"It's been a long time Barton," the voice exclaimed without any particular warmth, not really a surprise, Al wasn't known for having a particularly sunny personality. Since he was a ghost that nobody around here probably expected to see again, Clint resolved not to take the welcome personally.
It was always a bit of a distraction to have a gun against his skull, no matter how many times he had experienced it, particularly when he knew that it wasn't the weapon of choice for the person holding it. Much as he favoured his bow, Al had always had a strong preference for the delivery of high voltage current - usually through deployment of a taser. With an actual handgun in the mix however there was always the exciting possibility that he would end up getting shot to liven up proceedings. He'd been there and done that quite enough in the last few days.
Raising both hands in a show of surrender, Clint identified no less than three ways in which he could possibly take control of the weapon and quickly dismissed them all. It was always an option if things went seriously awry, but a show of force would not help his case, not when he wanted Al to remember that they had once greeted one another without one them having a gun to the other's cranium. No he decided, it would be far better to try and diffuse the situation with words. He did, after all, require a favour.
"I'm just here as an old friend," he explained, keeping his voice even and level, "not in any official capacity."
"I wasn't aware that old friends broke into one another's apartments in the middle of the night," Al countered. "You say you're not here on orders but after the career boost of New York it doesn't make sense for an Avenger to come this far down the rabbit hole for a social visit."
While he would hardly consider New York to have been a career opportunity (largely due to his boots on the ground perspective), it didn't surprise him that some of his old contacts might have been keeping tabs on him since he had changed sides. Mercs generally liked to know who they might come up against in the field, as well as any weaknesses that they might have. If they had indeed been assessing him for signs of weakness then it was probably a good thing they couldn't possibly know about Loki's mind warping capabilities and all the PTSD related fun that had led to.
"Yeah well the media only ever show half of the story, everyone knows that," he remarked, deliberately keeping a hint of amusement in his voice in the hope that the fact they were once friends might win out. "We go back far enough that you know that the dictionary definition of hero doesn't apply here."
He let the silence stretch out for a few seconds, letting the hand that held the gun weigh up the pros and cons of shooting him before he spoke again. "Look, are we really going to do this in the hallway or can we go inside?"
The pressure at the back of his skull lessened as the press of the barrel eased back and then he heard the jingle of keys, the tumbling of locks, and the door in front of him swung open. Al stepped off a little and then a half hearted shove to the back of his shoulder had him climbing to his feet and walking inside. "Leave the bag, I'll bring it in."
Without being told where to go he walked into the open living area of the apartment, only to be hit by a powerful wave of deja vu when he found it almost exactly the same as it was the last time he was there, and then turned around to look at a face he hadn't anticipated seeing again.
Al was pretty much as he remembered, surly and still sporting about nine piercings in each ear as well as several other visible piercings. From black combat boots and faded black jeans to black bomber jacket and grey hooded sweatshirt, she was like any angry young activist, capable of blending into a crowd and infiltrating any protest rally. The poster child for anti-social genius, she mightn't look like much but Clint knew better than to doubt her. Al knew exactly how to handle herself, he had after all helped to train her.
"Didn't think I'd see you around here anytime this side of retirement," the hacker remarked, pegging him with a level stare. The gun was down by her hip but still in her hand. "You did go straight on us after all …"
"Well we might remember the circumstances a little differently," Clint remarked mildly. "I had the choice of joining or being a guest of a federal penitentiary for an unspecified yet lengthy period of time."
Al chuckled and moved past him deeper into the apartment, she secured the weapon, tossed it down on the table and lit up a cigarette. She inhaled deeply, drawing as much as she could into her lungs and holding it there a good couple of seconds before exhaling. "You stayed though didn't you?"
This time it was Clint's turn to shrug. Yes, he had stayed, mainly because once he got a look at how SHIELD actually worked he'd known that it was worthwhile. The life that he'd shared with people like Al had been enough for him once but he'd outgrown it, he just hadn't realised that until he'd had the chance to experience something bigger. "It has its benefits."
Al's eyes scrutinised him as she flicked ash from the end of her cigarette, a cloud of bluish grey smoke forming around her. He didn't remember her being a smoker but the pile of butts in the ashtray suggested that she had taken up the habit in the years since they'd last seen one another. How old was she now? When he looked at her, really looked at her without seeing her through the windows of his memory, he realised that she was no longer the young woman he had known. He wasn't the only one to have grown in his absence.
Exhaling another plume of smoke into the air, she sank onto the chair that was already pulled out from the table. Lifting one leg, she crossed it over the other and tilted her head to one side. "Your gait is off, are you injured?" she asked.
She'd always been observant, never one to miss something like a weakness or to avoid commenting on it. Al's job was to notice things, big and small, the details that nobody else thought to look for. Nobody could exploit computer code the way she could, or get into systems that weren't supposed to be seen. She had been the friendly neighbourhood anarchist to their merry band of hired thugs, thieves and killers, the gatekeeper of all information. In answer, Clint raised the hem of his shirt to reveal the stained dressing that protruded above the waistband of his jeans and the bruises that had developed over his rib cage, still deep red-violet and angry looking. "Caught three bullets," he admitted, "but I'm still breathing."
"You're like a cockroach Barton, anyone ever tell you that?" There was a hint of affection in the words and in the twitch of her lips as she spoke them.
"Only you Al," he replied flippantly. He lowered his shirt. "It's been a long couple of days, any chance I can use your bathroom to clean up?"
With a nod of her head, Al indicated the relevant door. "Mi casa, su casa," she told him. "I'll assume that your travel plans didn't include any thought as to where you were going to sleep and make up the sofa bed."
"You're an angel."
She uncoiled from the chair, stubbing out the cigarette as she stood. "Yeah that's me," she countered, "though if you trip over my halo be sure to polish it up for me."
She was busy making up the bed and talking about fixing them a late night snack when he gathered his bags and slipped into the bathroom. Clint didn't contradict her assumptions about his sleeping arrangements; no matter how uncomfortable that promised sofa bed might be he would sleep like a log. Two days on the road and a night in the branches of a tree had left him with a powerful yearning for hot water, given the circumstances he'd even settle for the just past warm offerings of the building's less than efficient pipe system. He'd bathed in a few streams and rivers in his time and indoor plumbing, however inefficient, was always appreciated, particularly when it came with overhead lighting and a door that locked.
He turned on the shower and stripped down to his shorts while the water warmed up. The mirror above the sink gave him a fantastic view of the bruises he'd acquired over the last forty eight hours, varying shades of red, blue and violet beneath the bright white illumination. Hissing in a breath, he peeled away the dressing on his lower abdomen and examined the area beneath it. The skin around the stitches was red and angry looking and he knew that he was more than likely headed toward a minor infection, which certainly went some of the way toward explaining the dull headache and the beginnings of fever.
When he stepped into the tub and eased his battered body beneath the spray, the water pummelled his face, neck and shoulders, easing a tightness that he hadn't been aware of. It wasn't as hot as he would have liked but it was on the right side of warm and he was grateful for it. Clint washed himself carefully and then braced himself against the tiled wall with one arm, letting the water rush over him while he inhaled the steam filled air. The smell of soap tingled in his nose, not his own brand but infinitely preferable to the scent of his own blood.
"What made me think that this was a good idea?" he muttered to himself, hanging his head so that the water pounded down onto the back of his neck. The answer was obvious really, desperation had brought him there. It was obvious that she distrusted his motives and even if Al agreed to go beyond her current 'good samaritan' act and put him in touch with one of her forger contacts, which he had absolutely no right to expect her to do, they didn't work for free. Clint had exactly one hundred and thirty eight euros to his name and any attempt to access his accounts carried the risk of bringing Hydra bearing down on his contacts. Absolutely not an option.
He was, as any one of his good friends would no doubt tell him, were they only there to do so, royally screwed.
He finished up in the shower, towelled off carefully and spent some time cleaning and doctoring his side. The antiseptic stung as he tried to dab between the stitches with a q-tip, leaving the area around the extraction site tingling in a less than pleasant way. Dressing carefully, he chose not to cover the wound immediately and opted to leave his jeans unbuttoned to give the injury chance to breathe.
"Made you some coffee," she announced, busying herself with mugs and plates in the small kitchen area as he stepped out of the bathroom. Shirt hanging open and skin still damp from the shower, he crossed the room to the freshly made up couch and dropped his bags to the floor beside it. At the sound of the impact, she spun around, hand reaching reflexively toward one of the canisters on the counter top and then exhaled audibly. She most definitely had a weapon there; good to know. Her eyes settled on him, raking over the exposed flesh with barely a hint of interest before she spoke. "Jesus Barton, did you forget how to dress yourself?"
"Just thought I'd let the wound breathe for a little while without a waistband pressing on it," he replied, pointing toward the angry red skin above his hip. "If it makes you feel more comfortable I can …"
"Don't bother," she exclaimed with a wave of her hand. "It's not like the view is a terrible one. I'll adjust."
Which was about as close to a compliment as he could hope to get from the woman in front of him. He moved back across the room to what passed as the kitchen, and eased himself down into one of the chairs at the table. Accepting the mug that she offered him, he surreptitiously inhaled the strong, rich aroma in an incredibly rudimentary test for added chemicals. Drugging a man's coffee hadn't been Al's style when they'd last been part of one another's lives but time and circumstance could change people radically. He didn't bother adding sugar once he'd decided that it was probably safe to drink, just sipped at the black liquid and sighed at its familiar taste on his tongue. A few quiet minutes later, she came across with the pot and refilled his mug.
Over a simple platter of cooked meats, pickles, bread and grilled cheese, they talked about nothing of importance. Clint was deliberately trying to avoid mentioning some of their old associates, knowing that his disappearance had been a betrayal that they were unlikely to forgive, and it seemed that Al was dancing around the subject of his recent troubles. At least some things were uncomplicated; the food, while simple, was delicious and his stomach welcomed it, as did his taste buds which tingled at the sharp, sourness of the pickles and the salty cheese.
"So are you going to tell me who decided your ego needed to be deflated a little?" she asked making light of the recent bullet wounds in a way that only someone who had contemplated shooting him could.
"Wasn't really my ego that they tried to deflate," he replied, "more like my lungs."
She chuckled then narrowed hazel eyes at him. The ring in her eyebrow glinted in the light. "C'mon spill. Was it anyone we know?"
"Not unless you're acquainted with a Nazi sleeper division that were supposedly wiped out years before you were born."
"Seriously?"
He nodded, already regretting the fact that he'd let that particular bit of information out. Information was a commodity, bought at cost and sold to the highest bidder. "Looks like SHIELD is going to war, which means that I have to assume that all of my existing covers are blown and I'll need a new one to get me back to the US."
"Where you'll spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder …"
"Comes with the territory Al, you know that."
She leaned back in her seat and drummed her fingers on the tabletop, apparently giving his predicament some thought. They both knew that he could simply disappear into the chaos that currently swirled around his employers, create a new identity, fall back into his old life; they both knew that he wouldn't. "What can I do to help?" she asked finally, though her tone implied less than one hundred percent enthusiasm for the offer. Again, Clint didn't take that personally.
"Don't suppose you're still dealing with that forger who did the work for the Monaco job?" he asked hopefully.
"Caffrey? Yeah he's still in town." Al picked up the packet of cigarettes on the table and rotated it end over end, the cardboard making subtle tapping sounds every time it touched the wood.
"His work is some of the best I've ever seen." Saying so was high praise indeed, Clint had seen more forged documents than most and had an eye for those that would escape detection. The documents that Caffrey had made for him before a job in Monaco had been indistinguishable from the real thing, every one of them perfect imitations of that which various governments liked to tell themselves were 'unforgeable'. "Think he can be persuaded to help me out with my paperwork issues?"
"Not if you make the approach personally," she replied, putting the cigarette box down again. "He only works with people he knows these days it's not safe to take jobs from outsiders."
There was something in the way she said it that made Clint sit up and pay attention. Earlier he had been too distracted by the gun she held at his head to wonder what she meant when she'd assumed that he was there in a professional capacity. "Dangerous times," he agreed. "How are the old crew doing anyway?"
Al resumed tapping her fingers on the tabletop. Clint studied her fingertips with their short nails and chipped black polish, reading the agitation in her movement, and waited. "You'd know better than me."
Confusion must have shown on his face because when she looked at him, she continued talking. "SHIELD took them Barton. They've been taking them for months."