apartment door as they leave - Clint half-turning to give her a little wave - but she doesn’t shut it completely until the sound of them bickering with each other has faded away.

As soon as there’s no gap that she can shove it out of the cat reappears, winding itself around her ankles and staring up at her. It really is too thin.

“What’re you looking at?” Natasha grumbles, but she's already mentally added cat food to the shopping list. And a trip to a certain local range in her calendar.