Work Text:
$15.2m Jeff Lezos art theft
Night guards are left tied up in gallery basement
Washington Post, November 14, 2021 3:32 PM
In what was described as the most convoluted robbery since the 2002 robbery of Van Gogh’s “Congregation Leaving the Reformed Church in Nuenen,” two individuals gained entry into Jeff Lezos’s private art gallery early yesterday, restrained two security guards and left with an estimated $15.2m worth of art, the police said.
Gallery officials said the pair reported a shift switch, overcame the guards, tied them with tape and spent about thirty minutes in the gallery stealing several paintings.
The stolen items included masterpieces such as Georges de La Tour’s “Magdalene with the Smoking Flame” two Degas, and the gallery’s most popular piece, “The Blue Boy,” completed in 1770.
If you have any information on the whereabouts of these artworks, you’re urged to call Washington police.
"Oh fuck me," Clint mutters under his breath.
There’s a couple huddled by the doorway. It’s after-hours, too late for any ordinary visitor, and he was really hoping for a quiet night tonight.
There's a woman directly in his line of sight. She’s wearing a sleek leather bodysuit. Skin-tight. Black. Ballet flats. The silhouette of her suit bulges at the thigh. A gun. Neatly strapped in.
The man beside her has a black sweatshirt on. Ski mask. Tight jeans that make his ass look-
No. No distractions. Clint's security. Observant. Focused. Which. He's definitely focused, for the record.
And then Clint sees what they’re holding. The Manet. The Chez Tortoni. Valued at $200 million.
Clint hates that one. He’s been to enough of his boss’s private parties to hear the spiel. The rich depiction of Parisian cafe society with the translucent wine glass and the tactile brush strokes and the blabbity blabbity blah.
Clint takes a step forward and nearly trips over the metal divider on the floor. There’s a loud clanging noise. The woman whips around and draws her weapon.
Clint swallows with a click, mouth dry. Holy crapballs, he's gonna die today. He can't die today. He's up to his eyeballs in Barney’s medical bills and Lucky- who's gonna take care of Lucky? He reaches for his phone to text Kate, but then he remembers she's fucked off to California again. He can't call her out of the blue just to tell her he's gonna die. She'll kill him.
Clint clutches his taser tighter at his side, palms sweating, and steps closer.
Clint checks his shadow. Tiptoes forward. Inhales quietly, holds his breath.
Clint isn't one to brag, but he's pretty sure he's nailed down the art of sneaking up on someone. Staying hidden. He likes it that way. In the shadows. Under the radar. He knows how the world works. If you draw too much attention, make too much noise, you get squashed. Crushed. Scraped on the curb of a sidewalk with the edge of someone's boot. Clint knows that. It’s the only way he survived high school.
Head down. Gaze disengaged.
Not looking at men. Not looking at women. And especially not looking his dad in the eyes.
Clint works in a place where people pay to look.
To look at things. Art.
(Not him. Never him.)
"What do you mean, there's no way out? You had one job, Barnes. Get us in and get us out. Did you lose half your brain the minute we secured the job?" The woman’s lips are pressed into a red slash through her mask.
Barnes shoots her a glare. "That's two jobs, Nat." he hisses. "I said I'd get us in. You were supposed to find us a way out."
The woman, Natasha, lets out a slow sigh. "For fuck's sake. I didn't hide for three hours in the ceiling of a men's bathroom to be stuck in here." She turns and waves her flashlight around. Clint ducks behind the corner before she can see him. So much for the surprise sneak attack. “There's gotta be a window. Another way out."
There is. Probably. Just not without running into Clint first.
He’s got a few options. Stay put, do nothing, and inevitably get tied up, or step into the light, prove to be useful, and never have to see that damn Manet again.
Clint steps into the light.
"Hi, hello." He waves. It's all dorky, no finesse. The figures turn on him. Two sets of blue eyes trained on his own, laser sharp. Natasha lifts her gun and points the nozzle at Clint. His heart pounds.
Yeah, he probably shoulda thought this through.
(He likes the way they look at him. Surprised. Overestimating.)
"Stay where you are," Natasha warns.
Clint puts the taser down. Lifts his hands up. Slowly. "Ain't looking to hurt you.” He takes a step closer, looks at Barnes. "Or you."
Barnes’s eyes are fixed on Natasha’s with alarming urgency. They’re both panicking. The op’s gone wrong and now they’ve got to find a way to deal with security. Clint knows, from past experience, that when things go wrong, people will do one of two things. Flee or get violent. And since they can't do the former…
He has to act fast.
“I’ll show you the exit,” Clint says quickly. Barnes raises his eyebrows at that. Clint keeps going. “There’s a few around here, but most of ‘em lock from the inside this time of night.”
Barnes looks to Natasha. Says something in Russian. Natasha gestures to Clint frantically and answers in Russian back.
“Come on,” Clint pleads. “You’ll be doing me a favor. I really hate that painting.”
Barnes closes the space between them. Puts a hand on the base of Clint’s neck. Clint can smell his aftershave. His deodorant. Him. "Don’t pull anything funny.”
Natasha comes around Clint’s other side and presses the nozzle of the gun to his chest. Clint stiffens, his breathing going shallow. Shit.
"You heard him," Natasha says. The gun digs deeper into his chest. “Get moving.”
"I’m deaf, actually." Clint gestures to his hearing aids.
Natasha rolls her eyes. She hands her gun to Barnes, who doesn't ease off the pressure. Clint swallows.
Show us the way out or he'll kill you, she signs.
Of course Natasha fucking knows ASL. She's probably fluent in every language.
Clint wonders how it would feel to have her lips pressed close to his ear, saying something filthy in Russian. Italian. French. Now that’s some Parisian cafe society shit he can get behind. He looks down at his khakis and frowns. Fuck. Now is not the time, competence kink.
"Ease up on the gun, will you?” Clint complains. “I already said I’m going to do it."
Natasha shoots Barnes a look and he drops the gun. Clint knows they could take him easily with or without the gun, but he isn’t gonna try anything. Like he said. He’s got bills.
Clint tilts his head in the direction of the security exit. This part of the gallery only has motion detection, so he doesn’t have to worry about being charged as an accomplice.
"This your first job or something?" He asks Barnes, conversationally, as they walk. As if his job is painting windows. Or landscaping. Or something decidedly less criminal than stealing art from a billionaire’s private collection.
"It's not," Barnes snaps. "This job was last minute. I didn't have time to do the security research. Knew there was motion detection, didn't know that all the doors lock from the inside as soon as the place hits closing."
"Amateur," Clint mutters. Barnes’s jaw clenches beneath the mask. "You can avoid motion sensing if you stay low and against the walls. And the inside lock is an easy fix if you have a good enough gum wrapper."
Bucky and Natasha exchange a look.
"What?"
"Why do you know so much about motion detectors?"
Clint shrugs. "I've been in security for years." He leaves out the other part. The part where he had to. For survival. He grimaces.
They don’t notice. Instead, the two of them whisper behind him, voices soft enough he can't catch the words, only the crisp edges of their T's and S's.
Clint leads them down the hall to the employee exit.
He knows what comes next. They'll let him free or they'll kill him. And by the looks of it... he just might live today. The gun stays tucked in the waistband of Barnes's jeans.
"Give me your hand," Natasha says, all quiet command. Clint does.
Natasha holds Clint’s wrist with gentle fingers and uses the other hand to reach into her pocket, and pulls out a long pair of handcuffs.
"Sorry about this," Natasha says. She fastens the handcuffs around Clint’s wrist and Barnes places his hand on the small of Clint's back to guide him to a chair beside the first security post.
It's strange, considering the situation, but Clint feels safe between the two of them, cared for, like somehow he belongs in this fucked up art thief sandwich.
Barnes fastens him to the post, leaning over Clint as he does, his breath hot on Clint's face, even through the mask. There's that aftershave again, and Clint shuts his eyes so he doesn’t lean in and do something stupid, like bury his face in Barnes’s neck. There’s a soft press to Clint's chest, over his heart, and when Barnes pulls it back, the sleeve of his shirt rides up to reveal the glimmer of a metal hand. Huh. Interesting.
Barnes steps back from him. "Would say it's been a pleasure but..."
"It's been a pleasure," Natasha interrupts. "Thanks for the help. Hope you won't get fired over this."
From CRIME & COURTS - Lonny Tusk seeks public’s help in identifying a pair of art robbers of private collection
Des Moines Register, Published Tuesday, 8:27 AM CT
Lonny Tusk is asking for the public’s help in identifying two serial art robbers who have stolen his most prized painting from his private collection, The Chez Tortoni, by Eduardo Manet. The two thieves, two blonde males, have become increasingly active in the past year and are believed to be behind more than half a dozen heists, authorities said.
Lonny Tusk will pay a cash reward of up to $200 million for information that leads to the arrest of either suspect. Text your tip anonymously through the LT Tips App on your cell phone or call 1-800-555-TIPS.
"Fucking hell, Clint," his boss says. He rubs at the back of his neck with his stubby fingers, his lips pressed together in a white line. White like his hair, the first warning sign of a mid-life crisis. There's a splotchy blush climbing up the column of his throat, his hairline. "Two-hundred million dollars. Two-hundred fucking million."
Clint leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out. He tugs at his handcuffs. Dipshit didn't have the decency to unlock him before he chewed him out. Clint’s been sitting here for hours and he's gotta piss.
"So I've heard," Clint drawls. "Ugliest painting I've ever seen. Not worth $20 mil. Not even worth $1 mil. Who values these things? Do we have a value guy?" He lets his hand fall slack into his lap, the handcuff chain rattling against the pole. "What are they called? Appraisers?"
"It's a Manet," his boss snaps. "Practically priceless." His face says Manet is supposed to mean something to Clint. Clint’s gaze flicks to his boss’s watch. 9 AM. Clint’s shift is long over. He’s got more pressing things to worry about right now. Like clocking out. Getting some sleep. A cup of coffee.
The police swarm the place. Blue and red flashes through the windows in the early light of the morning. Clint hopes one of them can get him out of these damn handcuffs.
His boss snaps his fingers in front of his face. “Hey, asshole, am I boring you?”
Clint grins. “I mean, now that you mention it…”
His boss’s face glows an almost neon shade of red. Like boiled lobster. “That’s it. You're fired."
"You can't afford Starbucks anymore," Kate tells him, four hours later. Her face is blurred out on the video screen, because she's probably texting America again, which is good, because then she can’t see what Clint’s doing. "Tell me you're not at Starbucks."
Clint angles the screen away from the looming green and white mermaid sign behind him. "I'm not at Starbucks."
"One grande black, Clint!"
Aw, hell.
"Clint," Kate says, her face coming into focus on the smudged screen of his phone, "You just lost your job because you helped out a pair of art thieves. You can't be rewarding yourself with Starbucks."
"They were hot, okay?" Clint says, like it's a legitimate excuse. He reaches for his dark roast and takes a sip. It's just below scalding. The way he likes. "And I've got a gift card."
"From who ?" Kate demands. "I'm your only friend."
"Yeah, yeah, don't rub it in." Clint walks out of the coffee shop and back out into the street. He tries to drink as he walks, which ends in hot coffee dribbling down his chin and leaving track marks across the middle of his purple shirt. He shifts the phone to one hand and licks his finger, trying to rub out the stain. Aw, he’d just gotten this shirt too.
"Do I need to come back there?"
"What? No. I'm fine." Clint glares at Kate through the screen, offended.
And to prove how perfectly fine he is, he shoves his keys into his front door. He can juggle three things at once. Keys, coffee, Kate.
Kate stares at him, lips pressed into a thin line, as Clint curses his way through getting inside. His keys go in easy. Turn uselessly in the lock. Which means he must've forgotten to lock the door. Which is– weird for him.
Clint may not know what color shoes match what belt, which fork to use for the salad course or how to drink coffee without spilling it all over himself, but he always, always locks the door.
He shrugs it off. He’s just tired. He was up all night handcuffed to a pole, it's normal if he's not normal yet. So he lets himself into his house. Kicks his shoes off. Lets his keys clink noisily into the bowl on the table and then goes into the kitchen.
There are two figures sitting there. One male, one female. Lucky is draped over their feet, like he’s right at home, and damn, he might be the worst attack dog in all of history. "Shit. I've gotta go."
"Clint-"
"Bye, Kate!"
It's like Clint's life is one huge fucking joke. The set-up? Two art thieves walk into the home of a security guard. The punchline? Well. He hasn't figured it out yet. It's coming. He can feel it.
"Hey, Barton," Natasha says, fucking smouldering over the rim of her coffee mug. No, wait, that's his coffee mug. What the hell?
He's hallucinating, is what it is, because that’s an actual goddess sitting at his kitchen table. A circa-1630s Magdalene. Clint's knees want to give out.
Clint opens his mouth to answer her but whatever comes out isn't English. It isn't even audible. He just squeaks.
"You probably have questions," Barnes says, and holy fucking shit, his fucking jawline, his whole fucking face. Clint can't breathe. He sucks in a sharp rasp of air and Barnes lifts an eyebrow at Natasha. "I think we broke him."
Clint squeezes his coffee cup a little too tight. The lid pops off and he sets it on the table. Takes a moment to wrestle it back on and calm himself down. "Not broken," he says finally. "How the hell did you get my address?"
Natasha reaches into her pocket and pulls out Clint’s wallet. So that's where that went. "James stole it off of you on the way out of the gallery."
Clint takes it from her. Their fingers overlap. Clint feels a warm zing flood through his body. Aw, hell. This is bad. He needs to get himself under control. So he takes a deep breath and does what he does best under pressure. Flutters his eyelashes.
"James,” he drawls, testing the name out on his tongue, all slow and smooth. “If you wanted to see me again, all you had to do was ask." Barnes’ lips part. Clint smirks. Looks back at Natasha. "I'm very willing."
Natasha smiles, slow and closed-lipped. "I'll bet you are," she says flatly. James opens his mouth to speak, but Natasha silences him with a warning look. "But we're here for something else. For unfinished business."
Clint glances around. Shit. They're gonna kill him. Again, he has two options. Stick around and wait to see what happens next. Or run.
He runs.
Lucky barks loudly as both Natasha and James leap for him at once. Natasha catches Clint around the waist, her arms bracketing him on both sides.
James… goes for his face. With a fist. Solid. It collides with Clint’s cheekbone. Hard. Clint feels his brain rattling around in his head and then the warm, sharp pain of a bruise blossoming on his skin. Jesus. There it is.
The punchline.
“Really?” Natasha asks James, sounding unimpressed. “You know a million different ways to stop someone, and you punch him in the face?”
James grimaces. His thumb finds Clint’s cheek and brushes over the bruise. Clint’s heart leaps in his chest. What is he, a masochist now? “Sorry,” James says.
Clint scowls. “Yeah, try telling that to my dog. If you kill me, he’s gonna be inconsolable.” Lucky whimpers softly in the corner, emphasizing his point. That’s right. That’s his boy. “You wanna steal paintings? Fine. But Lucky’s had a rough go of it already. Leave us out of it.”
Natasha releases Clint. He sighs in relief and steps away from them, rubbing his sore cheek bone. He reaches for his coffee, because if he's gonna die, he might as well enjoy his last sip of Starbucks.
Barnes’s eyebrows pinch together. "We're not gonna kill you, pal. We want to work with you."
Clint's mouth drops open. Coffee dribbles down his bottom lip. Natasha presses her lips together like she's trying to hide her smile.
"You want to work with me," he repeats. He knows he sounds like an idiot. Probably looks like one too.
"That's what he said, yeah," Natasha says, amused. She drums her fingers on the edge of the table. "We need someone who's good with security. James’s expertise is extraction. Mine is dealing with interruptions. Making distractions. We need a third."
Clint purses his lips. This is a shitshow. But it could be… very lucrative. He's got bills, afterall. “You understand what you're asking me? I can turn you in. I've seen your faces."
Natasha laughs. "And we know where you live. But you won't do that."
Clint frowns. "What makes you so sure?"
"Oh, honey," Natasha coos. She drags her fingers across Clint's wrist. Clint tries not to visibly shudder. Jesus. He's so touch starved. "You told the cop that the thieves were two men with blonde hair."
Clint flushes. She wasn't supposed to know about that. He clears his throat. "So say, hypothetically, I’m in. Who exactly do you sell these paintings to?"
James smiles at him, all teeth.
Uh-oh.
The jobs are easier than Clint expects them to be. Because despite their Lonny Tusk fumble, Natasha and James are good. Which is great for not getting caught, but terrible, so very terrible for Clint’s competence kink.
Sometimes, when a job goes well, Natasha’s voice smooth and commanding in the comms, and James extracts a painting in three minutes flat, with quick, deft fingers, Clint has to fight down the shiver that wants to overtake him. Has to stumble up the stairs when they get back, two at a time, with the world’s most intense boner, before he shoves his hand down his pants as soon as his bedroom door slams shut.
Clint takes it back. The jobs aren’t easier. No, they are very, very fucking hard. Or he is. Same shit.
“Hurry up,” Clint hisses at James. “I want to catch this week’s episode of Dog Cops.”
“This week’s a re-run,” Natasha points out. “We scheduled today’s heist specifically because it was a re-run.”
Clint frowns. She’s right. “Wednesday is Dog Cops day,” he complains. “A Wednesday ain’t complete without Dog Cops. Tell her, James.”
Jame ignores him, mostly because he’s so focused on extracting, his lip caught between his teeth, he doesn't notice anything else. Clint wonders what it would feel like to be under that level of scrutiny. Taking him apart. Unraveling him.
Shit. Clint’s supposed to be on lookout. He’s looking, alright, but it’s a fucking problem, because between Tasha and Bucky, Clint cannot stop looking. He sighs.
And then he has an idea. He reaches for his wallet. Opens the back compartment with all his change. He pulls out a quarter. Grins at Tasha. And then he slides it very slowly into the back of James’s pants. James doesn’t move an inch from his spot against the wall.
Natasha raises her eyebrows at him. Clint reaches for another quarter.
It’s not until he’s $5 deep that James finally notices, Natasha giggling beside Clint, her hands full of loose change. They’ve stuffed James’s jeans so full of money and miscellaneous objects that the pants are sagging with the weight of it.
James glares at them when they get back to the shit hole they’re staying in, unloading the change, the gum wrappers and the spare rubber duck Clint had managed to wedge in there.
James gives him a mouthful for that one, but Clint knows he’s full of shit because he catches James later, tucking the duck in his gear bag with a smile.
For Matisse, Clint stuffs James’s pants full of unsharpened pencils.
Gaugin, it’s paperclips.
For Picasso, he gets a little fancy with it, sliding little daisies into James’s back pocket from one of the planters outside.
And as James extracts a Renoir from another billionaire’s walls, Clint ties his shoes together.
Clint drops to his knees, and he can feel the heat of Natasha’s eyes on him, so he looks up at her through his eyelashes as he loop-de-loops and pulls.
Natasha wets her lips. He holds her gaze.
There’s a simmering, undeniable heat that fizzles between them, but Clint’s helpless to do anything about it. He knows that she knows the two of them are so far out of his league it's ridiculous, but he can’t help but want them anyway.
Clint chuckles to himself as he gets up from the floor, because it’s going to be so fucking hilarious watching James try to manuever himself out of this one, to watch him hobble down the hall until he gives up and takes off his shoes, walking barefoot out of this billionaire’s apartment.
You’re a child, Natasha signs, and Clint sticks his tongue at her just to prove her point.
James, it seems, is even more distracted than Clint thought, because when he takes a step forward, he goes flying, his gloved grip loosening on the painting, clattering it to the floor, sending him to his knees.
“Jesus Christ,” Clint mutters, because one, there’s a 1.5 million dollar painting that’s now on the ground, and two, James looks really fucking good on his hands and knees.
Oh, and he's tripped the alarm.
"James..." Natasha hisses, stepping closer to them.
“Hey, I ain’t the one who tied my shoes together.” James scrabbles to his feet and glares at Clint. "I hope you're happy.”
This is kind of a disaster, but Clint is happy, he’s happier than he’s been in years, and maybe there’s something fucked up about that, but he can’t be bothered to think about it right now. He snatches the painting up from the ground and slides it into the case they brought. The lights are flashing now, illuminating them in red and white, the alarm screechingly loud. Clint lowers his hearing aids.
Natasha and Bucky turn to face him, gaze pained, worried, and Clint grins back at them. They look beautiful like this, their eyes searching his like he’s got all the answers. Because James’s got extraction and Natasha’s got the distraction, and Clint. Well. He knows how to fucking move when everything falls apart.
“What are our options?” Natasha demands. “You’ve pulled your stupid prank, so tell me we have options.”
“Of course we have options,” Clint says, affronted. “But I ain’t stopping to wait if broody over here trips another motion detector. What is it, your first time?"
James scowls at the callback. "First time I've been tripped by a slow and overgrown-"
"Enough," Natasha snaps. "They'll be swarming this place in ten minutes. What have we got?"
James sighs. "Main door’s blocked off. Security entrance isn't an option since it’s, you know, someone’s apartment.”
“Windows?” Natasha asks.
“Closed off. They seal automatically when the alarm is triggered,” Clint answers. There’s one way out. And it’s up. He glances at them both. Grins. "How do you feel about heights?”
“Absolutely fuckin’ not,” James says, peering over the edge of the building. “I ain’t going down on a zipline from up here.”
Clint rolls his eyes. “Really? Now is when you speak up? We don't have any other options.”
Natasha presses a hand to her temple. “Clint, there's only one harness.”
D- for preparedness, Nat. She shoulda brought her own harness. Clint can only manage so much, lugging this 30lb bag around. “You two are gonna climb into my lap and hold on to me.”
Natasha stares at him. “That's your plan? To climb into your lap on a zipline with a 180 foot drop.”
“Yes. That's my plan. Come on, Tasha, don’t you trust me?”
He's a little afraid to hear the answer, but Natasha nods with no hesitation. And that's. That's fucking awesome.
Clint launches the zipline to a nearby building and gives it a tug. It's secured. Good.
He holds out a hand. Natasha takes it, hand gloved, warm, small in his palm, and he helps her into his lap. Her arms wrap around his neck and she presses her face into his shoulder, her breath hot on his throat.
“James, you've got my other side.”
James looks at Clint like the idea gives him a distinctly bad taste in his mouth. Which. Fine, fair. Clint prefers his right side too, but they need to get out of there before the police come. “Last chance,” he warns. He's gonna grab him anyway, but it'll be easier if James comes willingly. He doesn't know if he can handle Natasha, Renoir and a panicking James all at the same time.
James eases himself down, though, and drapes himself around Clint’s neck too, Natasha’s arms overlapping his.
Clint's not gonna drop them. They're too important to him.
Clint angles himself back, jogs the few steps forward, and then he's off, springing free into the air, breathless.
There's something about the wind whipping through Clint's hair that feels like flying, but it's different, good different, because he's grounded by the two bodies seated securely in his lap. The painting is fastened to Clint's side, hanging precariously near Natasha's hip, and Clint can’t help it when he begins to laugh, the sirens blaring in the distance, the cold air cutting into his face, and the tears that gather in his eyes.
Natasha and James stare at him like he’s insane, but really, they shoulda known what they were getting into, when they asked him to join them on heists like this.
When they land, it's terrible, all of them trying to catch their footing at once. Clint stumbles three feet forward and nearly drops the Renoir. James and Natasha end up in a disastrous heap on the edge of the rooftop, pushed up against the lip of the building. James's jeans are ripped from the knee, but it serves him right for wearing jeans that tight for a heist.
James yanks his mask off with a huff and throws it on the ground with a loud thwap. Natasha laughs and her mask comes off too, flying high in the air like a graduation cap. James clutches her by the waist, pulls her flush against him, and then they’re kissing, entirely too passionate and intimate for Clint to be watching.
Clint’s never actually asked if they were together, he’d just assumed not, but the way they kiss now, hot and well-practiced, shows him he was wrong the whole damn time, they must’ve been in tandem the entire time he’s known them, and he just never got to see it.
It makes Clint ache inside as they kiss, oblivious to the rest of the world, because he’d been hoping that the way they looked at him was more than the way they looked at everybody else. That he’d be their third piece with more than just his skills.
Clint coughs a little, and they stop mashing their faces together to look up at him. He’s afraid his eyes are too revealing, too vulnerable, so he plasters on a grin. “Hey,” he says, “I got us out of there. Where’s my kiss?”
Natasha climbs off of James and takes her time walking over to him, shoulders back, lips twisted in a devastating simper. Clint’s eyebrows pinch together, because she’s moving towards him with something so intent, so serious, he’s worried he said something wrong. He’s about to apologize, explain, something, but he doesn’t get the chance to. Because Natasha’s hands are on his shoulders. Natasha’s face is inches from his. And then Natasha’s lips are pressing against his own in a cold, chapped lip kiss.
The air punches out of Clint’s chest and he makes a weird wheezing sound, startled, because he was just joking, Jesus.
Natasha’s lips are sweet, like cherry chapstick, and there’s something else there too, something he’s convinced is James’s saliva, and the thought of that makes something curl hot and dangerous in his stomach.
He is so, so fucked.
Clint thinks about the rooftop often. How easy it was. To hold them both close, to kiss Natasha, to laugh, adrenaline-drunk, running from alarms and a rich guy’s security team.
He wants more of it. The kissing, not the running. But it’s not just about getting naked, because Clint dreams about holding their hands and snuggling up on the couch just as much as he dreams about getting them into bed.
Maybe one day, when they’re all retired, he can tell them how he feels. Finally break free from the tightness in his chest, the way the words squirm on his tongue as he tries to hold them back.
But Clint wouldn’t trade anything they have now for any of that.
Because they go on road trips all over the country and they feed Lucky pizza and they stay in random safehouses and they talk shit about art, and they find new ways to grate on each other’s nerves and then smooth it over again, and it’s- it’s wild and it’s fucking hilarious and it’s theirs , their ridiculous art thief sandwich, the kind Clint will never tire of- the kind he wants to savor. Keep in his mouth, hold on to for as long as he can.
From Youtube - Robbery Unsolved: Heist of Lonny Tusk’s Private Collection
BizzareRobberies 9,086,691 views • Dec 1, 2021
Funny that the Lonny Tusk robbery is the only heist with a specific description of the robbers.
From that washed up security guard, right?
Yeah. Said they were two blonde guys. Six-foot.
You know, it sounds a lot like he was describing himself.
Maybe he was. But it’s Iowa. There are a lot of blonde dudes in Iowa.
You think he’s in on it too?
Huh. Could be. The jobs are getting more complex. It’d make sense if they had a third.
“Clint,” James says, and his voice sounds like it's coming from underwater. “Clint, what's the fuckin’ problem ?”
Clint’s jaw is starting to hurt from how hard he’s clenching his teeth. They're outside and it's the middle of winter, but the air burns red hot when he swallows it down.
He's supposed to go in the house with Natasha and James. Tasha’s on lookout today and all he has to do is stand there and make sure everything goes right. He can't.
"We've gotta go,” James says. He looks feverish, eyes overly-bright. “So either get your ass back to the car or-”
“Shut up,” Natasha says.
“But-”
“Shut up, James.” Her eyes are fierce and furious. She gestures to Clint’s trembling hands with a tilt of her chin.
James’s eyes soften. Clint shuts his eyes. He doesn't want to be here for this. He just wants to be home, with Lucky, buried under a thousand blankets and never wake up again.
Someone puts their hands on his shoulders. Guides him back to the car. He goes willingly. Slumps down into the back seat.
Natasha sits on his left. James on his right.
“You know this house or somethin’?”
Hell yeah, Clint knows this house. He's been studying the security for two weeks, but houses look real different in blueprints and he hadn't realized the location was in fucking Springfield. Fuck. This is why he should ask more questions, instead of leaving it all to Nat.
“Clint,” Natasha says softly. “Talk to us.”
Clint shakes himself out of it. It's James and Natasha. He can do this.
“There's this guy I used to do security jobs for,” he says slowly. “At the circus. Real awful guy.” He swallows hard. “My brother and I were desperate for cash. Had to pay for the rent since my dad was a drunken piece of shit. So we'd help the guy siphon money out of the circus owner.” He’s still shaking. Why the fuck is he still shaking? “I never– I was gonna turn him in. I swear I was. But he found out.”
James’s jaw is clenched, the knuckles of his hand white where he’s gripping his leg. “And then what?”
Natasha reaches for Clint’s arm and gives it a squeeze. Clint doesn't want to say it now, now that he's got a captive audience, but he needs to fucking explain why he can't go in there.
“He beat the shit out of us and left us for dead.” He lets the air hang heavy with it, his throat too tight to continue. “I recovered. Mostly.” He gestured to his ears. “Lucky stayed with me. Saved my life. But Barney… He’s had to have several surgeries.”
“How old were you?” James whispers.
Clint’s eyes sting. He presses his palms to them. “Sixteen. I dunno if he's still there, but Nat, I can’t- you gotta do this-” he breaks off, and Natasha wraps her arms around him as a dry sob chokes out.
“We're leaving,” Natasha announces.
They do.
Clint’s never had anyone do that for him. Care about his discomfort. Listen to him as he explains. Leave when things get too much.
(Or look at him like that. Like he's too precious to leave behind.)
Back at the safehouse, Clint slumps down on the couch. Lucky drapes his body over his feet, warm. James leans into Clint’s right side. Natasha holds him close on his left. Clint inhales slowly. Takes in James’s cologne. Natasha’s shampoo.
And between the two of them, his art thief sandwich, he feels like he can breathe again.