The Games We Play

Disclaimer: I don't own 'Harry Potter' or 'Avengers'. All recognisable characters, content or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

Chapter Two

Gwen swirled her straw around her glass, glanced at the door, and sighed impatiently. Hermione was generally a stickler for punctuality, and there was probably a reason why she was half an hour late for their lunch plans, but Gwen, who was almost obsessive about the same thing, was irritated.

"Can I get you anything to eat, Miss?"

As he asked, the restaurant door swung open, and Hermione hurried in, glanced around the room, and settled herself in the seat across from Gwen. Gwen glared at her, and turned back to their server.

"I'd really appreciate a club sandwich, and one of your chocolate milkshakes," Gwen answered. "My friend will need more time to brows the menu. Thank you."

When the waiter retreated, she turned back to her friend, and Hermione's expression was properly contrite.

"I'm sorry, Gwen, but an emergency came up at work. There's some trouble in Louisiana, and they wanted a consult…"

Gwen huffed, swirled the straw in her orange juice, but didn't pursue the matter. Instead, the pair chatted idly about their respective careers for a time, talked about the old friends they'd seen recently, and made tentative plans for a New Year's soiree before their meals were delivered, and Hermione raised the question Gwen had been waiting for.

"Did you meet him?"

"Yes," Gwen confirmed, "We exchanged contact information, but I thought I ought to let him absorb the news before I took over his life."

"Understandable," Hermione conceded, "How did he take it?"

"He wasn't exactly opposed to it, but he did say that he'd not really considered fatherhood as something in the cards for him. He lives a dangerous life."

"You did too, once upon a time," Hermione reminded her, "And now you hide behind your computers all day long. He could change his life, too."

"I would never ask him to do that," Gwen refused, "You know what it's like, Hermione. Those people - they continue those jobs because they need a purpose - not because of the high rewards. If I did that, I'd be denying a part of him - and a part of me."

Hermione looked unsurprised. "I knew you weren't done with that life." She paused. "So why are you working as a graphic designer, instead of saving the world?"

"Because I don't need to," she answered, "The world has the Avengers now, and the X-Men. I consult sometimes, and I'd have gone into the field if asked, but now? Not a chance."

The remainder of their lunch passed with idle conversation, and they left shortly after one, Hermione headed back to the American Ministry, and Gwen to her cabin in Long Island. Her new client wanted an entirely new website for his bookstore - one that allowed for online sales - and the old man, kindly and learned, and wise enough to listen to his grandchildren's suggestions concerning online retail, would not be disappointed.

In the evening, as she cooked herself a simple dinner of spaghetti bolognese, and sang along to Joan Jett on the stereo, Gwen's doorbell sounded, and the witch tensed, wary. not many knew where she lived, and those who did knew better than to show up unannounced.

With that in mind, Gwen made certain that her wand was within reach, felt for the knife strapped to her calf, and warily trod her way towards the door. She glanced through the window, made out a tall, broad shouldered silhouette, and flicked on the porch light.

The figure was lit up in stark relief, and Gwen relaxed, assured by the sight of Clint Barton on her doorstep. She opened the door carefully, cast her gaze over her yard, and finally glanced at the archer, a puzzled frown on her face.

"Hi?"

"Hey," he greeted, "Are you busy?"

She shook her head, no, and let him inside. She shut the door behind him, led the way into the kitchen, and gestured for him to take a seat at the kitchen island. He scrutinised her home as he did so, and Gwen was comforted by the knowledge that the spy was already aware of the magical world, and her place in it.

She'd have had a lot to explain, otherwise.

"Can I get you a drink?" She queried.

"Water is fine," he answered. "Thank you."

Certain to show him all that she was doing, Gwen poured the man a glass of water from the tap, handed it to him with an awkward smile, and returned to her cooking. It was fortunate she'd grown used to cooking enough for leftovers, because when she was done, she served them each a plate, settled across the island from him, and began to eat before Barton himself did.

"Can I ask what brought you here tonight?" She enquired.

There was no need to ask how he'd found out where she lived. Favours, after all, made up the underbelly of the world.

He twirled some pasta around his fork, mulled over his reply, and met Gwen's eyes with his pale bleu gaze, full of depths that Gwen couldn't fathom, and a maelstrom of emotions she couldn't decipher. She'd spent a total of nine hours in his company, and it wasn't really enough to fully understand a person, but she supposed that in the coming months - and even years - that would change.

"I want to be involved," he began, "But not with just the baby. I want to be part of the pregnancy as well, and I want to know you, too."

"I can understand that," Gwen acknowledged, "And I can agree to it as well - so long as I can get to know you, as well."

"As you wish," he acknowledged, and the pair ate in silence after that, uncertain of where to go from there. He cleaned the dishes though, and Gwen produced a teapot, and they sat on Gwen's couch, mugs in hand, Tracey Chapman filtering from her speakers, and the conversation between them light.

"I'd have to say my favourite book series of all time is 'Lord of the Rings'," she admitted, "Though 'A Song of Ice and Fire' is a close second."

"Legolas was my hero growing up," Clint admitted. "Dude was awesome."

Gwen considered that for a moment. "Is that why you became an archer?"

"It was a contributing factor," he conceded, "Mostly though, I just needed something to do in the circus."

"The circus," she repeated flatly, "You were part of the circus?"

"For six years," he confirmed, "I ran away from the orphanage when I was twelve, joined the circus, and was recruited into S.H.I.E.L.D when I turned eighteen."

"Such an interesting life you've led," she mused, and Barton eyed her, incredulous.

Gwen was not surprised to realise he was aware of her own past, and though the invasion of her privacy was mildly irksome, she was at least comforted with the knowledge that she'd not have to talk about the various skeletons in her closet, and the ghosts she was certain would haunt her for the rest of her days.

"Can I ask you something?" Gwen nodded, and Barton continued, "What's the western world's richest woman doing in Long Island, in an old, isolated cabin, no less?"

Gwen's responding smile was tired, and sad, and tinged with a bitterness Barton knew all too well. "Running away. Hiding. Moving on. Take your pick."

Boldly, Barton leant forward, kissed her chastely, and smiled. He spoke, and Gwen thought she'd ought to start calling him Clint. "You'll always be a hero. I hope you never forget that."