December 3rd – A strange Intruder
Clint Barton was a humble man. Sure, he was a former SHIELD agent, recently an Apartment Building Owner, Avenger and Part-Time Dog Sitter. But there were times when a man really needed some off-time from saving the world from alien armies, monsters and weird, murderous robots, created by bored billionaires.
So he usually treated himself to a 'work'-free December, using his free time to sleep in, decorate his building for the holiday season and trying to chase away the "Tracksuit Mafia". Clint also purposely ignored any avenger-related issues. But maybe, for once, he should have taken Steve's call this evening and he'd spared himself the crappy situation he was currently in.
"Well, this is awkward!" Natasha said, staring at the same spot, at which Clint was staring, a scowl on his tired face.
"I thought, it was one of the Tracksuits trying to get into my building again. And it was only a warning shot. How am I supposed to know that it will kill him?" the archer complained. Natasha turned her head towards his direction and gave him "The Scowl".
"Clint, you never miss. You're the best marksman in the world, aside from James. And there's no way hell you can overlook that big sled and all those dancing and prancing reindeers." She stated the already well-known fact. Clint winced at the mention of her Ex, the infamous Winter Soldier, and the fact that he missed such an important detail. Then he turned his attention back to the scene in front of him.
"You've got to help me, Nat. I don't know what to do now." Clint practically begged.
The redheaded woman rolled her eyes, but started to walk to where the body was lying. Now crouching above it, she frowned, picking up the red and white coat from the victim's clothing since the body itself seemed to have vanished into thin air. There was a note attached to the white fur. Natasha picked it up and read its content. Well, it seemed that her idiot archer had brought himself into a very interesting situation.
"You're in trouble, Clint!" Natasha finally replied, slowly going back to aforementioned troublemaker.
"No Shit, Sherlock!" this one stated.
The Russian Spy raised an eyebrow before replying with an honest expression on her face:
"Well, according to this note, which was attached to your 'victims' clothing – well, let's just say that since you shot Santa Clause, you're his official replacement. Congratulations, Clint, you're Santa now. Santa Barton."
Clint's jaw dropped, almost literally.
"Honestly?" he asked, a strange squeaking sound escaping his mouth.
"Scout's Honour!" the redhead gave as an answer, passing the note to him.
The Archer read it through, again and again. But the words stayed the same, no matter how often he read.
"Well…Fuck!" he cussed, dropping his head.
He was so screwed.