Agent Barton was perched on a stool reading something, relaxed and on alert simultaneously. It was like one half 'I don't give a fuck' and the other half was saying 'I give ALL the fucks'. The blonde let out a slow puff of breath from her cheeks as she poured the second cup of caffeine and returned the scalding pot to the warmer. She picked up the mugs sauntering over to the Hawk's temporary perch in the loft.
The aroma of coffee warmed and filled his nose as a mug appeared in front of Clint, obscuring his view of the files in his hand and the flash of red in the picture paperclipped to them. "Java, Loser." Bobbi said waiting. Clint glanced up at the long, lean blonde before smiling, taking the mug in his free hand.
"Gracias." He said watching her pad barefoot over to an overstuffed beanbag chair and settle herself with a throw and a magazine.
"What's with the sour puss?" He asked her curiously. She shrugged the one shoulder poking out of the frayed too-big tee covering a bralette and a pair of cotton shorts.
"No lemons here, Chief. Just trying to wake and caffeinate, you know how it is." She offered as Clint continued to watch her.
"Uh Huh." He said before sipping some of the coffee. Just the way he liked it. She was full of bull, but he wouldn't call her on it because she usually came around eventually.
"You miss your old team, that it?" He asked. She sucked on her lower lip, eyes far away and shrugged. He nodded. "Yeah me too." He said as if they both believed that was the reason for her sulky look.
She was so easy to read, even when she was conning or spying, Morse always had this fire lighting up her eyes. She was a feisty one. All Fire compared to the icy masks Nat wore regularly. She might be red, but she was more hardened ice than a flickering flame.
"You know... you're not going to find her til she's ready, right?" Bobbi offered suddenly. "Either she'll be done with some gig or she'll decide to pretend and make with the whole 'social' thing. But probably not before that..."
Clint closed the folder and tossed it on the table. A lot of this had been redacted, but it had brought some new information to light. Filled in a couple plot holes for him. Stuff that predated his decision to make "a different call". He lifted his eyes to the leggy, sunkissed blonde and raised his brows at her.
"I'm just sayin'." Bobbi offered removing the slight bite from her tone. "She's obviously got her claws hooked in something this time... and its probably big if she's not checking in with you... she ALWAYS checks in with you."
/
Being up North was always strangely nostalgic of a past Natasha periodically pretended was nothing better than a bad dream from another life. Which in this day and age it practically was.
Natasha watched the snow sweep down over the mountains in sheets and flurries thanks to the aggressive wind beyond the double paned glass. The builder of the cabin had put in some upgrades, probably thanks to her suggestions in the past... She would try not to chuck out the 'I told you so's'. She was sure he was trying to forget why sections of log and brick looked newer in some places than others.
The gruff 'man' glanced over his brawny shoulder from where he squatted before the fireplace. He had been adding a few more logs and poking at the embers absentmindedly. After lighting a fresh cigar, he closed the grate around the healthy fire burning behind it, and rose from the hardwood floor.
"Wipe that smirk off your face, would ya?" Logan said gruffly as he headed to the open kitchen area of the log cabin, Natasha did no such thing as she followed him, the barest hint of amusement on her lips.
"There's nothing wrong with a little maintenance, Маленький дядя." (Russian: Little Uncle) She said joining him as he stirred a hearty looking stew simmering on the stove. Elk meat, potatoes, carrots, other odds and ends. It smelled pretty perfect actually. "Westchester's made you quite the domestic, hasn't it?" She teased.
He grunted and let out a puff of smoke as he pretended to nudge her to grab at the pepper shaker. "Yeah well, better than chasing ghosts, I suppose." He grumbled. "Teach some kids to pull their heads outta their asses and look around once in awhile."
"They're lucky to have you." Nat said leaning into his side and laying her head against him as he acted like he hadn't noticed her there.
"Well now you're just flat out full of shit, Tash." He grunted as he returned the lid and turned down the heat. He rustled her red mane like she was still some little kid before he headed over and settled back into a broke-ass old recliner he refused to replace or get rid of because nothing else was as comfortable.
He tapped some ash into a tray on the table before picking up a battered old sketch book. "Why aren't you with the Archer like you usually are?" He asked around the stogey as he began to run a pencil over the paper while she pawed through his poor excuse for a bar before going to the ice box to retrieve the vodka that only lived there for when he had unwelcomed visitors.
"Needed a minute to myself." She said opening the bottle and grabbing two glasses, of course his was filled with bourbon and hers was a lot less colorful. She did less mixing in his house and more straight drinking. Judgement free zone. Teasing aside.
"From the Hawk?" Logan asked skeptically around the wet end of the cigar, his brow rising in challenge at her. What was he? Born yesterday?
"No. Not him. Just..." She set his glass on the table beside him. "... everything else around us." She sat down across from him on an old worn down couch buried in blankets, furs, and ancient pillows. She nestled the chilly bottle between her knees as she folded herself up and threw back her glass savoring the sensation of it on her tongue. She was freshly showered and swimming in one of his flannels and a pair of boot socks that were too big on her. She liked the feeling of him and his scent on everything. Neither would EVER admit it... probably not even on pain of death, but they had sort of become family to each other. Like a Father, or just her very grouchy badass of an Uncle. They didn't share that they knew each other, they didn't even really enter each other's worlds unless forced. They always met on neutral grounds, like this remote Canadian locale where their other lives were left outside with the storm... except for that silver arrow dancing over her throat like some kind of beacon in the dim light of the fire.
"Coulda brought him." Logan said like he didn't give a shit. "I have other places I can be." He scribbled her outline and the couch that wanted to swallow her up, as if she was ever that small or fragile. Sometimes she seemed that way to him, but he knew better. The world hardened her just like it did the rest of them.
"Maybe you do, but this place doesn't have the right vantage points for him." She mused pouring herself another drink. "Ceilings aren't high enough."
Logan snorted practically. "Some of us don't like heights."
(Please remember to read + review. Thank you.)
