Lets try keep this writing thing going!
Also I disclaim all that is not mine.
Enjoy!
The place was still empty when he walked in the door. Though he didn't expect much else for this hour of the day, even if it was Saturday.
After his bit of breakfast Clint had gone straight to bed. Last night was a long one, and his body was begging for some proper rest and not just another coffee to keep it going. Around 9am he crashed. Now 1pm he was showered and fresh and ready for the day.
The usual's were there already. Old men looking to drown their sorrows for a while sitting along the length of the bar, a few tourists seeking shelter from the chill by the open fire as they planned their goings with a cup of coffee each, and a group of young men at the tables around the screen in the corner watching a football game.
It wasn't big, wasn't as busy as some of the other bars, but at least it was doing business.
Most importantly there was sweet Ellen behind the bar who he shot a grin to as he approached. She was a college student looking to keep her head above short brunette was as innocent looking as they come with her braids and the skirts she always wore, but he could see a fire behind her eyes that made him think that she'd be perfectly fine here. It was just the pair of them, usually. Clint would work the week days so she could study and Ellen would work the weekend days to let Clint have a rest. If they needed help though anyone and everyone that the young lady knew would be drafted in. How he wished he had the kind of youthful spirit that let them drop everything to come work in a bar.
Though they both had their shift days, they usually ended up here every night. He didn't mind Ellen staying around to study at the bar away from her crazy family, and honestly Clint literally lives here.
"Good night last night, boss?" Ellen asked with a smile and a wink as he slid onto a bar stool in front of her. He had to grin as he took a rag and glass she pushed his way. "I think, if she could have, that red head would've been on her knees for ya in the middle of the bar."
"You're way too young for the details." He replied with a shrug. Her laugh made him look up from the glass he was polishing.
"Tucked her in and fell asleep?"
"Tucked her in and fell asleep." He nodded with a laugh of his own.
"It was a good set last night though." Ellen hummed, taking the glass from him to pull a pint for a gentleman to Clint's left. Felix, he vaguely remembers the older man muttering one day when Clint asked. "I think I was even about to throw some panties at you."
"Oh please don't." Clint shuddered, laughing a little when it earned him a punch from the woman. He took another glass and began polishing. "They wanted a lot of love songs last night, no wonder all the women were going crazy. Anything sappy sends them to mush."
"It helps when you sing them so passionately." Ellen shrugged, and she moved off to take one of the young man's order before she could notice the frown spread across Clint's face.
Love songs were always full of cliche's. He tried avoid them like the plague, because sometimes they were too true. Sometimes his heart would ache at some pictures love songs painted. Sometimes his mind would go to memories and moments that he knew he couldn't live ever again. Sometimes a lyric would hit him and he'd be transported to a small room in New York, curled up with a red head as the rain pelted their window. Sometimes a chord would trap him in a moment of a Sunday breakfast with the closest people in the world to him - laughter spreading out. More often than not a love song would break his heart, and when that's where you sing from, the audience reacts. People love the idea of love.
Love is for children...
"Clint?"
Barton shook his head of all the thoughts swimming there and looked up to see Ellen frowning his way. His hand had stalled in his polishing, and it was only then that he saw a cup of coffee in front of him. How long was he zoned?
"Anything I should be worried about?" She continued softly, and he smiled her way to let her know it wasn't.
"Sorry, ears playing up. Didn't hear you."
"War's hell, kid." Felix grumbled beside him, downing his drink just as Ellen put another in front of him. "Never gots'ta apologise."
Ah yes. That's why this guy kept coming back here. He was a sergeant once upon a time and took a shining to Clint when he heard he served too.
Even this fake Clint needed a back story, something to explain his scars and injuries. Something to explain to Ellen why he disappeared into his mind every now and then for a while. Army seemed the most plausible.
"How'd you know I wasn't deaf before that?" Clint asked with the smallest of smirks. He turned his stool to face Felix.
The older gentleman shrugged and sipped his drink. He was sometimes impossible to speak to but Clint still always tried. He wasn't sure that the man had anyone else in his life.
"Suppose I wouldn't be much of a soldier if I couldn't hear, huh Sarge?"
"I was a soldier with selective hearin', if that counts." Felix grinned a little, casting a sideways glance towards Clint. Clint grinned to tell him to continue. "Our Officer swore he told us to get inta'that bunker and dismantle d'bomb that blew that pit sky high a second later. But we all heard run like hell and save yer asses."
The glint in Felix's eyes had a genuine smile spreading across Clint's face as he turned back to his coffee. The older mans eyes held a spark of his younger self for a moment and Clint loved seeing it. He made a mental note to get the Sarge to talk a little more about his old war days if this is the feeling it brings.
"I had a captain like that." Clint continued the conversation without thinking. Vaguely he noticed Ellen lean a little closer to listen. "Fantastic at tactics - could get someone out of a lion den while dressed as an antelope without a scratch. But our fun was blatantly ignoring his orders to try get a reaction. If he cursed you automatically won the mission."
The record belonged to - surprisingly - Barnes & Romanoff who got the words 'If you little shits don't grow the fuck up I'll shove those pretty little rifles up your asses!' from Saint Rogers.
"Mission?" The simple question had him looking up from his reminising - his confused gaze meeting a genuinely interested Ellen. "Were you something like special ops?"
Something like that.
Clint frowned at her for the longest moment, not knowing how to answer.
So, instead, he looked back down at his coffee cup.
Something like special ops.
Carnie, criminal, agent, Strike Team, Avenger. Dead Avenger.
They're something like special ops, right?
"Clint?"
The group of lads in the corner cheered loudly, drawing everyone's attention their way. The six of them had jumped up and were hugging each other - the replay of a touchdown on the screen above them. It brought a smile to Clint's face and he turned back to Ellen a moment later.
"A round on the house for everyone." He said before downing his coffee and getting off his stool, holding a hand up to stop Ellen's protests - or whatever words were about to follow his name. "Just this once, and just what everyone has already ordered. Come on, they just brought the mood up."
"You're too kind, Boss man." Ellen sighed, but set about filling all the orders anyway.
Clint smiled to himself and made his way behind the bar, silently helping her out.
It was a start to a good day. The bar slowly started filling up, and by 4 o'clock all the seats were taken and there was a bachelorette party trying it's best to get everyone to join along in their games. Even the tourists who were by the fire eventually ordered some drinks and didn't look like they were about to leave. Clint said nothing about them ordering pizza to the bar, it's his fault for not having a kitchen to serve food.
7pm the jukebox was constantly going, and the dance floor lights he set up were turned on to keep the crowd happy. 9pm and the place was crazy, though in the best possible way. Moving through the crowd was difficult, and seeing anyone through it was even worse. He was jumping from one order to another at a record pace and there was no way to keep up at some points.
Ellen called in her boyfriend - college football player who towered over even Clint - to help out. Mark. He's helped out before, and Clint trusted him. Besides, if he could help give the kid a bit of extra money then it was all worth it.
"You need some help back down with these, sweetheart?" Clint asked over the noise of the bar and jukebox to one of the women on the bachelorette. Her very bright sash and the fact that he was currently filling up 15 shot glasses with tequila gave her identity away in an instant.
"I was just gonna do them here!" She yelled back with a giggle, and he smiled politely at her attempt of a joke. Ellen arrived at his side with the lemon slices and placed them on the tray before turning to grab another order. But Clint stuck his foot out to give her leg a little kick.
"Help this young lady will you?" He asked with a grin as he set the tequila bottle down, ignoring Ellen's glare. "Please? Don't want accidents."
His code for "This person is way too drunk good lord help them so they don't fall and sue me.". So she smiled and nodded, taking the tray as Clint took the money. Bachelorette party lady disappeared into the crowd yelling "TEQUILA BITCHES!". Clint grinned to himself wondering just how many of those ladies he'd find under the tables 'asleep' later.
He threw the tip into the jar and shimmied by Mark to pull a pint for a man in a suit who looked pissed off about having to wait so long. Seemed like the kind who was dragged out after work and was looking for any reason to complain. Clint wouldn't take it personally.
"Guitar man!" He looked over from the tap to the end of the bar at the shout, a group of three young women he considered regulars standing there with grins. "Playing for us tonight!?"
"Sorry ladies, too busy." He shouted back as he passed the pint over to pissed off man, passing Ellen the money to put in the till as she returned with the tray so he could go talk to the women at the end of the bar. "Unless y'all wanna pull pints for me so I can?"
"Can we!?" White wine piped up - the one in the belly top that he swore was just a belt covering her breasts. Not that he was looking. "I think that would be fun!"
"He's being sarcastic." The one who shouted over to him said with a pout. Blonde, mojito. That's all he knew of her. "You wouldn't trust us Guitar man, would you?"
"Not the way you ladies drink. And I told you before, it's Clint!" He laughed, turning to get their usual order. He was mid-mojito blending before he realised the usually chatty whiskey sour lady didn't utter a word. He paused and looked over to see her definitely with the pair, they were all a little closer to one another and whiskey sour lady was frowning, looking down, and he's seen that look enough times here to know exactly what it was.
The brunette was dumped. Recently, he would assume. She usually made an effort when here - always in some kind of evening wear with her hair in loose curls. She always took pride - both in how she dressed and how she held herself. But tonight she had a slump to her frame, a hoodie covering her upper half and he couldn't see but he bet there were some simple jeans on her lower half. He never saw her hair up before, and as he brought the three drinks over he noticed a small tattoo on the side of her neck.
He never liked seeing anyone so down, especially not a lady who would usually be one of the highlights of his night.
"You alright here for a while?" He turned his head to ask Ellen as he put their money in the till, though she was cleaning down the counter as Mark served some drinks so maybe there was a lull in orders about to come. She smiled his way and nodded, she didn't have to ask why.
"So ladies..." He started when he brought them back their change, though he was smiling at whiskey sour lady as she stared down at her drink. He leaned on the bar to see if the woman would be any way interested in his offer. "If I were to play, what would you like to hear?"
"Really!?" White wine squealed, clapping her hands like a giddy teenager. "You'd, like, make our night if you did!"
"You really would!" Mojito agreed with a grin, nudging whiskey sour on her right. "Wouldn't he, Samantha?"
Whiskey sour - Samantha - looked up to him and shot him the smallest of smiles when she noticed him staring. He just gave her a wink and a smile.
"Something soft and sweet, you do those brilliantly!"
"No no, that'd be too boring for a Saturday night! We need something to dance to!"
"You can dance to love songs!"
Clint ignored the bickering women and watched the subtle changes in whiskey sour's face. Watching, analysing, deciding on the best course of action depending on every little twitch.
"Crinkle of the nose is a no-go, Barton. It's like you don't even know how to take someone to bed!"
"If I were interested in men, trust me, this would be a different story Romanoff!"
"Oh adorable, you think it wouldn't be more of a disaster if it was a woman running away screaming at your face."
"You'll take that back when you're screaming my name later, Widow.."
"I hate love songs, I really do." He said before walking around the bar, shaking his mind clear of the life he once had. He had to squeeze past Samantha to get out, and took the opportunity to whisper in her ear. "It's his loss, not yours."
All of this really was his loss, not hers. She could have anyone. It was proven rimes and time again. Clint was the one in trouble, not Natasha.
He squeezed through the crowd and made his way to the little stage in the corner, the guitar leaning against the wall from the night before. Clint's fingers ran gently along the strings and let the smile take hold of him as the strings gently cut into his tips.
Showtime.
He checked the tuning, he turned on the mic, turned off the jukebox and played.
He played everything other than love songs, because he really did hate them, and they weren't what that young lady needed right now.
He played songs from Livin' On A Prayer to Country Roads to some Bat Out Of Hell to get people dancing, to make them happy, to make himself happy.
He loved the jukebox, he really did. Requests being shouted his way in the moments was an entirely different story. It was interactive, it was fun, it was entertaining, and most importantly - as he watched Samantha dance around in front of the little stage to his attempt at Single Ladies - it was sometimes needed. Because they could fill that jukebox with a weeks worth of pay, but it can't feel their happy, and it can't feel their pain.
And it can't feel his happy, and it definitely can't feel his pain.
