A/N: 2013 winner of NaNoWriMo contest and exclusively Beta'd by the wonderful and talented ladygris.
Cast:
Clint Barton/Clint Lockhart
Natasha Romanoff/Natasha Lockhart
Annabelle Barton-Romanoff
Dr. Eric Selvig, astrophysicist
Linda, astrophysicist
Director Nick Fury
Angus McDonald, farmer
Ainsley McKenna
Gavin McKenna, Ainsley's father
Edeen McKenna, Ainsley's mother
Winifred McKenna, Ainsley's sister
Brendan McKenna, Ainsley's brother
Griselda Campbell, proprietress of the Drunken Lance Tavern and Inn
Tavish Campbell, proprietor of the Drunken Lance Tavern and Inn
Crom Gilroy, friend of Tavish
Avengers
Between Past and Present
Chapter 8
Scotland
Late 1600s
The shores of Loch Lomond were bursting with the smells and sights of an abundance of plants and flowers. Bluebonnets were plentiful, waving in the breeze as if to draw attention to their color and scent. A young girl answered that call by picking a bouquet that she would put in water and place on the table to brighten the evening meal. Forgetting that she'd been cautioned to stay with her older brother, seven year-old Winifred wandered farther and farther down the shore. Every time she thought about turning back, another patch of bluebonnets called out to her.
"Winifred! Mum's callin'!" Brendan's voice echoed over the loch, and she nearly dropped the painstakingly gathered flowers. "Winnie!"
"Aye, Bren. I'm comin'!" She turned in the direction of home, and had only gone a few steps when the wind picked up in the way it did before a storm. Puzzled, she looked up at the sky, clear blue except for a few puffy white clouds. The wind blew harder, accompanied by a strange sound, like that of some great beast crashing through the forest. Searching frantically, afraid to call out for fear of drawing the animal to her, she dropped the flowers to cover her ears, squeezing her eyes shut and dropping to her knees behind a bush.
Just as suddenly, the noise and movement stopped. Winifred looked about, but didn't see anything but the forest and the shores of the loch. Gathering up the blossoms, she heard something: The sound of a baby crying. "Who's there?"
Slowly, so she wouldn't frighten the young one, Winifred approached a small girl standing in an area where the grass and weeds had been flattened by the rampaging wind. There were twigs and grass in her red hair and she clutched a stuffed bunny. "Hello there. Where's yer mum and da?"
Of course the little girl couldn't answer her, not with a thumb stuck in her mouth. Winifred approached her with a smile, offering one of the flowers. The girl's breath hitched as she reached for it, muttered garbled words that sounded like "Sank 'u."
"You're a wee one t' be out alone. What's yer name?" Again the girl tried to speak, her mumblings barely intelligible. When Winifred held out her hand, it was taken. "Come. I'll take ya t' Mum 'n Da. They'll know what t' do t' find yer parents."
"Winifred!"
Rolling her eyes at her brother, Winifred called out, "Comin', Brendan!" The little girl dragged her feet as Winifred urged her along the path until she could see her older brother standing at the water's edge. He cupped his hands around his mouth, preparing to shout again. "Oy! I'm here. Don't be callin' me again."
"Hey, what's that?" Brendan stared at the girl holding Winifred's hand.
"Found her."
Wiggling his fingers and making a goofy face, Brendan hunched his shoulders. "Maybe she's a witch come to' cast a spell on ya fer keepin' us from supper."
Huffing at him, she lifted the hem of her skirt to keep from tripping. "Don't be silly. She's just a wee bairn."
Sobering, the boy, just gone ten years old, gave the small child a curious look. "What's that she's wearin'? Pantaloons? On a girl?"
Annoyed with her older sibling, Winifred huffed again. "'N why not? Many's th' time I've fallin' because o' this grotty ol' thing." She swished the skirt to pull it loose from brambles that had grabbed hold.
Ignoring his sister as if she was talking nonsense, Brendan broke into a run. "Mum! Da! Come see what Winnie's brought home."
While Winifred had dark auburn hair that fell in waves to her waist, Brendan and their mother had been cursed with stick straight dark blonde hair, and their dad's was brown like the leaves in autumn. She'd often wished her hair didn't set her apart from the rest of the family.
Her mother, slightly on the plump side, rushed from their cottage with her father coming from the barn where the cows, sheep, goats and horses slept. Beside it sat the chicken coop, the feathered creatures pecking in the dirt.
"Good gracious, look at th' poor dear. She can't be more than two years o' age." Edeen McKenna stopped when the child tried to hide behind Winifred. "She seems t' like ye, Winnie. Bring her into th' house. We'll get her some proper clothes 'n somethin' t' eat. She'll sleep here tonight then yer father will make inquiries when he goes t' market."
Her dad, who stood tall with a straight back in spite of all the years of working the fields, stayed out of the way as Winifred led her new charge though the house. She went into the bedroom she shared with her brother, pulling the curtain across the opening. Edeen joined them a short time later holding out a dress that was too small for Winifred, but still too big for their guest. "Have ye asked her name?"
"'Course I did, Mum. Not much of a talker though. Sounded like she said 'Ainsley'."
Edeen smiled serenely, crouching beside the little girl, but still not touching her. "That's a lovely name for ye, child. Until we find yer family, that's what we'll call ye."
Ainsley put down the stuffed bunny just long enough for Edeen and Winifred to help her change clothes then picked it up again, tucking it under her left arm. "Sank 'u."
"Yer so welcome, love. Are ye hungry?"
Nodding, Ainsley wrapped her tiny fingers around Edeen's hand and allowed the adult to lead her to the table. She made a face when she tasted the oatcake and Scotch broth but ate it all. When she was done, Ainsley got up from the table to wander around the cottage and into each of the bedrooms, coming back to Edeen and tugging on her skirt. "Potty."
"What's that, love?"
"Go potty!" the red-haired girl stated urgently, doing a funny little dance.
Finally understanding, Edeen took the girl into the other room and showed her how to use the chamber pot. At first, Ainsley adamantly refused to do her business there. Instead, she simply wet herself. When she tired of having to change her clothes several times a day, she also changed her attitude and everyone was happy. Especially Ainsley. And somehow, in less than twenty-four hours, the child managed to endear herself to the entire family.
~~O~~
Gavin drove the week's crops into town to sell at the market along with the wood carvings his son made in his spare time. While there, he questioned every stranger that came close enough to his stall. None had reported a missing child of Ainsley's age and gender. Several of the men seemed quite eager to take her off Gavin's hands but were turned down flat.
Riding back to the farm, Gavin prepared himself for the joy that his wife and daughter would display when they found that Ainsley would be staying with them permanently. It made him happy to see his family happy, though Brendan complained about being the only boy. Still, he would be glad the wee one was joining their clan. Only a week she'd spent with them and they already thought of her as theirs.
He pulled around to the barn, unhitched the horses, brushed them down and fed them, then filled their troughs with fresh water from the well. Before going inside, he made himself presentable for the supper table. If it had been him alone, he'd have just washed his hands and been done with it. But Edeen insisted that the family come to supper as clean as possible. Gavin had to admit it felt good to wash the dust and sweat from his hands, face and hair each day.
Before entering, Gavin knocked the mud from his boots and hung his cloak on the peg provided by the front door. He was one of the modern men who had moved away from wearing the kilt except on special occasions. To him, it was a way to honor their traditions while utilizing practicality in the everyday world. "I'm home, my loves."
The children gathered around to welcome him, Edeen swatting them aside so she could kiss her husband. "How was yer day, love?"
"Not bad. Sold near all I carried inta town." Sitting down at the head of the table, he was joined by Brendan on his right, Winifred on his left with Ainsley next to her and Edeen at the opposite end. "I asked around. No one seems to know who the babe belongs to."
His wife seemed afraid to ask the next question. "So she can stay? Oh, please say yes, Gavin. You know how we've wished for another child 'n th' Lord saw fit to bless us with one." Tearing up, she took a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes.
Winifred was much more demonstrative of her opinion. She whooped for joy and threw her arms around Gavin's neck. "Thank you, Da!"
Later, when the children were asleep, Gavin found Edeen watching them from the doorway. At his urging, she pulled the curtain closed and came to bed.
Present
"What the hell happened, doctor?" Fury and Selvig faced each other down in a small pool of light that came from the computer monitors hooked up to a generator. It gave their faces a ghostly appearance though neither man noticed or cared.
"There was a massive power surge as the agents stepped into the portal, Director."
"And what was the outcome of this surge? Aside from knocking out power to the entire Tri-State area."
Selvig straightened his shoulders taking up a defensive posture. "There are many scenarios that come to mind, all variations of three major concerns. One, they passed through to the other side without incident. Two, they were ejected forcefully and are injured, but alive and able to proceed with their objective. Or three, they were killed either by the surge or by being ejected with great force."
"I'm not liking number three at all."
"Neither do I, but we have to consider it as a possibility. However, until we have proof one way or the other, we're operating under the assumption that they reached their destination unharmed and are in the process of locating the child."
Fury agreed with that assessment but didn't say so. "What caused this surge?"
"An unforeseen circumstance changed the parameters of the event, Director."
"Are you seriously telling me you didn't factor in all possible consequences of using this device?"
"Of course we did. But no matter how much preparation one does, there can still be that one random event that you didn't prepare for."
Hands on his hips, Fury glared with his one good eye. "Such as?"
"Someone tripped over the heavy duty cables we installed to shunt the extraneous power away from the device to a storage unit. The slight altering of one of the joints caused the stream to be fed back into the device instead of forcing it away."
Holding onto his temper with difficulty, Fury turned and strode off into the darkness behind the beam of light coming from his flashlight. "You have seven days to get that thing working again because I'll be damned if my two best agents are going to be stuck in the past with no way to get home."
"We're already working on it, sir." And with those words, full power to the complex came back on, and though he shot a nervous glance at the device, it had already been disconnected and therefore present no immediate threat to those present. "You heard the Director. Let's get to work."
Scotland
Late 1600s
Rolling over onto his back, Clint did a quick internal diagnostic as well as an external one. He moved his limbs one at a time to ensure nothing was broken, and to his great relief, nothing was. He'd landed badly, hitting the shoulder he'd dislocated a few weeks back, but nothing major. Well, except for the blood coming from a gash in his scalp and all the bumps and bruises.
A moan off to his right reminded him he hadn't come to this place alone. Getting to his hands and knees, he looked around, spotting his partner lying in a patch of crushed blue flowers. "Nat? You okay?"
She groaned as she sorted herself out. "No, I am not okay!"
Struggling to his feet, he stumbled in her direction only to collapse again just as he reached her. "Where-where are you hurt? Let me see."
One corner of her mouth turned upward. "It's my pride that's hurt the most." She tried to stand, but couldn't make it. "Bumped my head and my knee."
"That was some ride. Better than the Kamikaze at that theme park when we were undercover…when was that?"
"Six months before the invasion. I never want to see or smell cotton candy and falafel ever again."
Sitting with his elbows on his knees and head in hands, Clint groaned. "Don't know what you're complaining about. Once the manager found out I'd been with the circus, he stuck me in a costume and had me doing tricks for the kids."
She reached out and slapped his shoulder, gently. "You loved every minute. Admit it."
Shaking his head and chuckling, he was tempted to contradict her, but he couldn't summon the energy. "Fine. Whatever."
Natasha tried again and finally was able to stand though she experienced a wave of vertigo. She waited it out and everything eventually stopped spinning. Taking off his vest, he used his knife to cut strips off the bottom, handing them to Natasha. She then went to the water's edge, dipping the material into the cool, clean water. She squeezed out the excess and returned to where he was still sitting in the midst of the crushed flowers.
Dropping onto her knees next to him, she shook out one of the wads of cloth and began to wipe the dirt and blood from his face. The tension between them since his abortive attempt to convince her to marry him had abated somewhat, but still hung there like one of those sticky strips meant to catch flies. And like those strips, you could only avoid bumping into one for just so long. Now here they were and she was actually touching him and not because it was one of their sparring sessions.
He hissed in pain when she touched the cut on his scalp, but didn't shy away from her touch. And when she looked down at him, there was a moment where everything felt normal. She looked away. "It's not bad. Wouldn't even need stitches if we were home."
"Thanks."
Holding the other cloth, he shook it out and reached out to wipe the dirt and blood from her cheek, but she slapped his hand away, her face pinched in a scowl. "What're you doing?"
"Relax. You've got some…" Snatching the cloth from him, she dabbed at the sore spots. Just managing not to huff at her, he rummaged in one of the sacks, coming out with what looked like a water waterskin, but was much more than that. Grunting as he got to his feet, he trudged to the loch, holding it under the water until it was full. "Think we're in the right place and time?"
Without looking at him, she shrugged. "I recognize that rock as one from the video taken when she came through. But whether this is the right time remains to be seen. At any rate, we only have seven days to find her and get back to this spot or who knows how long we'll be stuck here."
"We're not getting stuck."
"Something happened at the lab or we wouldn't have had such a hard landing."
He cleared his throat and when she finally looked at him, he pointed to a spot by her ear. She scrubbed at it until he took the cloth and did it himself, holding her still with a hand on her chin. "Any landing you can walk away from…" With a groan, Clint got to his feet and helped her to stand. "Which way?"
Picking up their belongings, she handed several to Clint, slinging the others over her shoulder. The bow, quiver and crossbow, she gave to him. "You didn't read the briefing materials? Clint!"
Not at all repentant, he picked a direction and started looking for a path or roadway of some kind. Natasha fell into step beside him. The urge to hold her hand, to again make a semi-romantic overture whispered through him, but he didn't allow it to control his actions. He would save that for when he needed to chase off prospective suitors. "My bad. So how are we playing this? What's our cover?"
"Married couple looking for a new home."
"That works. We can use our real first names. Clint and Natasha Lockhart from an unnamed village a long way from here." The long silences from Natasha annoyed him. They had to find a way to get past this bump because he didn't want their daughter to grow up with the same rotten childhood he had. Parents who fought all the time, rarely saying a civil word to each other up until the day they died in a single car accident. Their child would know that she was loved and that her parents loved each other. Natasha loved him, he was certain. The hard part was getting her to not only admit it to him, but to herself as well. Both were going to be hard sells.
"Whatever," she snapped.
As they neared the path, he pulled her to a stop. "We won't convince anyone we're a couple if you won't even look at me."
To prove him wrong, she let her eyes meet his then shift away again. "There. I've looked at you. Can we just find Annabelle without all this drama?"
"How long are you going to treat me like I've done something unforgivable, Nat?" She shot him another of her looks, but he remained unfazed. A snort of mild amusement forced its way out of her, but whether it was the question or the look on his face when he said it, he couldn't tell. But at least she was laughing instead of screaming obscenities.
"Izvinite. Stress, I think. We waited so long for Selvig to get us here and were almost killed doing it. I can't help thinking what she's like after all this time. Will we know her when we see her? Will she remember us? Who's been taking care of her or has she been on her own? Did they abuse her in some way?" She dropped her eyes to the ground in front of her. "Was she killed by a wild animal before someone found her?"
Clint put his arm around her, planting a quick kiss on her forehead. "Don't go there. We just have to believe we'll find her." Dropping his arm, he turned toward the path up ahead. "Let's head to the village and question the locals. Find out if anyone in the area adopted a little girl in the past couple of years."
"This is why you should read the briefing materials, Clint. In this time, so many people died from accidents and disease that often, children were taken in by anyone willing to do so. Chances are that there's more than a few in this area alone. That number would increase in a larger population center like London."
The thought that some stranger had his child wouldn't leave him alone. Silently, he swore if Annabelle had been abused by her adopted family, they would die a slow and very painful death and he would enjoy every minute of it. Natasha put her arm around his waist, giving him a little squeeze telling him that she agreed and would be more than willing to help.
When they reached the road, Clint looked first to the left where it disappeared into the distance, then the right. It went straight for about fifty meters then turned. "Which way?"
From her pocket, Natasha took out a compass. "East for about five kilometers to the center of town passing farms on the way. It'll cause less of a stir if we start making inquiries at the local pub or public gathering place rather than going door to door."
"Considering that the farms are probably spread all over, I agree." Clint moaned and rubbed his lower back. "Crap! Everything aches. Let's see if we can hitch a ride."
"Just be careful what you say."
The sound of a wagon pulled by a pair of horses came toward them headed in the direction they needed to go. When the older man saw them standing on the side of the road, he tugged on the reins, bringing the wagon to a halt. "Hold up."
Natasha squeezed Clint's hand as a reminder of where they were even though she'd already admonished him. And even he admitted to himself that some things bore repeating. "Good day, sir."
He looked them over with a critical eye. "I be Angus McDonald. 'N yerselves?"
"Clinton Lockhart. My wife, Natasha." Clint was proud of his Scottish accent, and their potential host didn't seem to find anything wrong with it.
Angus thought that over a moment. "Where abouts do ya be headed?"
"We're traveling to the next village and would greatly appreciate a ride," the archer added a smile to the request.
Again Angus seemed to take a while to make a decision. "Get in th' back, 'n mind th' pig."
Pig?! Clint opened his mouth to protest, but Natasha stopped him by tapping him on the backside.
Natasha smiled. "We're in your debt, Master McDonald."
At the back of the cart, Clint waited for Natasha to climb up, but all she did was stare at him. Belatedly, he put his hands on her waist to give her a boost. He climbed up next to her, taking a seat just as Angus flicked the reins and they began to move. "Gi'up. Walk on."
~~O~~
Angus pulled to a stop in front of the Drunken Lance Tavern and Inn, waited for Clint and Natasha to get out then moved on. Clint held the door open and followed Natasha inside. The clientele was mostly men, with a few women and women doing the serving.
They took a seat at an empty table and a few moments later, an older woman with an enormous amount of cleavage set two tankards of ale in front of them. "Will ye be wantin' food as well?"
Natasha smiled and nodded. "Aye, please."
The server bestowed a brilliant smile on them. "I'll bring it round straight away, loves."
She returned shortly setting a plate Cullen Skink, a soup made from haddock, in front of each of them. They'd almost finished eating when a large man wearing a kilt swaggered across the room, his thumbs jammed into his belt. "Ye be strangers hereabouts."
While Natasha would prefer to do the talking, in this instance, she left it to Clint.
"Aye. Clint Lockhart, 'n my lovely wife, Natasha."
"Tavish Campbell. Griselda 'n me'd be what passes for gentry in these lands. Welcome t' Laomainn. How long will ye be stoppin' in our fair village?"
Shrugging, Clint spooned a huge bite of Scotch broth into his mouth then talked around it. "Not sure yet. Lookin' for work 'n thinkin' o' settlin' down here."
The attitude of Tavish and the men with gathered around him was meant to intimidate Clint, but he wasn't easily cowed. He also didn't like being threatened. Beside him, Natasha stayed relaxed though he knew she was ready to take on attackers if there was a need.
"What sort of work d'ye be lookin' for?"
Clint shrugged on shoulder. "Anything that's available."
"Are ye now?" Trying to make the gesture casual, Tavish cast a glance over his shoulder at a man in the corner. Pretending to keep Tavish in his sight, Clint used his incredible vision to take in this new player. He was slender yet muscular with shaggy hair and a long, equally unkempt beard. From the way he was sprawled in the chair, he had to be at least a head taller than Clint, maybe more. Natasha's foot touched him in warning and he reassured her with a nudge of his knee.
The man got to his feet, sauntering across the room to stand beside Tavish. "I be th' best at knife throwin' these past seven years in th' games at Her Majesty's birthday celebration. Shall we have a go?"
A smirk threatened to get out of control, but Clint was able to rein it in as he got to his feet. "Pretty fair with a knife, m'self 'm accept yer challenge."
The man shoved his thumbs into his belt, feet shoulder width apart and shoulders back. "Name's Crom Gilroy. 'N just t' show ye m' sportin' nature, ye can start us off."
This was obviously standard operating procedure when strangers came to town. Not wanting to show his hand too soon, Clint pulled the knife at his waist from its sheath, keeping the others in reserve, just in case. "What's the target?"
Tavish indicated the tavern's coat-of-arms hung on the wall to the right of the main entrance, the wood bearing many knife holes, confirming Clint's suspicions that this was a test of some sort. The shield had a pair of crossed lances behind it with the name of the tavern as well as a man on horseback brandishing a lance in one hand and a huge overflowing tankard in the other. "Say where ye'll place it 'n th' first t' miss is th' loser."
Clint was directed to stand approximately seven and a half feet from the wall, similar to Darts. He wouldn't be surprised to find that the game began around this time. Flipping the knife to grasp the blade, Clint chose a target. Wiggling his thumb, he said, "A thumb's distance from th' end o' th' lance."
And before anyone could object or agree, Clint took his stance, drew his left arm back and let fly. The handle vibrated at the strength of the throw. With confidence, Clint, with Gilroy and Tavish in tow, walked to the target, Clint placing his thumb to the right of the blade to show that his aim had been true. With a nod from Tavish, who was acting as a sort of referee, the men retreated to the throwing line.
"Tip o' the beast's nose." Gilroy took his stance, sloppy according to SHIELD standards, aimed and threw. He too hit exactly where he said.
This went on for twenty minutes, both men evenly matched until Gilroy, annoyed that Clint hadn't once fumbled, suggested, "What say we make this a wee bit more interestin'."
"I'm game," was Clint's automatic response. He mentally kicked himself for using modern-day slang. Natasha was giving him one of her looks which he returned with a sheepish shrug.
"Each will throw four, one after another," Gilroy touched the spots on the target marked with smaller versions of the shield. From concealment, Gilroy produced three more daggers identical to the first.
Crossing his arms, his best deadpan look in place, Clint said to his opponent, "This bein' th' last round, 'n yer th' Queen's champion, take th' shot."
Taking Clint's courtesy as his due, Gilroy stepped to the throw line, three daggers in his left hand and one in his right. He carefully sighted and threw each blade. Applause followed with lots of back slapping and shouts for refills of ale.
Another man who'd remained quiet throughout the contest came forward, a set of four daggers in his hand, obviously custom made. "I see ye've just th' one. Would ye care t' use mine?"
Clint accepted with a smile and a nod, going to the throw line. He placed all four knives on the end of table to his left. Tavish started forward to remove Gilroy's daggers from the target, stopping when Clint said, "Don't."
"As ye wish," the man said as he returned to his seat.
Rolling his shoulders to loosen the muscles, Clint made his preparations for the final showdown. He took a deep breath, let it out then threw the daggers one after the other. When the fourth blade had reached its target, the borrowed daggers were stuck into the wooden shield to the inside of the ones Gilroy had thrown. Then, just to twist the knife so to speak, Clint plucked out both boot knives and stuck one into each of the lances.
Jaws dropped, there was a moment of stunned silence then the room erupted in cheers and applause with Clint being nearly knocked off his feet from the strength of Tavish's back slaps.
Gilroy, however, didn't join in congratulating Clint, choosing instead to make a grand display of poor sportsmanship. His face a mask of rage, Gilroy spun on his heel, retrieved his daggers, and left the tavern without another word.
TBC
