Not That Lucky

#02: The Best Kind of Food is Free Food

"After a traumatic experience, the human system of self-preservation seems to go onto permanent alert. As if the danger might return at any moment." -Unknown

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Unsurprisingly, I woke up in a lot of pain.

Surprisingly, it wasn't the pain itself that startled me awake.

There was someone in my room. I could feel it and it left the hairs on the back of my neck stiff and standing on edge. With slow movements I kept my back facing whoever was staring at me but shifted my hand to under the pillow. To whatever dead man snuck into my apartment it'd look like I was just shifting in my sleep. My hand wrapped around the wooden handle of the knife I always slept on.

"If you're planning on attacking, I wouldn't recommend it."

Oh, for fuck's sake.

I let go of the knife and rolled over. The redheaded, gorgeous spy from last night was leaning against my dresser. She was less dressed up than she was last night having traded in the gold, shimmery dress for a pair of black leggings and navy hoodie that was too big for her.

"Wow." I grumbled and sat up to stretch the kinks out of my back, "You're a super secret agent. Isn't breaking and entering beneath you?"

Natasha, if I remembered her name correctly, smirked, "Is it really breaking and entering if you left your front door unlocked?"

"Touché."

"Plus, we did say we'd see you in the morning."

"Didn't mention you'd sneak into my apartment to do it." I mumbled under my breath to myself. It was much, much too early for this shit. The agent didn't move from her spot as I rolled out of bed. My face ached something fierce and I assumed most of that pain came from my last fight of the night. I had their agent friend to thank for that.

Not paying the agent any mind, I stumbled into my small bathroom to wash my face. For the pain I felt, I actually didn't look too bad. A busted lip, a black eye, and the faint tracings of a bruised cheekbone on the opposite side of my face. Nice. I shut the bathroom door and went about my morning routine of using the bathroom then brushing my teeth. When I came back out, Natasha was still leaning against the dresser with her arms crossed. Her short, red hair looked like a halo of flames surrounding her face with the sun coming through the window on it.

"Not gonna lie, I was kinda hoping you had been a hallucination."

She shook her head, "We aren't." Natasha pushed herself off the dresser and motioned around, "For someone who fights as well as you do, I thought your place would be nicer. Don't you get paid for the rounds you win?"

I barked out a laugh and pointed at her with my hand in the shape of a finger gun, "That's funny." Natasha raised an eyebrow at me as I continued to chuckle and dropped my hand, "And that's not how that works."

Ignoring her gaze, I opened my bedroom door to walk out into the rest of my shoebox apartment. The guy from last night, Clint, was standing by my bookshelf in jeans, a t-shirt, and a worn-out jacket. He raised his hand in a cheerful greeting, "Morning!"

"Aw, you break into my house, but you're too much of a gentleman to actually come into my room?" I shot him a mocking grin, "And they say chivalry is dead."

Clint smiled back cheekily, "I live to please."

I passed him to move into my tiny kitchen and began to dig through the cabinets looking for medicine. As I pulled out a rather large bottle of ibuprofen, my eyes caught a glance of Clint moving his hands quickly to Natasha. He was signing. It had been a very long time since I've seen someone signing and even longer since I had signed to anyone myself, but I managed to pick up a few things. Like 'all clear' and 'found nothing'.