Sorry for the delay. College has been time-consuming, to say the least. But last week was spring break, so I managed to write this one up, and watch Season Two (which I have a love-hate relationship with, but that's not the point). In other news: ugh, we're getting really close to Anatoly's death and I really don't wanna write Maya's reaction. I know we haven't seen much of them, but I've got flashbacks written up for later chapters and I've grown too attached to their ship.
Also, yes, I'm going with hard-of-hearing!Clint Barton. Why? Because why not? I personally loved the idea of deaf and hard of hearing superheroes - good thing, too, or this story wouldn't exist. Anyway, I'll let you guys read.
Oh, and the subtext in the conversation between Clint and Maya is completely open to your interpretation. ;-)
"More champagne?"
Maya sighs as the words form on the bartender's lips. She's had three glasses of champagne already, plucked from the silver trays held aloft by the numerous wait staff wandering around the ballroom of the Avengers Tower, and it's only been an hour. Anatoly is nowhere to be seen, and she's reaching the end of her patience with the several guests milling about.
"If I wanted that, I would have picked one up," she snaps back. "Find the biggest bottle of the strongest goddamn liquor Stark's got and just bring it here."
He raises his eyebrows, but the look in her eyes must warn him off because he immediately moves to get her a drink. A soft tap on the back of her hand catches her attention, her eyes traveling up a very well-sculpted arm - revealed by the t-shirt that looks out of place among the suits and gowns of the other patrons - until her gaze is met with eyes like supernovas and, even if she hadn't been familiar with the names of New York City's resident superheroes, she would have been able to recognize him.
You probably don't want Tony's strongest, he signs, looking greatly amused by her words to the bartender. It'll knock you on your ass.
If the situation had been any different, Maya would have been curious as to why an Avenger knows sign language. His motions are so fluid and quick, his hands forming the signs in a distinct New York accent like its second nature to him, so he's obviously comfortable with ASL. But she hasn't heard of any of the Avengers being deaf.
As it is, she rolls her eyes with a scoff.
"Do I look like I give a fuck?" she asks.
Clint holds his hands up in surrender before signing, Sorry. Just thought you'd want to know. He offers her a hand as he signs with his left, C-L-I-N-T-B-A-R-T-O-N.
"I know who you are," she tells him, but she still takes his hand.
The skin of his palm isn't quite coarse, but it's labor-worn. And his arms are sculpted by more than just training and archery. He's obviously used to hard labor. There is a subtle strength to the way he holds her hand, though he doesn't outright squeeze, and she returns the gesture. His smile broadens at her grip.
No name?
"Just because everyone knows your name, doesn't mean I'd like the same," she says with a smile, though it's more akin to bearing her teeth than a genuine smile.
The bartender chooses that time to return, placing a glass down in front of her and opening a bottle of white whiskey. Before he can pour it, she takes the bottle from his hands, tossing him the glass in the same second. She takes a long swig before he can protest. She wrinkles her nose at the overpowering taste of sweet corn, but he doesn't complain as she forces the burning liquid down.
Practically moonshine, isn't it?
"It's rough," she admits. "But since when does anyone drink for the flavor?"
Clint gives what looks like a mix between a bark and a laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling to reveal dozens of smile lines, before he signs, You sound like Tony.
"I'll take that as a compliment," she tells him, taking another, smaller sip this time. "You have a very good grasp of ASL."
He shrugs, turning his head pulling something out of his ear, holding it in his open palm. It's so small, she hadn't been able to see it before. It's a tiny hearing aid. He slips it back in the second she gets a good look at it, giving a shrug as he taps his ear.
"Before Tony made these for me, and before S.H.I.E.L.D. gave me a more common pair, ASL was all I really had," Clint explains. "I can't hear unless you shout really loud, and even then it's a fifty-fifty chance of me reading someone's lips properly. You seem better at it than me. And your pronunciation is pretty impressive. Born deaf?"
"Yeah. I used to come home and repeat words over and over into the mirror until my jaw hurt and my throat was hoarse. At the end of the night, I'd say them to the man who raised me and, if he told me they didn't sound right, I'd start all over the next day," she confides. "But I still struggle sometimes. And I apparently won't ever get rid of the accent."
"Don't bother trying," he says, a playful glint in his funny-colored eyes. "It sounds good with your voice."
She stares at him, trying her best to get a read on him. What could he possibly want from her? Unless, she thinks with a revelation that hits her like a blow to the stomach, he's complimenting her simply for the sake of doing so. There's certainly an unmistakable streak of quiet admiration in his expression. But it's unrealistic to think so. It doesn't stop her from smiling at his words.
She raises the bottle towards him, a smirk tugging at her lips, and says, "To fighting for something the rest of the world was given."
"I'll drink to that," he replies, tapping the rim of his glass against the neck of the bottle.
As she puts the bottle down again, she says, "Maya Lopez."
Clint looks up, then shakes his head and signs, What?
"My name," she clarifies.
"Oh. Pleasure to meet you," he says. "You here alone?"
His lips form around the words carefully, not too fast like most but not so slow as those who think 'deaf' means 'slow', and she's surprised that she can read more of what he's saying than she can with most others. It strikes her then that he has only spoken aloud to her when he knows he has her full attention. The realization makes her smile, as it's the most thoughtful thing anyone outside her circle of acquaintances has ever done for her.
"If you must know, I was supposed to have a date. It seems he's running late - or he's stood me up. He isn't fond of social outings."
There's a wry sort of edge to his grin as he says, "Beautiful woman like you, I doubt he's standing you up."
"What about you?" she asks. "No date for tonight? Not even the infamous Black Widow? The world is convinced you two are an item. Though she doesn't seem to be here tonight."
If Maya had to guess, she would have said that Clint had been trying not to choke. When he manages to regain his composure, shaking his head as he cards his fingers through his hair, he looks up at her with a smile.
"I'm gonna plead the fifth with that one," he answers.
"Guess I can't blame you," she laughs. "I wouldn't want my private life made public, either."
"Then you're definitely in the wrong place," he replies with a wink. "So, your date know you flirt with Avengers when he's not around?"
Maya can't bite back a laugh at that, "You were the one who said I was beautiful, Mr. Barton."
"And you were the one checking me out, Ms. Lopez," he counters. "Shamelessly, too, I thought."
"Why feel ashamed of what you like?" she asks, winking at him over the whiskey bottle before taking another swig. "Besides, he and I have an open relationship."
Clint raises his eyebrows at that, but only signs, Polyamorous or just really into threesomes?
"Poly," she tells him. "What about you?"
I've been known to experiment, he signs with a wry smirk that she nearly misses as he finishes his glass. As long as you're just waiting here, do you think I'd have a chance if I asked you for a dance?
"I don't dance."
"Strange. I was under the impression that you were quite the skilled contemporary and interpretative dancer, and a gifted ballerina, if the rumors can be believed," he says.
"You're very well-informed."
Clint shrugs, "Just part of the job. So is that a no to the dance, then?"
Maya can't help but think it over. He's maybe eight or ten years older than her, just a couple of inches taller, attractive in an unconventional sort of way, and the only one blithe enough to come to this party dressed in jeans and a graphic tee. But seeking this much attention from an Avenger is dangerous, particularly when he is one of the few people who could actually uncover what she really is. It's terrifying and exhilarating all at once. And Maya loves it.
Normally, if she was thinking of picking up another partner, she would talk it over with Anatoly. But it's just a dance he's asked for. It's an innocent enough request, despite the spark in his eyes that promises something dirty and fun and possibly illegal in the state of New York. He's been incredibly thoughtful, walking the line that makes him flirty without being raunchy, and the champagne and whiskey doesn't help matters.
Before she can come up with an answer, a hand falls gently onto her shoulder. Both she and Clint turn to look at the person who's interrupted them, Maya going so far as to grab his wrist out of pure instinct, only to be met with familiar horn-rimmed glasses and disdainful expression. Of all the emotions that run through her head at that moment, only one coherent thought seems to form when she looks into the pale green eyes.
This is not who's supposed to be here.
Wesley smiles broadly, the expression looking foreign and wrong on his face, as he says, "There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you, sweetheart."
He gently pulls his hand from her grip, moving it to snake around her waist in an oddly comfortable motion, and presses a peck to her cheek. It is only because she's staring at him that she manages to make sense out of most of what he says to Clint.
"You must be the famous Hawkeye. It's a pleasure to meet you?"
He offers his hand to Clint, an almost reverent expression on his face. Maya's eyes turn to Clint, her mind still trying to come up with any number of reasons how and why Wesley is at her side, and she half expects the Avenger to not buy it. But Clint composes himself quickly and shakes Wesley's hand with a friendly smile.
"Pleasure's mine," he says. "I take it your Maya's wayward date."
Whatever name Wesley offers, Maya cannot decipher it, but she knows enough to recognize that its syllables don't match his real one. He then turns to her, a wince tugging his features into an odd expression. Everything about this Wesley seems wrong.
"Sorry I'm late," he says. "A client called in with some last minute changes and had the whole office scrambling to make up for the setbacks it created. Hope you don't mind."
Maya may not have a clue what exactly is going on, but she's not so stupid as to pass up on an inconspicuous story that could get her out of the confusion. So instead of voicing her irritation at both Wesley's interruption and Anatoly's disappearance, she schools her features into a mildly frustrated expression with an underlying long-suffering edge, slipping into the character Wesley's created as easily as if it were a coat.
"You could have let me know, darling," she says, tilting her head as if admonishing a child. "I was worried you'd forgotten."
"I'm glad you were entertained in my absence."
Clint nods as if in apology, "Trust me, it was my pleasure."
A muscle in Wesley's jaw jumps and Maya has to fight the smile that threatens to break her character as she realizes just what shadows flitted through the usually impassive green eyes. Instead, she finishes the last swig of whiskey, placing the bottle down on the counter before sliding off the stool with ease. Regardless of how much she's had to drink, she will always retain some sense of grace about her.
"Well, it looks as though I should get going," she says to Clint. "It was lovely meeting you, Mr. Barton."
"Likewise, Ms. Lopez."
She can feel his eyes on her the whole time she and Wesley walk away. But she doesn't have long to linger on why, as Wesley is tapping her waist to get her attention within seconds. The mask of the hard-working boyfriend is still in place, but his eyes give himself away, creating the odd illusion of a soft man with cold eyes.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same," she replies. "How did you find me?"
Wesley grimaces, "Believe me, it wasn't easy."
"Did your employer send you?"
"No," he says, and he's telling the truth. "And we shouldn't discuss this here. There's a car waiting downstairs. I take it you won't mind leaving early?"
Maya shakes her head, "It was rather boring before, anyway."
She wants to press for more answers, but she knows she won't get any so long as they're in the Tower. Wesley must have heard the rumors, same as she had though she is not so quick to believe them, that Stark's AI ran sophisticated surveillance during all of his parties. And the last thing they need is for Wilson's name to pop up on the billionaire superhero's records. So she remains quiet, nodding in both thanks and farewell to Pepper Potts' as she catches sight of her across the room, and follows Wesley to the elevator. Anatoly isn't likely to show up at this point, anyway.