franztastisch

geckoholic

alistra

It’s only been going on for a couple of minutes but already the beating has taken on a perfunctory air, less about Clint’s supposed sins now and more a formality; everyone getting their turn. Sure, it’s only three men, but three pairs of feet can still inflict a decent amount of damage. 

He curls more tightly around himself, doing his best to protect his head and face. He has no idea what he did to attract these guys’ attention, though perhaps being seen talking to Luis and Sam was enough. Folks get angry about the oddest things and it’s not the first time Clint’s been beaten up for talking to “the wrong type of people”. He lives in Harlem, after all. But this is Broadway. He’d have thought folks were a little more open-minded around Broadway. 

One of the guys lands a particularly nasty blow to Clint’s hip and he grunts in pain. Jesus, he’d only been asking about work.

Suddenly, a woman’s voice calls out, “You get away from that man right now.”

Abruptly, the beating stops. There’s some garbled yelling that Clint can’t parse over the sound of blood rushing in his ears, then a loud clang and a mess of hurried footfalls that quickly fade. 

The same woman’s voice yells, “Cowards!” but there’s no reply. 

Cautiously, Clint pulls his arms away from his head so he can squint down the alley. 

The guys who’d jumped him hadn’t been subtle about it, and Clint’s barely ten feet away from the main road, down the side of the cantina where Luis and Sam work. That means there’s plenty of light from the myriad of theatre marquees for him to see the woman that’s standing almost over him, hands clenched and shoulders set, a brick and the lid of a garbage can lying haphazardly at her feet. 

She’s not anyone from the restaurant. She’s too fancy for that. She’s in a fur-trimmed coat and smart heels, and her cloche hat is the latest fashion. She must have come from one of the theatres - the last of the shows are letting out now - but why she’s decided to intervene on Clint’s behalf is anyone’s guess. In his experience, folk with the amount of money this woman clearly has rarely concerned themselves with the wellbeing of people like him. 

Abruptly, the woman turns to him and Clint is surprised to see that she’s angry.

“Are you alright?” she asks, just as a man in an equally expensive suit and wool overcoat skids into the alley, calling, “Natalia!” with frantic worry. 

She barely looks at him. “I am fine, James.” 

“What were you thinking?” apparently-James demands. 

The woman - Natalia - clenches her fists again, turning to look at James through narrowed eyes. “I was thinking,” she says icily, “that someone needed help.” There’s a long pause. “So I helped.”

“But – ” the man called James says, only to be cut off immediately.

“I am not incapable, James! I am not a trophy or a plaything or an empty-headed fool.” Clint, trying to will his body into moving, gets the distinct impression that he’s missing some vital piece of information that would explain Miss Natalia’s foul mood, because he can’t have caused it. He can tell because Miss Natalia is angry in a way Clint is intimately familiar with, both from his own poverty-constrained life as well as the lives of the women and coloured folk he shares his neighbourhood with. It’s the impotent anger of the ignored.

“I never said – ”

“I am tired,” she grinds out, fists clenched and Clint, finally paying attention, can hear something Slavic in her vowels, though it’s faint, “of being talked down to and ignored. I’m tired of my opinions being belittled and my inputs disregarded. It’s exhausting, James.”

“I know,” James says quietly, and instead of sounding patronising like Clint half expects, he just sounds sad. Sad and resigned. “Natalia, I know. And Rumlow was bang outta line earlier, and I told him so, but you could have been hurt.”

Clint wonders, in the charged silence that follows, if the two of them are sufficiently distracted to allow him to creep away unnoticed, to nurse his hurts in private. Meddling rich do-gooders are more than he wants to deal with on an empty stomach, and while these two seem better than some, they’re wearing more money than Clint’s had in his entire life and that sets his teeth on edge.

“Someone did get hurt,” Miss Natalia answers, gesturing towards Clint, her posture thawing and her voice less harsh. They both turn to him. “Are you alright?” she asks. “Can you get up?”

So much for sneaking away. “I’m fine, ma’am,” Clint says, but the raspiness of his voice gives lie to his words. He amends it to, “I’ll be fine.”

Miss Natalia gives him a scrutinising look, before holding out one of her delicately gloved hands.

Clint stares at her, incredulous. It’s clear what she’s offering, but she’s barely five and a half feet, if that. Clint’s a foot taller than her and, what is more, filthy, bloody, and unquestionably poor. He’s not letting her help him up. 

Unperturbed, she waggles her hand.

“I’m okay,” Clint croaks, summoning all his strength before hauling himself unsteadily to his feet while pointedly ignoring her outstretched hand. His ribs hurt something fierce and his hip twinges hard enough that he doesn’t even try to straighten properly, but at least he doesn’t mess up the lady’s gloves. “I’m okay.” 

He wobbles slightly, puts his weight some way he really shouldn’t, and only doesn’t collapse because James grabs him one-handed around the shoulders. 

His other sleeve, Clint suddenly realises, is empty from the elbow down. 

“Steady,” James says softly and Clint nods, almost unconsciously, distracted by the way the wool of James’ sleeve sways as he moves. How’d a rich guy lose an arm? Did he fight in the War? He doesn’t look old enough - though that doesn’t mean much. Clint’s brother lied on his enlistment aged 15 and died an ignoble death two years later in Passchendaele with the Canadian Corps, and he wasn’t the youngest to do so.

“Can we take you anywhere?” Miss Natalia asks, interrupting his thoughts to hand him his badly flattened hat, which he hadn’t even realised he’d been missing. 

He takes the hat, murmuring his thanks and putting it on again as an excuse to duck out from under James’ grip. He hopes it hides some of the mess his face undoubtedly is. His body still hurts like a son of a bitch, but thankfully his legs are now cooperating; this time, when he tries to stand properly, he doesn’t stumble. 

“I’ll be fine,” he says, unwilling to give these people even a hint as to where he’s living right now. This exchange is bad enough.

“You can’t honestly expect me to let you just leave in this state?” Miss Natalia says incredulously, gesturing at his dirty, torn suit and bloody face. 

“Ma’am,” Clint says, suddenly irritated. “You can’t let me do anything.”

A mulish expression crosses Miss Natalia’s face, but she nods in acquiescence. Then she crosses her arms, nods once more, almost to herself this time, and steps backwards into the main sidewalk, the light from the many theatre marquees washing over her face. 

She’s clearly indicating that Clint is free to go, but instead of doing so Clint is rooted to the spot by the sudden realisation that Miss Natalia is quite possibly the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. Her bobbed hair is a striking auburn, artfully coiffed under her fashionable cloche hat and contrasting beautifully with the dark green of her dress, the silk of which is just visible beneath the hem of her fur trimmed coat. She stands like a dancer and her mouth could rival Clara Bow’s. What was she doing here? She should be on the stage. 

The implausibility of her quite literally coming to his rescue strikes him all over again. 

“Thank you,” he says, awkward and sincere, realising he hasn’t thanked her before now. “You didn’t have to.”

Miss Natalia gives him a frank look. “Yes, I did,” she says simply. 

Something about the way she says that makes Clint believe her. In his experience, rich folks can always find a reason not to help someone like him, and yet she did - and for, apparently, no other reason than the fact that he needed it.

He nods, once, trying to stop himself from fidgeting under her suddenly assessing gaze. He licks his lip and, finding it split, wipes at his mouth with the heel of his hand. Something in her face sharpens.

“Hey,” she suddenly says, just as he’s turning to leave, “you looking for work?”

Clint stiffens, caught mid turn, suddenly wary. He is – of course he is; he always is. It’s the reason he was here in the first place after all – but he doesn’t like that it’s so obvious.

“Our buddy, Steve,” Miss Natalia continues, clearly taking his silence for acknowledgement, “he does posters for the Garrick. Was complaining that a bunch of their stagehands quit.” She sends James a meaningful look, the significance of which is entirely lost on Clint. “You look strong, you think you can do that?”

Clint eyes her warily, wondering where this is going, if there’s a catch. 

Miss Natalia looks at him expectantly. Her fur coat is open slightly at the collar and Clint can see the creamy expanse of her neck, a flash of expensive jewellery. James stands beside her now, staring at her in fond exasperation, as though she regularly meddles in affairs that don’t concern her. In the light from the nearby theatre marquee Clint can see that he looks like an Arrow Collar man. Christ, but they are striking together. They should both be on the stage. 

Apparently Clint’s silent for too long, because Miss Natalia raises an eyebrow before reaching over and patting him on the arm. “Yes,” she says, “plenty of muscle there. You’ll do fine.”

James snorts out a soft laugh but Clint’s too thrown to be offended by it. And anyway, it’s not cruel. They honestly don’t seem to be out to get him at all. 

This is quickly becoming the strangest encounter of Clint’s life, and he has an ongoing petty rivalry with the Russian mob in Harlem over a mangy, one-eyed dog.

“Eleven a.m. tomorrow,” Miss Natalia says, hooking her hand through the crook of James’ only elbow. “Garrick Theatre. Ask for Steve Rogers.” Clint gives her a wary nod, not at all sure he’ll do any such thing. “Tell him James and Natalia Barnes sent you.”

James and Natalia Barnes. The fact they’re married makes sense. In fact, it’s the only thing about this strange evening that does.

Without warning, the lights on the closest marquee blink out, the theatre shutting down for the night. It throws both Barneses into shadow, their faces becoming somehow mysterious, almost otherworldly.

The silence stretches. Another theatre’s marquee goes dark. The theatre goers are all gone, the street almost empty. The conversation – if that’s what this can be called – seems to be over but Clint’s not sure if he can go yet. He hasn’t been dismissed. With people like this, you need to be dismissed. 

“Do we get your name?” Miss Natalia asks. Her voice is softer now, the darkness making it seem almost intimate. 

Somewhere, a door slams. Somewhere, a dog barks. 

“Clint Barton,” Clint says, not quick enough with a lie. 

“Alright, Clint Barton,” Miss Natalia says with a small smile. “Feel better soon. And remember, tomorrow. Eleven a.m.” She leans into James’ side almost coquettishly, fixing Clint with a look he’d understand if it came from any woman but this one. “Maybe we’ll see you around.”

Then as one, Mr and Mrs Barnes both turn and walk down the street and into the night, leaving Clint standing dumbfounded in their wake.