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aa_natasha 8/14/2012
Eleven o'clock on a Saturday in New Orleans, and the bar has little in the way of partonage despite itself. It is run-down, well away from the famed French Quarter and its draw of tourists, leaving only locals that are ok with the rotting wood and faded decor. Only a single man sits at the bar, his back to the door, though the wavering, crude mirror thrown up behind mostly empty rows of liquor bottles likely means that Clint isn't as easy to take unawares as he pretends to be. There's a certain carelessness to his actions that aren't all faked, however. A row of shots sit in front of him, most drained and turned over to sit as trophies instead.
Mirror or no, when Natasha appears at Clint's elbow, it's with little warning of any kind. It's kind of a habit. She hovers for a pair of seconds, letting him note her presence, then slips silently onto the stool next to him. Her hand flicks up to attract the bartender's attention - not that he needed the help - and she orders a whiskey on the rocks before propping her elbows atop the bar and fixing her gaze on Clint's reflection.
Tension slides along Clint's shoulder, there and gone in a moment despite his full awareness of that little habit. Perhaps he didn't expect her so soon, or to appear here instead of an empty hotel room-- before he remembers that there is no hotel room in his name, not yet. He rocks a half-empty shot glass between his fingers, meeting that mirrored gaze only briefly before the necessity of tipping the rest of the liquor into his lips breaks the contact. "They send you, or are you joining me for vacation?" he asks once the liquid has wet his throat.
Natasha turns, fixing her gaze on his profile rather than his reflection. She studies him for a moment, then gives her head the slightest of shakes. "I came," she says, quiet. "That's all."
"You should have called. We could have gone somewhere fancier than these digs," Clint offers to her, the edge of his words softened by the alcohol, vodka wearing away at syllables. He finally drags himself to truly look over at her, his own head tilting towards Natasha.
Natasha meets Clint's, holding it with the slight curve of a smile that for him means amusement as she slides her hand out to claim her drink without looking. She lifts it for a judging sip, then quirks her brows, head tipping in a 'so-so' sort of gesture. "I've always preferred the dives," she reminds. Her gaze shifts, dropping to the line of shot glasses. "This what you've been doing?"
Clint's mouth twitches in a crooked smirk, answering, "I know. I'd call you a cheap date, but you don't ever let them get off cheap, do you, Tasha?" His fingers flick over the line of shots, a dismissive gesture all wrapped up in acceptance before he catches the next shot between his thumb and forefinger. "Only at night. I've been keeping a watch on a local criminal who has taken up the gun trade during the day."
Natasha's slight curve edges slightly curvier, and she turns forward again, regarding the long line of alcohol bottles as she sips without answer. "Petty crooks? Bit of a comedown from the last job, isn't it Clint?" Her glance at him in the mirror is light, but there's a watchful note in those green eyes.
"I'm on vacation," Clint reminds with a wag of his finger at mirrored-Natasha, lifting the shot glass up to his lips though he only sips at the crude, overpowering liquor that would do better to fuel Stark's suit than consumed. Tension passes again through the muscled line of his arms, knotting at his shoulders as he catches that watchfulness.
Natasha catches his gaze again, refracted in the dirt-smudged glass of the mirror. She takes a long, hard swallow and then turns to face him. "We need you to come in," she says.
Clint nods as if expecting the request, no protest in his reaction as brows only flicker upwards briefly. "What blew up without me?" he questions.
"SHIELD," Natasha answers without a hint of humor.
"What happened, Tash?" Clint asks more seriously, his hand already reaching to fish a battered leather wallet out of his back pocket to drop cash on to that weather bar. H
"What happened, Tash?" Clint asks more seriously, his hand already reaching to fish a battered leather wallet out of his back pocket to drop cash on to that weathered bar. He looks expectantly over to the woman, as if to gauge whether they need to leave immediately or not.
"That part is frustratingly vague," Natasha answers, voice pitched low. "While I was out on a job, they somehow managed to loose Johann Schmidt." She pauses for a moment, watching for a flicker of recognition for the name before adding, "We had him in custody. Someone didn't want us to. They got him out, and took or drained most our Chitauri equipment when they did. There were robots." She twists her glass, clinking ice against the sides. "Explosion took out a chunk of the labs."
There is some vague memory of the name, sourced from SHIELD files and shaken loose by alcohol rather than any attempt on Clint's part to follow the goings on at headquarters since the start of his 'vacation'. "Any intelligence on who he's working with or how security was breached?" A pause. "Robots?"
"Doom," Natasha answers, with another slight quirk of her brows to indicate her surprise at the involvement of such an apparently minor threat. Her expression is deadpan as she confirms, "Robots. I think Doom brought them, but I'm not positive. They didn't mind guns much, though."
"Doom must want Schmidt for a reason, then, to go from little league to batting in the majors," Clint suggests with surprise of his own in the tone of his words. "How many were there?"
"Enough," Natasha says dryly. She falls into a moment's silence, watching him, and then takes a quick, bracing swallow of whiskey before adding, "Clint, that's not all."
"They didn't kidnap Fury too, did they?" He has known her long enough to catch that tell, though, and the joke lacks the true humor to hold it up as Clint watches her and waits for the other shoe.
Natasha doesn't hesitate. When it comes to shoe dropping, she's all business, though her voice softens a touch in the saying. "Loki was with them. And we don't know where he is now." There's half a beat, barely a breath, not enough hesitation to even notice if you are not Clint Barton. "And they took his staff."
It takes Clint a moment, but then he bursts with a sharp, emphatic, "Fuck." He meets Natasha's gaze as he continues with his utterly unimaginative, "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
Natasha's leg bumps sideways, pressing knee against knee in steady presence as she leaves silent room for his lack of imagination. Her expression is smooth, but the dark shadow of worry hangs in her eyes and the very faint press of her lips. She doesn't say anything.
"Don't worry," Clint says finally to Natasha as he recovers from that shock. "I haven't seen him, or we'd be sitting here with a dead god between us instead." His knee presses back against hers as if to reassure her, jostling against her leg in an easy gesture as he reaches to finish the last shot.
One corner of Natasha's lips quirks up in a lopsided bit of a smile. "I didn't think you had," she promises, though there's maybe the faintest, slightest flicker of doubt in the back of her eyes. She sobers slowly, watching him with an observant eye. Her words remain quiet. "I thought you needed to know. You need to come back."
Clint catches on that look, though he busies himself with grabbing up a leather jacket draped carelessly on the stool next to him and shoving his arms in sharply. He questions, idly, "Did I at least warrant getting the invitation without a squad waiting outside to take me in if I said no?"
Natasha lifts her brows slightly, swiveling on her stool to face him. "You think I'd need a squad?"
"No need to attack a man's pride, Tasha," Clint chides as he stands, offering a smile as he puts a hand against her shoulder to push her up and simultaneously pull her in for a careless (and slightly drunken) one-armed hug.
Natasha stands in the drape of Clint's arm for several seconds, her own slid round his waist, before she sniffs audibly and says, "Damn, Clint. When's the last time you had a shower?"
A grin breaks Clint's lips at the question, and he only turns Natasha for the door before answering carelessly, "Tuesday. Maybe Wednesday, but definitely Tuesday."
"Shouldn't have left you out here on your own so long," Natasha mutters, and only most of it is a tease. "You probably don't even remember how to hold a bow, at this rate."
"I am pretty sure I put my hand on the wood. Something a man never forgets," Clint replies, the suggestiveness of his words only playful and familiar.
Natasha can't help it. She tips her head up to Clint under the curve of his arm and gives him a full-fledged eyeroll before taking control of the matter of /steering/ in this relationship. "Outside, Barton," she orders in a tone of extreme patience. "I've got a ride waiting. We're going home."
"Alright, Romanov. Let's go home," Clint agrees, his grin lingering at the eyeroll he earns as he allows himself to be led out and to the waiting arrangements, sobering up hopefully well before they get back to New York.
Well... (Natasha brings Clint home.)
Eleven o'clock on a Saturday in New Orleans, and the bar has little in the way of partonage despite itself. It is run-down, well away from the famed French Quarter and its draw of tourists, leaving only locals that are ok with the rotting wood and faded decor. Only a single man sits at the bar, his back to the door, though the wavering, crude mirror thrown up behind mostly empty rows of liquor bottles likely means that Clint isn't as easy to take unawares as he pretends to be. There's a certain carelessness to his actions that aren't all faked, however. A row of shots sit in front of him, most drained and turned over to sit as trophies instead.
Mirror or no, when Natasha appears at Clint's elbow, it's with little warning of any kind. It's kind of a habit. She hovers for a pair of seconds, letting him note her presence, then slips silently onto the stool next to him. Her hand flicks up to attract the bartender's attention - not that he needed the help - and she orders a whiskey on the rocks before propping her elbows atop the bar and fixing her gaze on Clint's reflection.
Tension slides along Clint's shoulder, there and gone in a moment despite his full awareness of that little habit. Perhaps he didn't expect her so soon, or to appear here instead of an empty hotel room-- before he remembers that there is no hotel room in his name, not yet. He rocks a half-empty shot glass between his fingers, meeting that mirrored gaze only briefly before the necessity of tipping the rest of the liquor into his lips breaks the contact. "They send you, or are you joining me for vacation?" he asks once the liquid has wet his throat.
Natasha turns, fixing her gaze on his profile rather than his reflection. She studies him for a moment, then gives her head the slightest of shakes. "I came," she says, quiet. "That's all."
"You should have called. We could have gone somewhere fancier than these digs," Clint offers to her, the edge of his words softened by the alcohol, vodka wearing away at syllables. He finally drags himself to truly look over at her, his own head tilting towards Natasha.
Natasha meets Clint's, holding it with the slight curve of a smile that for him means amusement as she slides her hand out to claim her drink without looking. She lifts it for a judging sip, then quirks her brows, head tipping in a 'so-so' sort of gesture. "I've always preferred the dives," she reminds. Her gaze shifts, dropping to the line of shot glasses. "This what you've been doing?"
Clint's mouth twitches in a crooked smirk, answering, "I know. I'd call you a cheap date, but you don't ever let them get off cheap, do you, Tasha?" His fingers flick over the line of shots, a dismissive gesture all wrapped up in acceptance before he catches the next shot between his thumb and forefinger. "Only at night. I've been keeping a watch on a local criminal who has taken up the gun trade during the day."
Natasha's slight curve edges slightly curvier, and she turns forward again, regarding the long line of alcohol bottles as she sips without answer. "Petty crooks? Bit of a comedown from the last job, isn't it Clint?" Her glance at him in the mirror is light, but there's a watchful note in those green eyes.
"I'm on vacation," Clint reminds with a wag of his finger at mirrored-Natasha, lifting the shot glass up to his lips though he only sips at the crude, overpowering liquor that would do better to fuel Stark's suit than consumed. Tension passes again through the muscled line of his arms, knotting at his shoulders as he catches that watchfulness.
Natasha catches his gaze again, refracted in the dirt-smudged glass of the mirror. She takes a long, hard swallow and then turns to face him. "We need you to come in," she says.
Clint nods as if expecting the request, no protest in his reaction as brows only flicker upwards briefly. "What blew up without me?" he questions.
"SHIELD," Natasha answers without a hint of humor.
"What happened, Tash?" Clint asks more seriously, his hand already reaching to fish a battered leather wallet out of his back pocket to drop cash on to that weather bar. H
"What happened, Tash?" Clint asks more seriously, his hand already reaching to fish a battered leather wallet out of his back pocket to drop cash on to that weathered bar. He looks expectantly over to the woman, as if to gauge whether they need to leave immediately or not.
"That part is frustratingly vague," Natasha answers, voice pitched low. "While I was out on a job, they somehow managed to loose Johann Schmidt." She pauses for a moment, watching for a flicker of recognition for the name before adding, "We had him in custody. Someone didn't want us to. They got him out, and took or drained most our Chitauri equipment when they did. There were robots." She twists her glass, clinking ice against the sides. "Explosion took out a chunk of the labs."
There is some vague memory of the name, sourced from SHIELD files and shaken loose by alcohol rather than any attempt on Clint's part to follow the goings on at headquarters since the start of his 'vacation'. "Any intelligence on who he's working with or how security was breached?" A pause. "Robots?"
"Doom," Natasha answers, with another slight quirk of her brows to indicate her surprise at the involvement of such an apparently minor threat. Her expression is deadpan as she confirms, "Robots. I think Doom brought them, but I'm not positive. They didn't mind guns much, though."
"Doom must want Schmidt for a reason, then, to go from little league to batting in the majors," Clint suggests with surprise of his own in the tone of his words. "How many were there?"
"Enough," Natasha says dryly. She falls into a moment's silence, watching him, and then takes a quick, bracing swallow of whiskey before adding, "Clint, that's not all."
"They didn't kidnap Fury too, did they?" He has known her long enough to catch that tell, though, and the joke lacks the true humor to hold it up as Clint watches her and waits for the other shoe.
Natasha doesn't hesitate. When it comes to shoe dropping, she's all business, though her voice softens a touch in the saying. "Loki was with them. And we don't know where he is now." There's half a beat, barely a breath, not enough hesitation to even notice if you are not Clint Barton. "And they took his staff."
It takes Clint a moment, but then he bursts with a sharp, emphatic, "Fuck." He meets Natasha's gaze as he continues with his utterly unimaginative, "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
Natasha's leg bumps sideways, pressing knee against knee in steady presence as she leaves silent room for his lack of imagination. Her expression is smooth, but the dark shadow of worry hangs in her eyes and the very faint press of her lips. She doesn't say anything.
"Don't worry," Clint says finally to Natasha as he recovers from that shock. "I haven't seen him, or we'd be sitting here with a dead god between us instead." His knee presses back against hers as if to reassure her, jostling against her leg in an easy gesture as he reaches to finish the last shot.
One corner of Natasha's lips quirks up in a lopsided bit of a smile. "I didn't think you had," she promises, though there's maybe the faintest, slightest flicker of doubt in the back of her eyes. She sobers slowly, watching him with an observant eye. Her words remain quiet. "I thought you needed to know. You need to come back."
Clint catches on that look, though he busies himself with grabbing up a leather jacket draped carelessly on the stool next to him and shoving his arms in sharply. He questions, idly, "Did I at least warrant getting the invitation without a squad waiting outside to take me in if I said no?"
Natasha lifts her brows slightly, swiveling on her stool to face him. "You think I'd need a squad?"
"No need to attack a man's pride, Tasha," Clint chides as he stands, offering a smile as he puts a hand against her shoulder to push her up and simultaneously pull her in for a careless (and slightly drunken) one-armed hug.
Natasha stands in the drape of Clint's arm for several seconds, her own slid round his waist, before she sniffs audibly and says, "Damn, Clint. When's the last time you had a shower?"
A grin breaks Clint's lips at the question, and he only turns Natasha for the door before answering carelessly, "Tuesday. Maybe Wednesday, but definitely Tuesday."
"Shouldn't have left you out here on your own so long," Natasha mutters, and only most of it is a tease. "You probably don't even remember how to hold a bow, at this rate."
"I am pretty sure I put my hand on the wood. Something a man never forgets," Clint replies, the suggestiveness of his words only playful and familiar.
Natasha can't help it. She tips her head up to Clint under the curve of his arm and gives him a full-fledged eyeroll before taking control of the matter of /steering/ in this relationship. "Outside, Barton," she orders in a tone of extreme patience. "I've got a ride waiting. We're going home."
"Alright, Romanov. Let's go home," Clint agrees, his grin lingering at the eyeroll he earns as he allows himself to be led out and to the waiting arrangements, sobering up hopefully well before they get back to New York.
Well... (Natasha brings Clint home.)