The courtroom was large and spacious, full of mahogany stained hardwood furnishings, resplendent and ostentatious, and while it was a world apart from the last courtroom he'd previously found himself in, it still made him a little nervous.
"Sir, could you state your full name for the record?" The prosecution's lawyer asked perfunctorily.
"Clinton Francis Barton," Clint replied, sitting tall in the next available chair in the jury box. The seven jurors already selected filled the seats around him, and their mix of nerves, excitement, disappointment, eagerness, boredom, diffidence and distraction had him on high alert and hyper aware of his surroundings.
The overweight woman next to him fidgeted with her hands, as though itching to reach for an electronic device to tweet and instagram and tumblr her every thought. The prosecution's lawyer continued on, ignoring her: "And your date of birth?"
"January 4th, 1973." Clint said, knowing that his military background shone through in everything but his outfit. It provided him with an acceptable cover story for the next few questions.
"What is your occupation?"
"I'm a security consultant, freelance at the moment."
"Have you ever worked in the legal or police enforcement professions?"
"No, I served in Iraq and went into the private sector when my last tour ended."
"Have you ever been convicted of a driving offence?"
"No, sir." It was the first lie he told. He'd been convicted of plenty of traffic offences, ranging from minor to severe, and had been caught on many speeding cameras and traffic monitoring systems, but all had been conveniently purged from any searchable records.
"Have you had a family member die in an automobile accident?"
His first lie was quickly followed by the second: "No, sir."
"Can you think of any reason that may prejudice your understanding of any aspect of the case?"
"No, sir." Third time's a charm, right?
"Your honour, the prosecution accepts this man as Juror number 8."
"Does the defence wish to question the juror?" Asked the judge in an official tone. She was a frail looking woman with blonde hair, dwarfed by the traditional robes of her office, but her voice was surprisingly deep and powerful.
"No, we accept this man as our juror."
"Bailiff, admit Mr Barton to the jury." The judge said, then she called for the next candidate to take their place next to Clint in the jury box to be assessed.
The next four jurors were selected just as quickly, along with two alternates then the rest of the jury pool was dismissed. The judge then explained to them their responsibilities as jurors, and instructed them to be here at 8:30am the following day when the hearing would formally begin.
He loitered a little when the judge finally dismissed them for the day, mostly wishing to avoid the crushing rush of people trying to escape the building. Unlike a few of his fellow jurors, he didn't have anywhere pressing to be. He'd heard the fidgeting lady mutter to one of the college-aged boys who'd been selected, that her boss wasn't going to be happy to know she had to take more time off work, which at least explained the twitchiness.
"I guess I'll see you tomorrow," An older lady with blue-rinse hair said to him and exited the jury box with a careful slowness that screamed of arthritis-in-her-joints. He stepped forward and took her gently by the elbow to guide her down the few stairs.
"Thank you, young man." She said, and he couldn't help but smile a little. It wasn't often someone called him young. Then again, she'd admitted under oath not more than five minutes ago that her birthdate was a good thirty years earlier than his own, so he supposed she was right.
"No problem." He said, and pushed open the wooden gate that divided the main floor of the courtroom from the spectator seats. He held it open and waited for her to walk through.
"Is this your first time?" The older lady asked, adjusting her handbag across her shoulder.
"In a courtroom or on a jury?" He said in reply, winking mischievously. He was rewarded with a hearty chuckle.
"On a jury." She said, bright blue eyes twinkling a little. "If you keep your indiscretions to yourself, then I won't be obliged to share mine."
Clint already liked this old broad. If he was stuck doing jury duty for the next however long, at least this lady would be with him to keep things interesting. "First time on a jury." He conceded, as they stepped out together into the bustling courthouse hall way. Lawyers and paralegals lined the corridors, mostly all occupied in conversation. There were enough normal looking people hanging around, some on phones playing mobile games, others staring at one of the clocks mounted above the door to courtroom B that Clint guessed another jury was going to be selected today as well.
"Well, stick with me. This is my fifth time at this rodeo, I've learned a thing or two."
"You've had jury duty five times?" Clint asked, genuinely surprised.
"Oh yes. That's just the ones I've sat on. I've been in the jury pool a few more times than that. When you reach my age you run out of excuses to avoid it. And I wouldn't if I wanted to. It keeps the mind active. It's far more interesting than bridge club."
"Well then I'll defer to your judgement."
That earned him a wink back, accompanied by a genuinely sweet smile. "Good boy."
She bustled off towards the ladies room, leaving him standing alone in the foyer. The selection hadn't taken as long as he'd expected, leaving him free for the rest of the afternoon. The thought left him uneasy. He had options, and he had no one to answer to. He had no real obligations, no one was expecting anything from him. He had no orders. No directions. No direction.
"Decaf skim latte for Jake!" Someone yelled from his left, and he startled a little, eyes whipping around to notice the coffee cart that was running a roaring trade in one corner of the foyer. The barista was obscenely tall and had to stoop over to operate the espresso machine. A girl with pink hair and large black plugs in her ears was working the register, taking orders from a line that led off to the side.
How had he missed that? Situational awareness had been drilled into him in military school, he didn't think it wasn't something he could ever switch off. He'd been so alert in the courtroom during the selection and yet two hours ago he'd walked through this foyer and hadn't noticed the coffee cart, nor had he noticed it until just now. His skin prickled with adrenaline, nerves reeling at the rollercoaster his brain was taking him on, but he took a deep breath in to calm himself. It wasn't just a small lapse. He was on holiday, he was allowed to relax. He let the breath out.
The warm smell of roasting beans tickled his nose, reminding him that he'd skipped breakfast this morning. Without thinking any further, he joined the line behind the overweight woman he'd been next to in the jury box, who was finally reunited with her phone.
While he waited he thought about what Natasha had told him the day before. I think we need to get you back into a routine.
Yes, a routine. He could do a routine, and it would start today. Step 1. Groceries. He needed fresh food. He needed three square, nutritious meals a day. Step 2. new phone. He needed to stay in contact with the real world, even if that was only Natasha. Step 3…
Well he'd figure out the rest after he'd organised Step 1 and 2.
A few hours later, with a fridge filled with groceries and a bag from T-Mobile sitting on the kitchen counter, Clint sat down at his couch with a pad and pencil and began planning out his meals. While he'd been with Loki he'd barely eaten anything, let alone anything with nutritional value. His childhood had been filled with malnutrition and neglect. Ever since his first tour with the army he had prided himself on eating a balanced diet. Obviously it wasn't always possible in the field, but if he was at home, he ate right.
He had his meals planned through Friday when he heard faint footsteps in the hall outside. He put the pad and pen aside and thrust his hand deep into the cushions of the couch, retrieving the gun he'd stashed there. The couch itself provided him with enough cover for the moment, and he stayed alert to the footsteps, which stopped right outside his door.
Again his heart began to hammer in his chest, beating an almost painful rhythm against his lungs and ribs. There came a tinkle of keys, the telltale twist of a lock, and as the door opened the same flash of red hair that he'd narrowly avoided murdering the day before.
Natasha raised an eyebrow at him and closed the door behind her, carrying with her a tray of takeaway coffee.
"Still at a seven then." She said, before hanging up her coat. He let out the breath that'd caught in his chest and shoved the gun back into the couch where he'd found it. The hammering heart remained. He pushed himself back into the cushions and focused on his breathing.
"Maybe an eight?" Natasha asked, placing one of the paper coffee cups in front of him, along with a paper bag that smelled like it contained some kind of sweet pastry.
"Are you trying to fatten me up?" He said, as she continued on past him into the bathroom. She returned a few seconds later with a wet cloth which she draped carefully over the back of his neck. He flinched a little at the cool sensation, but almost immediately some of the tension in his neck eased.
"I won't get a good price for you at the market if you're all skin and bones." His old, worn couch dipped precariously as she sat down next to him, forcing the two of them closer. The threadbare thing wouldn't let them sit more than a few inches apart from one another. Neither of them minded.
Clint leant forward and picked up his coffee and pried the lid off to sniff. The sweet smell of hot chocolate with peppermint syrup greeted him.
"Peppermint, really?"
"You're too old to pretend you're too old for frou frou drinks."
She was right. He tossed the lid down on the coffee table and took a heartwarming sip of the sugary drink. The heart of it travelled down his throat and seemed extra warm in contrast with the cool cloth still draped around his neck. Clint did his best to relax into the opposing sensations and the comfort that was being offered by his oldest friend. She seemed content enough to sit with him drinking her own diabetes laden drink until he had properly calmed down. He wasn't sure what in particular finally did it, whether it was the cloth, the drink or the companionship, but his heartbeat began to slow and he took a deep calming breath.
"How was jury duty?" She asked, perhaps sensing that the anxiety attack had abated somewhat and that it was alright for conversation to recommence.
"You're looking at Juror Number 8." He said mildly, taking another sip of hot chocolate, savouring the minty warmth.
"Couldn't get off?"
He shrugged. "Didn't really try."
"Clint." She said, disapproval clear in the clipped way she said his name.
"I haven't got anything else to do right now." Despite his intentions, it sounded quite defensive to his ears.
Natasha didn't deign to respond, instead she took a pointed sip of her chai latte and waited for the extended response that she really wanted.
"It's either stay here on this couch and brood and rehash everything that happened that led up to last week, or I distract myself with my civic duty."
"You do enough for this country." Natasha said. "And you need rest."
"I'll be fine. The lawyer today said they didn't expect the case to go longer than a week." Clint explained. But she still looked concerned. "If in a week I'm still at a seven, I'll hand over the reigns to you."
"One week." Natasha repeated, and he could see her locking that little date into her mind as though just behind her eyes was the world's most powerful scheduler. He knew she wouldn't forget. There was a reason she'd been tapped for the position as Stark's PA, and it wasn't just how distracting she could be in a bikini.
"One week." He repeated.