FIC: Curiouser & Curiouser 1: Dark Heritage (Avengers Movies/Friday the 13th the series)
I went through about four different ideas for my HorrorBigBang fic... and wound up using none of them. I also wound up mixing up due dates for the four other things I signed up for! (Note to self, next time you think, 'oh, that sounds like fun' CHECK THE DAMN DUE DATES!!!)
Anyway, this is the first in a series that I hope I have the stamina to complete eventually (I'm at about 20 'eps' planned spread over two seasons).
I was made some lovely art, too - link to crazyfoolstiney's art post will be posted once I receive it - including a lovely divider I'm still working out how to put in!
TITLE: Dark Heritage
SERIES: Curiouser and Curiouser 1
AUTHOUR: TaleWeaver
RATING/CONTENT: this chapter - Mature / MA15+. Violence, supernatural themes, adult concepts
SPOILERS: character backgrounds: mostly Movie-verse, up to and including ‘Avengers’, with vague references to the characters’ comic backgrounds.
DISCLAIMER: Characters belong to Marvel. Story concepts of Friday the 13th the series belong to Paramount/CBS. This story based largely on the script for ‘The Inheritance’, written by Bill Taub. No profit is being made from this work, and no copyright infringement is intended.
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton, Phil Coulson. Natasha & Clint & Phil (friendship/family), eventual Natasha/Clint, Natasha & Steve (friendship). Other character/pairings to be determined or spoilers.
SERIES/STORY SUMMARY: (fusion with Friday the 13th: the series) Clint Barton, freshly discharged from the Army Special Forces, isn’t sure what to do with the rest of his life. Graduate student Natasha Romanoff hasn’t been in contact with her great-uncle Ivan Petrovich in decades. The two distant cousins have never even heard of each other before they find out that they’ve inherited Ivan’s antique store. In the midst of a clear-out sale, they meet Ivan’s old acquaintance and occult scholar Phil Coulson, and make a horrifying discovery: Ivan Petrovich made a bargain with dark powers that cursed all his antiques - including the ones that Natasha and Clint have just sold. Now, Natasha, Clint and Phil must join forces and risk their lives to retrieve the antiques and put an end to Ivan’s legacy of evil magic and death.
Part one
BRIGHTON BEACH, BROOKLYN
NEW YORK CITY
All the weather reports had predicted a dark and stormy night - and they were right, for once.
Ivan Petrovitch lifted his head and frowned as the pounding of rain on the front windows of his store grew louder. It wasn’t for a few moments that he realised that it was actually knocking on the glass panels of the door.
Face creased with annoyance, he left the counter and walked to the front door. Before he could point to the ‘closed’ sign, the door opened and a middle-aged couple swept in, followed by a smaller, slight figure.
“The store closes at six,” Ivan informed them flatly.
“We’re sorry to trouble you-“ began the man, sporting a sandy-blonde mustache and hair.
“Our car broke down, and then this ridiculous storm came in!” interrupted the woman. Her dark hair was cut in a short, curly style that reminded Ivan of one of those ridiculous poodles. “We’ll only be here for as long as it takes our cab to arrive.”
Two months ago, some barely-legal Central Park bimbo had come into the store with one of those poodles in her handbag! Ivan had been about to take great pleasure in throwing the ill-mannered brat out of the store, when she’d demanded he sell her a Victorian hairclip from his special stock. Ivan had taken even greater pleasure in doing so.
Both adults were dressed in upscale, expensive looking clothing, as was the small girl with hair the same colour as the man’s. Normally, this was the kind of customer that made Ivan see dollar signs, but something about this trio set his teeth on edge - and not just the fact that he couldn’t stand children. The energies around this group seethed with resentment and irritation - and confusion on the man’s part.
The girl had slipped past the adults, and her face lit up as she looked at the Art Deco bookshelf near the counter.
“Daddy, look!” she exclaimed, and darted past Ivan. Standing on tiptoe, she picked up an antique china doll, with flowing dark hair and dark glass eyes. Dressed in a nineteenth-century style dress, trimmed lavishly with real lace, the doll’s chin bore the vertical slits of a ventriloquist’s dummy. Nestling the doll snugly in her arms, she turned to display her prize.
As Mary turned her face up to her father, the Tiffany lampshade nearby cast a red light onto her hair. For a few moments, the little blonde girl became a redhead.
Ivan sucked in a breath, and hurriedly told them, “I’m sorry, that doll’s not for sale.”
Mary looked dumbfounded, and the older woman annoyed.
“But-“
“Are you sure?” the man asked. “I’m happy to match your price.”
“Honestly, another present?” the woman exclaimed. “She already has more than enough toys as it is!”
“But Daddy-”
The man sighed in resignation. “Mary, you need to listen to your mother.”
“She’s not my mother,” Mary replied flatly. “My mother’s dead.”
Ivan ground his teeth silently. Honestly, these three could take the Victrola off his hands, and it wouldn’t be worth this.
“I’m saving it for my great-niece,” Ivan told them all firmly. “It shouldn’t even be out here.”
Moving forward purposefully, he plucked the doll from Mary’s arms, and before she could raise another protest, swiftly herded the squabbling family to the door. “Now, I believe I see your cab out the window. Good night, and please come back when the store is open.”
Shutting the door behind them with a force just short of slamming it, Ivan turned on his heel and eyeballed the doll, who returned his flat stare. “You need to remain on standby for awhile longer,” Ivan told the doll. “I don’t know how you got up here in the first place.”
Without further ado, Ivan crossed the store to the raised landing against the wall, right near the counter. From here, one staircase led down to the basement, and another up to his private apartment.
But in his irritation, he forgot to look the door.
Several minutes later, Ivan stomped back up the stairs and headed back to the counter, only to stop in his tracks as one of the shadows between the antiques moved in ways it shouldn’t have.
“What?” he growled.
The shadow moved forward and became a reed-thin man, pasty, sweaty and dressed in nondescript clothing, who pointed a revolver at him with a shaking hand.
“Give me everything in the till,” the robber demanded, his eyes darting around with the hyper-activity of a junkie in need of a fix.
“Seriously?” Ivan demanded of the universe at large. As if he hadn’t had a long enough day already?
“Hey!” shouted the grimy man. “I told you to give me the money!”
“Look around you,” Ivan gestured around the room. “Does it look like I keep much cash on hand? Not many people these days carry around the kind of cash it takes to purchase my stock. Ninety per cent of my trade is in credit cards.”
Ivan eyed the gun held in the idiot’s trembling hand, and bit back a sigh of exasperation. “Be careful with that thing! You might shoot your own toes off.”
The junkie’s face snarled, “No one talks to me like that!”
A deep, hollow bang filled the store.
A rapidly-growing circle of blood appeared on Ivan’s stomach, the bright red a shocking contrast to the white shirt.
Ivan’s eyes widened in alarm and shock as he clutched at the wound - it hurt. How could it hurt? How could this junkie trash hurt him?
Steadying himself with one hand on the counter, the lamplight hit something around the intruder’s neck. Hanging on a leather cord was a pendant shaped like an upside-down T; the shaft carved to look wrapped in cord-like bindings, with a string of six runes scrolling across the bar.
Even as his strength drained away and the world faded to black, Ivan couldn’t help but chuckle in bitter irony.
JFK AIRPORT, NEW YORK CITY
SIX MONTHS LATER
Natasha Romanoff strode through the airport with an energy that belied her inner exhaustion. A large backpack over her shoulder and a small suitcase held in her hand, she didn’t notice the various men (and women) in her wake that followed her with their eyes.
With glorious red hair, a slim but curvy figure and a lovely face, Natasha had spent far more of her life resenting her beauty than enjoying it. Especially lately, when it had become a major contributor to the shambles her future academic career had become.
Annoying as this whole mess was, it was a relief to get back to New York for a few days.
“Natasha! Over here.”
Natasha’s face lit up in response, as she saw the blonde man waiting for her. “Steve!”
She walked straight into his welcoming hug, automatically setting her suitcase between their feet on the floor.
“Oh, Natasha, I’ve missed you so much,” Steve Rogers murmured, hugging her so tightly her bones creaked.
Natasha buried her face in her oldest and dearest friend’s chest, and breathed in the clean, old-fashioned scent of him as she returned the hug with equal force.
“I’ve missed you too,” lifting her head, Natasha gave a rare, stunning smile, which melted into a frown as she added, “I can’t believe that I’m back in the city for the first time in over a year, and it’s the same few days you’re heading to California. You’ll look in on Micki and Ryan while you’re there?”
“Of course,” Steve agreed. “Does Micki still make those awesome cookies?”
“Of course,” Natasha retorted.
“Oh! Before I forget,” Steve dug in his jeans pocket, and pulled out a key ring. “Here’s the spare keys to my place, just in case. Just push them into the mailbox when you leave.”
“Steve,” Natasha sighed. “You do realise that an entire four-story building was included in Ivan’s estate?”
Steve ducked his head and blushed. Natasha still couldn’t figure out how a six-foot tall man with the muscles of a professional fighter and the looks of an old-time matinee idol could blush, let alone be as adorable as a whole litter of puppies. But it was just one of the sweet and strange things about the man who’d been her soul-brother since she was eleven years old.
“It’s just in case, alright? I fully acknowledge that you are fully capable of taking care of yourself, but you said it yourself, Natasha, you’d never even heard of this Barton guy until you got the letter from the probate lawyer. He could be all kinds of sketchy. And Ivan may have lived above the store, but who knows what kind of condition the building’s in? I just need to know that you’ve got somewhere to retreat to if you need it.”
Natasha gently rolled her eyes as her lips curved into a tiny smile. “Alright, fine. Thank you for your concern. When does your flight leave?”
“An hour and a half,” Steve said. “Have you had dinner yet? We could grab something here after I check in?”
“Sounds good.”
* * * * *
Two hours later, Natasha paid the cab driver a good tip for actually helping her unload her bags onto the front stoop of the sepia-coloured building. A large inset sign above the door still read ‘Ivan Petrovich Antiques and Collectibles’ in fading gold Gothic script.
Retrieving the keys the lawyer had sent her from her jacket pocket, Natasha unlocked the door and ventured into the building.
After locking the door behind her for safety’s sake, Natasha stopped just inside, letting her eyes adjust to the gloom. The overhead lights weren’t turned on; instead, dozens of plain, supermarket-issue candles were dotted around the room in clumps, clustered on both ends of what appeared to be a sales counter, casting enough light to show a raised landing and the beginnings of a staircase. Several other clusters lit a dim path to the counter.
Natasha took a deep breath, suddenly realising how tense she was. She must have unconsciously braced herself against any memories without realising it. But nothing was coming, much to her relief.
“Hi.”
Natasha whirled, biting back a scream. She automatically grabbed her hard-shelled suitcase and swung it at the voice that came out of the darkness.
“Woah, waitaminute!” the voice continued. “I come in peace!”
A footstep on hardwood sounded, then another, and Natasha’s heart slowed a little, as the shadows parted to reveal a man of medium height in jeans, grey T-shirt and leather jacket, holding his hands in the air in front of him as he slowly moved forward.
Natasha let out a noise of sheer frustration, and turned to run her hand along the side of the doorframe. The fruitless clicking must have been audible, because the man informed her, “The electricity won’t be turned on until tomorrow.”
“Oh, fantastic,” Natasha seethed.
“Let me guess - you had some turbulence on your flight?”
Natasha let out a bitter chuckle. “Try the last four months.” Leaning back against the doorjamb, she took another look at her new companion.
Even in the shadows, she could tell he had a muscular, highly-toned body, hard and strong - hadn’t the lawyer said something about probate being delayed because the other heir was deployed overseas? His eyes were a piercing light blue; his short hair looked to be sandy blonde or brown in the dim light. He wasn’t handsome, but his face was interesting - easy to look away from once, but impossible not to continually look at again. The French term jolie vrie probably described it best.
“I’m guessing you’re Clinton Barton.”
Barton winced. “Clint, please. Yeah. Clint Barton, formerly of the US Army, now of... well, still trying to work that out. You must be Natalia Romanoff?”
“Natasha. Natalia’s only for government bureaucracy. Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise. I have to ask - was getting the letter from the probate office as much a shock to you as it was to me? I mean, I had no idea you or Ivan Petrovich even existed until then - I thought I didn’t have any blood relatives left in the world. We’re what, third cousins?”
“I think so; we have the same great-grandparents,” Natasha nodded. “Almost as much of a shock. I’d never heard of you, either, until the letter. But I did know about Great-Uncle Ivan. I hadn’t seen or heard from him since shortly after my parents died - I was five - so I don’t remember him at all. Or this place, even though I apparently lived here with him for a few weeks, until my parents’ wills confirmed custody was meant to go to my godparents.”
“Oh? They live in town?”
“We used to. We lived at the other end of the Brooklyn. They moved out to San Francisco when I started college.” Natasha looked around. “I really don’t fancy the idea of stumbling around in the dark. Did you get a look at the apartments upstairs before nightfall? My best friend lives a few blocks away, so we can crash there if we have to.”
Natasha couldn’t say what exactly it was about her newfound relative that led her to extend Steve’s thoughtful offer of refuge to him. Something about Clint Barton simply struck a chord inside, telling her instincts that he could be trusted. That he could be depended upon. She’d known him for all of five minutes, but she already liked him very much. She hoped that Steve would come home in time for her to introduce them, because she was almost certain Steve would like him too.
“Yeah, I got here a little before sundown. I’ve slept in much worse places,” Clint shrugged. “On the other hand, there’s only one real bed, and the couch looks pretty uncomfortable. The other two floors are pretty much storage space for the store. Don’t suppose you had any ideas for what you wanted to do with this place? According to the lawyer, we can take possession but the paperwork putting our names on the deed won’t come through for months yet, so we can’t sell the building. I know squat about antiques, so I don’t know about keeping the place going...”
“I have a masters’ degree to finish,” Natasha said firmly. “Linguistics and Eastern European languages.”
“Oh, yeah? I was stationed in that area for awhile. How many languages?”
Natasha smirked. “Russian, Polish, Czechoslovakian, German, French, Italian. I’m also conversant in Japanese and Chinese.”
“Really? I’ve got Romanian, Russian, Hungarian, French, Spanish, Cantonese and I’m decent in Arabic and Greek.”
“I also know Latin,” Natasha challenged.
“Huh. Does Hindu count if I only know swear words?”
Natasha giggled for a few seconds, before she froze in mortified shock. Giggling?
“Um, so what else is here?” she asked hastily.
“Haven’t really had a chance to look around here,” Clint replied. “I did remember to pick up a couple of heavy-duty flashlights, if you want a quick look?”
“I would like to get a basic idea of what’s lurking around here,” Natasha admitted.
Clint walked over to the counter and past it, and picked up a heavy steel cylinder in each hand from where they’d been sitting on the landing. He returned to the door, and offered one to Natasha. “Shall we?”
The store turned out to be mostly full of eighteenth and nineteenth century artifacts, with a few earlier pieces and some twentieth century items - mostly objects d’art - scattered in between. Natasha had, by necessity, spent a lot of time in museums and picked up a fair amount of knowledge, not to mention a serious flea-market and antique-fair habit.
“I’d need a better look in the light, but from what I can tell, the probate office got a fair appraisal done,” she ventured. “No hidden treasures here.”
“From what I remember of the map the lawyer sent, there’s a small alley that goes down the side and around the back - want to bet there’s a garage?” Clint offered.
“Lead on. Garage space in NYC? We could probably add several thousand to the sale price for that!” Natasha laughed.
Heading past the counter, Natasha eyed the Art Deco style bookshelf in the corner, already imagining how it would look in the living room of her tiny apartment back in Boston. The Tiffany lamp would be perfect on her bedside table. Depending on what Clint wanted to keep from the store, perhaps she could fit it in the storage place that still held a few things from when her foster parents moved?
She almost bumped into Clint, who’d stopped dead at the corner of the wall that ran behind the counter, from the stairs to a third of the way across the room. Natasha walked around him to see what he was so intent on, and was taken aback by a display of what looked to be the contents of an interrogation room from the Spanish Inquisition.
“Wow,” Clint said in appreciation, eyeing a body-sized and shaped cage with spikes designed to poke many holes in whatever poor bastard was placed inside. “I’m guessing that Ivan was very popular at Halloween.”
“I’m starting to understand why I didn’t see him after I moved in with Micki and Ryan,” Natasha replied. Tearing her eyes away from the gruesome display, Natasha moved to the back of the store, where an unobtrusive door was tucked in the corner.
Clint had been right; the door led into a small, dusty garage, which was mostly full of a car-shaped object covered in a tarp.
“Oh, please let this be the most fabulous car ever!” Clint mock-prayed. He pulled away the tarp to reveal what even Natasha knew was a classic car, though not the make.
“Yes! Not my style, admittedly,” Clint continued. “But what a score. Ivan must have gotten this beauty new, or soon after. This is what, fifties or sixties era? Damn,” he continued, moving to the front. “This is a Mercedes!”
Clint looked at Natasha and grinned; even in the near-darkness, the grin made her feel a flush of warmth through her whole body. He opened the back door, and gestured to the interior. “Milady?”
Natasha slid gracefully into the backseat - no seatbelt, but real leather upholstery! Clint all but teleported behind the wheel, and she almost expected him to start making ‘vroom-vroom’ noises.
Remembering childhood games with Steve and Bucky, Natasha leaned forward and put on her best Lady Penelope accent. “Home, Jeeves - and don’t spare the horses!”
Clint laughed, and leaned to the side to look in the glove compartment. “Well, the registration’s up to date - barely. It expires in a few weeks. At least we’ll have wheels, while we sort this stuff out.”
“Wheels, yes, but finding a parking place? Inside the city we’re better off with the subway,” Natasha remarked.
“True,” Clint shrugged. Shutting the glove compartment, he climbed out of the car. “Basement, next?”
Natasha shrugged back. “Why not?”
Anyway, this is the first in a series that I hope I have the stamina to complete eventually (I'm at about 20 'eps' planned spread over two seasons).
I was made some lovely art, too - link to crazyfoolstiney's art post will be posted once I receive it - including a lovely divider I'm still working out how to put in!
TITLE: Dark Heritage
SERIES: Curiouser and Curiouser 1
AUTHOUR: TaleWeaver
RATING/CONTENT: this chapter - Mature / MA15+. Violence, supernatural themes, adult concepts
SPOILERS: character backgrounds: mostly Movie-verse, up to and including ‘Avengers’, with vague references to the characters’ comic backgrounds.
DISCLAIMER: Characters belong to Marvel. Story concepts of Friday the 13th the series belong to Paramount/CBS. This story based largely on the script for ‘The Inheritance’, written by Bill Taub. No profit is being made from this work, and no copyright infringement is intended.
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton, Phil Coulson. Natasha & Clint & Phil (friendship/family), eventual Natasha/Clint, Natasha & Steve (friendship). Other character/pairings to be determined or spoilers.
SERIES/STORY SUMMARY: (fusion with Friday the 13th: the series) Clint Barton, freshly discharged from the Army Special Forces, isn’t sure what to do with the rest of his life. Graduate student Natasha Romanoff hasn’t been in contact with her great-uncle Ivan Petrovich in decades. The two distant cousins have never even heard of each other before they find out that they’ve inherited Ivan’s antique store. In the midst of a clear-out sale, they meet Ivan’s old acquaintance and occult scholar Phil Coulson, and make a horrifying discovery: Ivan Petrovich made a bargain with dark powers that cursed all his antiques - including the ones that Natasha and Clint have just sold. Now, Natasha, Clint and Phil must join forces and risk their lives to retrieve the antiques and put an end to Ivan’s legacy of evil magic and death.
Part one
BRIGHTON BEACH, BROOKLYN
NEW YORK CITY
All the weather reports had predicted a dark and stormy night - and they were right, for once.
Ivan Petrovitch lifted his head and frowned as the pounding of rain on the front windows of his store grew louder. It wasn’t for a few moments that he realised that it was actually knocking on the glass panels of the door.
Face creased with annoyance, he left the counter and walked to the front door. Before he could point to the ‘closed’ sign, the door opened and a middle-aged couple swept in, followed by a smaller, slight figure.
“The store closes at six,” Ivan informed them flatly.
“We’re sorry to trouble you-“ began the man, sporting a sandy-blonde mustache and hair.
“Our car broke down, and then this ridiculous storm came in!” interrupted the woman. Her dark hair was cut in a short, curly style that reminded Ivan of one of those ridiculous poodles. “We’ll only be here for as long as it takes our cab to arrive.”
Two months ago, some barely-legal Central Park bimbo had come into the store with one of those poodles in her handbag! Ivan had been about to take great pleasure in throwing the ill-mannered brat out of the store, when she’d demanded he sell her a Victorian hairclip from his special stock. Ivan had taken even greater pleasure in doing so.
Both adults were dressed in upscale, expensive looking clothing, as was the small girl with hair the same colour as the man’s. Normally, this was the kind of customer that made Ivan see dollar signs, but something about this trio set his teeth on edge - and not just the fact that he couldn’t stand children. The energies around this group seethed with resentment and irritation - and confusion on the man’s part.
The girl had slipped past the adults, and her face lit up as she looked at the Art Deco bookshelf near the counter.
“Daddy, look!” she exclaimed, and darted past Ivan. Standing on tiptoe, she picked up an antique china doll, with flowing dark hair and dark glass eyes. Dressed in a nineteenth-century style dress, trimmed lavishly with real lace, the doll’s chin bore the vertical slits of a ventriloquist’s dummy. Nestling the doll snugly in her arms, she turned to display her prize.
As Mary turned her face up to her father, the Tiffany lampshade nearby cast a red light onto her hair. For a few moments, the little blonde girl became a redhead.
Ivan sucked in a breath, and hurriedly told them, “I’m sorry, that doll’s not for sale.”
Mary looked dumbfounded, and the older woman annoyed.
“But-“
“Are you sure?” the man asked. “I’m happy to match your price.”
“Honestly, another present?” the woman exclaimed. “She already has more than enough toys as it is!”
“But Daddy-”
The man sighed in resignation. “Mary, you need to listen to your mother.”
“She’s not my mother,” Mary replied flatly. “My mother’s dead.”
Ivan ground his teeth silently. Honestly, these three could take the Victrola off his hands, and it wouldn’t be worth this.
“I’m saving it for my great-niece,” Ivan told them all firmly. “It shouldn’t even be out here.”
Moving forward purposefully, he plucked the doll from Mary’s arms, and before she could raise another protest, swiftly herded the squabbling family to the door. “Now, I believe I see your cab out the window. Good night, and please come back when the store is open.”
Shutting the door behind them with a force just short of slamming it, Ivan turned on his heel and eyeballed the doll, who returned his flat stare. “You need to remain on standby for awhile longer,” Ivan told the doll. “I don’t know how you got up here in the first place.”
Without further ado, Ivan crossed the store to the raised landing against the wall, right near the counter. From here, one staircase led down to the basement, and another up to his private apartment.
But in his irritation, he forgot to look the door.
Several minutes later, Ivan stomped back up the stairs and headed back to the counter, only to stop in his tracks as one of the shadows between the antiques moved in ways it shouldn’t have.
“What?” he growled.
The shadow moved forward and became a reed-thin man, pasty, sweaty and dressed in nondescript clothing, who pointed a revolver at him with a shaking hand.
“Give me everything in the till,” the robber demanded, his eyes darting around with the hyper-activity of a junkie in need of a fix.
“Seriously?” Ivan demanded of the universe at large. As if he hadn’t had a long enough day already?
“Hey!” shouted the grimy man. “I told you to give me the money!”
“Look around you,” Ivan gestured around the room. “Does it look like I keep much cash on hand? Not many people these days carry around the kind of cash it takes to purchase my stock. Ninety per cent of my trade is in credit cards.”
Ivan eyed the gun held in the idiot’s trembling hand, and bit back a sigh of exasperation. “Be careful with that thing! You might shoot your own toes off.”
The junkie’s face snarled, “No one talks to me like that!”
A deep, hollow bang filled the store.
A rapidly-growing circle of blood appeared on Ivan’s stomach, the bright red a shocking contrast to the white shirt.
Ivan’s eyes widened in alarm and shock as he clutched at the wound - it hurt. How could it hurt? How could this junkie trash hurt him?
Steadying himself with one hand on the counter, the lamplight hit something around the intruder’s neck. Hanging on a leather cord was a pendant shaped like an upside-down T; the shaft carved to look wrapped in cord-like bindings, with a string of six runes scrolling across the bar.
Even as his strength drained away and the world faded to black, Ivan couldn’t help but chuckle in bitter irony.
JFK AIRPORT, NEW YORK CITY
SIX MONTHS LATER
Natasha Romanoff strode through the airport with an energy that belied her inner exhaustion. A large backpack over her shoulder and a small suitcase held in her hand, she didn’t notice the various men (and women) in her wake that followed her with their eyes.
With glorious red hair, a slim but curvy figure and a lovely face, Natasha had spent far more of her life resenting her beauty than enjoying it. Especially lately, when it had become a major contributor to the shambles her future academic career had become.
Annoying as this whole mess was, it was a relief to get back to New York for a few days.
“Natasha! Over here.”
Natasha’s face lit up in response, as she saw the blonde man waiting for her. “Steve!”
She walked straight into his welcoming hug, automatically setting her suitcase between their feet on the floor.
“Oh, Natasha, I’ve missed you so much,” Steve Rogers murmured, hugging her so tightly her bones creaked.
Natasha buried her face in her oldest and dearest friend’s chest, and breathed in the clean, old-fashioned scent of him as she returned the hug with equal force.
“I’ve missed you too,” lifting her head, Natasha gave a rare, stunning smile, which melted into a frown as she added, “I can’t believe that I’m back in the city for the first time in over a year, and it’s the same few days you’re heading to California. You’ll look in on Micki and Ryan while you’re there?”
“Of course,” Steve agreed. “Does Micki still make those awesome cookies?”
“Of course,” Natasha retorted.
“Oh! Before I forget,” Steve dug in his jeans pocket, and pulled out a key ring. “Here’s the spare keys to my place, just in case. Just push them into the mailbox when you leave.”
“Steve,” Natasha sighed. “You do realise that an entire four-story building was included in Ivan’s estate?”
Steve ducked his head and blushed. Natasha still couldn’t figure out how a six-foot tall man with the muscles of a professional fighter and the looks of an old-time matinee idol could blush, let alone be as adorable as a whole litter of puppies. But it was just one of the sweet and strange things about the man who’d been her soul-brother since she was eleven years old.
“It’s just in case, alright? I fully acknowledge that you are fully capable of taking care of yourself, but you said it yourself, Natasha, you’d never even heard of this Barton guy until you got the letter from the probate lawyer. He could be all kinds of sketchy. And Ivan may have lived above the store, but who knows what kind of condition the building’s in? I just need to know that you’ve got somewhere to retreat to if you need it.”
Natasha gently rolled her eyes as her lips curved into a tiny smile. “Alright, fine. Thank you for your concern. When does your flight leave?”
“An hour and a half,” Steve said. “Have you had dinner yet? We could grab something here after I check in?”
“Sounds good.”
* * * * *
Two hours later, Natasha paid the cab driver a good tip for actually helping her unload her bags onto the front stoop of the sepia-coloured building. A large inset sign above the door still read ‘Ivan Petrovich Antiques and Collectibles’ in fading gold Gothic script.
Retrieving the keys the lawyer had sent her from her jacket pocket, Natasha unlocked the door and ventured into the building.
After locking the door behind her for safety’s sake, Natasha stopped just inside, letting her eyes adjust to the gloom. The overhead lights weren’t turned on; instead, dozens of plain, supermarket-issue candles were dotted around the room in clumps, clustered on both ends of what appeared to be a sales counter, casting enough light to show a raised landing and the beginnings of a staircase. Several other clusters lit a dim path to the counter.
Natasha took a deep breath, suddenly realising how tense she was. She must have unconsciously braced herself against any memories without realising it. But nothing was coming, much to her relief.
“Hi.”
Natasha whirled, biting back a scream. She automatically grabbed her hard-shelled suitcase and swung it at the voice that came out of the darkness.
“Woah, waitaminute!” the voice continued. “I come in peace!”
A footstep on hardwood sounded, then another, and Natasha’s heart slowed a little, as the shadows parted to reveal a man of medium height in jeans, grey T-shirt and leather jacket, holding his hands in the air in front of him as he slowly moved forward.
Natasha let out a noise of sheer frustration, and turned to run her hand along the side of the doorframe. The fruitless clicking must have been audible, because the man informed her, “The electricity won’t be turned on until tomorrow.”
“Oh, fantastic,” Natasha seethed.
“Let me guess - you had some turbulence on your flight?”
Natasha let out a bitter chuckle. “Try the last four months.” Leaning back against the doorjamb, she took another look at her new companion.
Even in the shadows, she could tell he had a muscular, highly-toned body, hard and strong - hadn’t the lawyer said something about probate being delayed because the other heir was deployed overseas? His eyes were a piercing light blue; his short hair looked to be sandy blonde or brown in the dim light. He wasn’t handsome, but his face was interesting - easy to look away from once, but impossible not to continually look at again. The French term jolie vrie probably described it best.
“I’m guessing you’re Clinton Barton.”
Barton winced. “Clint, please. Yeah. Clint Barton, formerly of the US Army, now of... well, still trying to work that out. You must be Natalia Romanoff?”
“Natasha. Natalia’s only for government bureaucracy. Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise. I have to ask - was getting the letter from the probate office as much a shock to you as it was to me? I mean, I had no idea you or Ivan Petrovich even existed until then - I thought I didn’t have any blood relatives left in the world. We’re what, third cousins?”
“I think so; we have the same great-grandparents,” Natasha nodded. “Almost as much of a shock. I’d never heard of you, either, until the letter. But I did know about Great-Uncle Ivan. I hadn’t seen or heard from him since shortly after my parents died - I was five - so I don’t remember him at all. Or this place, even though I apparently lived here with him for a few weeks, until my parents’ wills confirmed custody was meant to go to my godparents.”
“Oh? They live in town?”
“We used to. We lived at the other end of the Brooklyn. They moved out to San Francisco when I started college.” Natasha looked around. “I really don’t fancy the idea of stumbling around in the dark. Did you get a look at the apartments upstairs before nightfall? My best friend lives a few blocks away, so we can crash there if we have to.”
Natasha couldn’t say what exactly it was about her newfound relative that led her to extend Steve’s thoughtful offer of refuge to him. Something about Clint Barton simply struck a chord inside, telling her instincts that he could be trusted. That he could be depended upon. She’d known him for all of five minutes, but she already liked him very much. She hoped that Steve would come home in time for her to introduce them, because she was almost certain Steve would like him too.
“Yeah, I got here a little before sundown. I’ve slept in much worse places,” Clint shrugged. “On the other hand, there’s only one real bed, and the couch looks pretty uncomfortable. The other two floors are pretty much storage space for the store. Don’t suppose you had any ideas for what you wanted to do with this place? According to the lawyer, we can take possession but the paperwork putting our names on the deed won’t come through for months yet, so we can’t sell the building. I know squat about antiques, so I don’t know about keeping the place going...”
“I have a masters’ degree to finish,” Natasha said firmly. “Linguistics and Eastern European languages.”
“Oh, yeah? I was stationed in that area for awhile. How many languages?”
Natasha smirked. “Russian, Polish, Czechoslovakian, German, French, Italian. I’m also conversant in Japanese and Chinese.”
“Really? I’ve got Romanian, Russian, Hungarian, French, Spanish, Cantonese and I’m decent in Arabic and Greek.”
“I also know Latin,” Natasha challenged.
“Huh. Does Hindu count if I only know swear words?”
Natasha giggled for a few seconds, before she froze in mortified shock. Giggling?
“Um, so what else is here?” she asked hastily.
“Haven’t really had a chance to look around here,” Clint replied. “I did remember to pick up a couple of heavy-duty flashlights, if you want a quick look?”
“I would like to get a basic idea of what’s lurking around here,” Natasha admitted.
Clint walked over to the counter and past it, and picked up a heavy steel cylinder in each hand from where they’d been sitting on the landing. He returned to the door, and offered one to Natasha. “Shall we?”
The store turned out to be mostly full of eighteenth and nineteenth century artifacts, with a few earlier pieces and some twentieth century items - mostly objects d’art - scattered in between. Natasha had, by necessity, spent a lot of time in museums and picked up a fair amount of knowledge, not to mention a serious flea-market and antique-fair habit.
“I’d need a better look in the light, but from what I can tell, the probate office got a fair appraisal done,” she ventured. “No hidden treasures here.”
“From what I remember of the map the lawyer sent, there’s a small alley that goes down the side and around the back - want to bet there’s a garage?” Clint offered.
“Lead on. Garage space in NYC? We could probably add several thousand to the sale price for that!” Natasha laughed.
Heading past the counter, Natasha eyed the Art Deco style bookshelf in the corner, already imagining how it would look in the living room of her tiny apartment back in Boston. The Tiffany lamp would be perfect on her bedside table. Depending on what Clint wanted to keep from the store, perhaps she could fit it in the storage place that still held a few things from when her foster parents moved?
She almost bumped into Clint, who’d stopped dead at the corner of the wall that ran behind the counter, from the stairs to a third of the way across the room. Natasha walked around him to see what he was so intent on, and was taken aback by a display of what looked to be the contents of an interrogation room from the Spanish Inquisition.
“Wow,” Clint said in appreciation, eyeing a body-sized and shaped cage with spikes designed to poke many holes in whatever poor bastard was placed inside. “I’m guessing that Ivan was very popular at Halloween.”
“I’m starting to understand why I didn’t see him after I moved in with Micki and Ryan,” Natasha replied. Tearing her eyes away from the gruesome display, Natasha moved to the back of the store, where an unobtrusive door was tucked in the corner.
Clint had been right; the door led into a small, dusty garage, which was mostly full of a car-shaped object covered in a tarp.
“Oh, please let this be the most fabulous car ever!” Clint mock-prayed. He pulled away the tarp to reveal what even Natasha knew was a classic car, though not the make.
“Yes! Not my style, admittedly,” Clint continued. “But what a score. Ivan must have gotten this beauty new, or soon after. This is what, fifties or sixties era? Damn,” he continued, moving to the front. “This is a Mercedes!”
Clint looked at Natasha and grinned; even in the near-darkness, the grin made her feel a flush of warmth through her whole body. He opened the back door, and gestured to the interior. “Milady?”
Natasha slid gracefully into the backseat - no seatbelt, but real leather upholstery! Clint all but teleported behind the wheel, and she almost expected him to start making ‘vroom-vroom’ noises.
Remembering childhood games with Steve and Bucky, Natasha leaned forward and put on her best Lady Penelope accent. “Home, Jeeves - and don’t spare the horses!”
Clint laughed, and leaned to the side to look in the glove compartment. “Well, the registration’s up to date - barely. It expires in a few weeks. At least we’ll have wheels, while we sort this stuff out.”
“Wheels, yes, but finding a parking place? Inside the city we’re better off with the subway,” Natasha remarked.
“True,” Clint shrugged. Shutting the glove compartment, he climbed out of the car. “Basement, next?”
Natasha shrugged back. “Why not?”