What's this? Another story? Oh god, summon help, we're all in trouble. Hi, I'm Emily and this is yet another lively AU installment from my crazy insane mind. I came up with this idea almost a month ago at like midnight-a tragic time when you're me because you need sleep but just can't-and have just now gotten around to putting it down into words. It's heavily inspired by the wonderful Furious 7, which I saw and needed to write an AU for in order to cope with my feelings. I've got so much planned for this bad boy, and I'm really hoping that you'll enjoy this as much as I just enjoy the idea of it in general. There's going to be quite a deal of Clintasha in this story, so if you're not about that life, exit is thatta way. Anyways, here's the prologue, and enjoy while I go cry over the fact this is the last time I'll know what life was like before I saw Age of Ultron.
Prologue: Clint
Fast cars and pretty girls, that was the version of the philosophy that Clint Barton liked to live by. It was the simpler one, anyways, and it was the same one that led him out into the middle of the California desert heat.
Clint was a nomad by nature, always never finding a need to stay in one place for once. He had no home, the way he liked to look at it; 'home' had never had the positive, fuzzy connotation that it did for most people and he hadn't been there in years. Instead, he stayed on his feet, moving around whenever he needed a change of scenery—or had no choice but to seek it out. Sometimes being addicted to an adrenaline rush came with its repercussions.
He'd heard of this little event through some branch on a grapevine; a little strip racing out in the middle of the California desert where it was all girls, cars, and no cops in sight. It was right up Clint's alley, really, and he'd been itching for something to do instead of sit at home for another weekend and eat leftovers in front of the tiny television that only got the basic channels.
What they were calling a grandiose 'race war' was nothing he'd never seen before; this was almost his regular scene aside from the races at stoplights on back roads wherever he could find something. Girls strutting around in skimpy clothing and trying to put on some sort of seductive dance show—most of their moves the unappetizing roll of hips, but Clint was appreciative of their efforts, regardless of the fact it did nothing for him. Races were going on one after the other, the loud cheers mixing in with the sound of whatever music was leaking out of a mass of a speaker somewhere in range. He didn't know how well this was about to go over; the only refreshing thing he'd seen since pulling in was the free Corona he'd gotten his hands on. Ever since, he'd been wandering around, trying to avoid a particularly horny female who needed something to grind on, or a car that was pulling through with no consideration in order to get in line for the next race. Clint had made himself at home near the back of the racing strip, resting up against a truck that was parked there and its owner nowhere in sight. It had all been the same since he'd arrived, race after throng of girls passing by after race after dance after race after impromptu car wash after race. Nothing extraordinary, really. And that was when he saw her.
She reminded him of strawberry ice cream —maybe it was the heat messing with his mind and the desperate need for another Corona, or maybe it was the pastel pink bikini top that clung to her curves, over the expanse of amount of pale skin that had to be illegal for her to show that much of. She looked delicious, he thought to himself, as his tongue ran over the surface of his lower lip. Red curls bouncing as she strode past him, he was unsure of where to put his eyes. There was her face, equally as beautiful as the rest of her, and then there were those long stretches of legs. Clint was a leg kind of man, anyways, and she might as well have been a goddess, he a lowly earth man. He didn't realize how obvious he was making the fact that he was all but drooling over her as she walked by.
"Natasha Romanoff," a voice in his ear said, shaking him from his train of rapidly spiraling thoughts. Turning around, Clint's eyes fell upon some kid, fairly scrawny and looked as though he belonged anywhere else but here. "Wouldn't stare at her too long, she'll make sure you pay for it."
"Punishment coming from a woman like her isn't exactly what I'd consider punishment," Clint smirked, his gaze returning to the sway of the redhead—Natasha's-hips.
"You've never been on the other end of her uppercut," the same guy was still behind him, mumbling under his breath. Clint swiveled back in his direction, giving him one of the harshest looks he could muster up. God, all I want to do is appreciate a fine woman when I see one, and then this fucker just has to come along to crush dreams. Would have left his ass at home.
"And you are?" Clint spat out coolly.
"Bruce Banner," he replied, just as frostily, pushing his glasses higher up on his nose. "I'm with her." The newfound respect for this Bruce, whoever he was, went skyrocketing through the roof. If a guy like him could pull a girl like that, then there either had to be something incredibly fascinating about him that Clint wasn't just seeing, or Clint really needed to take some serious notes from this guy. He kept an eye on Bruce Banner, taking into account how he watched Natasha go by. The way she sauntered through the throngs of people and the way his eyes weren't trained on any part of her except the back of her head was indication of some sort, that maybe Clint really did need that Corona, on the verge of losing his mind. Yeah, no way this kid is with her.
"You her cousin or something?" Clint finally asked, his voice gruff as he tried to confirm his theory, rubbing his jaw.
"Cousin? No." The look Bruce gave him entailed that that could have very well been the stupidest assumption to fall from his mouth. "She's just an old college friend of mine."
Clint snorted. "Yeah, I get the feeling it'd be hard to stay friends with a girl like that." Looking back up at Bruce, he met a steely glare, one that meant business. Okay, note to self, don't make any sort of sexual implications about her when her big, bad protector is around. "I, uh," he stammered, trying to reroute the conversation. "What brings you out here? No offense, but this really doesn't look like your scene."
"I only come to these things to keep an eye on her," Bruce responded, tilting his head in Natasha's direction. Even in the crowd of girls who all looked the same with the bikini tops and cut off shorts that left little to the imagination, she was still distinguishable—her crown of fire flouncing as she slipped through the masses. Bruce scratched at the top of his head awkwardly. "She uh, well, she tends to get herself into trouble."
"Imagine that," Clint hummed in a sing-song voice, the corners of his mouth turning upwards in a smile.
"She's untamable as it is, imagine her behind the wheel." Clint's ears perked up at that, attention snapping to a sighing Bruce. He hadn't even spoken to the girl, and here she was surprising him by the second. A gorgeous woman and a gorgeous car, and here Natasha was, the glorious combination of his desires.
"Behind the wheel?" Clint stammered out.
Bruce shrugged. "Yeah, she's a big adrenaline junkie. Loves to put guys like you in their place," he said nonchalantly, and as much as Clint tried not to take any offense from his comment, he couldn't help but to feel as though Bruce was taking such pride in the fact he'd caught him off guard. He continued on with his explanation, resigning himself back to his relatively irritated tone. "I have to come with her to these things because Rogers is sure that she's going to get herself killed one of these days. She's reckless; smart as a fucking whip, but responsibility is a trait she's rather lacking in." It was almost like the comment was written across Clint's face before Bruce quickly jumped back in with, "And don't you even say it."
"Easy there, big guy, just 'cause I think it doesn't mean I'm going to say it. Not around you, the ever-so-frightening bodyguard," he grumbled. He was too busy thinking about what Banner had said about having to keep an eye on her, for some other dude. God, she had a boyfriend. And right when I thought it was my fucking lucky day. "So, let me get this straight, she comes down here to race just like the rest of us."
"Unfortunately."
"Then why does she dress like she's getting ready to wave the flag for one?" Before Bruce had his chance to shoot another look, Clint held his hands up in mock arrest. "Look, kid, I've done enough of these to know that there's no fucking way that you can be comfortable with a string bikini on unless you're shaking your ass for a show. Might feel great if it's a hot day like today, but racing? No way."
"Like I said, she does it to make a point. She might look like she's the oasis in the midst of your heat hallucinations, but she'll leave you choking in her dust."
Clint snorted softly, eyes scanning for that already signature sashay of her hips and the curtain of red hair that moved in time with her step in the midst of the crowd. "I'll bet she does."
Shaking Bruce Banner was a fairly easy task, as it only took a few moments and some more exchanged dialogue to find out that he hated the idea of racing and could ramble out a very long list of things he'd rather do than sit at one of these. Clint went in search for another Corona, or so he claimed—Banner apparently also hated the taste of Corona, fucking daffodil—which was his perfect opportunity to go find the very redhead that was stuck inside his head. He figured it wouldn't be hard, just look for the only redhead with a banging body and a temper like fire (Bruce's incredibly cliché words).
He found her leaning up against a full blown muscle car, the strings on her pink bikini tied in perfect little bows. She was talking to some brute—obviously the owner of the car, he looked like the kind of guy who would own a Plymouth Barracuda–the sound of her voice distinct over the revving engines preparing to race and the pulsating vibe of music. "You said this was a 1970?" she asked loudly,
"Yeah," the guy said, folding his arms over his chest. "How'd you know?"
She let one shoulder rise and fall casually, red hair tumbling over her back. "I know a thing or two about cars myself."
"So I've heard," Clint found himself saying, approaching her casually. She looked over her shoulder, her eyes sharp as she studied who had intruded in on the conversation. He was rapidly trying to take in every little detail of her without coming off as creepy as he felt he was; up close, she was almost unreal. Quickly running his eyes over her facial features, spending a little more time on those striking green eyes of hers especially, the verdict was that she was impossibly beautiful.
"Uh huh," she said, not fully convinced. Raising an eyebrow quizzically, her lips tugged into a smirk as she spoke. "Who's your source?"
Crossing his arms, he leaned his hip up against the back of the car. "Your little pal, Banner." The initial surprise flickered on her face for only a second before she composed herself. It was clear she hadn't expected him to pull that out of thin air.
"Bruce actually talked to someone?" Natasha let out a spiteful chuckle, swiveling on her heel and resting an arm on the side of the car. It was taking every ounce of willpower and dignity in him to not let his eyes race over her; he knew better than to do so when she was less than a few feet away. "Damn, never thought I'd see the day."
"I happen to be very convincing," Clint informed her. He extended his hand out to her, the smirk still plastered on his face. "I'm Clint."
Natasha eyed his hand warily before shaking it firmly, and a short little shake at that. "I get the feeling you already know who I am."
"Sure do, princess."
She made a face. "Mm, might not want to do that," she warned, her voice light and teasing but the look in her eyes terrifyingly serious. "So, are you planning on enlightening me as to why you're here?"
Clint shook his head, gesturing out towards her with one of his palms face up. "I heard you raced."
"Of course I do; what other reason would I have even come to this?"
"You're dressed for a very different occasion at an event like this, Romanoff."
"I could beat you wearing nothing but a pair of high heels, Clint," she sneered, the way she said his name was almost like an expletive. He could see the twinkle in those green eyes of hers, the sheer joy of the idea of racing and kicking his ass—or, so she thought.
"Is this what I'd call a challenge?"
"It's not a challenge when I know I'm going to win."
"How do you know you're going to win?" Clint fired back, amazed at the confidence she exuded as she fired off at him like this was target practice.
She gave a short laugh, leaning in closer to where he was. "Because," she said, matter-of-factly. "I don't lose."
That was all Clint needed.
The Mustang GT he'd brought out wasn't what he was used to; he hadn't raced in it except for one almost street situation, that was until a cop car came into sight and he had to give up on racing that show off Charger. Pulling up to the makeshift starting line, all he could think of was that determined look in her eyes, how she'd pretty much invited him to propose a challenge. His fingers continued to rap against the steering wheel, waiting on her to make her grand arrival. Somewhere in the crowd, Bruce Banner and his reading glasses was cursing every fiber of Clint's being for dragging her out onto the strip for a race, and Clint couldn't deny that he loved it.
It didn't take long for the Barracuda to slowly roll to a stop next to him, the windows down on both sides. Natasha looked over in his direction, a smirk on her face as she pushed some of the red hair out of her eyes. "You sure about this?" he mouthed in her direction while he had her attention.
She stepped down on the accelerator, the car's engine roaring. Damn, if she wasn't messing with him. "You bet," she replied, winking at him before turning away. She was all business, that was for sure, and Clint was more determined than ever to leave her in the dust.
A girl in a tiny lace bustier and even shorter skirt walked up in front of their cars, making sure the sway of her hips was incredibly obvious to anyone that was watching on with their naked eyes or was looking through binoculars in order to see. She was clutching onto the small scraps of fabric that had to be the flags, and Clint wrapped his fingers around the sides of the wheel again. His foot was itching to stomp on the gas pedal and throw the car into gear, wiping the smile off of that Natasha Romanoff's face. Pointing in Clint's direction, he couldn't hear what the flag girl was yelling but knew it had to do with something about being ready, so he pressed on his accelerator and let the engine do the talking for him. The girl pointed at Natasha, redirecting the same question to her, and Clint glanced over at her. She was staring straight ahead, a terrifyingly stony look on her face as she revved her own engine.
It had never taken so long for a race to start before in his life, it seemed, as the girl took her sweet precious time waving the scraps of cloth over her head round and round tantalizingly. God, he just wanted to step on the gas and go, he had never been so antsy in a race before. Maybe it was the fact he was racing a very beautiful woman who had already proved she could put his ass in place and he surely didn't want her to have anything else to use against him, or maybe it was because every race was taken just as serious as the rest and there was only one thing that he found important: winning. The girl held the flags over her head, Clint knowing exactly what followed after this. Hand hovering over the gear shift, his foot was trembling on the brake pedal waiting to move over and hit the gas as he kept his eyes trained on their flag girl. Making a grand show of it, she bent down—Clint could have sworn he saw inside that bustier, regardless of how tight it was—and brought the flags with her, sweeping through the air and landing by her sides.
Clint hit the gas as hard as he could, snapping the gear into position as the car lurched forward. In the other lane, Natasha had thrown the Barracuda into motion, red hair flying back and out of the corner of his eye, he could see her pressing her lips together hard. The strip wasn't a very long one, most people had only gone several hundred feet, so that meant he had less time to get ahead of her and stay there. He tried not to think about the girl in the car next to his and instead focus on going faster than her, making sure she regretted keeping those windows down. They were neck in neck about halfway through, the front end of the Barracuda peeking out a little farther than the Mustang as she desperately tried to press the gas pedal down into the floorboards. Clint kept moving the gear shift, his engine roaring as he slowly started to get the distance on her. He could see where the finish line was, wind blowing in his eyes as he sped through and prayed to God Natasha was still in her place in the rearview mirror. Like all good things did, that came to a rapid end as she moved the Barracuda's gear one last time and got that last little kick of speed she needed to send her over the edge. "Fuck," he hissed under his breath not-so-quietly, as she and her red hair pulled up next to him, and then were in front of him by only a few inches. It was too late to do anything, because right as he was about to retaliate, the front of the Barracuda was zipping over what they were marking the finish line.
They kept on going through, out away from the masses of people watching, before they pulled to a stop. Clint leaned back in his seat, staring ahead at the car that was a few feet in front of his. It took a few moments for him to catch his breath, heart pumping violently as the adrenaline surged through his bloodstream. His thoughts, however, were perfectly on time, as he stared at the license plate. She actually just beat me.
The driver's door opened, a long bare leg throwing itself out of the car before the rest of Natasha pulled herself out and up. God, she was rubbing this in as deep as she could go, and the both of them knew it. Looking over her shoulder, she shot him what had to be the most mocking smirk, the pride scribbled all over her face. He followed in pursuit, stepping out of his Mustang and shutting the door behind him as he approached her.
Feigning confusion, she tilted her head to the side and pretended to ponder something. "Now, if I remember correctly, I think you were the one who asked if I was sure about going through with this—"
"Shut up," Clint groaned, tilting his head back. Natasha laughed again; a sound that Clint had already grown all too accustomed with over knowing her for all of five minutes.
"I'm sorry, I just thought that you were expecting for me to choke on the smoke from your tailpipe?"
"Damn, you're the definition of a sore winner," he grumbled.
Running a hand back through the mane of red hair, Natasha's lips pursed into that natural smirk of hers. "Hey, I'm not going to lie and say that you're a bad driver, you're not too bad. You're the first real competitor I've had in years." The sense of accomplishment that surged through him was childish, but he felt accomplished nonetheless at her somewhat compliment. Clint had his thanks on the tip of his tongue, right before she cut in with, "I'm just better." It faded into oblivion just as fast as it had formulated.
"Now I know why Banner likes to lose track of you. You're a pain in the ass, Romanoff."
"Call me Natasha," she said, the tone of her voice changing from that bantering one to a more serious note. "My friends call me Natasha."
One of Clint's eyebrows lifted, as he gave her a puzzled glance. "I didn't realize we were friends."
Her left shoulder rose and fell quickly, tilting her head to the side as the wave of red tumbled down that side of her arm. "Maybe not right this moment," she started, her voice a whimsical mumble that was just barely over the commotion back down through the strip. "But I get the feeling you'll have a damn hard time shaking me from your head." Clint knew all of two things: she was a fucking tease, and she was just as right as she'd been about everything else.
I really hope that you all enjoyed this, I find it miraculous that I'm able to upload this on a Thursday period. Like I said, this was just a prologue so obviously there is so much more to come, along with the actual plot for this (yes, there is one of those on the way, shocker, I know!). Be sure to leave a review on your way out, and next time you read this, listen to the Furious 7 soundtrack for ultimate feels. Except for See You Again. I don't want for you to cry on me just yet.