I'll fight for you (Clintasha)✔️

☆☾12☽☆ Suspect

Clint spent his morning training, then went to pick up Natasha after school.

"First on the list is Samson's Hardwares." Clint announced as they stopped by Starbucks to buy a drink.

"Did you bring extra cash?" Natasha asked, sipping on the chocolate chip crème frappuccino.

"Yeah...why?" Clint replied, puzzled.

"Money makes people talk."

"Oh yeah? Do I have to pay to make you talk?" He teased.

"I wouldn't mind the extra cash." She smirked and handed him the drink.

And so the pair headed to said store after finishing their drink.

Clint and Natasha couldn't deny that they were a tad bit disappointed at the store before them. Yes, they had expected a small store along some shabby street, but no imagination could compare to what stood before them.

"This...is it." Clint let out a breath.

The pair stared up at the metal sign hanging on one of its hinges and could barely make out the word 'Samson's' and 'Hardwares'. It currently looked more like 'Sm Wres', with all the dust and scrapes and lacerations and faded paint.

The windows were a musty grey, thousand-year-old dust hiding the revelation of the shop behind. Crates and rotting cardboard boxes lined the outside.

Clint sighed, realising his plan of asking for CCTV footage is nearly impossible, considering the condition of the shop.

"C'mon, this place looks inconspicuous enough for a serial killer." Natasha tugged on his arm and dragged him towards the splintered wooden door.

A rusty bell tinkled as they stepped into the stale interior of the shop. Hardware items were messily chucked into storage boxes that lined the shelves, no price tags, you would just have to ask.

Clint wondered how the shop could still be running when it looked like it could fall apart any moment.

He busied himself with inspecting the first few shelves of items while Natasha disappeared into the store looking for the owner.

She found him perched on a stool behind the counter, ring on one ear and long tangled brown hair draped messily on both sides of his face. His teeth were blackened from cigarette and he was probably forty.

"What brings a beautiful lady like you here?" He crooned, leaning forward on the counter. Natasha almost retreated at the stench emanating from him.

"We're here to obtain some information." Clint was at her side in a moment. He held out his S.H.I.E.L.D ID and wondered if the man even recognized anything other than the police emblem.

"What makes you think I would have any information?" He scratched his chin with a long yellowed fingernail.

"Has anyone been purchasing this model of knives regularly or in bulk?" Clint shoved the printed image of the knife towards him.

"I'm not one to give without receiving." He leaned back in his stool and observed his fingernails absently.

A wad of cash was thrust onto the tabletop.

"That's a lot." Natasha whispered.

"Fury pays." Clint replied nonchalantly.

"I see some sincerity. There is this man, or should I say boy, that comes every few weeks and purchases six knives at a go. Says they're for his uncle's cooking class, cheaper to buy in bulk." He sieved through the notes, looking satisfied.