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 Rose Barton-Romanoff
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
Ainsley McKenna
Avengers
Between Past and Present
Chapter 9
"That was some fine throwin' ye done, Clint," Tavish enthused as he drew Clint over to the table he was sharing with a group of friends. Before he'd even sat down, Griselda and one of the kitchen workers had passed out full tankards of ale. "About time someone give Crom what for."
Lifting the tankard, Clint shrugged modestly. "I got lucky."
"Nonsense. Ye have a great skill, lad. No shame in lettin' it be known. But a word t' th' wise. Ye've not made a friend by bestin' Crom Gilroy, so ye 'n yer wife take care when yer out 'n about." The air of excitement still hummed in the air though the boisterous voices had quieted somewhat. "So what be yer purpose in stoppin' hereabouts?"
"My wife 'n I are lookin' for a place t' settle." Glancing over at Natasha, he saw that she was deep in conversation with their hostess. She sensed him looking her way and returned his grin with a scowl that said they'd be talking later.
"Maybe ye'd consider makin' Laomainn yer home." The smile on Tavish's face turned inquisitive.
"Perhaps."
Another man came to join them, taking a seat next to Clint without invitation or introducing himself. "What clan are ye?"
"None at this time."
With a grin, Tavish slapped the table. "We be allied with Clan DunBroch, if yer lookin' fer someplace t' plant yer roots."
Clint gave Tavish a non-committal reply and returned to Natasha just as Griselda regained her feet with a grunt. "Here now, Tavish. Let them be. Can't ye see they're exhausted from their journey?" To the agents, she said, "When yer ready, I'll show ye t' yer room."
Giving a weary sigh, Natasha pushed away from the table and stood. "I'm ready now, thank ye."
Another man came to the table and it wasn't difficult for the agents to figure out that they were being given the once over by what passed for law enforcement in this town. "Have ye stabled yer horses at Macduff's?"
"We walked most of th' way from th' last village. Angus McDonald gave us a ride th' rest o' th' way."
Tavish pushed back from the table and got to his feet. "Then ye'll be wantin' a good night's sleep before explorin'. Macduff'll fix ye up with horses t' take ye around."
Clint nodded and together, he and Natasha followed Griselda up the stairs and down a dim hallway. She opened the last door on the right going in ahead of them.
"Extra blankets 'n such in th' wardrobe. Th' garderobe's down th' hall. Th' mornin' meal's at seven. If ye need anythin', just ask." Griselda went to the door, pausing with a hand on the knob. "I hope ye find Laomainn t' yer likin' 'n decide t' stop fer good."
With those parting words, she closed the door, leaving Clint and Natasha alone. He was wondering just what to say or do to keep this from being awkward, giving it up as a bad idea when Natasha stripped out of her dress then sat on the side of the bed to remove her boots. Taking that as a cue, he did the same, tossing his pants, shirt and vest over the back of a chair, leaving on the T-shirt and boxers he just couldn't go without.
The bed was a double. Not enough room for them to maintain a respectable distance from each other, but if she could put her emotions aside, so could he. Before getting into bed, Clint put out the oil lamp on the dresser as well as the one on the bedside table.
Lifting the covers, he lay down, closed his eyes waiting for Natasha to get comfortable. Eventually, she stopped shifting in the bed and appeared to go to sleep. He followed a short time later.
~~O~~
Facing the wardrobe, Natasha knew the moment Clint fell asleep. She waited another ten minutes according to her internal clock before slipping out of bed.
Just to reassure herself, she opened the sack she carried, reaching into the secret compartment and taking out a device about double the size of a glucometer, a portable DNA tester. Again, she went over the instructions that the SHIELD doctor had given her for its use. All she needed was a sample of hair with the root attached. Less is good. More is better. Blood and spit worked well too.
Replacing the tester in her sack with a sigh, Natasha sat in the armchair with her legs curled under. With the underskirt covering her feet, she watched Clint sleeping, wishing that things were different. That she was different. If she'd had nurturing parents while growing up instead of a guardian who withheld approval and affection as a way to manipulate her and the other girls then she wouldn't be here now. She wouldn't have been involved with the invasion and she wouldn't have a child. Or rather she would have a child. Just not with Clint.
Ever since the proposal, tension had vibrated between them. While she pretended that it didn't bother her, it did. And when she looked at him now, she felt something though she wasn't sure what. Examining that change now brought her to the realization that this feeling had been going on for some time, but she had been ignoring it.
Not having experienced real love before, she was at a loss to, as Selvig might say, interpret the data. Not that Clint was much better at it, but at least he was trying. He hadn't yet told her he loved her aside from a sarcastic "Love you, Nat." To which she would respond with "I know."
Now that she felt ready to sleep, Natasha returned to the bed and slowly lay down next to her partner, turning onto her side to face away from him again. In his sleep, he rolled over and spooned her from behind, mumbling words that she didn't understand. Placing her hand on top of Clint's Natasha waited for sleep to claim her.
Several Hours Later
Morning came quicker than Natasha had hoped and just as she always did, she awakened before Clint, only today she felt as if she hadn't slept at all. Sometime during the night, Clint had rolled onto his stomach, one arm hanging off the side of the bed. Shaking him produced no response as did poking him in the side. As in the past, she resorted to something that never failed to garner a reaction. She carefully pulled up the bottom of his shirt and pressed her hand to his lower back causing him to screech and vault off the bed. "Sonofa*****, your hands are cold!"
Clint caught his clothes she tossed at him, and for some reason she couldn't fathom, he stayed turned away from her while they got dressed.
Natasha tied the laces on the bodice of her dress wishing she could wear pants for walking long distances, but that would attract more attention than just being strangers in town already had.
"We should pick up the weapons," was all Clint said as he replaced his knives in their places of concealment.
Shoving her feet into the boots, Natasha picked up her sack and stood there waiting for Clint who seemed to need more time to dress than she did just this once. "I'll wait for you downstairs."
And before he could answer, she left the room. Clint may have called out to her, but she just kept going until she reached the restaurant, taking a table in the corner hoping to go unnoticed. Griselda saw her and bustled over with a mug and a pot of tea. Cream and sugar were already on the table. "Sun's long been up. Thought ye were goan t' sleep th' day away."
The scent of the fragrant tea reached Natasha making her stomach grumble. "Didn't see anyone until Angus MacDonald gave us a ride so we walked most o' th' way."
Griselda patted Natasha's hand in an overly familiar way that the Russian wasn't used to, but instead of jerking free as she would've in the past, she returned the gesture with a small smile. "I'll bring ye somethin' that'll put ye t' rights good 'n proper."
"Thank ye." Natasha would've said more, but Clint chose that moment to make his appearance.
"Mornin', Griselda."
"Ye slept well, I take it, Master Lockhart?"
Clint grinned and nodded, acting as if he'd had the best night's sleep even though she knew better. "Clint, please. 'N I did indeed. Now I'm so hungry I could eat a bear, provided it doesnae eat me first."
He winked making Griselda laugh out loud. "Yer th' funny one, aren't ya? I'll be back with more tea 'n somethin' hearty t' get ya started on yer day."
And though she didn't feel like laughing, her partner's antics forced a grin and a snort out of her, which she tried to hide behind her hand. He saw and pounced on it. "What is that? No, it can't be." He scooted up close, pulling her hand away and giving her a close examination. "It is! It's a smile."
She pushed him away, resisting an eye roll when his other arm slipped around her waist. "You act like you've never seen one before."
"It has been a while." The sparkle of humor in his eyes faded. "Nat, I…"
"Here ye go loves. Some nice hot porridge is just what ye need t' get yer strength back," their hostess announced as she set a steaming bowl in front of each of them.
Griselda's gruff voice interrupted what Clint was about to say, annoying Natasha because she was certain he was going to say something important. He used his "I'm not joking" face. Whatever was on his mind would have to wait until they were alone.
In the weeks since the dig, she got the feeling that he was working up to telling her he loved her, and not just in the best friends and partners way. And when he did finally find the courage to say it, how would she feel? Would she be able to saying it back, even if she didn't feel the same? At this point, she wasn't certain of anything except that she wanted to find Annabelle and get back home as soon as possible.
Clint's warmth against her side eased up and when she glanced to the side, he'd moved a respectable distance from her. It never bothered her before when he did it, but now she missed the closeness.
~~O~~
Getting the sense that Natasha was annoyed with him, Clint put some space between them then picked up his spoon and stirred the grayish slop in his bowl. Since leaving the orphanage, he hated hot cereal. Hoping that a little sweetness would make it more palatable, he spooned sugar into it, stirring until it dissolved then ate a spoonful. Nope. Didn't work, but he ate it anyway because he was hungry.
Griselda refilled the teapot, offering more porridge. Clint and Natasha both declined. When he caught her making a face at the taste of the hot cereal, they shared a sheepish grin that anyone who didn't know them would take for affection. And that's just what they wanted.
Until Annabelle, the two of them had been nothing more than partners and friends, going through life as though nothing could touch them. Believing they'd live forever yet knowing that the possibility existed that they could die at any moment because of the work they did. A fact that had never worried either of them before their daughter came along. Neither of them had wanted children, but fate had taken a hand and given them something-someone to live for besides themselves. He would be damned if he'd let the end come too soon.
"Clint! Natasha!" Tavish bellowed at them as he approached the table. "And how are ye this fine mornin'?"
Clint shook hands with the innkeeper, and almost threw up his breakfast when the man slapped him on the back. "Better after a night's sleep."
Tavish sat down across from the agents, leaning forward as if telling a great secret. "I'm thinkin' ye'll want t' wander about on yer own."
"Th' best way t' get t' know a new place," Clint told him as he pushed the empty bowl away.
It was on the tip of Clint's tongue to tell the innkeeper the real reason they were there. He stopped himself when Natasha touched Tavish on the hand. "Thanks for yer kindness, Tavish. We've been lookin' for a place t' call home for a long time."
To change the subject, Clint asked, "So what goes on here of an evening? Any entertainment?"
"Some. At times a travelin' bard will stop fer a few days 'n we'll give 'em a listen. Just a few months back there was this one young lass with th' voice of an angel like my sainted daughter, Margaret. She's passed on some twenty years hence."
"I'm sorry for yer loss, Tavish." Ignoring Clint's glare, Natasha's eyes sparkled with mischief, "He's no angel, but my Clint can sing 'n play th' lute."
Tavish brightened. "We'd love t' hear…"
Clint interrupted the innkeeper, "'N I'd be happy t' play for ye, but we'd like t' be gettin' t' our explorin', if ye don't mind."
Tavish immediately looked contrite. "Aye. Of course. And mind what I said last night, lad."
Despite what Clint led Natasha to believe, he had read up on the era. It surprised him that Tavish seemed to be treating Natasha as if she were of a much higher station than they'd presented themselves. It could be that the big man sensed her strength and was captivated by it. He also wondered what their new friends would think of the twenty-first century where men and women were equals in every way.
A group of five came in making noise and causing chaos that seemed to be standard operating procedure. Tavish greeted them heartily, laughing and slapping the men on the back while greeting the women with a small bow as he showed them to a table.
Though it wasn't expected, Clint stacked their dishes and set them on the end of the table. He tossed a few coins down to pay for their meal, ushered Natasha out the front door and down the cobblestone street to Macduff's stables. They rented a wagon hooked up to two black and white horses and set about their search for Annabelle. Their plan was to engage as many of the residents as possible in casual conversation where they would carefully question them to get the information they wanted.
Every day they went out. Mostly together, but sometimes separately. Natasha talked to the women and Clint to the men. One such day, Natasha came upon her partner in the village square surrounded by a group of children. He juggled, walked on his hands and performed magic tricks, keeping the children, and their parents, thoroughly entertained, even getting some of them involved in the tricks.
Just like at the library, he was having as much fun as his audience, bringing to mind all the times he had kept Annabelle amused so she wouldn't cry for her mother when Natasha dropped her off at Clint's. For Natasha, it was harder when the crying started as soon as Clint closed the door. The only thing that seemed to work was when she sang to her in Russian.
A small gasp worked its way out of Natasha's throat as the atmosphere of the square changed. She and Clint were being watched. Causally, she left her seat near the blacksmith's shop and made a slow circuit of the square, coming upon Crom Gilroy lurking in a doorway glaring at Clint. Natasha had no doubt the man was plotting revenge for the large serving of humiliation he'd been served the night before.
When he looked her way, she gave him a bland smile just to be friendly and kept walking. As she passed, he grabbed her wrist, jerking her to a stop. Her natural inclination was to take him down, but she curbed her instincts just to hear what he had to say.
"Ye 'n that husband o' yers had better watch yerselves. We dinnae take kindly t' strangers who cause misfortune for good people."
"We're not here t' cause trouble. A home is all we be lookin' for." The flash of anger in the man's eyes spoke of rage out of proportion to the insult received. "My Clint's an exceptionally skilled hunter. Ye cannae blame him fer bestin' ye in th' game when it was Tavish who made th' challenge."
"I won't stand for strangers comin' t' m' home 'n showin' me up in front o' m' friends. Have a care." She was released so abruptly she stumbled. Again, she thought about teaching him a lesson, but that would come later. When she looked again, he was gone. The next she spoke to Clint, she'd tell him what happened, adding her own warning to the one Tavish had given the night before.
Sweeping her eyes over the square, Natasha spied a group of girls Annabelle's approximate age. Working her way to the side of the first one, she engaged the parents in conversation. Her questioning was so subtle that they had no idea of her true purpose.
~~O~~
A few days later, Clint and Natasha had made no headway into finding Annabelle. Their time in Laomainn was growing short and they decided to bring out the big guns: a sanitized version of the truth. Returning to the inn after another day of disappointment, Clint called the innkeeper to his table. "We've not been completely honest with ye, Tavish. Now we need yer help."
"Oh?"
"Aye. The real reason we've come t' Laomainn is t' find our daughter."
Natasha dabbed at her tear-filled eyes. "She was taken from us three years ago 'n we've been lookin' for her since."
Tavish's expression turned grave. "How can I help?"
That was the opening Clint had been waiting for. "We heard tell that Laomainn has many young girls who would be th' age of our Annabelle. We only ask that we be allowed t' speak t' th' families. If there were a way t' see them without causin' trouble…"
"Och, ye shoulda said so at th' start. We'll be havin' a festival in a month's time. Spread th' word, lads. Everyone's commanded t' attend. Bring th' whole family." Tavish's friends headed out at his order with the innkeeper's attention coming immediately back to Clint. "We'd be appreciative if ye'd grace us with a few tunes tonight, me lad. We still have th' lute our sainted daughter played, God rest her soul. Yer welcome t' use it."
Clint inclined his head. "It would be my honor, Tavish."
Outside, the men scattered in all directions, calling out to anyone they came across. Eventually, the voices faded away, leaving a sense of expectation in the air. Eventually, Tavish and Cullen excused themselves leaving Clint and Natasha alone.
Tapping his chin in thought, Clint turned a puzzled expression on his partner. "It's a generous gesture, but we're not gonna be here in a month. And why is he so anxious to help us?"
Natasha looked into her tea cup and found nothing but the dregs. She pushed it away. "You heard him. He knows what it's like to lose a child."
~~O~~
Feeling restless after leaving the inn, Clint borrowed a horse and rode out of town to the place where the weapons were stashed feeling the need to get in a few rounds of shooting at things. The path through forest that ran along the edge of the loch made a perfect obstacle course.
He tied the horse to a tree where he could get water and went to set up. Someone had already placed a few targets, and from the look of things, they were well used. He added to them, taking a couple of hours so that by the time he finished, the sun was overhead. Taking a seat at the loch's edge, he uncapped the waterskin and drank.
The billowing sleeves of the shirt Clint wore kept getting in his way so he took it off, replacing just the vest. It was a little big on him and sleeveless giving him freedom of movement. He climbed a tree just for practice. Looking out over the forest and the loch, he allowed himself to feel a bit of nostalgia for the circus. He set his feet shoulder width apart, bent slightly at the knees and jumped catching hold of a sturdy branch fifteen feet above the ground. He swung back and forth to gain momentum then let go, completing a single flip before landing firmly on the ground. "And the crowd goes wild for the Amazing Hawkeye!"
Going to the horse, Clint jumped onto his back and urged him toward the treeline, picturing the route in his head. Keeping his knees tight he took the bow from over his head, and then dug his heels in to get the beast moving.
The horse leaped into a gallop as Clint pulled an arrow from his quiver, nocked, sighted and pulled the string back to the anchor point all in one smooth motion. Up ahead, a piece of wood hung from vines. He hit it dead center and kept on going, steering with his knees.
Placing two arrows between his teeth, he nocked a third, pulled back and released, quickly doing the same for other two. They all hit their targets, more pieces of wood he'd attached to trees on both sides of the trail.
A fallen tree blocked the path, but the horse made the jump easily and kept on going. Next up, he nocked and fired three more arrows. For the last one, he turned and fired back the way he'd just come, hitting a knot where a branch had once been.
Clint hooked the bow over his head again, carefully got his feet under him and stood. They were quickly approaching a low branch that was sure to knock him on his ass. When they were close enough, he grabbed the branch, swung forward and back, flipping himself in the air to land on the branch.
He unslung the bow, turning and firing in several directions in quick succession. The last shot disturbed a small flock of bird perched on the branch above. Leaping to the ground, he ran through the forest, swerving around all obstacles until he reached another fallen tree. He dived over, rolling and coming up on one knee, firing four more arrows.
The thundering of hooves came toward him, the horse returning. Clint climbed a tree on a curve in the path so the horse would have to slow down. He waited for him to pass underneath and jumped to land on the huge animals back. Pulling him to a stop, he patted the muscular neck. "Good boy."
Figuring they could both use a rest, Clint took the return trip on foot in order to retrieve his arrows. He had the knowledge, and the materials to make more could easily be found, but he didn't want to do so if he didn't have to.
Clint had almost reached the field where he'd come into the forest when he sensed someone behind and above him. He walked a few more feet then, in one swift motion, unslung his bow, nocked an arrow, turned and aimed directly at the intruder.
When he saw who it was, the arrow's point dipped toward the ground. Sitting on the branch of a tree approximately twenty feet up was a girl, maybe eleven years old and already in the beginning stages of puberty. Her long curly red hair hung loose around her shoulders, and even in the filtered light of the sun through the trees he could see that her eyes were a crystal blue. She watched him with a wide, curious stare, showing not a bit of fear in coming upon a strange man in the middle of the forest. He released the bow string, but didn't return the arrow to the quiver just yet.
"Hullo. 'N what would ye be doin' with Master Macduff's Roscoe?" She gestured at the horse now chomping on the sweet grass on the side of the path.
"He let me borrow him for th' day." Not sure what the protocol for introductions was for this era, Clint went with what he knew. Was it appropriate to shake hands with a kid? "What're ye doin' in th' tree?"
She shrugged. "I like bein' up high."
"As do I." He decided against offering to shake hands while she climbed down, jumping the last few feet to the ground. "Name's Clint Lockhart. Ye c'n call me Clint."
The girl smiled brightly, her hands moving so that he now noticed that she carried a smaller version of his bow and a well-worn quiver slung across her slender chest. Her clothing was clean and a little big for her, obviously hand-me-downs. "I supposed ye want me t' tell ye my name."
She had a twinkle in her eyes that spoke of great humor. Clint hooked his bow over his head, replaced the arrow in the quiver then shoved his thumbs into his belt. "That's usually how it works."
"M' da says that too." She mirrored his stance, her thumbs hooked into the belt at her waist and that grin telling him she was copying him just for laughs. "'N Mum says I should act more like a lady."
Clint chuckled. "Mums do that. And ye still haven't told me yer name."
One eyebrow twitched upward cheekily. "Ainsley McKenna."
TBC
