little slice of sanity|c. barton

Chapter One

          Clint stepped out of his room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he tried to softly shut the door behind him. It wad two in the morning, and he had just woken up from another nightmare. It was a I-saw-my-friends-dead-on-the-floor-get-me-out-of-here-before-I-scream type dream, and saying he was shaken would be putting it pretty lightly.

          He snuck out of the Avengers Tower, walking down the mostly empty street with no exact destination. New York truly was the City That Never Sleeps, and he could still hear music throbbing from a block over, mixed with the quiet roar of the cars that remained on the streets. Clint's eyes lit up when he noticed an open food cart, something that was odd this early in the morning. At any othet time, it would have mafe him instantly suspicious, but right now he was tired and hungry as hell, and a soft pretzel sounded like heaven.

          But as he approached the cart, he saw something he hadn't worried about before: there was a woman coming towards the cart on the other side. The two locked eyes across the dim street, and they both immediately started walking faster. Damn, she is good, Clint thought, starting to sprint and watching her match his speed. Both of them arrived at the cart at the exact same time, each glaring at the other with a grudging respect. "That is my pretzel," Clint growled, poking his finger at the only remaining one. "Hell no," she shot back. "I beat you here!" "You did not!" the Avenger whined.
"Did too!"
"Did not!"
"Did too!"
"Did not!"
"Did-" but the mystery woman was cut off by the vendor. "Not that I wouldn't love to see how this ends," he said, "but that is my pretzel. We're closed!"

          The vendor pulled down the metal bars, and the woman ran a hand through her hair in exasperation. "This is your fault," she growled at Clint. "I just wanted a bloody pretzel! Was that too much to ask?" Clint rolled his eyes. "Well, I wanted one, too!" he snapped. "It's not my fault!" She stuck her tongue out at him. Clint blinked, unsure how to respond, when he found himself sticking his tongue out right back at her.

          She smiled, the irritation draining from her face, until she looked down at her watch. She paled immediately when she read the clock. "Oh my God," she whispered, before looking up at Clint. "IT'S TWO IN THE MORNING." Clint smiled incredulously. "You didn't know that?" he asked. "IT'S TWO IN THE MOTHERFLUFFING MORNING," she repeated. "I ONLY WANTED TO FINISH THE EPISODE, NOT WATCH HALF A SEASON!"

          She was pacing now, muttering things about 'off tomorrow,' 'frickin' Supernatural,' and 'damn that cute-ass angel.' Clint couldn't help but burst out laughing, clutching his side as she glared at him. "So you're telling me you stayed up all night and then decided to get a soft pretzel without even checking the time?" he said when he could finally breathe again. She stared at him for a moment, before cracking and adding her laughter to his.

          "Ah, I am such a mess," she muttered when the laughter died down. "Well, Miss What-Time-Is-It," Clint said, "since our favorite food cart so rudely shut down," he paused to glare at the cart, "care to help me find another?" "Oh, you know it!" They headed off down the street, their laughter ringing through the air and never quite leaving for the rest of the morning.

          The duo walked through the city for hours, buying pretzels wherever they could, and talking about nearly everything, from favorite movies and books (hers were The Shining and Les Misérables, he learned), to the meaning of life and religion. But mainly they laughed. They laughed until their sides hurt and they laughed until they couldn't breathe and they laughed until they sobbed. And they managed to do all of this without ever even learning the other's name. Though, of course, she probably recognized him from a newspaper headline, just imagine it: two complete strangers walking around New York City and talking about anything and everything for hours. Odd, no?

          They walked down the Tower's street in a comfortable silence, finishing off their last pretzels as they went. "This is my cue to go, Pretzel Man," the mystery woman said as they stopped outside of the door. "Pretzel Man?" "Pretzel Man," she confirmed. "See you around." Clint started to open the door, before asking, "Wait, what's your number?" and turning around. But the section of the sidewalk where she had been standing was empty.

          Clint rolled his eyes as he walked back into the Tower, muttering, "You meet someone who might just have been a figment of your imagination at a food cart at two in the morning and you don't think to ask for their number earlier?! Also, Pretzel Man! Why did it have to be Pretzel Man? I would prefer Spandex, for God's sake! Actually, no, I wouldn't. And she doesn't know that. She probably does, be realistic."

          Natasha raised an eyebrow at his rant as he entered the kitchen. "Well, it sounds like you certainly had a fun night," she said. Clint looked up, saying, "I'm not sure if the last five hours of my life were a hallucination induced by me having pretzels, I need caffeine." "Clinton," Natasha replied, pouring him a cup of coffee, "I'm not entirely certain if I should be worried or if this is just your version of normalcy."

          Clint gulped down the coffee as he said, "Yep, that definitely happened. I need to sleep." "It's seven in the morning." "I'm aware of that, Nat. Your point?" Natasha shook her head bemusedly, letting the tired man head back to his bedroom. Maybe her bet with Tony would be more easily won than she had thought...

          "LADY NATASHA!" Thor boomed as he entered the kitchen. "WHAT IS WRONG WITH FRIEND CLINT? HE LOOKED ILL AND REFUSED TO PERFORM THE CUSTOMARY CHEST-BUMP! HE WAS SPEAKING OF 'PRETZEL MEN!' ARE THESE MEN OF PRETZEL NEW FOES?" Natasha couldn't help but chuckle. "I don't think we'll be fighting any pretzel men, Thor," she said. When the Asgardian looked disappointed, she added, "Maybe someday."

          Thor beamed, but the smile quickly faded when he opened his box of pop tarts to find it empty. "WHAT VILLAIN HAS DONE THIS?!" Natasha sighed.  Here we go again.