I had to climb up fire escapes and hide in dumpsters to avoid police officers who ambled past me. They were looking for a squatter muttering to herself, but hey, practicing magic was not a silent task. Despite me not needing to utter many spells, people heard me as I cussed and hit the ground with my already bloody fist.
I washed my face using the Community Centre's sprinklers during the night. The rancid smell of blood wouldn't come out of my prison uniform, but it was tattered from my escape anyway. Besides, I had long since ripped off the prisoner seal on my shoulders, so I could be a cosplayer on coke for all anyone knew.
Someone kicked the dumpster I was snoozing beside, and my eyes groggily opened. Uncrossing my arms, I wiped the tiny pieces of concrete that had embedded themselves into my cheeks when I slept. The sun was high in the sky, and its light assaulted my eyeballs.
"Not now, officer," I groaned, guessing the occupation of the person standing over me. "I just got comfy."
"Yeah, I can see you're really adjusting well." The person said, their voice laced with surprise and sarcasm. I squinted up at them, their identity taking a minute to compute. "You couldn't even make it to a bench? Come on, Mels. I saw one when I was looking for your sorry ass."
They bent down, concerned at my silence. Through my fingers, I made out rough features and tanned skin with a few knicks here and there. I offered a lopsided grin and stuck out my hand, ready to receive help to get on my feet. "Took you long enough, Agent Barton."
He smirked at me, grabbing my hand and hauling me upwards with him. "I'm not an agent. I'm retired, remember?" He brushed asphalt off of my arms. I blinked and tried to rub the exhaustion out of my eyes.
"Once S.H.I.E.L.D's bitch, always S.H.I.E.L.D's bitch," I said, and he grunted as a reply, tousling my hair and squeezing it enough to remain playful. He seemed to marvel at how long it was. Moving on from my hair, he took a step back and grinned even more. I tried to mirror to the affection in his eyes.
He brought his palm up to the nape of my neck. Our foreheads almost touching, he shook me slightly. I rolled my eyes and grabbed his bicep. He surveyed how I looked: Pathetic, and we both knew it. I slapped his arm and he released me.
"It's good to see you again, Melony," Clint said, and all of my guilt at dragging him away from his family was shoved to the back of my mind. Seeing a friendly face was nice.
I smiled in reply, my sight blurring. "Yeah."
"You smell, though," Clint snorted, leaning away from me. "When's the last time you showered?" I scratched my peeling arms and pulled a face. He held up a finger and grimaced. "Don't answer that. But I do want to know where the hell you got that jumper you're wearing. Is it Prison Week in the fashion world?"
"Hilarious," I said. There was a pause. He waited for me to answer. He furrowed his eyebrows when I shrugged.
"Who do I look like to you? Tony?" Clint scoffed as I looked at my feet. I still hadn't found any shoes. "Wait a second … is that a uniform? Because it looks a lot like a prison uniform."
"Of course you'd know what that looks like," I said, but he ignored me. He sat back on his heels and waited for me to speak. Irritation rose in my chest at how he patiently waited for me to speak, and I caved. "Uh, I guess I sorta was in prison?"
Clint fixed me with an unwavering glare. "I have two small children, you really think that's gonna cut it?"
"I am the original annoying child, I don't know what you mean," I responded. He took a calming breath, then patted my arm more forcefully than needed.
"Open your eyes all the way, and I'll get you a motel or something so you can clean up," Clint said. I opened my mouth, extremely grateful and ready to vocalize this. "And afterwards, you're telling me everything. If you try to run away, I'll get the local cops on your ass faster than you can say 'Clint, you're Jesus reincarnated'."
He gestured for me to exit the alley first as my shoulders slumped. He made an exaggerated gagging motion as I walked past him, and I stuck my tongue out.
Hours later, Clint and I were holed up in the corner of some local greasy spoon, inhaling some quality food. Clint made faces as I breathed in my first burger too quickly. The second one I savoured more, but judging by the look on his face, Clint did not miss watching me eat.
"How do you not choke on all of that grease?" he asked, shaking his head and nibbling on a fry.
"Ten percent luck, twenty percent skill," I grinned, taking a swig of my Pepsi. "Fifteen percent concentrated power of will."
I took a big bite as he rubbed his stomach thoughtfully.
"I'm going to have to run ten miles to burn all of that junk I just ate," Clint mused. I snorted, not sharing his concern. I hadn't eaten this well in months, and I wasn't about to fuss over what Victoria's Secret thought of me. I closed my eyes for a second and swallowed loudly, parting my lips because I was a disgusting eater. My shoulders heaved with the motion of breathing, and my neck lolled.
"Hey!" Clint snapped his fingers in front of my face. I lazily opened my eyes and threw him a glare. "I said keep your eyes open. You still got a lot to tell me, like how the hell you got out of this prison place."
I stuck out my tongue, but complied. I explained how Director Fury sent a beta version of a brown out mechanism that I used to disable my cage. I also told him about Agent 13, but spared him the details about Lito.
"Then I washed up in this dusty old town, and voila. Here I am," I finished, wiping my face with a flimsy napkin and flashing a closed lip smile. My expression immediately soured when I saw the pity on his face.
"Jesus," he mumbled, looking at the bruises on my arms and face as if they were brand new. I breathed in through my nose in an exaggerated way to grab his attention.
"Whatever, it doesn't matter, I'm out now. Besides, you had your kids to worry about," I said. My words fell flat, lacking the emotional drive that would have eased him.
"What if they come back? Have you even thought of that?" Clint asked, raising his eyebrows. The motion was supposed to get me thinking, but instead it made my blood boil.
"Then I'll take care of it," I stated, my voice louder than I meant it to be. Clint sat up in his chair, my irritation striking a nerve in him too.
"How?" That single word made the magic under my skin crackle and pop. Who the hell did he think he was? Walking in here, acting like he knew what was best for me.
"Because it'll be different this time," I hissed, poking the table as if proof of my certainty was written on the cloth. His eyes didn't look at me, but into me, and I curled my hand into a fist. He of all people knew I had some issues, but the trick was finding out why I was so wounded at the mere notion of not being able to help myself. That's what he must have been thinking. Yeah? Well, fuck him. I wasn't an online puzzle for him to tinker on.
"What's gonna be different?" He questioned, his carefully selected tone making me feel like we were in the midst of an interrogation. I gave him one of my bitter grins and intertwined my fingers on the table.
"Everything." And I meant it, too. My eye twitched when he shifted, unsatisfied with my answer. I wasn't going to humour him, not about this. Not when the memory of one of my weakest moments stung so sharply. Besides, he wouldn't understand why I had let myself be caught.
Something clicked inside his head, and he ran his tongue over his teeth while dropping his gaze to the table. His voice was not challenging when he said: "They got you after Sokovia, didn't they?"
Of course they did, I wanted to say. The mere mention of Sokovia made me unclench my jaw and close my eyes for a moment.
"Yeah," I replied. My voice sounded distant as I wiped my nose with my sleeve. "Yeah, they did."
Silence after that. I hated being ungrateful to what Clint was trying to do for me, but an apology died tragically at the back of my throat. The words I needed were like poison in my mouth, so I swallowed them.
"What are you gonna do now?" Clint asked, looking up at me. I stared back blankly. Did he really think I had an answer to that?
"I don't know," I said.
He looked at me for a second, then looked away. I wondered if it hurt him to see me like this, but even that was a fanciful notion. I must have looked so stupid and lost at that moment, like I was a dumb kid again, trying to be tough.
He probably wished sometimes I would just stay down and accept my fate instead of dragging myself by my elbows through life. It must suck to be around me all the time.
"I saw a thrift shop on the way here," Clint said, standing up and placing a few bills on the table. "How about I get you some new clothes?"
I squinted up at him, and he pointed at my tattered prison uniform.
"That thing is just disgusting by now, come on," Clint smirked, shaking his head at all of the garbage stains on it, but I was still hesitant. "I also saw a risqué leather store, though it might have been an adult shop…"
"Shut the fuck up, man," I snorted, pushing in my chair and exiting the restaurant with him. "You call yourself Hawkeye. We should stop by Sesame Street and see if Big Bird will rent you his suit for a bit."
"That's the spirit," Clint chuckled, but frowned at the thought of trying to shoot arrows as a fluffy yellow beast. I, however, thought it was hilarious.
Hours later, my hair was thoroughly washed, and I was dolled up in a second hand leather jacket and a pair of ripped jeans. I had already stained my white shirt by spilling lemonade on it, after laughing at one of Clint's ridiculous roof stories.
"I just bought you that, you clutz!" Clint groaned, pointing at me as I giggled and uselessly dabbed the sticky shirt with a napkin. After a few glorious hours of 'thrifting', Clint ordered that we sit down and relax for a bit before we parted ways.
"Sorry!" I taunted, and he muttered something about millennials. "So your pants ripped…"
"Yeah … and the next thing I knew, I was spinning through the air, with no way of telling where I was going to land until I did … right on top of my mark, with no pants or boxers since they ripped free during the fall."
I clapped as he made a disgruntled expression. I shook my head and grinned from ear to ear.
"Honour and glory. Those are synonyms for your name now," I stated, ignoring the two guys next to our table who were wondering why the hell we were laughing so uproariously.
Clint grinned, allowing himself to chuckle for a few seconds before he began to tap a rhythm with his fingertips on the table. Checking the time on his watch, my smile faded and I wiped my nose with my sleeve.
"You can leave, it's alright," I said. His eyes focused on me, and he blinked while my voice pulled him out of his thoughts. He grunted for clarification of my words, so I repeated them.
"Yeah, I know," he responded, a shadow of a grin on his face.
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" I demanded, leaning my neck back and squinting at him.
"It means I called Tony," he explained. In reaction to the disgust on my face, he omitted a throaty laugh. "Don't look at me like that."
Imitating an irritated duck, I flattened my lips and stuck them out. "Then don't do shit like that without my permission. I'm grown, I can make calls by myself."
Ignoring the point of my statement, his eyes lit up and his hand flew to his coat pocket. "I just remembered …"
"What the hell?" I said this while examining a cellphone that Barton had in his outstretched palm. "Why?"
"You can't always use a phone box," he shrugged.
"I'm not taking that," I said, sitting back in my chair and folding my hands in my lap. "No. I'm not letting you waste that on me."
"Take it," Clint commanded, placing it on the table and sliding it towards me. Annoyed, I glared at the nice looking phone. "The bill goes to my house. Free texting on weekends and after four. Unlimited calling. Pick it up."
"You're not giving this to me," I stated, shaking my head stubbornly. "Fuck off, I owe you too much already."
"Then we'll add this one to the list of favours you owe me," he argued. Rolling my eyes, I couldn't believe he was trying to do this. What an idiot.
Breaking my gaze, he took a deep breath while standing and placing money on the table. "I'll see you around, Mels. Call me if you need anything."
Trying not to pout too obviously, I said: "You told me your phone lines were tapped."
"How else was I supposed to get you off the damn phone?" Clint asked and gave me a subtle wink. Showing him my middle finger as the most friendly goodbye I could muster, he disappeared into the crowd. I looked at the phone on the table for a few seconds.
Reluctance in my groan of frustration, I snatched the phone off the table and looked at it. The background was blank, and there was no password. In fact, it was untouched apart from the speed dials: Clint had set his own phone to number one.
"What a dad," I snorted, looking at the nicest gift I had received in … well. A very long time. My mouth upturned almost unnoticeably.
I scraped my chair backwards with a sharp kick, and jumped to my feet. Leaving the table without a second glance, I shoved the phone into my leather jacket's pocket.
I looked up at the sky, and there wasn't a cloud in sight. Tony was coming for me, how nice. Supposing these were my last moments of freedom, I decided to keep walking until I was forced to stop.
The town was nice, I had to admit. People didn't make eye contact with me, but it was better than spending my time curled up next to a dumpster. I passed an antique shop, and a necklace with the Star of David caught my eye, and I abruptly stopped walking.
Stepping closer to the glass, I peered in, but didn't let my stoic expression change. The religious items were just a reminder of my mother, and though I appreciated the fresh pain that came with them, I was simultaneously irked. I didn't have time to be reflective right now. I had to be happy, dammit.
I looked over to see the name of the store, but the reflection of the glass is what grabbed my attention. The same two men who had been sitting next to me and Clint at the cafe were across the street, window shopping.
Forcing my movements to be fluid and natural, I walked away from the store and stopped at the next. The men mirrored my actions, apart from the occasional glances in my direction. What if they come back for you? Clint's words struck a chord of fear in my chest, and my hands began to shake.
It's broad daylight, I reasoned, clenching my teeth tightly. What are they gonna do? Put a bag over my head?
Not thinking over my multiple options, I spun on my heel and crossed the street. Cars honked at me, but I paid them no mind. With eyes only for the two men, I stalked towards them quickly.
Grabbing one by the arm and forcing him to look at me, I came face to face with someone who looked like they shook at the thought of jaywalking.
"Why are you following me?" I demanded, my shrill voice catching the attention of a few pedestrians. "Answer me!"
"I-I don't know what," he exclaimed, raising his hands in surrender. He began to sweat and glance at his friend, imploring help. "I'm sorry, we were just walking, we didn't even notice you-"
"That's some Grade A bullshit. Cut it before I put your heads so far up your own asses that you'll … oh, I don't know, you'll do something," I barked, looking at his friend with what I hoped to be dangerous look in my eye.
Still stuttering and acting dramatic, he lowered his gaze to the ground. I looked down and noticed the pistol in his waistband. Was he threatening me? His friend tapped his backpack strap and nodded. My guess? There were more guns in there.
"Who the fuck are you people?" I asked, squinting my eyes and wondering why they would be trying to do this now. Were they hoping I'd duck into an alley? I was an alcoholic, not a heroine addict.
The friend mouthed the word "move", and jerked his head backwards. As my face soured into a sneer, I deduced that these asshats were definitely not part of an organized community. Fucking amateurs, coming at me in broad daylight.
"Try again," I said, pocketing my hands and waiting to see what they would do next. Raising my eyebrows, I watched them exchanged looks. "Something wrong?"
The man with the pistol reached for his weapon and I watched him, a bit concerned. Was he really going to do this in public? Loading his gun with very little stealth, my mouth fell open in surprise.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" I asked, but they weren't scared of the annoyance in my voice. Turning my head to see if anyone else was witnessing the fuckery unfolding before my eyes, an obvious eavesdropper stopped rifling through her purse to look. She pulled out her phone, never breaking eye contact with me. As touched as I was at the gesture, I moved my head back and forth subtly.
Looking back at the two goons, I stumbled back at how close the pistol was to my chest. He was shuffling closer, and I raised my hands, putting them parallel with my ears so both of them could see.
"Don't make a scene," I commanded, trying to be a stern as possible, but it was hard. I felt more like I was talking down a little kid with a water pistol than someone waving a grown-up gun as if he knew what he was doing. I angled myself to be guided into the nearest alley, which was only a few steps away. However, the pistol-man's eyes weren't on me anymore - they were on the lady with the phone. She was dialing the police as the man pointed his gun at her.
"Hey!" he barked, taking a step forward and exposing his weapon even more. These guys really sucked, but the one with the backpack was already slipping it off. Soon I would have some heavy artillery to deal with.
I grabbed the hand holding the gun and twisted his forearm like I was starting up a motorcycle. Stretching awkwardly, I tried to grab the gun but he dropped it after realizing what I was trying to do. Well, two can play Keep-Away, so I kicked the thing as hard as I could to who knows where. Still with a decent hold on his wrist, I swept his feet out from under him. I left him dazed on the ground and took a steadying step towards the man with the backpack so I could kick him right in the jewels.
When he lurched forward in pain, I guided the back of his head so his nose collided with my kneecap. I had bent it just for him and I hoped he was appreciating that new stage in our relationship as much as I was. The guy on the ground, who was standing up again, cocked his pistol in my direction. How'd he get that?
"Oh, shit," I grunted, grabbing the backpack guy by the arm and swinging his body so he hit his partner in the stomach. Not fazed for long, the pistol guy didn't bother standing up straight before he began to fire at me.
I jumped backwards as a bullet narrowly missed my foot. A woman screamed, and out of the corner of my eye I saw the people in the street finally clearing out instead of gathering around us like this was a high school fight. I jumped dangerously close to him, and with adrenaline racing to my fingertips, I grabbed the barrel of the gun.
"Oh damn," I yelped as he managed to shoot despite the awkward angle I forced his hand into. The bullet skid on the concrete of the now sparsely populated street. Stepping aside so the barrel was pointed opposite of where I stood, it was obvious that my strength was going to win out in this intense thumb war. I looked at the pointed part of his elbow and yanked the gun so his arm was straight.
I felt absolutely no regret when I punched the outside of his elbow with enough force to split his arm. I let him drop to the ground on top of his friend, still screaming in pain. Adjusting the pistol so I held it properly, I rolled my eyes uncomfortably. Listening to him screech in agony wasn't my favourite pastime.
I felt less sorry when the guy's screaming drowned out his secret partner sneaking up on me and smothering my face with a rag.
Breathing in, my muscles began to shut down. What the hell was that? In my rapidly shutting down brain, I still managed to make an equation that made sense: whatever the hell was on that rag equals very bad. Holding my breath and slouching forward so my feet were a safe distance away, I blindly shot at the ground until I hit whoever was holding me. A few seconds later I was breathing sweet air as some jackass wailed for his poor foot behind me.
Spinning so I could see his stupid face, I couldn't bear to look at him for more than a second. Swinging the gun as if the barrel was a baton, I hit him in the temple, sending his already bent over form to the ground. Relieved, I turned, throwing back my head. I welcomed a moment to catch my racing thoughts.
Some guy was tiptoeing towards the backpack guy, still trapped under his friend. I cocked my head, a no doubt pleading look in my eyes.
"Are you serious?" I asked, shrugging as the man froze for a second before launching himself towards the backpack. A bullet was buried in his foot before he reached it, but my moment was gone. Annoyed, I scratched my cheek, visibly recoiling from the screams of pain.
I stalked over to the backpack man. Squatting to see the backpack guy's face smeared with blood made me frustrated more than anything else. How the hell was I going to get information out of an unconscious guy?
I poked his forehead, and his head lolled, but there was no response. I clicked my tongue and ground my teeth. "You drama queen. Get up, you probably have a broken nose. Walk it off."
A beeping sound caught my attention, and I frowned in bewilderment. What the hell was that? I waited for a second before the beeping turned out to be a chirping bird. From what?
No way had I forgotten what a ringtone sounded like. I was locked up for under a year, not sixty years, but I patted my pockets for Clint's phone anyway, hoping to God I didn't crack the screen. As unscathed as the phone was, it had no notifications, so I turned to the unconscious guy in front of me.
Surprisingly, I was not ashamed to slap the unconscious guy's pockets in search for a phone. I guess after you kick someone in the balls, you don't need polite small talk anymore.
After wrenching a phone from his pocket, I brought it up to my face, and read the message he just received. The screen was webbed with ugly white scratches, but I could vaguely read a text that was sent not a minute ago: "Psychic not with her."
I read the text a second time, then threw the phone on the ground. I don't know who I might have been deceiving, but I struggled to stay calm. Staring at the unmoving bodies of my attackers, I laced my fingers together.. A second, then two, went by in silence before I snorted, forcing a smile to erupt on my face. "You sons of bitches."
Anyone who had the guts to stick around until then was probably even more frightened when I bent down next to the nearest man's face and yelled: "I just got out of jail, dumbass. Of course he's not with me."
I shook my head and got to my feet, too angry to hear the approaching sirens. "You motherfuckers. I actually believed we were over this."
Spreading my arms out to greet the people watching me through fancy technology, I waved the gun in my hands as if I'd never held one in my life. I didn't think any sensical words passed my lips in those few moments that I paced around, occasionally stopping to look at the dickheads lying on the ground.
"The Psychic, huh?" I laughed, my anger tapping into my other emotions. I might as well have been in front of a crowd at a theatre for all of the dramatic hand waving I did. Funny how much unsettled rage you can dig up in under two minutes. "You all are idiots. I don't care about you coming after him. But to think … you painted me as some doormat that'd let a physic back into my life after he left me in that fucking prison? Unbelievable…"
When the police arrived, they made a wise choice to stay back and yell from behind their car doors. Even with megaphones, the voice in my head screamed louder. I told the cops that came to stop some lunatic sparring match about how if I saw that cowardly psychic, I'd take his spinal cord for myself. He obviously doesn't need it. He'd rather sit and watch me get tortured through his stupid 'visions'. I hate him, I said.
But all they cared about was making sure I didn't fire that gun at someone important. I hopped from one foot to the other, refusing to cower when they threatened to shoot me. Begrudgingly, I forced rationality to reenter my train of thought. At long last, I tossed the gun to the side. Putting my hands behind my head as per request, I surrendered.
They approached me hesitantly, but I didn't want to fight anymore. Not with them, at least. I knelt on the ground and stared straight ahead, pretending not to feel the handcuffs on my wrists or the hand on my shoulder. I let myself be guided into their custody.
Not with them, I commanded myself. Not with them ...