You picked up the phone and answered without even checking the screen, "'Lo?"
Hey! Sorry did I wake you?
Blinking groggily, you pull the phone away from your ear to squint at the screen—blocked number—putting it back to your ear you croak out, "Clint?"
Clint was supposed to be in prison for some sort of mess involving Steve Rogers and breaking international law. You'd watched the news coverage with a sour feeling in your gut. Few people knew that one of your closest friends was a former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent turned Avenger. But he was, and you owed who you were now to him.
Yeah, look can you meet me?
"Meet you?" your brain wasn't engaging.
Yes. Meet me. Please?
You could hear the slight edge of desperation in his tone. With a groan, you pushed to sit up, scrubbing your free hand over your face. You might have crawled into bed less than two hours ago after working nearly 24 hours straight, but this was Clint. And if he was asking to meet, it was probably pretty important.
"Yeah, sure. Where?"
The Spot?
"Ugh, fine but if I need to go update my tetanus shot I'm charging you," you say before hanging up.
Digging through the piles of clothes in your closet–it had been a long couple of weeks and you were behind on house chores–you found a pair of jeans and a shirt that you were sure was mostly clean. Lacing your work boots on, you stood and stuffed your wallet and phone in your pockets before heading out.
The Spot was the diviest of dive bars. The kind of place where your feet will stick to the bathroom floor and you definitely shouldn't drink anything that doesn't come out of a bottle or with high alcohol content. Only populated by grumpy regulars and the occasional brave tourist or college student, it was a place where no one gave a shit who you were.
Which is exactly why you and Clint used it whenever you went out for drinks.
Considering the obscene hour, there were only two other patrons in the bar. Sliding onto a bar stool, you watched as the owner sidled up to you. Tall as a tree, built like a brick house, Charles Thompson was a behemoth of a man.
He eyed you critically for a moment before he said, "You look like dog shit that was riding around on the bottom of someone's shit kickers before they scraped it off on the curb."
"Fuck you, Chance."
He pursed his lips at you, "Aww, name a time and place, cupcake, and I'll rock your world."
Although he looked like the devil that was found running a brutal motorcycle club, Chance was a shrewd business owner, a minor softie, and someone person who protected what he considered his people. Over the years, you and Clint had somehow become part of that elite group.
"So, why are you here when you look like you should be in a big, soft bed instead?" Chance asked.
Yawning so widely you heard your jaw crack, you said, "Clint said he needed to talk."
Chance's dark eyes narrowed, and he pulled out a chipped coffee cup from under the bar. Pulling out a silver coffee pot, he poured the thick tar colored liquid out before he nudged the cup in front of you.
"Aw, Chance, I don't want your battery acid. I want to keep my stomach lining if it is all the same to you," you say as you eye the cup with disdain.
He sucked on his teeth before he said, "Cupcake, that's my extra special brew, not the stuff I give to just anyone. And if what he looks like is any sign, you're gonna need that kind of kick."
You looked over your shoulder to see Clint hesitating in the doorway as he eyed the other two people still in the bar. As he walked towards you and took the stool to your left, Chance moved away to discreetly kick them out before he flicked the open sign off and locked the door. He came back to the bar and set another cup in front of Clint before he disappeared into the back.
"Geez, Clint what the fuck. Did you run into a brick wall? Repeatedly?" You asked as you examined him. His face was a riot of bruising and half-healed cuts. Judging by the way he held himself, you suspected that his body covered in much the same way.
"Something like that," he took a sip of the coffee and winced.
Cautiously, you took your own sip and hissed, "Fuck. That's nearly lethal."
You both took another sip. It was Clint's turn to study you, "You look like you haven't slept in a week."
Yawning widely and taking another sip of coffee, you said, "Something like that. It's been a week. Rough case. But we aren't here because of me. I thought you got arrested?"
Clint scrubbed a hand through his hair, "Yeah, I did. And uh…Steve broke us out."
"Fucking shit, Clint, are you telling me you're on the run? C'mon man." The exasperation in your tone was clear.
"Yeah, yeah. Save the lecture. They had us in the Raft."
You opened your mouth to ask what that was, but he just kept talking, "And it was bullshit, anyway. But it doesn't matter, I'm going to be turning myself in today and taking a deal. That's what I need to talk to you about."
"Me? Why? I'm a private detective, not a lawyer."
Chance came back out with two plates and set them down in front of you. You eyed the runny eggs, crispy toast and burnt bacon before you squinted up suspiciously at Chance, "What? Trying to kill us with your coffee isn't enough, you have to give us E. coli too?"
"Eat. You both look like shit. Food will do you good. I'll be in the back if you need me."
Clint picked up the fork on his plate and dug in without complaint. You spent an extra minute staring grumpily at the food until the smell filtered into your nose and your stomach gave a very loud complaint. You honestly couldn't remember the last time you ate.
"I guess if I die, I die," you mutter as you scoop up some eggs before turning your attention back to Clint.
"Alright, explain."
He swallowed the mouthful of food he had and said, "Most of the others, they will be fugitives. I might support their stance, but I can't just go on the run like they can. So, after Cap broke us out, I negotiated a deal. They'll give me house arrest and then probation instead of me being imprisoned."
"Okay…" you drew the word out, still not understanding what that had to do with you.
Clint's cheeks puffed out a little before he said, "I was hoping you could do me a huge favor and let me live with you while I'm doing the house arrest."
Your mouth dropped open, "My place? Shouldn't you be doing that in Missouri?"
There was pain in his face as he looked down, his fork pushing the food around on his plate as he said, "That's not possible."
"Why not?"
Clint shifted on the stool and muttered, "Because Laura won't allow it."
"Why the fuck not?"
"Because….she's filed for divorce." It came out so quiet that at first you thought you misheard him. But as you studied his face, you knew you didn't.
To say you were stunned was an understatement. You knew you were one of only a few people who were aware of his family. Before the events of Ultron, the only people in his life who knew about Laura and the kids were Natasha, Nick Fury, and you. You liked Laura and had been to their farm many times over the years. Clint and Laura were one of those couples that people said were the definition of 'til death do us part'.
You laid your hand on his arm, squeezing lightly, "Damn, I'm sorry, Clint. Uh…when…"
Clint drained his coffee cup, pulling a face at it before he shoved the dishes away and said, "The day I decided to help Cap. But it's been coming on for a while. After Ultron, she uh…insisted I retire , but, shit what they were doing to Wanda was wrong. And so are the Accords."
"Okay. But why my place?"
Clint chuckled darkly, "It's either have a place to live before I turn myself in or go back to prison. If I don't go in today, the deal is void. I'm not going to find a place of my own in the next couple of hours that would pass muster for this. So, that leaves people I know. And really, that just leaves you."
"Why can't you stay at the compound?" You asked.
He gave you an odd look, and you realized just how stupid of a question that was, "Yeah. Right. Um…"
"Do you need to talk to your boyfriend first?"
"No, we broke up 4 months ago."
It still stung. You'd been crazy about him, madly in love, and thought he would be the one you'd marry. To find out that your instincts about him were so far off base was a tough pill to swallow.
"What? Why?"
With a roll of your eyes you said, "He felt I didn't give him enough attention because of my career and dealt with it by fucking every willing woman he could find."
"Want me to take him out?" Was Clint's immediate question.
You patted his arm, "No. Appreciate it, but no. He's not worth it."
"Well, you should know I never liked him."
You snorted, "Clint, you met him like once. But whatever. Doesn't matter. How long will you be on house arrest?"
"Three and a half years, six years on probation following that." Clint answered.
You sucked in a sharp breath, surprised that it was so long. But this was Clint, and you owed pretty much everything you were now to him. What kind of friend would you be if you didn't try to help him out?
He could already read the answer on your face and relief flooded into his eyes even as you said, "Sure, Clint. I've got the room."
"Great. Um, perhaps you should get some sleep though? You can meet me there. It's going down at ten."
"What? Why do I have to go?" Your voice was nearly a whine. You hated government goons.
Clint rolled his eyes, "Because idiot, they gonna need to make sure that you check out." His face darkened as he said, "Can't have me interacting with the wrong sort while I'm forced to this."
You sigh heavily and resign yourself to the annoyance that you will have to deal with in a few hours.
"How do you know Clint Barton?"
Rolling your eyes, you rested your booted feet on the conference table, smirking when the agent sitting across from you winced in annoyance. They had escorted you into this room after you got a cramp with the mountain of paperwork you had to fill out the moment you arrived at the J. Edgar Hoover Building. Apparently, your day included an interrogation portion.
"I'm not sure why that is any of your business."
"Listen, miss, Barton has been convicted of some pretty serious charges. That he's being allowed to go on house arrest at all is a minor miracle. We need to make sure that he will not be having any contact with any other criminals during his sentence."
Your feet dropped off the table as you leaned forward towards these men, glowering at them as you said, "Clint is a fucking hero. What's a disgrace is the fact that government knuckleheads like you assclowns think he deserves any kind of punishment."
The one who had winced earlier glared back at you, "You can think whatever you want, but the facts remain the same. We cannot let him out of prison under good conscious if the place he is going to be staying doesn't pass all muster. If the person doesn't pass muster."
Biting back the retort you wanted to throw at him, you exhaled sharply before you leaned back in your chair again.
"Clint saved my life. He came by while I was still in the hospital to check on me and we just kind of...developed a friendship from there."
"How long have you known him?"
The questions continued this way for a while before finally they asked, "Do you have a...relationship with any of the other Avengers?"
You let out a snort, "Please. Like someone like me would ever be on their radar."
"You're on Clint's radar." One of them pointed out.
"Listen, Tweedledum, might be a bit of a hard concept for the two of you to grasp, but Clint likes to keep his private life private."
"What is that supposed to mean?" The other asked.
"Well, Tweedledee, it means that with exception to Natasha and probably Nick Fury, none of the other people he worked with know who I am."
They latched on the information, "So, you know Natasha Romanov and Nick Fury?"
You pinched the bridge of your nose as you sighed, "Hardly. I've met Natasha a few times, mostly at the farm. But we don't really know each other. And I've never even seen Fury before the whole shitstorm with HDYRA in 2014."
"Is your relationship with Barton of a sexual nature?"
You stared daggers at the man, "I don't see how that has anything to do with any of this."
He didn't flinch from your stare. He just tapped his pen on his pad and said, "If you were having an illicit affair, it could call into question your motives for being willing to bring someone like Barton into your home."
"Christ on an ever-loving cheese cracker," you muttered as you pressed your fingers into your eyes. Taking a few calming breaths, you opened your eyes and said, "Look, Clint is one of the best friends I've ever had. Is it a little weird that someone like me ended up having a friend like him? Maybe. But the fact is that I would do pretty much anything for him, because he's my friend. But even beyond that, I'd probably do it anyway because he's a good man. He doesn't deserve to be in a fucking prison for doing the right thing."
They said nothing, just scribbled in their notepads before standing as one and telling you they'd return shortly.
"Bring me back a burger. Why don't ya? I've been here for hours and I'm starving."
No response came back as the door shut behind them. Sighing heavily, you rested your feet back on the table and leaned back to stare at the ceiling.