Mumble

②⓪①⑤ - C H A P T E R : [1 8]

18.

Ozzie remembered the first time he had met Clint—it was just over a year ago; James had been so happy, like a puppy bringing its owner a bone or a cat leaving a trail of entrails on the front porch as his two favorite people finally agreed to meet—stepping through the very same set of gleaming metal doors he was now. To be accurate, 'remembered' was a touch more diplomatic a verb than the reality warranted. The memory was more...snapshots. Blurred, still Polaroids of meticulous details; moments of lucid clarity tied to even more intense flares of overwhelming emotion. They'd snapped shut like jaws back then, the doors, and even through the haze of too-much too-strong medication Ozzie'd been under he'd flinched, the sudden definitive click of the lock the harrowing snck! of a guillotine blade against his bared neck.

James had been with him though, a loose arm around his shoulder to keep him grounded, keeping him present, Ozzie's rock then, now and 'til the end of the line'. The Stark to his Romanoff. The Bucky to his Steve.

Even when James wasn't physically beside him.

So, it was with that thought Ozzie stepped in between the Clint (and Courtney) in the now and into the esoteric abode. And this time—this time—Ozzie wouldn't, couldn't, didn't flinch, not even when the door slid shut behind him with that whisper thin—

Snck!

Not even a twitch.

Ozzie took a moment to breathe, still coming down from the—not a flashback, not a panic attack, something else, something different, something not him, wasn't him, couldn't be him—whatever it was he'd felt a minute ago and looked around. The décor hadn't changed a lot since the last time Ozzie had visited (which thinking back on it had probably been that meeting a year ago). The entry hall was still floor to ceiling marble and granite, probably real considering just where Clint lived. Of course, there was always the chance it wasn't, and it was another one of Clint's...peculiarities like the garden full of artificial flowers outside, but Ozzie thought that unlikely. Clint may have been decidedly eccentric, but he was also someone exceedingly vain and being able to say 'Yes of course this is real marble! I imported it straight from Greece!', was just the sort of proud showmanship Ozzie'd come to expect from him.

The Greco-Roman busts lining the hall on freshly polished pedestals, from Socrates to Augustus Caesar, those, though, those had to be replicas. Even Clint couldn't be that dirty filthy rich, right? At least Ozzie didn't think so.

On the walls, tacked between each marble head were large paintings wrapped in ornamental frames of gold and ivory. Ozzie recognized a few of them, The Nightmare by Henry Fuseli, Goya's Saturn Devouring His Son, the Baroque Judith Slaying Halofernes by Artemisia. It was deeply impersonal, like walking through a particularly morbid museum. Ozzie almost felt like he should be taking off his shoes, padding across the entryway in socks and trying not make a sound—look but do not touch, look, don't touch, don't touch, look— It was a truly exuberant show of wealth.

Clint cleared his throat, "well, come on then. We can walk and talk. Tell Mama Clint what's up so I can bippity-boppity-boop your ass back out of my house."

Ozzie nodded, and satisfied Clint turned again, drumming a hand against his hip and gesturing for Courtney's attention with a distracted flick of a limp gun wielding wrist. He began walking down the hall with quick even steps, hips sashaying like a runway model. It was implicit they would follow.

"Yes, Clint?" Courtney asked as she caught up. She stayed a respectful distance behind him, her posture eerily machinelike in its precision and her tone mild as always.