*

The months pass and Clint slowly pieces the puzzle. Natalie Rushman isn't cold; she is afraid of becoming too attached. She isn't rigid, she insists doing things by the book, because she doesn't want to overlook anything. She insists on every single possibility being used before concluding that nothing, indeed, can be done. She has a strong aversion towards colleagues who neglect their clients, and she's not afraid to call them up on it, which is why some people don't like her. She knows all of their cases by heart, just like Clint does, and she can definitely be relied upon.

Getting to know her is more difficult and slower. She appreciates Clint's easy going manner, the way he doesn't judge her and doesn't try to correct her. He does insist on conversations, even idle conversations, on having coffee together during a break, or discussing things like movies or music, even though she rolls her eyes at him. At first it's hard, and it's almost as if her lips are pried shut, so Clint spends a lot of time having monologues, but slowly she becomes more talkative. Sometimes she fondly mocks his taste, calls him old fashioned, and he doesn't mind, especially if he learns tidbits about her. She likes classical literature and ballet, and she is pleased when she discovers that he can hold an intelligent conversation about those topics (or religion, world economy, architecture, you name it; Clint is a walking encyclopedia of random knowledge and oddities) just as well as he can talk about car engines.

He tells her he's been raised by foster parents, that he's changed four foster families until he was lucky to come into hands of the Cutlers. She listens to his story quietly, like she always listens to important things. Then, unexpectedly, after a day they both deemed a success, she tells him she's been adopted.

He asks her if she remembers it, and she nods. Do you remember your parents, he asks, and she smiles, with her eyes shiny and wet. Clint feels how something in his chest tightens; it's a familiar feeling, it's something he can understand and relate to. He wants to hold her hand, but she doesn't move, sitting across from him in a quiet restaurant. He holds her with his gaze instead.

Soon after that they share a drink in a nice club after work and don't feel like social workers, (those people who constantly deal with delinquents and their parents). She tells him about a modern art exhibition she's been to, and they've laugh about Clint's car, which constantly needs something fixed.

“Nah, I'm not giving up on it,” he says, feeling light and content in his skin. “It's old, but it can still run just fine. I'm not going to replace something that works, just for the whim of it,” he says and takes a sip of his beer. Her smile saddens a little, and she moves her bright red hair behind her ear.

“Is that how you think of everything? Don't replace it, if it can run?”

He sighs and looks at her thoughtfully. “Well, not necessarily. I like old things. This shirt, for instance,” he says.

“I suppose it used to be purple in its heyday?” she teases lightly.

“Yeah, but what matters is that I've taken this shirt to all my big travels. I like old stuff that means something.”

“Oh, God,” she half laughs, “and that car was your first car, right?”

“No,” he laughs along and basks in the glow of her smile. “But it is the first car I've bought on my own,” he says.

“I'm impressed,” she toasts with her glass of wine, holds his smile for a moment longer, but then it slowly fades. “I have old things,” she begins, “but I'm not as good at holding onto them.”

“I'm not sure I understand,” he says. It feels like an entry to a different conversation, and judging by her face, the way she studies him, he's not wrong.