Birds and Cupcakes

One

You picked up the phone and answered without even checking the screen, "'Lo?"

Hey! Sorry did I wake you?

Blinking groggily, you pull the phone away from your ear to squint at the screen—blocked number—putting it back to your ear you croak out, "Clint?"

Clint was supposed to be in prison for some sort of mess involving Steve Rogers and breaking international law. You'd watched the news coverage with a sour feeling in your gut. Few people knew that one of your closest friends was a former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent turned Avenger. But he was, and you owed who you were now to him.

Yeah, look can you meet me?

"Meet you?" your brain wasn't engaging.

Yes. Meet me. Please?

You could hear the slight edge of desperation in his tone. With a groan, you pushed to sit up, scrubbing your free hand over your face. You might have crawled into bed less than two hours ago after working nearly 24 hours straight, but this was Clint. And if he was asking to meet, it was probably pretty important.

"Yeah, sure. Where?"

The Spot?

"Ugh, fine but if I need to go update my tetanus shot I'm charging you," you say before hanging up.

Digging through the piles of clothes in your closet–it had been a long couple of weeks and you were behind on house chores–you found a pair of jeans and a shirt that you were sure was mostly clean. Lacing your work boots on, you stood and stuffed your wallet and phone in your pockets before heading out.

The Spot was the diviest of dive bars. The kind of place where your feet will stick to the bathroom floor and you definitely shouldn't drink anything that doesn't come out of a bottle or with high alcohol content. Only populated by grumpy regulars and the occasional brave tourist or college student, it was a place where no one gave a shit who you were.

Which is exactly why you and Clint used it whenever you went out for drinks.

Considering the obscene hour, there were only two other patrons in the bar. Sliding onto a bar stool, you watched as the owner sidled up to you. Tall as a tree, built like a brick house, Charles Thompson was a behemoth of a man.

He eyed you critically for a moment before he said, "You look like dog shit that was riding around on the bottom of someone's shit kickers before they scraped it off on the curb."

"Fuck you, Chance."

He pursed his lips at you, "Aww, name a time and place, cupcake, and I'll rock your world."

Although he looked like the devil that was found running a brutal motorcycle club, Chance was a shrewd business owner, a minor softie, and someone person who protected what he considered his people. Over the years, you and Clint had somehow become part of that elite group.

"So, why are you here when you look like you should be in a big, soft bed instead?" Chance asked.

Yawning so widely you heard your jaw crack, you said, "Clint said he needed to talk."

Chance's dark eyes narrowed, and he pulled out a chipped coffee cup from under the bar. Pulling out a silver coffee pot, he poured the thick tar colored liquid out before he nudged the cup in front of you.

"Aw, Chance, I don't want your battery acid. I want to keep my stomach lining if it is all the same to you," you say as you eye the cup with disdain.

He sucked on his teeth before he said, "Cupcake, that's my extra special brew, not the stuff I give to just anyone. And if what he looks like is any sign, you're gonna need that kind of kick."