Old Wounds

Chapter 11

11:03 27-AUG-09, BRIGHTON, UNITED KINGDOM

"Is that all, sir?"

"Yeah, yeah." There was a wave of the hand and an annoyed expression. "Can't you see I'm on the phone?"

In return, the waitress 'accidently' stumbled into the patron with a tray in hand. When she fell against him, he roughly shoved her off, not-so-quietly muttering obscenities. Backing away with a smug look, the woman stowed the man's wallet into the pocket of her skirt. Snatching the plates and utensils off a recently-emptied table, Natasha Romanoff scowled at another man who was on the other side of the restaurant. Catching his eyes, she mouthed some sour words at him, but all he did was smile.

Sometimes, Clint Barton infuriated his partner. After dropping the dishes off in the kitchen, the redhead sauntered over to Clint. Even after a long morning of work, her white shirt and short black skirt were still as neat as they were when she received them earlier. Her curly hair was tied up in a tidy ponytail and her eyeliner was only very slightly smudged.

"Why are we still here?" she snapped, crossing her arms. "We got enough money." She gestured to her pockets which had two wallets, each holding at least a hundred dollars in cash, and a few credit cards.

They'd temporarily gotten a job at a local restaurant along the beach in Brighton after hitching a ride from a boat which carried them to the shores of England. Natasha being passed out in another memory helped gain sympathy of a passing fishing boat.

Already having wasted a day finding a decent place to stay and dry off, Natasha and Clint had only three days to contact SHIELD for a pick-up. Having left the majority of their supplies on the quinjet, they had no choice but to steal the things they needed.

It was easy for them, having long-mastered the art of pick pocketing, to get everything. All they needed now was a ride back to Russia. They were almost set, having accumulated over five hundred dollars in the past 24 hours.

"Fine, let's go then." Clint went behind the front counter, pulling off his waiter's apron. Natasha followed, and they snuck out the back door, positive that no one was going to miss them. They'd mysteriously shown up that morning, taking the places of two waiters that had impulsively decided to take a sick day.

Passing by the closet where the two poor waiters were being held, bound and gagged, they had quickly unlocked the door then hurried away. Once in the alleyway behind the restaurant, the assassins changed their outfits into street clothes.

"Clint, quit gawking at me," Natasha said, pulling out a tank top from her bag. "Be professional."

He grinned cockily.

She smacked him lightly on the back of the head. She was closer to him now, and he felt warmth radiate from her skin. Natasha smirked, leaning into him. Clint continued to stare at her, his eyes travelling shamelessly to her chest. There, she stopped him, lifting his chin up with her finger.

Staring into his blue eyes, and him staring into her green ones, their heads got closer, until their lips touched. Starting off softly, the kiss turned more passionate and desperate, their bodies pressed against each other. Clint's back was against the wall of the building, his shirtless body scraping against the bricks. As she began trailing kisses down his neck, he groaned from pain as his stitches grew taut. There were three red marks where the poisonous darts had punctured his skin. Once she realized what was happening, Natasha pulled apart from him. She was out of breath and frowning.

"I'm okay, I'm fine," Clint murmured without opening his eyes. He leaned in again and tried to kiss her, but she firmly pushed him away with hands on his chest.