@redromanova
Okay, the Tracksuit guys were officially jerks. Futzing jerks, as a matter of fact. Clint was dragging himself back into the apartment with a bloody nose and a bump the size of a brick on the back of his head. (Since, ya know, one of those jerks had actually hit him with a brick.)
“Guess what, Lucky? I didn’t die!” he called out as he opened the door. He didn’t even bother turning the lights on, just trudged into the kitchen to splash some water on his face. But he stopped a few feet in, walked backwards, and flicked on a light.
“Nat,” he said, blinking. After a moment, he grinned at her. “Guess what, I didn’t die!” he said again. “But I do have like, officially the worst guard dog ever. Guess this means you have a key for this place, huh?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck. The rules of another universe were still new to him. The little differences were what got him. Like the look he sometimes saw flicker across her eyes, burning with something a little brighter than he’d ever noticed before. “You checking in on me, or did you just come to steal my coffee?”
