Steve had been driving for about an hour, Natasha in the passenger's seat beside him and Clint in the back with the duffel bags. The three of them were taking a short road trip to the countryside after Sam Wilson had invited them to his grandfather's lodge for the weekend; except now they were making a pit stop at a rundown roadside bar.
Ignoring his unease, he pulls into the dusty parking lot between a few beat up pickups and a couple of motor cycles. This frankly wasn't the sort of place he would ever consider stopping at, but Nat needed to use the restroom and Clint wanted a beer.
Upon entry they are greeted by the haze of smoke and the cold stares of every bar patron. Clint pays it no mind, immediately detouring toward the bartender to put in his order.
"A lotta rough characters in here." Steve mutters to Natasha.
"Don't worry, Cap, I'll protect you."
The assassin smirks at the sour expression he gives in return, humoring him with a look that clearly says relax.
"Haha, you're funny."
"Who says I was joking?"
Laughing, Natasha slips away for the backrooms before Steve could get another word in. Her exit, unfortunately, catches the leering eyes of a group of burley men surrounding the pool table.
"It's our lucky day, boys!" One hoots as she passes. "C'mere sexy, and pay us a visit."
"Saved a seat on my lap for ya, sweetheart." The largest fellow rasps with a lecherous chuckle.
"What's da matter, babe?" Another shouts after her, "Too shy to play?"
Though Natasha doesn't dare dignify them with a response, their catcalls and whistles continue until she disappears from view.
Once she's gone, the biggest speaks again, earning a rowdy chorus of agreement behind him. "Why don't we have a little fun when she comes back? See if we can break her out of that shyness."
"I wouldn't if I were you."
This was said by Steve who was leaning on the counter near Clint.
The uproar quiets instantly and the man glares over at them, "Hey! Whu-dit-cha say to me!?"
"I said, 'I wouldn't if I were you.'" Steve repeats, this time slower and more distinctly. "At least, not if you value your life." He adds.
As with any threat, this one was ill-received, causing murmurs of discord to go around the gang of men until the large one gets to his feet and swaggers toward Rogers. He looms over Steve at about 6'6, reeking of liquor and baring his teeth in a predatory grin.
"Whatcha gonna do 'bout it, pretty boy?"
From his peripheral, Steve spots Clint, lips paused on the rim of his glass in alarm. "I'm not the one you should worry about." Steve answers, coolly.
The large man follows Steve's jerk of head and there's Natasha, now on the far side of the room using her cell phone.
"What her?" He guffaws, "I could toss her over my shoulder."
Behind them, Clint snickers and returns to his drink: the Captain obviously had this handled.
"She's not as frail as she looks, trust me." Is Steve's only remark.
"One night with Big Rusty will tame that lil wild cat, you just wait and see." Boasts Rusty, licking his lips.
A brief look of disgust flashes across Steve's face before he replies, "You better hope she's in a forgiving mood. She'll skin you alive if you even think about it."
Rusty emits a growl of disbelief, then fixes his affections on Natasha making her way toward them through the crowd, her phone in hand.
"Sweetheart!" He shouts, putting himself directly in her path. "Sweetheart, I'm talkin' to you."
Natasha skillfully avoids him and has maneuvered around when he brings up a hand to harshly slap against her rear.
Steve winches, eyes snapping shut at the resounding smack.
"I thought that'd get your attention." Says the gravelly voice behind her.
Slowly, the assassin turns around, her jaw clinching as she sizes him up. When she turns back facing Steve, he recognizes what could only be described as murderous glee in her eyes.
"Do me a favor, Steve, and hold my phone. This won't take long."
Steve takes the Stark Phone shoved into his palm without argument, then both he and Barton precede to promptly relocate further down the bar, at least several feet away.
Nat rounds on Rusty, at once, approaching him in a few short paces. Reveling in his success, Rusty spreads his arms welcomingly and slides a hand around her waist, "Hey baby, you come back for more?"
The second his grimy paws touch her skin, she snatches it away, yanking his arm backward and pinning it behind him.
"The hell!? Let me go!" He yelps, straining against her hold.
Natasha falls deaf to his pleas and tightens her grip with a rough tug. Meanwhile, Rusty howls in agony as a sickening crack warns him his shoulder is nearly dislocated.
"Argghh! …I'M SORRY! Pleeaasee!" He gasps.
"Well…since you asked nicely."
And with that, he's released from his vice and slung haphazardly in the direction of his buddies. Rusty lands in a heap near their feet, concealing his whimpers as he clutches at his injured arm.
One of his friends grabs a pool stick off the billiards table and saunters up to the redhead.
"Looks like the tough bitch is in need of spanking." He says, swirling it threateningly between his fingers and delivering a noisy slap to his knuckles for good measure.
Natasha moves like lightening, kicking the cue out his grasp before the man even realized he'd lost the upper hand. With practiced ease, she catches it midair and uses it to lash him across the knees. The bruising blow has him slumping to the ground and soon he finds himself trapped with the stick flush against his throat.
"You're lucky it was just your kneecaps, you slimy bastard." She grits into his ear, crushing the cue further into his Adam's apple. "I'd have you speaking in falsetto for a week."
He answers with a choking splutter and is only shown mercy once he starts to turn an unhealthy shade of blue.
Dropping the cue, Nat sends him flying onto the bar counter by a shove from her boot, triggering an echo of hushed gasps.
"I thought that'd get your attention." Natasha says, quoting Rusty.
She retains a tone of calm, disdain as she addresses the remaining crowd of brutes, "It would be in all of your best interests to keep the physical contact between me and you to a minimum."
Her request is only met with stunned silence, yet just as she'd suspected, the metaphorical smell of fear had permeated the room.
Satisfied, the assassin turns on her heels and goes up to Steve. "Thanks," She takes the phone from his possession, "I'll be in the car."
Barton throws some bills on the counter and kicks back the rest of his beer.
"Chumps." He snorts, following Nat on her way out.
"Well," Steve looks over his shoulder at the groaning lump of a man, face-planted into the granite counter, "You can't say I never warned them."