Budapest

Clint - Blindsided

A/N 9/5/15: This chapter is dedicated to you, dear readers, for every time you've eagerly requested an update and devoured new chapters posted. Words can never express how much I'm continually in awe that even despite my slow update progress, your enthusiasm never fades. Thank you, thank you so, so much for believing in my story just as much, if not more, than I do. This is for you.

 

CLINT

Romanoff was gone. She just...disappeared.

Of course Clint hadn't expected to see her at the theater again immediately after the shooting. Romanoff did have that breakdown in his bathtub after all. It took time to come back from that. Sure, she might have looked okay when she left his apartment but she was a master at sliding that invisible mask into place, not letting anyone in. He'd watched her do it a thousand times at the theater. She'd even done it to him once or twice, shutting him out. Just because she smiled and said, "I'm fine," didn't mean he believed it for a second.

The theater was utter chaos after the news of the shooting, but the show continued on. Word spread quickly that Mila was staying with family for a few days. No one seemed to have any knowledge of Romanoff's whereabouts. Something had to come up at some point though. She couldn't have simply vanished into thin air.

Clint was so focused on keeping an eye out for Romanoff that he almost didn't see Vladimir coming. Almost. There were always a few trouble makers at the circus, Clint never got along with everyone all the time. And he'd learned a long time ago to always keep those trouble makers within his line of sight. He could practically feel the heat from Vladimir's rage coming a mile away.

Clint was in the back of the theater putting the last touch ups on one of the sets when he heard Vladimir's heavy footsteps getting closer. His muscles tensed, tight as a bowstring, and when Vladimir's meaty hand came down in a vise grip on Clint's shoulder, he was ready for it. He spun and shoved Vladimir's hand away as he stepped to the side and backwards, getting a little distance, a little space to diffuse the situation. He put his hands up in a placating gesture.

"Hey bud," Clint said, "startled me there."

"What did I tell you, American?" Vladimir growled.

Clint screwed up one eye in concentration. The situation was not good, he knew that, and yet he couldn't resist the temptation of poking the hornet's nest anyway.

"That....you were hoping Santa would bring you a pony for Christmas," Clint said.

Vladimir's scowl deepened even further until Clint was certain his face was going to be stuck that way.

"I told you," Vladimir spat, "to stay away from the ballerinas, especially Miss Romanoff."

"Oh, that. I've been really good about that too and..."

Vladimir took a threatening step forward. Clint hustled backwards, skipping over a pile of scrap wood and paint cans. That at least put something between them.

"You lie," Vladimir said. "Miss Romanoff and Mila, they were both with you at the shooting. You almost got them killed."

"You have a point there," Clint admitted. He'd tried to not blame himself for what happened, but a small voice in the back of his mind still wouldn't shut up that part of it was his fault. He could chalk it up to the job, tell himself repeatedly that he had to get Romanoff out of her comfort zone somehow. She always had the upper hand at the theater. Clint had been getting dangerously close to a dead end with no leads to follow whatsoever so someone had to make a move and shake things up. But he wasn't supposed to almost get her killed. Or Mila. God, if Mila had been hurt...