Avengers
Time after Time
Chapter 3
"How did I let you talk me into this?" Cutler, a lean freshman, wasn't happy to be where he was when he could've been somewhere else that wasn't here. But somehow, his friend Trevor Alston had convinced him to join him on a very ill-advised field trip.
"My car's in the shop and I'm paying you to drive me around." Adjusting his compact binoculars, Alston's head slowly tracked from left to right. "Where the hell are they going?"
"Why do you even care?"
Huffing, Alston answered without taking his eyes from the view. "I wanna know what that jackass Coulson is up to with Naomi."
"Is this because he got in your face about Naomi or that he did it in front of the guys?"
"And they say football players are brainless."
At least I'm smart enough not to be a stalker. Cutler sat in the driver's seat, right wrist resting on the steering wheel and doing his best to pretend he wasn't really with his best friend. "Not funny, Trev. Why is this guy such a problem for you anyhow?"
He lowered the binoculars to face his friend. "I wanna know what Coulson did to thaw out the Ice Queen."
"Maybe she just doesn't like you."
"I'm on the football team, the baseball team and run track. What's not to like?"
"Maybe she doesn't like jocks. Ow! What was that for?"
Alston uncurled the fist he'd used to punch Cutler in the shoulder then went back to watching, turning side to side. First slowly then frantically. "Crap! Lost 'em!"
"That's it. Time to go before they call the cops and we get arrested." Starting the car, Cutler pulled into traffic, braking smoothly to a stop at the light. Glancing to the side, he saw Coulson and Naomi sitting at a cozy table for two in the Mulholland Shawarma Grill. He didn't draw Alston's attention to it or they'd be in this part of town for a few more hours and Cutler was anxious to get home to study. Crosse had assigned the class to read chapters nine through twelve of the latest John Grisham thriller and be ready to talk about them in class. From what Cutler had heard Crosse seldom assigned essays, preferring lively debates over grading papers.
Cutler was startled when Coulson laughed at something Naomi said, only the second time he'd seen the man do so since classes started several weeks ago. He drove on when the light changed, counting himself lucky that his companion didn't see. Alston was a high maintenance friend, though Cutler had nearly fifteen years of experience, which didn't always mean he had a handle on it. In a couple of years, Cutler would graduate with a degree in information technologies and Alston would either be a draft pick for the NFL or a high school football coach, depending on his grades. Cutler was betting on the second. But for the time being, it worked for both of them.
~~O~~
Pulling up in front of the apartment building, Special Agent Phil Coulson parked and turned off the engine of the non-descript mid-sized sedan. He got out, took a package from the back seat, locked the door then pocketed the keys as he walked to the entrance. Before going in, he took out his SHIELD-issued cell phone and his speed dial. He hadn't had to commit the number to memory because he'd created it specifically for this "op", as his protégé kept calling it. It had taken all Phil's persuasiveness to convince Clint Barton to enroll in college.
Phil had taken him to one of the techs to have all the necessary documents drawn up and told Barton to make up an alias. He still rolled his eyes at the thought that the younger man had chosen to go by the surname Coulson. With a rueful shake of his head, he supposed it was Barton's way of saying, "Screw you, Phil!"
"Hello?" Barton's voice was as friendly as it ever got, tinged around the edges with that inherent wariness and resentment that came with the kind of upbringing he'd experienced.
"Hey, it's your cousin Phil." Hearing a huff of annoyance, Phil grinned.
"And you're calling why?"
Barton sounded upset, but then he nearly always sounded that way to Phil. It was what it was and he didn't take it personally. Doing his best to keep the humor from his voice, he used the code they'd settled on. "I'm out front. Grams asked me to bring you some of her chocolate mint meltaway brownie bites." Holding the phone away from his ear, Phil waited for Barton's tirade to wind down. "Do you want them? If not, Sally and the kids…"
"Yeah, fine. Come on up."
The front door unlocked and, eschewing the elevator, he climbed to the fourth floor. Barton's apartment was at the end of the hall on the left, the most defensible of all the rooms as it was at the topmost corner in the rear of the building. He knocked using a code that would seem random to the uninitiated and the door opened on Barton's scowling face. He stood back to let Phil in.
When the deadbolt and the other three self-installed locks had been re-engaged, Barton led the way to the living room, setting the compact Beretta in his left hand on the end table before flopping onto the sofa and resting his sock covered feet on the coffee table. The bedroom door was open and the desk in full view where Barton had his computer, textbooks and spiral bound notebooks showing evidence of use. A guitar lay on the unmade bed. "Brownies?"
Phil tossed him the metal tin, unbuttoned the front of his suit jacket and made himself comfortable in the overstuffed armchair, head tilted down though his eyes were on Barton as he opened the tin, took out one of the brownie bites and popped the entire thing in his mouth.
"Thought you'd want them analyzed by the lab first." Shrugging, Barton went into the kitchen, open and closing cabinets. Moments later, he handed Phil a cup of coffee then resumed his seat. "Sis sends her love." (Natasha says hello.)
"I'm sure she does. You here to check up on me?"
He waited for Barton to swallow before saying, "It wasn't my idea."
"How is Uncle Nick these days?"
"The same as always."
"Too bad."
Making a silent snort of agreement, Phil waited for Barton to speak. When he didn't, the agent sipped his coffee before asking, "How are classes going?" Barton shrugged but didn't say anything, and that in itself told Phil the younger man had much to say. "Tell me."
Barton stalled by taking a drink then carefully setting the cup back on the end table. "Okay so far. There's a guy who keeps baiting me."
"Wants you to hit him so he can sue?"
"He just won't let up. Even followed me the other day when I went for a run."
He looked briefly away, telling Phil there was more to the story than Barton was saying. Probably involved a woman to whom he was attracted for Barton to give so much away. "And you, of course, are not rising to occasion, which only fuels his aggravation." Phil felt more than saw Barton's agreement. All those months of supervising his physical and mental training had seen to it that the two men were able to read each other's moods. Phil had been taught how to use his natural abilities to give him an advantage as had Clint, though Clint's had been gained as a side effect of his time with the circus. To be successful as a carnie, you had to be able to read people.
"Yeah."
"Need me to intervene?"
"I got it." Finishing off his coffee, Barton put the lid on the tin, shoved the Berretta in the back of his pants then carried the cups to the kitchen.
Satisfied that all was as good as it could be with Barton, Phil slipped out the front door and was gone without taking leave. Barton didn't most of the time so Phil followed his lead knowing it was more about cutting ties quickly, like taking off a band-aide. If you felt the need to say good-bye, it meant that you had emotional ties to that person. Barton didn't connect with anyone emotionally, least of all himself. He never talked about his parents or his brother, though he knew Phil had checked him out. And Phil knew everything: all his childhood diseases, the wisdom teeth he'd had out at fifteen and the tattoo on his backside. Barton hadn't been happy when Fury had ordered it removed.
With a sigh, Phil pulled away from the curb, quickly memorizing the tag of the vehicle parked down the street. It had been there when he went inside and was still there. Though the person behind the wheel did a good job appearing as if he was just waiting, but Phil's instincts told him differently. He took out his phone, dialed a secure number and gave his password. "I need everything you've got on New York tags RGK-226. Send it to my PDA."
~~O~~
After changing into slacks, turtleneck, a knit cap and soft soled shoes, all in black, Clint shoved compact binoculars with night vision into his back pocket. He waited until Coulson was gone before slipping down the back stairs. Moving soundlessly from shadow to shadow in the chilly night air, he slowly approached a close grouping of bushes, secreting himself inside. This particular spot was perfect for reconnoitering. The lights from the street and the buildings on both sides were blocked by huge trees that somehow still had most of their leaves. No one would see him. Least of all the candy ass in the car.
Clint brought the binoculars to his eyes and peered at the occupant of the dark two-door. Alston's eyes were glued on the front of Clint's apartment building when he wasn't glaring at his watch. It wasn't a stretch of the imagination that Alston was trying to find out if Clint and Naomi were sleeping together.
Well, the joke was on him. Aside from them coincidentally living in the same area, they had nothing in common. Naomi was outgoing, intelligent and cheerful, and Clint was none of those things. Oh he had streets smarts, as his mentor in Carson's Carnival had called it. It wasn't the kind of smarts that got you a degree in a high-paying field like a surgeon, CEO or astronaut. At lunch the other day Naomi had told him about the research she was doing at the university. He almost laughed out loud that the subject matter was people with a hero complex, but he didn't. At the moment, the closest thing he had to a friend was the man who had just left. Someone who had no friends couldn't afford to alienate someone who might become one.
Deciding to let Alston stew in his own juice for a while, Clint faded into the shadows and returned to his apartment. He had homework to finish before class on Monday, but had lost his momentum when Coulson had called. Taking out his guitar, he tuned it by ear then began playing the first song that came to mind, Brown Eyed Girl.
He'd hoped the music would calm his mind. Unfortunately, it had the opposite effect on the rest of him. Putting the instrument aside, he changed into pajamas, brushed and flossed, made one last check of the doors, windows and concealed weapons, carrying the Beretta and his favorite fighting knife with him. He slipped the weapons under his pillow and crawled under the covers.
~~O~~
Trevor Alston checked the time, slamming his hand against the steering wheel in frustration. He'd been watching the front of Coulson's apartment building for hours, but Naomi hadn't come out yet. His plan had been to follow them from wherever they had dinner. That hadn't worked out. His car wouldn't start and by the time the auto club had gotten there it was too late. So he'd come to Coulson's apartment to wait and sure enough, Coulson's pick-up pulled in a few minutes later. He helped her out, both of them carrying bags of groceries, with Coulson doing the heavy work by taking control of a twelve pack of beer.
Even giving them time to prepare and eat dinner then get cozy for a while, she'd been in there a long time and Coulson didn't seem the type to let a woman stay the night.
Around midnight, Alston finally gave up and drove home. On the drive, he had plenty of time to think about what he was doing. Alston had been trying to get a date with Naomi for months, and all he'd gotten was frostbite. He'd seen the way women looked at Coulson and had to know what it was about him that caused them to follow his every move.
Was he jealous of Coulson? Or was it something else? He wasn't really interested in anything long term with Naomi, or any other girl, but why wouldn't she even say hello to him? Let him share her table? What was it that Coulson had that he didn't?
Alston hadn't reached any conclusions by the time he got home. He went inside, being careful not to wake his parents and sister, and got into bed.
~~O~~
The next morning dawned clear and sunny though storms were due the next three days with the possibility of snow by the middle of the week. Clint woke early just as he always did then just laid in bed for nearly an hour just listening to nothing before his bladder made its displeasure known.
In the kitchen, he started coffee then took eggs, Canadian bacon, onions, green peppers, cheese and milk from the fridge for his breakfast. When his omelet was in its final stages, he dropped two slices of bread into the toaster, returned the leftover omelet ingredients to the fridge and took out butter and Marion blackberry preserves. The fruit spread was relatively expensive, but worth it.
Clint swirled the omelet around in the non-stick pan and slid it neatly onto a plate just as the toast popped up. He buttered the crispy slices, spread a little of the preserves on both and cut them corner to corner. Carrying everything to the small dining table, he sat down to eat. His first bite brought to mind the last time the Bartons had eaten Sunday breakfast as a family. None of them had any idea that he and Barney would be orphans before dinner that same day.
Some people ate in front of the television and some liked to listen to music. Clint liked the quiet first thing in the morning, especially Sunday mornings when the sounds of the city were relatively low-key until his neighbors started waking up.
He'd just finished the last bite of toast when someone knocked on his door. Reaching under the table, he wrapped his left hand around the grip of the Berretta he kept there, slipped the safety off and crept to the door. Using the peephole, he saw that it was his neighbor from downstairs. Her car was in the shop so he'd offered to take her for groceries. Cringing, he realized she was smiling holding a plastic dish in both hands.
Tucking the Berretta into the back of his pants and covering it with his shirt, he eased the door open. An African-American woman a little older than he stood there holding a covered bowl. Her hair was short, stopping just at her chin, her big brown eyes expressive and shining with an inborn happiness.
"Sorry to bother you so early, Clint, but I knew you'd be up. I mean you're always up so I thought…never mind. I want to thank you for everything you did yesterday. All that fuss and I ended up making chicken and dumplings. And since you wouldn't let me pay for your gas and time, I thought you might like the leftovers." She held out the bowl and Clint took it just to be polite.
"Happy to do it, Vanessa. I'd ask you in but…"
"Oh, no, I can't stay. Gotta get ready for church. My fiancé's coming home today and he doesn't like chicken and dumplings, so you enjoy." That's when Clint noticed she was dressed in green flannel pajamas with Teddy bears all over and matching slippers.
"Well, thank you. I'll get the dish back to you this week."
"Y'welcome. And don't bother. It's disposable. Bye."
In the kitchen, he was about to toss out the good intentions of his neighbor then he thought better of it and put it in the fridge. He would have lunch while he was out running errands and the leftovers he'd keep for dinner.
Rinsing his breakfast dishes, Clint stacked them in the dishwasher then carried a fresh cup of coffee to the bedroom, sat down at the desk and booted up the computer. The cold metal of the gun on his back was a reminder that he didn't trust easily. But with Vanessa, that's exactly what it was. Easy. She had been the only resident of his building to welcome him and offer to help carry boxes. And she'd seemed disappointed that he only had a few personal possessions and no furniture, the apartment coming fully furnished.
Vanessa had lived in her apartment on the ground floor for nearly fifteen years, since she graduated from the same university where he was currently enrolled, and apparently knew were all the bodies were buried. She was also eager to share that knowledge quite freely and did on a regular basis whether he was listening or not, most often while they were doing laundry in the basement.
Finally his computer came up bringing his attention to why he'd come in here in the first place. He gathered his thoughts regarding their most recent reading assignment in order to get them down on paper. Using the paperback as a reference, he opened the document he'd begun the night before and started typing. He wasn't much of a typist, but he could hold his own. It was one of the things that Coulson had insisted he learn. Even considering that home computers were somewhat new, he could use a computer better than the general public.
Hours later, he reached for his coffee cup only to find it empty, the last few drops dried in the bottom. Getting to his feet, he stretched, yawned and scratched his stomach through the material of his gray T-shirt then padded out to the kitchen.
At a good stopping point, Clint decided against starting a fresh pot. Instead, he changed his clothes, armed himself with several knives and the Beretta, grabbed the case that held his recurve bow, a quiver of non-lethal arrows and took the stairs two at a time down to the first floor, got in his truck and took off down the street. His errands wouldn't take long, but they did provide a much needed distraction from the impasse he'd come to in the writing he was doing for American Lit. Getting his mind off of it was the only way he knew to shake everything loose inside his head. It wasn't that Crosse had assigned the class to write a book report. It was that he wanted to have his arguments ready with the facts to back them up as well as questions he was going to ask during their usual debate.
Now that his mind wasn't stuffed full of John Grisham's implausible-to Clint-plotline, his mind turned to Naomi and what he was going to do about her, if anything. The night before, his dreams had been different. He'd dreamt of raising a family and growing old with a woman he cared about and who cared about him. It had awakened him in the middle of the night, leaving behind a feeling of confusion, knowing that his line of work was not conducive to long term relationships and certainly not to having kids. The thought of what his enemies, past or future, would do to this theoretical family had kept him awake for nearly an hour.
Clint reached the archery club in just a few minutes. He rented a private range and spent the next two hours performing some of his routines from the various circus' he'd worked in when he'd been known as the Amazing Hawkeye.
TBC
