Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel comics or characters or movies, and am making no money off of this fic.

AN: Written for the September 20th Winterhawk Mandatory Fun Day prompt found here: mandatoryfunday . tumblr .com(/)post/187751145950/who-the-hell-gave-clint-barton-the-right-to-a. (Without the spaces and parentheses.)


Contact by luvsanime02


When Clint steps away from the bike, he has to hold in a smirk. There's not often in his life that Clint thinks this, but right now, he knows how hot he looks. The appreciative glances sent his way don't hurt, either.

Normally, Clint wouldn't put this much effort into his appearance. Or at all, really. He's much more content to wallow around his apartment in sweats, but not today. This meeting is important, according to Natasha's phone call a few hours ago. This is one contact that she can't afford to lose, which is why she's sending Clint there in her place.

Clint really hopes that this guy knows Natasha's not the one meeting him. Maybe he won't even be there anymore. Clint still has to check, though. He still had to get on a plane and dress himself up nice and rent a bike (okay, the bike was a bonus for himself) and come all the way out here in the middle of practically nowhere to meet someone who Natasha referred to as an 'old friend'.

Clint's known Natasha long enough to understand what that means. And why she didn't want to trust anyone else but Clint with meeting this particular contact in her stead. Sometimes, being best friends with Natasha is a pain. Totally worth it, though, or Clint wouldn't be here.

Okay, he would still be here, but he'd still be wearing sweats as a protest. Instead, Clint is freshly showered and wearing new jeans with a white Henley and a shiny, new, black leather jacket. A pair of sunglasses and new boots completes the look.

Clint feels a little too old to be dressed like he's trying to pick up a sugar daddy, honestly, which is why he didn't go for the skinny jeans. With the stubble and bike, hopefully he pulls off the 'trying to pick up a boy toy' look, and not the 'having a mid-life crisis' look. That would just be sad.

From the interested looks he's still getting, though, Clint would say he's succeeded. He walks into the bar and glances around casually, hoping that he can identify Natasha's contact from the one blurry shot she sent him. Which he knows was deliberate, because there's no way Natasha couldn't have sent him something clearer.

His gaze stops on Mr. Murder Eyes, and Clint does his own appreciative once-over. Of course Natasha's friend is gorgeous. He can't be anyone else, either, with the way that he's not even trying to pretend like he's not waiting for Clint. Guess that answers the question about whether or not Natasha warned him of the change in plans beforehand.

Clint walks over to the table, and okay, the sway of his hips isn't strictly necessary, but who could blame him? This guy looks like he could kill you with zero effort required, and has no problem with you knowing it upfront. It's the total opposite approach Natasha and Clint usually take, who both try to seem innocuous and innocent right up until they strike.

"Hey, there," Clint says once he's close enough. He's not sure how this guy wants to play this meeting, so he's waiting for a cue.

"You Clint Barton?" the guy asks, and okay, wow, Natasha must really trust him if she gave out Clint's real name. Alright, then.

Clint nods, falling into the seat opposite the guy and stretching his legs out to the side. "That's me," he agrees. "What's your name?"

The guy's eyes narrow. "Natalia didn't tell you?" he asks suspiciously. Natalia. Definitely an old friend, then. Not that Clint expected anything else.

Luckily, he's not the first paranoid guy Clint's run across. He shrugs, purposely casual. "She called you 'Soldier'," he answers. "Said you'd tell me your name if you felt like it." Clint hadn't even been offended, and he won't be now if the guy doesn't share his name. Or any name. Clint doesn't know this guy's circumstances, and names are too important.

The mere fact that Clint's sitting here opposite this guy right now says that Natasha trusts him more than anyone else, and this guy has to know that.

Sure enough, after another minute of intense scrutiny that unsettles Clint not at all, but very definitely interests him in a way that probably isn't on purpose, the guy settles back in the booth. "James," he says.

That's all he says. Clint has no idea if that's his real name, but it's good enough for Clint. Now he has something to call his new fantasy material.

"Nice to meet you," Clint says. "So, they got anything worth drinking in this place?" Rundown-looking places like this are hit-and-miss when it comes to good drinks.

At this question, the guy's face relaxes. He smirks faintly, and he looks twice as hot as when he's trying to murder someone with his eyes. Clint is doomed. He can't even pretend to care.

"The best tequila in at least two states," James says, and Clint can deal with that. He's suddenly really looking forward to this meeting. He'll have to remember to thank Natasha for this later, never mind how amusing she'll find the whole thing. Good drinks and a hot date are so worth the trouble.