Not a Mata Hari
Title: Not a Mata Hari
Fandoms: The Avengers/Gilmore Girls
Characters: Clint Barton, Michel Gerard
Word Count: 1,475
Summary: He decides that he likes her, this woman who squirts chocolate syrup directly into the ice cream carton and watches recorded episodes of Green Acres with a shaggy dog sprawled on the couch beside her.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: Written for intoabar for the prompt Clint Barton walks into a bar and meets Michel Gerard. Even though there is no bar in this story.
Clint shoulders his bag - butter-soft leather, produced from who knows where by Coulson - and walks up porch steps flanked by urns overflowing with trailing petunias in shades of purple and yellow. There's a single wind chime tinkling in the sparse breeze, the whole scene so charming he might not believe that it if it wasn't right in front of him.
He doesn't hesitate to go inside. Considering some of the places that his job has taken him in the past, it could be a lot worse.
The man behind the front desk wears an immaculately tailored suit and a blandly polite smile when Clint approaches. "Hello. How may I help you?" he asks, his heavy French accent revealing him as Michel.
"Checking in. Reservation's under Francis," Clint answers, not for the first time mentally cursing Darcy's sense of humor.
"Francis, yes," Michel murmurs, tapping at his keyboard. "Here you are. Two weeks in a single room, yes?" Clint nods, mapping sightlines and being grateful that no one expects this thing to result in an assassination. Windows everywhere. Behind the desk, Michel gathers a stack of papers and hands them over with a key on a brass ring with a dragonfly charm and a tiny engraved number plate. "You are in room one, up the stairs, first room on the left. Sookie, our chef, begins serving in the dining room at 6:30 for dinner, and at six in the morning for breakfast. If have any questions or need anything, please do not hesitate to ask me or the rest of the staff," Michel finishes, not entirely sincere to Clint's ears, but polite enough as he smiles. "Do enjoy your stay at the Dragonfly."
It's not really his scene, but he might not hate staying at the Dragonfly Inn if he was really on vacation, Clint muses, eyes passing over the quirky artwork on the walls as he makes his way upstairs. As it stands, this has the potential to be one of the better assignments Clint's had since he started working for SHIELD.
*
Lorelai Gilmore looks even more like her daughter in person than she did in the surveilance photos, chatting and laughing with guests as she moves through the dining room. Clint watches her closely even while pretending to be absorbed entirely in his pot roast (which is delicious almost to the point of distraction; this is definitely the best assignment he's had in years), noting the easy way that she speaks with everyone, as if they're friends rather than just guests in her inn.
"How is everything?" she asks when she makes her way to Clint's table, her hands resting on the back of the chair opposite his.
"Great," Clint answers around a mouthful of mashed potatoes.
"Glad to hear it," Lorelai chuckles, apparently totally unaffected by his bad manners. "Is everything all right with your room?"
Clint wipes his mouth with his napkin. "Perfect. This place has great reviews, but you can't always trust those. It's really great though."
"Well, I'm glad to hear it. Let me know if you need anything."
"Thanks."
Clint finishes his dinner, then reads in front of the fireplace in the next room until he hears Lorelai bid good night to the receptionist at the desk.
Later, looking into her living room window from his perch in the tree above her car, he can see exactly where all of the Dragonfly's personality comes from. He decides that he likes her, this woman who squirts chocolate syrup directly into the ice cream carton and watches recorded episodes of Green Acres with a shaggy dog sprawled on the couch beside her.
It's nice, liking someone that he's supposed to be watching out for. It makes it easier somehow.
*
But maybe, he thinks when Michel corners him in the library at the Inn a few days later, it makes him sloppier.
"What do you think you are doing?" Michel asks, his voice low as he hovers at the arm of the chair Clint is sitting in. Given who they both are, it's strangely ominous.
"Reading?" Clint replies, playing stupid. He knows immediately that Michel has seen him watching Lorelai. Rory warned him, but liking Lorelai and feeling comfortable in Stars Hollow made him complacent.
"No," Michel snaps, moving closer. "I have seen the way that you look at Lorelai, and I want to know who you are and why you are here."
Rory told him about Michel. "He's a walking stereotype," she'd said, "and kind of a jerk. But he loves my mom and he's good at his job. If you're just hanging around and watching my mom, he's going to notice."
Clint had reassured her that he was trained for this sort of thing, that she didn't have to worry. Apparently he lied a little bit.
"I'm Clint Francis," he says now, blinking slowly, as if Michel is is being stupid. "I'm here on vacation."
"You are a liar," Michel spits, his accent as strong as Clint has heard since he's been here. "Lorelai is finally married and happy and I will not let you come in here and muck it all up."
Clint sighs, closing the book in his lap. "Sit down, Michel. Please," he adds when he sees the man begin to puff up, probably preparing himself for a real diatribe. "I'll explain everything."
He's been watching Michel, too, and maybe he shouldn't, but Clint trusts him. He believes that Michel will be able to keep his mouth shut when Clint tells him the truth, and that will make his job here a lot easier.
"My name is Clint," he begins, leaning forward to set the book on the coffee table as Michel watches him warily. "I work for a government agency, and I'm here to make sure that Lorelai is safe, not to try to screw up her life. I know that Lorelai is married, even though she kept her maiden name. Luke Danes, owns a diner and a few buildings in town, has lived in Stars Hollow his whole life," Clint recites, watching Michel's eyes widen even as he tries to maintain an expression of disbelief. "He's in Arizona now, with his daughter, April. One of my colleagues is there, making sure that they're safe, too."
"You expect me to believe that Lorelai is in danger and you are here to keep her safe?"
"Rory wrote a series of articles that caught the attention of a shady biotech corporation, and they're the sort that will do awful stuff to get to her to reveal her sources. We're keeping her safe in New York, and we're keeping her family safe to be sure that they don't try to use them against her. Lorelai, Luke, her father in Boston, her grandparents. And it's easier to do our job when they don't know that we're doing it," he finishes with a significant look.
Michel's skin has gone a bit gray. "These people who want to get to Rory, you are looking for them too, right?"
"Yes. We know who they are, but it needs to be taken care of quietly, and that takes time. I'll be here until that happens."
"So you aren't just a filthy stalker."
Clint snorts out a startled laugh. "No, I'm not."
"And Rory is safe?"
"You can call her yourself," Clint offers. "Look, if you still don't believe me, call Lorelai's mom and ask about her new maid. She's Russian and her name is Talia, though I hear that Emily doesn't usually remember her maid's names. She's a redhead."
Michel stands, nodding and smoothing his hands over the front of his jacket. "I will."
"Okay." Clint watches Michel leave the library, hoping that his instinct to trust Michel with the truth wasn't misguided.
He spends his afternoon in town, trailing Lorelai as she eats lunch at Luke's diner and runs errands, browsing through a cat-themed shop when Lorelai goes into the stationary store across the street. He chooses mug for Darcy, hand-painted with multi-colored stick figure cats and paw prints, and is considering a crocheted oven mitt for Coulson when he catches sight of Agent Ovalle's long, dark hair as she crosses outside the window, there to relieve him for a few hours. Satisfied that Lorelai is safe, Clint makes his purchases and heads back to the Inn.
There is a plate of cookies on the little writing desk beneath the window, still warm, full toffee bits and chocolate chips and tiny marshmallows that stretch stickily when he breaks a cookie in half before taking a bite. There is no note, but Clint knows who's responsible, and based on what he's seen since he's been here, he thinks that this might be the greatest sign of respect that he could get from Michel.
Fandoms: The Avengers/Gilmore Girls
Characters: Clint Barton, Michel Gerard
Word Count: 1,475
Summary: He decides that he likes her, this woman who squirts chocolate syrup directly into the ice cream carton and watches recorded episodes of Green Acres with a shaggy dog sprawled on the couch beside her.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: Written for intoabar for the prompt Clint Barton walks into a bar and meets Michel Gerard. Even though there is no bar in this story.
Clint shoulders his bag - butter-soft leather, produced from who knows where by Coulson - and walks up porch steps flanked by urns overflowing with trailing petunias in shades of purple and yellow. There's a single wind chime tinkling in the sparse breeze, the whole scene so charming he might not believe that it if it wasn't right in front of him.
He doesn't hesitate to go inside. Considering some of the places that his job has taken him in the past, it could be a lot worse.
The man behind the front desk wears an immaculately tailored suit and a blandly polite smile when Clint approaches. "Hello. How may I help you?" he asks, his heavy French accent revealing him as Michel.
"Checking in. Reservation's under Francis," Clint answers, not for the first time mentally cursing Darcy's sense of humor.
"Francis, yes," Michel murmurs, tapping at his keyboard. "Here you are. Two weeks in a single room, yes?" Clint nods, mapping sightlines and being grateful that no one expects this thing to result in an assassination. Windows everywhere. Behind the desk, Michel gathers a stack of papers and hands them over with a key on a brass ring with a dragonfly charm and a tiny engraved number plate. "You are in room one, up the stairs, first room on the left. Sookie, our chef, begins serving in the dining room at 6:30 for dinner, and at six in the morning for breakfast. If have any questions or need anything, please do not hesitate to ask me or the rest of the staff," Michel finishes, not entirely sincere to Clint's ears, but polite enough as he smiles. "Do enjoy your stay at the Dragonfly."
It's not really his scene, but he might not hate staying at the Dragonfly Inn if he was really on vacation, Clint muses, eyes passing over the quirky artwork on the walls as he makes his way upstairs. As it stands, this has the potential to be one of the better assignments Clint's had since he started working for SHIELD.
*
Lorelai Gilmore looks even more like her daughter in person than she did in the surveilance photos, chatting and laughing with guests as she moves through the dining room. Clint watches her closely even while pretending to be absorbed entirely in his pot roast (which is delicious almost to the point of distraction; this is definitely the best assignment he's had in years), noting the easy way that she speaks with everyone, as if they're friends rather than just guests in her inn.
"How is everything?" she asks when she makes her way to Clint's table, her hands resting on the back of the chair opposite his.
"Great," Clint answers around a mouthful of mashed potatoes.
"Glad to hear it," Lorelai chuckles, apparently totally unaffected by his bad manners. "Is everything all right with your room?"
Clint wipes his mouth with his napkin. "Perfect. This place has great reviews, but you can't always trust those. It's really great though."
"Well, I'm glad to hear it. Let me know if you need anything."
"Thanks."
Clint finishes his dinner, then reads in front of the fireplace in the next room until he hears Lorelai bid good night to the receptionist at the desk.
Later, looking into her living room window from his perch in the tree above her car, he can see exactly where all of the Dragonfly's personality comes from. He decides that he likes her, this woman who squirts chocolate syrup directly into the ice cream carton and watches recorded episodes of Green Acres with a shaggy dog sprawled on the couch beside her.
It's nice, liking someone that he's supposed to be watching out for. It makes it easier somehow.
*
But maybe, he thinks when Michel corners him in the library at the Inn a few days later, it makes him sloppier.
"What do you think you are doing?" Michel asks, his voice low as he hovers at the arm of the chair Clint is sitting in. Given who they both are, it's strangely ominous.
"Reading?" Clint replies, playing stupid. He knows immediately that Michel has seen him watching Lorelai. Rory warned him, but liking Lorelai and feeling comfortable in Stars Hollow made him complacent.
"No," Michel snaps, moving closer. "I have seen the way that you look at Lorelai, and I want to know who you are and why you are here."
Rory told him about Michel. "He's a walking stereotype," she'd said, "and kind of a jerk. But he loves my mom and he's good at his job. If you're just hanging around and watching my mom, he's going to notice."
Clint had reassured her that he was trained for this sort of thing, that she didn't have to worry. Apparently he lied a little bit.
"I'm Clint Francis," he says now, blinking slowly, as if Michel is is being stupid. "I'm here on vacation."
"You are a liar," Michel spits, his accent as strong as Clint has heard since he's been here. "Lorelai is finally married and happy and I will not let you come in here and muck it all up."
Clint sighs, closing the book in his lap. "Sit down, Michel. Please," he adds when he sees the man begin to puff up, probably preparing himself for a real diatribe. "I'll explain everything."
He's been watching Michel, too, and maybe he shouldn't, but Clint trusts him. He believes that Michel will be able to keep his mouth shut when Clint tells him the truth, and that will make his job here a lot easier.
"My name is Clint," he begins, leaning forward to set the book on the coffee table as Michel watches him warily. "I work for a government agency, and I'm here to make sure that Lorelai is safe, not to try to screw up her life. I know that Lorelai is married, even though she kept her maiden name. Luke Danes, owns a diner and a few buildings in town, has lived in Stars Hollow his whole life," Clint recites, watching Michel's eyes widen even as he tries to maintain an expression of disbelief. "He's in Arizona now, with his daughter, April. One of my colleagues is there, making sure that they're safe, too."
"You expect me to believe that Lorelai is in danger and you are here to keep her safe?"
"Rory wrote a series of articles that caught the attention of a shady biotech corporation, and they're the sort that will do awful stuff to get to her to reveal her sources. We're keeping her safe in New York, and we're keeping her family safe to be sure that they don't try to use them against her. Lorelai, Luke, her father in Boston, her grandparents. And it's easier to do our job when they don't know that we're doing it," he finishes with a significant look.
Michel's skin has gone a bit gray. "These people who want to get to Rory, you are looking for them too, right?"
"Yes. We know who they are, but it needs to be taken care of quietly, and that takes time. I'll be here until that happens."
"So you aren't just a filthy stalker."
Clint snorts out a startled laugh. "No, I'm not."
"And Rory is safe?"
"You can call her yourself," Clint offers. "Look, if you still don't believe me, call Lorelai's mom and ask about her new maid. She's Russian and her name is Talia, though I hear that Emily doesn't usually remember her maid's names. She's a redhead."
Michel stands, nodding and smoothing his hands over the front of his jacket. "I will."
"Okay." Clint watches Michel leave the library, hoping that his instinct to trust Michel with the truth wasn't misguided.
He spends his afternoon in town, trailing Lorelai as she eats lunch at Luke's diner and runs errands, browsing through a cat-themed shop when Lorelai goes into the stationary store across the street. He chooses mug for Darcy, hand-painted with multi-colored stick figure cats and paw prints, and is considering a crocheted oven mitt for Coulson when he catches sight of Agent Ovalle's long, dark hair as she crosses outside the window, there to relieve him for a few hours. Satisfied that Lorelai is safe, Clint makes his purchases and heads back to the Inn.
There is a plate of cookies on the little writing desk beneath the window, still warm, full toffee bits and chocolate chips and tiny marshmallows that stretch stickily when he breaks a cookie in half before taking a bite. There is no note, but Clint knows who's responsible, and based on what he's seen since he's been here, he thinks that this might be the greatest sign of respect that he could get from Michel.