Whenever You Call Me, I'll Be There

[lonehawk]

It wasn't like it was early - not quite 10 AM yet, with the entire day to go, but Clint had already mentally checked out. Physically as well. He'd followed his normal routine of rising early to go for a long run like he did almost every day and then having a quick breakfast, but he had nothing else planned for this particular Sunday. He didn't always have plans for his days off - after being in Special Forces, he did cherish those days he truly had off - but he liked to have a few ideas, and nothing had really struck him as something he wanted to do as he ate his cereal and toast. Possibly it was because of a restless the night the night before: the dreams were back, reliving the explosion and the pain that had been two and a half years before, and he always woke with a start from those and slept fitfully after they happened. And since he didn't really have anywhere to be, all of that combined to Clint having passed out on his couch, Andy sprawled across the cushions to his right and with his head in Clint's lap, the television on ESPN with the sound low as he dozed with a light snore.

The sound of a ringing phone startled him but didn't wake him; that was meant for Andy, who popped up to full alert and nudged Clint's shoulder with his nose. The hearing aids sometimes made it hard to distinguish certain sounds, especially electronic ones, and it was only made harder when he was asleep. Clint woke to Andy's nudge and the dog hopped off the couch, walking over to the small table the teletype phone was set up on and looking back at his owner. "All right, all right buddy, I got it," he mumbled a little sleepily, pushing himself to his feet and stretching with a yawn. Raising his hand to scratch at his head under his hair, Clint made his way over to the phone and picked it up in the middle of the fourth ring, swallowing another yawn. "This is Barton, go ahead."

Comments

[watercolorist]

It'd been a few days since she'd gotten her window and though she'd intended to get it up as quickly as possible, her plans hadn't entirely worked out. Her dad had offered to drive out to help her install it, but she knew that his back had been bothering him lately and he was too stubborn to admit if he was in pain. Her brother was worthless when it came to household repairs so that meant that she would probably have to hire someone. She'd contemplated doing it herself, but figured that there were too many things that could go wrong.

She did, however, have the number of the guy who had helped her in the hardware store. He'd had a nice smile and he'd been more than helpful. Well, that and he'd been pretty adorable, especially when he'd called himself an idiot. So maybe it was curiosity more than actual need that had her dialing in the numbers on her phone, but her confidence was waning with every ring. She was about to tell herself that she was making a mistake when the line was picked up.

"Hi," she said, a little too bubbly even for mid morning. She swallowed and tried to dial it back a little bit. "This is Laura Mackay. We met at the hardware store a few days ago?"

omg this is going to be so precious

[lonehawk]

It took him a minute - Clint was an observant guy, very observant, but he had just been asleep. The name wasn't familiar to him in a way that rang any bells, and he was trying to swallow another yawn even as she spoke. Apparently the previous night had been even less restful than he'd originally thought it was. But the clarification kicked in, and their entire interaction suddenly flooded into his brain - including the bits where he'd made a total fool of himself.

At least this was over the phone, so she wouldn't be able to see the embarrassed flush spreading over his features.

"Right - at the hardware store. With the window." A small bit of inane babble to cover up the fact that he had, indeed, been a moron. Refreshed, what in the hell had he been thinking. Her tone didn't register in the face of his own attempts to squash the embarrassment he was feeling, and wondering why she'd called him at all given how dumb he'd come off looking in their meeting. Cover it up, Barton, act normal... "Everything go okay with that?"

[watercolorist]

"Right." She swallowed, trying to ignore the small bit of nervousness that was cropping up in the pit of her stomach. "That's me. The girl with the window."

Because, who knew, maybe he met a lot of girls in the course of his day. Maybe a lot of girls in hardware stores. Clarification was good. "Actually, no. I was wondering if you might be available for a one time job?"

She bit her lip and then pushed on. "I'll pay you and maybe, make you dinner?" She paused. "I promise I'm a decent cook. And not an axe murderer, if you're thinking that. I realize this is kind of out of the blue."

[lonehawk]

He didn't meet an unusual number of girls in the course of his day, no. More than he was used to, kind of, even a year and a half after discharge - there'd been a few female soldiers he'd known, but none in his Group, and he'd gotten used to being around a lot of guys with relatively few women.

He can't say he's sad to be back where he can see some nice girls, though, and maybe meet them, too.

And this one was calling him. He hadn't completely freaked her out with his idiocy, she didn't think he was some kind of serial killer or anything like that, or she wouldn't have chosen to call him, not when it was really easy to find any kind of repairman if you just opened the Yellow Pages. Maybe he hadn't been as stupid as he'd thought he had, which would be a nice change. But the request was- well, a little weird, not gonna lie. Asking for help, sure, offering payment, totally, but dinner? That kind of went... weird. "Ahhhuhh- fff- sure, I can do that, I guess," he answered, once again sounding really stupid as he blathered for a minute before finding actual words. Running a hand through his hair to kind of push it out of his face gave him a brief moment to pull himself back together again. "Dinner's not- dinner's not necessary, that'd be too much paying. Unless you're light on cash?"

Maybe it made sense as a kind of barter?

[watercolorist]

He didn't exactly sound like he was 100% behind the plan and she wasn't sure if it was because he thought she was being forward or because she had simply caught him off guard. She was self aware enough to know that she wasn't always conventional, but then again, he had been nice enough. Maybe he had a girlfriend. They hadn't actually gotten that far in their conversation. Even if things didn't necessarily turn romantic, it would be nice to have another friend in town. Especially one that knew a little bit about being a handy man.

"No, I've got cash. You can name your price." She took a deep breath, pushing forward once more. "It was nice running into someone nice," she said slowly. "I was thinking if you were open to it, maybe we could get to know each other a little more." She rushed forward. "Just dinner. Talking. Food. Window repair. You know, the standard."

[lonehawk]

No, no girlfriend at the moment. The last ...thing he'd been involved in had fallen apart with *spectacular* horribleness, and since that night a couple months before he hadn't really been looking. Not that he was good at spotting when a young woman was interested in him anyway unless they were straight-on direct, he knew that about himself, but he also hadn't gone to bars or whatever looking for a hook up or anything of the sort. It'd been kind of nice to just take the time to recover after that mess and not have any extra pressure.

And, well... you didn't combine business with pleasure. He'd learned that lesson well enough even though he hadn't been the one trying to do it, just been around when others had. Never worked out and everything just kind of fell apart horribly. So if Laura needed him to do work, then Laura was a client, and maybe the client gave you a drink while you were working or even cookies or brownies to take home, but not an entire meal, especially not for something as small as replacing a window. That'd only take half an hour at most and he already had all the equipment he needed.

"It's just a simple job, it won't be long. Or hard." The fact that those exact same words could be applied to something else went right over his head, but that was just the truth as well. "Twenty bucks? I've already got everything I need for it if you've still got the window." Of course she still had the window, why wouldn't she still have the window, damnit Barton. But- "Oh." Well, he... hadn't expected that. Obviously. "Uhh, you sure? I haven't really been making myself look smart..."

[watercolorist]

She snorted, moving her hand up to her mouth in horror. Clearly her nerves were getting to her, otherwise she wouldn't be making That's what she said jokes to herself. "Sorry."

She heard the moment that realization hit him and laughed behind her hand. She lowered it and held the phone closer to her ear. "That's okay, I haven't exactly been super smooth. But bring your tools, I really do have a window to repair."

She paused. "If you're sure, that is."

[lonehawk]

Clint, for his part, was leaning forward to slowly and rhythmically beat his head against the wall. He wasn't doing it hard enough for it to really register, but it felt like something he'd damn well earned. Why was he just constantly putting his foot in it when he talked to this girl? He was smarter than this. Usually.

"Yeah, I'm sure. Give me, uhh..." A quick glance to the clock in the kitchen, a rapid calculation in his head, and he had- actually, he had absolutely no idea what she had in mind, other than him coming over to fix the window that had suicided by storm-tossed branch. Andy, sitting next to him on the floor, gave a quick bark that he shushed by reaching down to scratch the dog's muzzle, making him thump his tail on the floor with happiness. "I can be there in an hour if you want? Or did you have something you needed to do?"

[watercolorist]

"Aw, you have a dog?" It's a silly question, considering that she had just heard a muffled bark a second ago. Though, she supposes that doesn't necessarily mean it's his.

There are a lot of things she doesn't know about him, but then again, that's the whole point.

She smiled widely, finally successful in her attempts to ask him out to dinner. "An hour is fine." She chuckles. "You mean, like sharpen my axe? No. Really, I promise I'm normal."

She definitely wasn't coming across that way. She straightened up, cradling the phone under her chin as she glanced out the window. "Do you know where Whiteside High School is? I'm two blocks south, second house on the right when you turn on Magnolia. You can see the boarded window from the street."

[lonehawk]

"Yeah, I've got a dog." Andy's usually pretty good when Dad's on the phone, but he's still a dog, and still wants attention. It's not the first time he's barked when Clint's been talking, and Clint continues to scratch him behind the ears to keep him happy. It's a fair trade, after all. "Andy. He's a pretty good guy."

One thing Clint's amazing at is directions - he's never been lost when he's had a map or a list telling him where to go. Laura's initial question gets a quick "yeah," and then he listens to the rest of it, storing it on a little notepad in his head. Now he'd always know which place was hers, even if he never saw her again. "Okay, I can get there easily. I'm gonna need you to move any stuff you've got around it or under it so I can reach it. If there's heavy furniture I can help you move it when I get there."

He doesn't realize he's agreed to dinner - to be fair, it's not even lunchtime yet. But their conversation is just ambiguous enough that while he knows he's said yes to maybe hanging out with her, dinner isn't necessarily a part of that. That'll be an interesting talk.

[watercolorist]

"I can do that," she says nodding into the phone. Her fingers are curled around the cord as she glances around. Her place isn't that dirty, but she's glad she has some time to pick up.

"I guess I'll see you when you get here," she says. "Tell Andy, I won't keep you long."

There's the faint flutter of butterflies in her stomach, or nerves. The first seems slightly more manageable. This is the first time she's been quite so bold, but then again there's no use in waiting for what you want to come to you when you can go after it. At least that's what her dad had always said.

"See you soon."

[lonehawk]

"Okay, see you." And since there's nothing really more they can say, Clint hangs up the phone, standing at it for a few minutes and thinking, before shrugging a little and moving off, Andy following him like he usually does.

It's not a long drive to Laura's place, so he has time to grab a quick rinse-off shower and generally make himself not look like he'd had a workout and then fallen asleep on the couch; he's not a stickler for cleanliness, but there are limits and he doesn't need to frighten her when she's paying him. He also has time to pop Andy a couple of treats and read a newspaper article about military engagements in eastern Europe before it's time to get going. Leaving Andy with a rawhide chew to destroy, Clint loads the chest in the back of his pickup truck with his toolkit and a few other carefully chosen components necessary for window repair and heads on over. It takes him about fifteen minutes to get to Magnolia, and she was right: the boarded window is like a blinking neon sign to him, something that sticks out badly in this neighborhood of slightly older and smaller but well-maintained houses. Another minute and he's carefully pulling up to park along the street, as out of the way as he can, and then he pulls out his toolkit and the bag of assorted non-standard things and heading up the short walk to her front door. Glancing over the building once more, he presses the doorbell, then stands back and waits.

[watercolorist]

Of course it's only after she hangs up that she realizes that he's coming over to fix the window and it's not even noon yet. She could've been a little bit smoother about asking him to dinner, or possibly waiting until he'd agreed to fix the window first before asking after he'd finished the job.

As it is, however, she can only hope her gaff doesn't make her look too desperate. After all, it's not desperation that prompted her to make a move, as much as curiosity. By the time the doorbell rings she's straightened up a bit and is busy making some iced tea.

She opens the door and smiles at him. "Hi," she says, moving back so he can step inside. "Did you have any trouble finding it?"

[lonehawk]

Maybe a little desperate. He's not nearly the savviest at picking up undertones but even he'd gotten it a little from her. She'd managed to deflect it fairly well by just saying she'd like to talk and maybe get to know each other, and while he's been in town for over a year, he hasn't really met many people yet. Mostly guys from work, associated family, some of their friends, and a few people at the bar he'd found. Knowing some more people would help this feel more like "home" and less like a place he just happened to be. After all, he's building a long-term life here.

Returning her smile with a small one of his own and a nod, prevented from giving a casual almost-salute by the junk in his arms, and walks in as she clears the door. "No, it was easy - I'm not that far away and traffic's light today." Clint is, of course, glancing around as one normally does when entering a new building, and while it's obvious he's curious in what's a standard fashion, what's not obvious is just how much of it he notices and remembers. He's always had that ability, that part of his brain that just catalogues everything, but training for the Forces made it so much more prominent. It's automatic now, instinctual, and it's something he tries not to advertise because it makes people a little... creeped out. Best just to not let it show. "Is there anything you need me to move before I get started?"

[watercolorist]

She takes in his full arms, and maybe the nice curve of muscle in those arms as he walks through the front door. She'd offer to give him a hand, but something tells her that he'd turn her down anyway. As it is, she moves towards a side room. She's already moved anything remotely valuable away from the window.

"No, I think I've moved everything." The easel and her latest work has been pushed against a bookshelf along the wall they entered in. There's a desk along the furthest wall, covered in various notes and books. And then of course her bed along the third wall to the right of the broken window. The window itself is along the fourth wall and covered in plywood. She stands back, letting him set down his tools as he needs to. "Can I get you anything? Iced tea? Water?"

[lonehawk]

He doesn't put his things down in any order, just sets the toolkit and the bag out of the way of where they're likely to be standing for the moment so they don't trip over them. Once he starts the actual project, he'll open everything up and spread it out, but for now he wants to take in the area and the extent of the damage. From the inside it looks pretty clear cut, but if Clint's learned anything in his time working in construction and repair, it's that you never know what's going to pop up to surprise you.

The one piece of kit he does pull out is a short prybar, which he takes over to the plywood to begin removing it carefully. "No thanks, I'm good." He hasn't even started working; he doesn't need replenishment yet, but maybe later. But as he works around the plywood, popping the nails holding it in place free from the wall, it's obvious he's still paying attention to everything around him. "You did a good job here - it's not watertight, but it's about as smooth as you can get without more heavy duty tools. You paint?" He did notice that easel and that work in progress, and he's more interested in that than shows while he's in the middle of a job.

[watercolorist]

She moves to sit on her bed, but doesn't want to seem like she has any ulterior motives for asking him over. At least none more than the actual ones she had. Instead she takes a seat at the chair by her desk, watching him as he immediately gets to work. She starts organizing her notes for something to do.

"Thanks. I figured I could at least figure that part out on my own." She glances up at him, a little surprised. As far as she could tell he hadn't actually taken in much of the room before he'd gone straight to work. She glances over at her work and nods. "Yeah. I want to be an illustrator." She gives him a small shrug. "I'm still working on it, but I like the natural light the window gives me. It seems to bring things to life more."

"How long have you been doing construction?"

[lonehawk]

To be fair, an entire easel's a hard thing to miss for almost anyone, but he really did see more than it looked like he did. That's just ...what he does, really; see things, catalog them, remember them for later. It's not an eidetic or photographic memory, it's just a tendency to absorb everything crucial. Sometimes that habit can mean the difference between life and death - and it already had for him.

"An illustrator? That's a pretty big dream - any progress on it?" The plywood comes away from the wall without too much effort; as a temporary patch, it was good, but it was also clearly temporary. Not enough nails, no glue or caulking, the weather would soon warp the wood, but it did its job well enough and the piece itself is still good. Clint carries it quickly to lean it up against the wall in the hall where it won't be in the way, then comes back to actually start looking at the scene of the crime, talking at he moves. "I was never any good in art classes, so all of that stuff... Just didn't work for me, I guess. I can draw a blueprint, but if I try and draw a face, it looks like a melted breakfast." It's always kind of a miracle to him that some people are good enough at art to be able to make something that feels alive, even if it doesn't look it. He's well aware he's not one of them.

"Me? A year and a half, going on two - I needed a job after I got out of the army, and I took a lot of shop class in high school, so it worked out fine."

[watercolorist]

"Art school and the loans that come with it." She watches him as he works. "I've gotten a few commissions, but I'm still working on getting my name out there. I teach a watercolor class at one of the recreation centers three times a week in the meantime. It's not much, but it can be fun."

"You were in the army?" She raises her eyebrows in surprise. She certainly wouldn't have guessed that, but then again, there is a certain straightness in his posture. Or maybe she's just looking for clues that she'd been blind to before. She squints.
"I'm trying to imagine you with a buzz cut."

[lonehawk]

"I wouldn't know about that - I didn't go to college, or even want to. I just joined up as soon as I could." Sure, some of his teachers had made vague motions in the direction of college - his gym teacher had been certain he could've gotten a baseball scholarship if he'd just been willing to be on the team - but Clint had been alone since he was a child, with no parents to take care of him and funnel him money. And for a kid from farm country, where there were already a lot of problems of getting to college even with the full support structure in place, it just wasn't worth it. "It got me out of Iowa and that's what I cared about."

Okay, yeah, there was more to it than that, but he doesn't know Laura Mackay yet, not really, so he's not getting into the nitty gritty details. And he'd liked the army a lot more than he's letting on, but again, not something he's gonna talk about the second time he's face to face with someone. But he doesn't mind her curiosity about his hair, and instead of describing himself - and his former haircut - he pulls a slim billfold out of the back pocket of his jeans and turns to easily toss it to her. Inside there's cash and a couple cards, the most prominent of which is his driver's license in a special plastic-fronted sleeve right up front, and in the picture he is indeed sporting a crew cut that's not quite military length but is definitely a lot closer than the ear-length mop he's got now. He's also scowling like he's going to murder the photographer, which probably isn't a surprise since no one takes a good picture at the DMV, but there's also faded traces of scars of some sort along the left side of his face that are mostly invisible and can really only be seen if she's looking close and obviously can't be blamed on the poor DMV employee.

While she inspects that, Clint pops open his toolbox and pulls out a tape measure. He trusts her, but he wants to make sure she got the right window since she's not really familiar with this kind of handiwork. "I bet you're a pretty good teacher," he comments as he measures the broken window still in the wall, before moving over to the new one to compare. "You talk well." ...Wait. "I mean you speak good, when you speak to other people." Shit. "I mean you pick the words with sense, you know, they string together and it all fits and-" He breaks himself off with a bitten-off word that's very likely a curse, groaning a little and letting his head thunk lightly against the wall, glad he's not facing her because his entire face is brilliant red underneath his tan. "You talk better'n I do, that's for sure."

[watercolorist]

She catches the billfold with a surprised smile. She hadn't expected such easy access to something to complete the picture, but her curiosity isn't going to let her get away without looking. She studies the picture for a moment, before looking back at him and his current mop of hair. She's actually not sure which one she likes better, though she is grateful that at least he's not sporting the same kind of expression. She glances down again, her finger brushing the faint scars in the picture before she looks back at him a second time. This time she can see the tiny hearing aid nestled in his ear. Same side as the scars in the picture. He's not hiding it, but she didn't notice it until now.

She bites her lip to stop from chuckling as he digs himself deeper and deeper. Though she also makes no move to put him out of his misery as he keeps going. Maybe it's the small patch of color she can just make out against the line of his jaw as he faces the wall. Or maybe it's the pained sound of his voice as he can't seem to stop himself. Either way, she lets him ride it out, flipping his wallet closed and setting it on the bed.

"Thanks," she says easily, smiling in his direction even if he isn't looking at her. "I take pride in talking good." There's a slight hint of a tease there, but it's a gentle one.

Her eyes move to his hearing aid. "Why did you end up leaving the Army? If you don't mind me asking."

[lonehawk]

That tease is heard, and answered by another flare of red that she might miss as he turns his face away from her completely, nearly cross-eyed at this point and cursing his inability to say almost anything to this young woman that doesn't wind up half-twisted in ways he doesn't mean it to be. Whether it comes out sounding like some demented innuendo or just that he's a braindead lummox, Clint doesn't like the way that he keeps making an idiot of himself. He unfortunately has a tendency of doing that around cute girls - most of them don't take it as well as Laura is, which is a small comfort, but still. Not what he's going for at all.

But then she changes the subject, or reverts it back to a previous topic, and that's just as bad in a different way because he doesn't really want to talk about it. There's too much shit and even trauma tangled up in why he left the armed forces for him to be comfortable talking about it, even in this town where people are generally very welcoming of soldiers, grateful for their sacrifices and the risks they take every day. But it's a town where they don't really seem to know how to deal with injuries fighting can cause, especially if they're not an "obvious" injury like a missing limb. And the darkness that lurks in the mind... forget it. It's barely even something soldiers talk to among themselves, let alone anyone else, despite recent movements in psychiatric fields that are showing it's just as much of an injury as anything that leaves a scar. People don't want to believe their heroes can break.

"There was a grenade," he says, picking up his prybar and starting to remove the molding around the window carefully, the very short nails easily popping out of the wall. It gives him something to do that doesn't involve looking at her, because he doesn't want to see the look on her face when he tells her that he's damaged, that pity and uncertainty of what do I do with this now that he's seen a lot in the last three years. He's also not about to tell her nearly everything, and though he can easily keep a straight face, it's always easier to change a topic when you're not looking a person directly in the eye. "It got me and Derek - one of my groupmates. He could go back, I couldn't. Got somewhere you want these?" he asks, the first strip of molding coming loose in his hand.

[watercolorist]

She's honestly surprised that he gave her a straight answer at all. She knows from experience that these kind of stories aren't told to illicit sympathy or pity. That and there's something in the cool way he changes the subject. It's not unfriendly, but there's an unspoken choice to focus on something else.

She gets off the bed and moves to him in order to take the strip of molding. "I can put them over here," she offers, reaching for it. She's feeling strange enough as it is not really being of much help. This at least makes her feel useful.

"My dad was in the Air Force," she says. "Had a couple of close calls in Vietnam." Not that he'd ever talk about them. Not directly. Still, she'd found the letters he'd written her mom one day when she was in high school. The unedited parts of her father and what he'd lost had made her smear the faded ink with her tears. She grins. "When I was little, I used to want to be a fighter pilot because of him. Then of course, I grew up and realized fighter pilots are jerks with death wishes."

She glanced over at him. "Not that I think you're... I just mean in the Air Force guys think they're god's gift because they have a pair of wings."

I think Sam is offended now XD

[lonehawk]

At this point he's learned that people are still gonna stare and wonder if he doesn't say something, and so he's figured out an... abbreviated version of the truth. So abbreviated that it doesn't tell anything beyond the basic fact of I was injured badly enough to be discharged. There's no mention of what sort of injury he has, or even if he still has it; there are a few wounds that take so long to recover from that it's impossible to stay in, many more that could wound him to the point where he couldn't function as a soldier but could still be a regular person who was just a little careful sometimes, and surgeries that could fix just about anything. The majority of people can tell that he shuts off after he gives that answer; those that can't, he just blank-face ignores.

But Clint's in the middle of removing the second strip of molding, being careful not to bend the thin little nails or crack the wood, when she says the bit about her dad being in Vietnam. It's not what he's expecting, and he faces her and blinks in surprise for a moment, pausing in his molding-prying as that calculates. "...It was really bad over in 'nam." Not that he was there, obviously, he'd been born while all that was going on, but the people in charge now had been the grunts back three decades ago. It was impossible not to hear stories. "Lot of guys went in and didn't come out the same. But he came back to you, right? He came back home and you had him for a long time."

And that? That gets him to grin, a real grin, wide and with a chuckle, before going back to the job he'd been doing, pulling off the second strip and getting started on the third. "Don't tell the guys I do like in the Air Force, but- yeah, they're pretty much a bunch of assholes."

As he should be!

[watercolorist]

His question about her dad softens her expression slightly and she nods and smiles, grateful that she was one of the lucky families. It's not enough to assume that Clint's hadn't been as lucky, but there's something about the way he asked that tells her that it matters. "My parents live about an hour north of here. He's retired and attempting to settle down." She sets the molding down to the side and then returns in case he has more for her. "I think it was tough for him over there, but he never let any of us know. There was dad the soldier and then the man he was at home."

She smiles. He has a nice chuckle. "I shouldn't group them all together, but you move around to enough bases and you start to sense a pattern."

"Do you have family here in town?"