A/N After seeing the Avengers twice and reading so many awesome (and a few terrible) fanfics, AStrangeVictory gave me a kick in the pants to encourage me to write something of my own, and Gledwyn gave me an idea to work from. This is the result.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers, and I'm not making a profit from this story.
Part 1
She pulls up the winding gravel drive and parks her Audi A5 behind his beat-up '85 Bronco. It's just now dusk and the sun is setting behind the trees on the other side of the lake with languid contentment. She opens the door, leaving the cocooned silence of the car, and is promptly bombarded by the sounds of North Carolina at night—crickets, whippoorwills, spring peepers, bullfrogs, and the long, haunting cry of a loon that hasn't flown north for spring yet.
The front door to the cabin is open but there's no sign of movement beyond the screen door. Embers in the brick firepit on the side of the house glow dull red and the scent of grilled beef is so thick, she can almost taste it. After closing the car door behind her, she walks through the front yard and now she notices a few things that seem, well, off. The garden hose reel has been tipped over and the hose itself trails aimlessly through the middle of the yard, but away from the flowerbed. On the birdfeeder, the suet feeder hangs empty and open like a cage that's been split in two. One of the citronella candles next to the door has been knocked over, the other is upside down and missing the lid. There's a half-eaten hamburger on the edge of the deck, and it hasn't been there long, because the ketchup is a crisp, bright red.
Natasha draws her Glock 26s and she's just put one boot on the bottom deck step when she hears it—a harsh birdcall that could be easily mistaken for a crow. It's the cry of a European Roller, and they don't exist outside of zoos in the United States. The call is repeated in quick succession a second time, and before it has trailed off, she's located the source in a poplar tree, about 7 meters off the ground. Casting one more look around the yard, she heads in that direction and holsters her guns long enough to shimmy up the tree.
Carefully examining him as she settles on a thick branch adjacent to his, she sees that while he has his bow, it's not in his hand but settled across his shoulder. There is no immediate threat, then. He spares her glance, giving her that quick familiar smile before turning his attention back to the tree line on the opposite side of the yard. She looks that way as well and they sit there, waiting in silence. She doesn't know why, and it doesn't matter—he is her partner and if he is waiting and watching for something, then she will as well. As an assassin, she is nothing if not patient, as covert operations tend to involve a lot of waiting around.
The wait is a short one. Only ten minutes have passed before she sees it, a low hunched shadow moving through the trees, just behind thin saplings and tall grass clumps that fringe the edge of the yard. It's far too small to be a man and the shape seems amorphous and fluid for reasons that go beyond the dim light, even to her keen eyes. She palms one of her Glocks but Clint remains motionless, not even bothering to reach for his bow. Slanting him a look, it's only now that she observes his slouching seat on the branch, his steady, relaxed breathing, the hint of something approaching anticipation in his expression. Whatever this thing in the woods is, he does not see it as a threat and so, neither should she. Her hand remains on her gun anyway.
The thing goes still at the edge of the woods, pausing for a long moment before it steps out onto the lawn and now, she can see it for what it is—a dog. A damn dog. She can't help rolling her eyes with exasperation and gives Clint another sidelong glance, this one promising enough pain and retaliation that even the irrepressible Tony Stark would be breaking into a cold sweat. He ignores it, as usual, his attention focused on the animal that is making its way across the yard.
Natasha studies it as well, and the reason for its indistinct shape in the dark underbrush is obvious now, because she can see the brindle striping that covers every inch of the dog's body, save for its black nose and eyes. The stripes give the scrawny creature a natural camouflage in low light and tall grass, not unlike the stripes on a tiger. For all its caution in stepping out into the open, now the dog pads across the yard with a slow, deliberate stride and an uncanny grace more suited to a lion. She can't tell what breed it is, only that it's lean and thin and the very tips of its uplifted ears flop over. It walks over to the birdfeeder and peers up at the empty suet holder with something approaching resignation and then lowers its muzzle to eat the seed husks left behind by the myriad of sparrows and finches and other songbirds off the ground.
I felt hungry enough to do that, the brief thought flickers through Nat's mind before she balls that memory back up and tucks it back where it belongs.
The dog gives up on eating seed husks and walks toward the deck, pausing to lift its snout up in the air, nose twitching. The half-eaten hamburger has its—his, she realizes—attention now, and reaching the edge of the porch, he jumps up, putting his paws on the deck to give it a sniff.
The light coming through the front door shines more clearly on him, she can see what else the brindle stripes in the dog's coat have hidden from view. The animal is beyond scrawny or thin, he's emaciated. Every rib can be seen, shifting beneath that mottled coat, every bone in his spine protrudes out on his back, even the bones in his tail can clearly be distinguished from one another. He is starving to death, and Natasha knows exactly the degree of suffering that entails. Her Glock is in her hand before she's even thought about it, and she lines up a shot. This is not cruelty. It is mercy.
"No," Clint breathes the word, his hand coming down on her forearm with surprising weight.
She looks at him and there is something implacable in his expression that tells her this is not open to discussion. Holstering her gun, she still whispers under her breath, "He is dying." He is still gripping her arm and she only has to glance down at it once before he removes it.
"He is surviving," he returns firmly, his gaze shifting from her back to the dog.
Their voices may have been indiscernable to human ears, but canine hearing is far more acute and the subject of their conversation is peering up at them. He drops his head, grabs the burger, and heads for the woods at a fast trot holding his prize in his mouth. Leaping over the thick grass edging with cat-like grace, he all but vanishes from sight amongst the trees.
Clint is already making his way down out of the poplar tree, and she reaches the ground a few seconds later. Together, they walk toward the cabin.
She doesn't look at him when she says, "If you feed him, he'll keep hanging around."
He doesn't respond.
"You know he's crawling with fleas, right?" she feels compelled to point out.
"I think you've said that about me, too."
She almost smiles. "Truth hurts."
Luckily for him, he's saved her a couple of hamburger patties. She eats and he talks, pausing only to steal the occasional Dorito from her, despite the fact that the bag is within arms reach on the counter. He gives her updates on what's been going on with everyone. With the aid of the Tesseract, Thor can now move freely between Asgard and Earth, so he is finally making good on his promise to see Jane Foster again. Cap is spending most of his time at the New York Public Library, trying to catch up on the last 60 years worth of history. Bruce is doing research at the ridiculously advanced labs available to him in the Avengers Tower. Tony Stark is being, well, Tony. And he's still on a 'temporary leave of absence', but the final review is coming up in two weeks.
He's matter of fact talking about his situation, seemingly past both guilt and bitterness, but she knows better. When he goes to swipe another one of her Doritos, this time she stops him by putting her hand atop his and gives him a Look that conveys her thoughts on that topic. His ledger has far less red in it than her own, but no matter how many times he offsets it with black, the red never gets completely erased.
Clint shifts his eyes away from hers down to their co-joined hands, and she squeezes his large hand painfully hard in retaliation. He doesn't wince or change expression, just levels a gaze in her direction. She tilts her head to the side, mind working through the tree of this possible conversation. She chooses. Wets her lips. "Don't steal my Doritos." Her voice is deadly.
Recognition flickers across his face and his hand forms a tight fist beneath hers, clenching and relaxing with visible effort. Then his grin is fleeting but genuine as he tugs his hand free and then pops a pilfered Dorito into his mouth. "It's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission."
She can only sigh with extreme patience. As much as she is enjoying his conversation and company, especially after being on a solo mission for the past 18 days, not even the Black Widow is immune to jet lag. He cleans up the kitchen and she retrieves her luggage from the car before settling in the guest bedroom for the night.
At 4 am, a loud rattle of noise wakes her up. She's up and out of bed between one breath and the next, and her guns are in her hands. The house is chilly but she ignores it. Clad only in her pajama short set, she opens the guest room door and stealthily ventures out into the hall. The floorboards don't dare creak at her passing and she glides over to the window, peering outside through a slit in the blinds. The dog is out there again, and she watches as he uses his nose to roll the metal citronella bucket across the deck. Then he picks the small pail up by the handle and she can see the effort it takes him to hold the weight as he carries it down the steps and toward the woods.
The master bedroom door opens and Clint emerges, yawning and groggy. He stretches and scratches his chest through his white t-shirt and is irritatingly unconcerned about all the racket coming from outside. At least he's not wearing the King Kong boxers this time. She might have had to shoot him for that.
"One of your citronella candles just walked off."
"Yeah?" He joins her at the window and she can feel the heat emanating from him as he looks out. "Huh. Well, now he'll have the matching set of bucket and lid, at least."
She just stares at him.
He catches her near glare and his eyebrows arch upwards. "What?" A yawn escapes him and he turns away, "Don't worry about it. He'll bring it back later this morning." After a brief detour in the bathroom, he returns to his room and pulls the door shut behind him.
There's no point in her going back to bed as awake as she is now, so she remains where she is, at the window. The sun is just coming over the trees when the dog emerges from the woods again and sits on his haunches, watching her watch him.