A/N: This is another AU of the Avengers, post movie. Many thanks to ladygris for doing the Beta services again.

Warning: This story includes explicit and veiled references to drug and alcohol use and abuse.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers, Marvel, Facebook, Twitter or YouTube. If I've left anything out, aside from the OC characters, I don't own them/it either. Someone else does.

Namaste,

Sandy

How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start,

When memory plays an old tune on the heart.

~Eliza Cook

Avengers

Echoes

Chapter 10

Clint held his free hand in the air. "I'm not armed. Just gonna take out my wallet."

The gun bobbed once. "Slowly. I know how to use this."

Using two fingers, Clint withdrew his wallet, letting her see that he was indeed unarmed. "Just wanted to give you this." He removed a business card and handed it to her. She snatched it away and read it, her aim never wavering.

"Who's Phil Coulson?"

"My manager, accountant, what have you. If you ever want to quit your second job and open a full service bakery, my friends and I are always looking for investment opportunities." She glanced from him to the card and back. "All I'm saying is it would be a shame for your daughter to lose both parents."

The safety was re-engaged and the gun lowered as her features relaxed. "I'll keep it in mind."

Out on the highway, Clint realized that he hadn't gotten the woman's name. Shrugging, he pulled off the next exit and into the parking lot of a cell phone store. He purchased a top-of-the-line phone with an unlimited data plan and was back on the road in less than thirty minutes. Before leaving the parking lot, he sent Coulson a text with his new number.

Ninety minutes later, he arrived at his childhood home, sitting in the driveway just staring at the peeling paint and overgrown garden, picturing himself and Barney playing, riding bikes, walking to school together, and climbing trees. Both boys loved climbing trees. Dad coming home late, angry because dinner was cold or overcooked, ignoring the fact that, if he'd come straight home after work instead of going to the bar, his meal would've been perfectly cooked and they could've eaten as a family.

Taking a fortifying breath, Clint went to the trunk for his bags and walked slowly up the sidewalk. Looking around, he found a rock that had been in the garden since he was a boy. Turning it over, he opened the secret compartment, took out the key and used it to let himself in. Everything looked the same though a little smaller than he remembered. The scent of his mother's meatloaf lingered in the air along with a musty odor that came from the home being sealed during the cold winter months.

Clint tossed his bags on the sofa and went into the kitchen. His parents had apparently gone out immediately after eating because dirty dishes were piled in a sink full of cold water. The coffee pot had been set up for the next day. With a long sigh, Clint turned it on then took a mug from the cabinet. While waiting for the coffee to brew, he returned to the living room just as someone knocked on the door. Through the dusty curtains he could see a man in a sheriff's uniform. He took off his jacket and laid it on the sofa on the way. "Yeah?"

The older man tipped his hat. "Mornin', sir. Sheriff Sam McCloud. Got a call from the neighbor sayin' a stranger'd let himself into the Barton home and came to check it out. But you're not a stranger, are you?"

"No. I'm Harold and Edith's son, Clint."

"Welcome home, Mr. Barton. We're all sorry for your loss."

Clint opened the door to invite McCloud in, leading him to the living room where he offered him a seat. The man removed his hat and sat down on the far end of the sofa. Clint stayed standing. "Thank you, sheriff. Call me Clint. Mr. Barton is-was my father. Coffee?"

"No, thank you."

"I was going to call you. The number I have for my brother doesn't work. Were you able to contact him?"

Turning his hat in a circle between his hands, McCloud shook no. "I called a friend at the FBI. Said he would pass on the information. Haven't heard back from Special Agent Howard or your brother."

Not wanting to give away that he'd spoken to Barney recently and that he was undercover, Clint just sighed. "Barney could be on assignment, out of the country, or whatever it is the feds call it these days. He'll show or he won't. I'll just take care of everything myself."

There was a long pause then, "We all grew up here. Harold, Edith, Margaret and myself. Your dad used to be a good guy. Played junior and varsity football in high school, liked to ice fish. Even played bass in a garage band for a while. I helped him restore a '63 Chevrolet Corvette the summer before we graduated."

"When did he…"

"Become the man you knew?" McCloud rubbed the back of his neck. "Harold and Edith sorta got pre-engaged right out of high school. A few months later, Harold was all excited about a job that required him to move out of town for a while. Said it would set him up for life. He was gone less than a year, and when he came back, he was…different. Wouldn't tell anyone what happened. Senior Franklin took him on at the mill where he worked until…" McCloud's words faltered just for a moment, "…Junior Franklin took over when his dad passed, and no matter what trouble he caused, Junior refused to fire Harold. Said he promised his dad he'd keep him on 'till he retired."

Not knowing what to say, Clint said nothing. McCloud got to his feet and Clint walked with him to the door. A look of genuine sympathy was in the older man's eyes. "If you need anything at all, just call the station. Ruby'll get a message to me. Margaret and Edith were best friends, and I'm sure she'd like to see you again. Maybe you'd like to come to dinner one night."

"We'll see." Clint smiled as did the sheriff both knowing they'd never have that dinner. He closed the door behind the sheriff just as the coffee finished. He poured himself a cup, and drank it down in one long gulp. Clint had taken everything in McCloud told him, wondering where his dad had gone for that year and what happened that would turn a nice guy into the callous and uncaring SOB the world had known until the day he died.

Clint picked up his bags, trudged up to the second floor and down the hall to his old room. With his hand on the knob, he breathed deeply a few times then opened the door and traveled back in time more than twenty years.

~~O~~

Clint's room looked just the way it had the day he left for Julliard. Faded posters from the movies Die Hard, Rambo III, Young Guns and Above the Law hung along the wall opposite the window. On the back of the closet and hall doors were posters of his favorite rock legends: Guns N' Roses, Cheap Trick, Joan Jett and the Blackhearts, and UB40. In spite of his mother's wish that he learn to love the classics, fourteen year-old Clint had leaned more toward hard rock with some jazz and R&B thrown in to mix it up.

Sports equipment was piled in the corner where he'd thrown it when told Julliard didn't have facilities or teams. Framed photographs lay face down on the dresser and desk. That hadn't been his doing so Clint could only assume it had been his mother who'd done it. If it had been his dad, they'd have been smashed on the floor or against the wall.

Everything was clean and dust free, the sheets on the bed having been recently washed. Why Mom had taken the time, Clint didn't know, nor did he care at the moment. It was a place to sleep that wasn't his parent's room, his brother's old room or the sofa. After hanging his garment bag in the closet and dropping the duffle bag on the floor, Clint returned to the hall where, just for a moment, he was ten years old again and running from his father's rage. Strangely enough, once he shut himself in his room, Dad would leave him alone. But God help him or Barney if Dad caught them on the stairs or in the hall.

Clint knew that at some point he'd have to go into every room in the house including the basement and attic, but he'd wait for Barney to do that. They could decide together what to do with the house, if anything. Clint would rather sell it and cut all ties with Waverly, but Barney being the oldest, he'd probably inherit the bulk of the estate. Not that there was much beyond the property and Mom's car.

Going back downstairs, Clint went into the kitchen to check for supplies. Coffee, tea, sugar and flour were in the old fashioned tins on the counter next to a toaster, coffee maker, microwave, bread box, and can opener. Along the wall closest to the dining room was the pantry. Only one shelf held food items. Mostly home canned vegetables, soups and jams.

The refrigerator had eggs, cheese, sliced meat, salad ingredients, milk, juice, beer and condiments telling Clint that his mother hadn't been to the grocery store yet. If she'd kept to her routine, she would've made the trip today to stock up on perishables. There was plenty to eat, but he didn't feel like cooking. One of the diners in town would do just fine.

Checking the time, Clint thought about calling the sheriff to see if he could get the number and call the FBI contact himself. But if Barney was still undercover, they probably had no way of contacting him without blowing his cover. That meant Clint would have to do it all himself. It wasn't a problem. It was just that Coulson took care of most of the nit-picky legal stuff so Clint didn't have to worry about it. Now it was his turn and he wasn't completely sure what to do.

Stepping out the back door, Clint scanned the yard and barn. The corral where a couple of work horses once frolicked was falling down. The barn, like the house, hadn't been painted in at least a decade, maybe more. The chicken coop was empty and when he opened the barn door, the odor of disuse assailed his senses. The cows, goats and sheep were gone as well. Over in one corner, the tractor sat covered in dust and cobwebs.

Returning to the house, Clint located the old fashioned Rolodex his mother insisted on using despite the fact that she had a home computer. Some hold habits were hard to break. Like the landline phone that still sat on the small desk at the bottom of the stairs, though the old rotary phone had been replaced with a cordless. He knew why they'd kept it. This far from a large metropolitan area, cell service could be iffy, especially in storms. The landlines would keep working if the cell towers were knocked out enabling them to keep in touch with the outside world.

Clint flipped through the Rolodex one card at a time looking for his parents' attorney's number. He found it under the L for "lawyer." Mr. Tucker's name was crossed out and another written just below it: Montoya, Lourdes "Lori." What surprised Clint wasn't just that his father had hired another attorney when Mr. Tucker had retired or passed away, but that the attorney was of Spanish ancestry and female. Picking up the handset, Clint dialed the number. His call went to voicemail so he left a message. "My name is Clint Barton. Harold and Edith are my parents. Were my parents. I'd like to make an appointment to speak to you about their wills. All I really need to know at this point is what their preferences were regarding funeral arrangements. The number here is 319- 555- 2278."

He laid the handset down, his stomach grumbling; a noisy reminder that he hadn't had anything but coffee since Coulson had awakened him this morning. Grabbing his jacket, dark glasses, and ball cap, Clint decided to walk to the diner. People driving past slowed down to stare at this stranger walking the streets of Waverly. Clint ignored everyone, preferring to keep to himself.

The bell over the door jangled as Clint entered drawing even more attention. He took the booth in the farthest corner. A waitress in black pants and a white blouse came to the table with a pot of coffee. He nodded and she filled his cup, leaving behind a plastic coated menu. The woman looked a little familiar, and as she walked away, he realized she was someone he'd gone to school with before leaving for Julliard. Though they were of an age, she looked older than Clint felt. He thought about introducing himself, but didn't want to embarrass her.

Taking off his sunglasses, Clint perused the menu as Camilla returned. "I'll take the chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes with gravy, green beans and a roll."

"That'll just be a few minutes. Want some more coffee?"

"Please."

She started away then turned back. "Excuse me. Are you Clint Barton?"

"Yeah."

Steeling himself for the inevitable "I'm your biggest fan" speech, Clint was pleasantly surprised when she said, "We went to school together. You 'n me, I mean. Camilla Pratt?"

Nodding, Clint said, "I remember you. Mrs. Buchannan's class."

"Right. I was sorry to hear about your mom and dad. They came in here every Sunday for lunch." Since it didn't matter one way or the other, Clint merely nodded. "I'll get the coffee and put your order in."

Back in less than a minute, Camilla poured the coffee and left a carafe on the edge of the table. She was about to say more, but the door jangled signaling more customers. Clint watched her scurry away with little interest. In school, they'd talked, but hadn't been friends. Their parents knew each other, but only to say hello in the street, the grocery store or school functions. How well he remembered the recital where he'd been scheduled to perform Für Elise, but instead had played the more difficult La Campanella. He'd just turned thirteen and the scout for Julliard had praised his playing so effusively that he'd wanted to hide the bathroom until she left. Closing his eyes, Clint played the song in his head. Just as he reached the midway point, Camilla set a plate in front of him.

"You okay?"

"As well as can be expected."

Camilla gave him a sad smile. "Yeah. Well, enjoy."

When he was done eating, she offered apple pie, but he declined, paid his tab with cash and returned home. The answering machine showed a dozen calls just in the time he'd been gone. Most were to express sympathy for his loss. Clint rolled his eyes at the fact that news traveled fast in a small town. By now everyone probably knew he'd come home. He played each message just long enough to determine if it was from the attorney, Barney or Coulson and deleted it.

The last call was from Lourdes Montoya asking him to come to her office the next day at ten. Turning off the ringer, Clint went into the living room and switched on the television, flipping through the channels until he found a basketball game, which he watched through to the end. Another game started almost immediately, and he watched that one as well. By the time the second game concluded, it was late. Late for Waverly, at least. In Clint's world, the night would just be getting started. He shut off the television and went upstairs to his room, changed into pajamas and lay down on top of the covers. The twin bed was narrower than he remembered. It was quieter here too, though that didn't bother him much. His house in California was far removed from the major roadways and he lived on a dead end street with only two others.

Unable to sleep, Clint opened the white box he'd gotten in Cedar Rapids, used a portion of the contents, tucking the remainder into the side pocket of his duffle bag. Dropping the box into the trash, Clint opened the window that faced the side of the house and climbed out onto the roof of the porch. As a kid, he would sit out here for hours hiding from his dad and his brother. Sometimes, after Dad and Barney had an argument, Barney would take his frustration and anger out on his younger brother. To prevent another beating, Clint would make himself scarce.

Staring up at the moon, for the first time since morning Clint thought about Natalia. Yeah, she'd said to call her Natasha and he'd said he liked it, but he preferred Natalia. After they'd parted outside the destroyed warehouse, he'd looked back to see Natalia and Hill speaking to a man. Late-twenties muscular, close cropped hair wearing black cargo pants, a black turtleneck and vest, and carrying a formidable looking gun. From that distance, it was hard to tell, but it looked just like the one Barney had been carrying.

Ducking behind a Dumpster, Clint had watched for a while to see if his brother joined them. Barney appeared and one other appeared, and Clint had breathed a sigh of relief. They hurriedly left the area when the sound of the first responders drew near and Clint had done the same.

Clint was just about to go back inside when he heard a car come down the road and pull into the drive. A little on edge, he climbed in the window, grabbed a baseball bat and made his way downstairs. His bare feet made no sound on the stairs as he approached the front door. There were footsteps on the porch just before someone knocked. At the living room window, he peeked out relieved that it was someone he sort of knew. He unlocked the door and opened it leaving the screen door shut. "Camilla. What're you doing here?"

She had her purse over one shoulder, both hands holding the strap as she shifted her feet nervously. "I called, but there was no answer so I took a shot and came over."

"Why? It's not like we were friends."

She touched her hair self-consciously. "You were so sad tonight I thought maybe you could use some cheerin' up. Someone to, you know, talk to."

The last part trailed off as if she decided in mid-sentence that coming to his house had been a bad idea though he got the feeling that cheering him up wasn't her sole purpose for being here. "Not in a talking mood, but if you'd like a beer…"

Her expression brightened in a way that told him he'd been right. "Sure."

Clint brought two beers from the kitchen, handing one to Camilla. She'd already taken a seat in his mother's rocking chair making more childhood memories resurface. He quashed them before they could become fully integrated into his conscious mind. Flopping onto the sofa, he swigged the beer then set it aside. "What've you been doing since high school?"

"Took a few courses at the junior college. Got married and divorced. No kids." She traced a design in the condensation coating the bottle. "No need to ask what you've been doing. It's all over the news."

"Yeah, well they tend to blow everything out of proportion."

Camilla snorted. "So slugging Lucas Carter at the awards banquet was fake?"

He shook his head. "No. That was real. So was the apology and talk of a collaboration CD afterwards. It's all good. Problem is the punch is all anyone's going to remember."

"Why'd you do it? Hit him, I mean." She sensed his reluctance to talk about the incident. "I won't sell the story to the press. I promise."

Shrugging, Clint got to his feet and walked to the fireplace, leaning against it with one hand while the other rubbed the back of his neck. "There's no story. But two world famous recording artists in a friendly brawl? Who doesn't wanna read about that?"

"I didn't, but I did anyway. Couldn't help it."

"You and over a million others." Turning to face her, Clint shoved his hands into his pockets.

The chair creaked as she rocked. "What about your date?"

Shrugging, he looked at the floor knowing that the next words out of his mouth would be a lie, hoping she would see it. "She's just a friend. Needed a plus-one and she offered." Another shrug. "Can we not talk about it anymore?"

The chair rocked back and forth, Camilla using that small amount of momentum to help her stand. Not that she needed it. She was a little on the zaftig side, as Jared would say, though he could see the muscle underneath. Standing in front of him, she reached passed him to set the bottle she was holding on the mantle, purposely brushing up against him. Just like when they were kids, she and he didn't really click as friends, but she was a woman, and he felt his body reacting accordingly. From the look in her watery brown eyes, she knew it too. Her hands pressed against his chest, sliding up and around his neck. This close, she smelled of coffee, grease and stale cigarette smoke. "We don't have to talk at all."

Clint returned her kiss with minor enthusiasm, though more out of a need for physical closeness than because he was attracted to her. He led her to the sofa, his hand finding the buttons of her blouse and opening them one at a time while Camilla grabbed handfuls of his hair and pulled a little too hard. Separating their lips, he kissed along her jaw, murmuring in her ear. Then, suddenly she was standing over him and he was looking up at her. Pretending confusion, he ran a hand through his hair. "What's wrong?"

She buttoned her blouse with quick, angry motions. "Ya know it may've been a while since I've done it, but I'm pretty sure this is what happens when you call a woman by another woman's name when you're about to…you know."

Camilla grabbed her purse and jacket, almost running into another woman standing in the middle of the living room floor. Clint stood up looking from one woman to the other, stopping on the newcomer. "Nat?"

Camilla's head whipped around, glaring first at him then she pointed at Natalia. "This is Nat? The one you said was just a friend?" To Natalia she said, "Your boyfriend's a real jerk."

Natalia jumped out of the way when Camilla shoved the screen door open. She and Clint watched her get into her car and back out of the drive as if demons were chasing her. When their eyes met, he stepped back to let her in then closed the door again. Motioning to the sofa, Clint waited until she was seated to drop into the armchair.

One side of her mouth turned upward. "If you're my boyfriend, does that mean we're going steady?"

"Ha-ha." Clint waved a hand. "Why are you here?"

"I heard about your parents and came to offer my condolences." Natalia pointed over her shoulder in the direction of the departed Camilla. "A girl in every town, huh, Clint?"

Frustrated and angry, but mostly annoyed that Camilla had gotten his motor running and now he was just sitting in the driveway, Clint snatched up his beer and drained it. He grabbed the bottle Camilla left on the mantel on his way to the kitchen forcing Natalia to follow in order to continue their conversation. "Would you like to stay the night?"

"There's a motel out on the interstate that has a vacancy, but if you want company, I'll stay."

Clint took another beer from the 'fridge, opened it, and started drinking it without offering one to his guest. She cleared her throat and nodded. Belatedly, Clint waved a hand for Natalia to help herself, which she did. "Nothing happened with Camilla."

Smirking, Natalia returned to the living room. "And, if I hadn't let myself in, would that nothing have turned into something?"

She insinuated herself into the armchair. Probably to avoid sitting next to him and Clint didn't blame her. He'd let his traitorous body lead the way when his head should've been in control. He blamed it on the circumstances, and the fact that he'd needed comfort. Camilla, like Alcina, had been there and was more than willing. Clint doubted Natalia would be as amenable to providing that comfort after catching him making out with the first woman he'd talked to when he got to town. "Not denying it was a possibility. Not jealous, are you?"

That smirk turned to genuine puzzlement. "Why would I be?"

Mentally comparing the two women, Clint could see how Natalia would be confused by his question. Shaking his head, he resisted smiling though there was nothing humorous in their conversation. "No reason."

~~O~~

Sitting in the armchair, Natalia let her gaze travel over the room, trying to see it as it would've been when Clint was a child. From what he told her, his childhood had little to recommend it. Hers was the same, but she didn't regret it because it brought her to the point where she and Clint were starting to become friends.

On the floor next to the chair sat a quilted bag filled with yarn, paper patterns and a circular frame. Clint's mother must've sat here most nights knitting or doing cross-stitching. Natalia seemed to remember her own mother doing something similar only her purpose had been to sell the items in order to help put food on the table and a roof over their heads. Whether she continued to do so after her parents had basically sold their only daughter into slavery Natalia never found out. Didn't want to know. Someday, she might do a search just to see if they were still alive, but not today.

If she squinted with her mind, she could see Clint's father watching a sports program while the boys did their homework at the table in the kitchen during a long, cold winter.

An upright piano was pushed up against the wall. There was no dust on it, but Natalia got the feeling that it hadn't been used since Clint left for Julliard.

Clint rested the ankle of one leg on the knee of the other, again fidgeting with the hem of his pants leg, and staring at a spot six inches in front of his nose. There was only the one end table lamp on leaving most of the room in darkness. Light fell on the sofa cushions, only the edge touching Clint's thigh. Just enough light for Natalia to see his unreadable expression as he took a long drink of beer then held the bottle.

She was about to ask where she would be sleeping when Clint asked, "Tell me more about the other Clint. What's he like?"

"You've been having similar dreams. Why don't you tell me?"

"I would like to hear your point of view on his character."

There was a small table on the right side of the chair. Natalia set the bottle on an ancient cork coaster and got to her feet. Wandering over to the fireplace, she looked at the photos of Clint's family. In most, they appeared happy, in others she could see their smiles were strained. "It's been coming to me in bits and pieces for weeks. I'm not sure how this all started, but I can see myself in a huge room, longer than a football field with a ceiling that's at least four stories high. There are computers and other equipment sitting everywhere, and so many cables crisscrossing the floor you have to be careful where you step. In this room, I'm up high looking down on everyone."

"Why?"

She chuckled. "It's your fault." Picking up a framed photo, she carried it over and put it in his hands. "How old are you here?"

Peering at the photo, Clint rubbed a thumb over the glass finding it dusty. He tilted it into the light until he was satisfied. "About six, I think. It was taken on at a studio in Waterloo. On the way back, we had a flat tire and almost ran off the road into a ravine. Deputy said we were lucky no one was killed."

Keeping her features neutral, Natalia took the photo and replaced it on the mantel. Somehow, she'd stumbled on the point where the timelines diverged. In her dreams, Clint's parents were killed in a car accident caused by a hunter whose shot had gone wild and blew out the tire. Thinking furiously, she came up with a plausible lie. "When you were older, did either of you think about running away from home?"

"Barney mentioned it, but we never did. He kept saying he was going to join the military after high school, and that's just what he did."

Natalia nodded. "In the other timeline, the two of you ran away when you were twelve and he was sixteen. You joined the circus and worked as roustabouts for about a year. Then, two men who performed tricks with bows and arrows, knives, swords and such begin training you as their protégé. You prove to be an exceptional student, eventually earning the nickname The Amazing Hawkeye due to the accuracy with which you could hit a target."

"Huh. Guess that's why the bow caught my eye the other night."

She sat beside him on the sofa turned to the side so she could see his face. "You stayed with that circus for several years until you had a falling out with your mentor. You performed with two other circuses over the next few years.

"One day, you decided that you didn't want that life anymore and struck out on your own. You'd been hitchhiking around the U.S. and Canada when you got stranded in a small town in Texas. There, you were approached by a man by the name of…"

Clint's sudden sharp inhale told Natalia that he was remembering something too. After a moment, he said, "Coulson. Phil Coulson. He's my manager now, but in that other timeline, he's my…"

"Our."

"Our boss and we all work for that guy, the one at the hotel. But how can that be? What changed?"

Natalia lied like her life depended on it, and maybe it did. "Don't know." A sudden wave of fatigue made her yawn. "I haven't slept in almost two days. Mind if we pick this up in the morning?"

"Okay." Making an after you gesture, Clint followed her up the stairs. "The choices aren't as appealing as last time." He pointed to the second door on the right. "Barney's room…" there was a moment's hesitation, and in the end, Clint didn't open the next door either, "Mom and Dad's room or you can take the sofa."

Though he didn't offer, Natalia wanted Clint to know that she cared about him and was more than ready to offer comfort. He looked down at her and she smiled to let him know what she had in mind and it had nothing to do with sleeping. At least not right away. "Which one's yours?"

Still holding her hand, he drew her to the room at the far end of the hall, shoving the door open with a flourish, that same hand switching on the light. "It's only a twin, but if you're sure."

"Hmm. Got a sleeping bag or extra blankets? We could make a bed on the floor."

Going to the closet, Clint rummaged around until his hand closed over a roll of black fabric. "Just remember, I was fourteen the last time I slept in this room."

Glancing around, Natalia took in the décor typical for a teenage boy at the beginning of puberty. "I won't tease. Promise."

Clint pulled a sleeping bag from the top shelf of his closet and dropped it on the floor. To show that she was as invested in this as he, she untied the string and rolled out the waterproof material. Splashed across the front was the word Akira in block letters, a bright red motorcycle and a young man holding a large weapon while scowling out at the world. Though Natalia had never been into it, she could see the allure of anime to a fourteen year-old boy. She unzipped the bag so it would lie flat with the soft cotton inside facing up covering up the character.

"Heads up," Clint shouted a second before tossing two pillows at her. Natalia positioned them as if it were a double bed while Clint went out into the hall, returning with a sheet and blanket so he wouldn't have to unmake the bed.

On her knees, Natalia held out her hand and Clint took it as he knelt in front of her. He turned their hands palm to palm weaving their fingers together reminding her of the night she broke into his house. She brought her other hand up to touch him on the cheek before leaning in to kiss him. His free hand went around her waist as they sank down onto the thick padding of the make-shift bed. Their clothes were discarded and they were soon engaged in a dance as old as time.

On the bedside table, Clint's cell phone vibrated with an incoming call, the ID showing Coulson's smiling face, but Clint was too busy to notice. It stopped as the call went to voicemail.

"Clint, I need you to call me as soon as you get this. And whatever you do, don't watch the news or talk to the press. Just call me. Please."

TBC