Sam could hear the phone crackling loudly as Natasha switched it to speaker, smirking as a man on the other end cursed up and down, each one making his skin crawl.
"Alright, Charlie, you're on speaker," Natashaa said oh so casually, tucking her red hair behind her ears, "so remember to be good."
"Or what, you'll spank me? This isn't a fucking BDSM club, Roman- OW! JESUS FUCKING SHIT, YOU PRICK!"
Sam felt the blood rush from his face as Clint whistled. He was sitting across the table nursing a coffee and a black eye, which Sam felt bad for- of course, Clint should have known better than to perform his acrobatic acts in front of Sam's punching bag, but Clint hadn't even been mad about it, instead showing it off to anyone who would bother listening.
"Sounds like Wolfe gor himself into some trouble," Clint said, tapping his fingers against the mug in front of him.
"Um, does your friend normally do that?" Samasked as a series of gunshots burst from the speaker.
Natasha shrugged, "It comes with the job description, now we should see what exactly our dear friend is up to, no?"
"Well currently your dear friend was sent on a covert mission to obtain some money-"
Sam nodded. That was how things normally started. From what he learned of Clint's past as a former theif and hitman, the amount usually ranges from a good two thousand to half a million dollars. Sometimes more if they were considered merely good.
Sam tensed as he heard something swish on the other end, air whistling along with this Charlie's gasps and grunts as he most likely dodged whatever weapon his assailant was using.
"Bloody asshole just stabbed me! You're a fucking psycopath!"
Sam must have looked somewhat shocked as Natasha assured him over Charlie's ranting, "Comes with the job, Sam. What happened next, Charlie? Sounds like you're having fun!"
Clint snorted into his coffee as another string of curses bled from the phone.
"And so he payed me to follow his wife which turned into the whole money thing- Why the fuck aren't you dead yet? Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you've got balls-!"
Clint straight-up cackled. Sam was certain this Charlie was not even a practicing Christian. Or any religion with the way he spoke.
"Charlie?" Natasha said, scrunching her nose.
"-I mean, I was fucking your wife on top of this, and yet-"
A spew of coffee flew across the table and Clint nearly catapulted out of his chair, "You werr having sex with the target's wife?!"
Charlie's ens of the phone seemed busy, a man pleading for his life as something liquid sounded, as if it were spilling. Sam rubbed his shoulders, shaking his head.
"Man," he said, "you two have weird friends, you know that?"
Clint shrugged, "Eh. Comes with-"
"The job, I know," Sam finished for him.
"Charlie, are you still there?" Natasha said. A single gunshot rang out, and the phone went silent.
Natasha raised an eyebrow, "Charlie?"
"Still here!" came Charlie's reply, "Let me just put you on hold for a second, okay?"
Sam studied Clint and Natasha's faces as they waited patiently, the only thing to be heard being Charlie's constant swearing and shooting, followed by the occasional grunt and groan. What the hell was this guy doing? Where did Clint and Natasha even meet him?
"Is that Latin music playing over there?" Sam asked incredulously, nearly losing the sounds of trumpet horns and high pitched drums in the maze of bangs and thunks and shouting.
"God, this place is like a fucking open air asylum!" Charlie's voice made Sam jump in his seat, "Really shouldn't be shooting a gun with a fucking stab wound in my hand but listen, you little fuck-"
"Damn!" Clint said with awe, "How come you've never shot a gun with a stab wound, Nat?"
Natha rolled her eyes, "Because I have common sense not to get stabbed in the hand, Charlie! What's going on over there?"
The line went quiet, a harsh thud heard just over the happy samba that had started playing on the speakers. It went on for what seemed like the most painful five minutes of Sam's life before they heard a woman yelling, a crack, and Charlie calling her some very creative things.
It ended with what sounded very much like something being shoved into someone.
"Charlie?" Sam dared to ask, his gaze darting between Natasha and the phone. Clint looked to be on the edge of his seat, his coffee sitting off to the side.
"Ah, fuck me."
Sam sighed with relief, Clint giving Natasha a shit-eating grin. Sam really wasn't sure it was a good sign.
"Charlie, you okay?" Clint asked innocently.
"Normally I'd say yes, but there's been a slight mishap," Charlie said, his voice squeaking, "Sam, right? Sam are you a doctor?"
Sam blinked as he stammered, "Um, uh yeah. Is everything okay?"
"Well, I've got a stab wound on my hand, there's four dead bodies- only two that I'm technically responsible for, by the way!- and there's a little matter of the giant fucking metal beam that I've currently been impaled on," Charlie explained, his accent growing a bit thick with each word, "How's that sound for you?"
"Oh, oh..." Sam murmured, Natasha jumping off her chair and swiping a sip of Clint's coffee as she barked into the phone, "We can be there in two hours, just stay where you are, okay?"
"Can't really go anywhere."
Clint shook his head, giving the phone a smug grin, "Dude, being impaled must be so cool."
"Yeah, well, once you've got yourself bashed on the head with a sledgehammer and tossed over a railing onto a fucking stone patio call me and we'll talk."
Natasha came over to them, tossing the other two their coats, "Wanna hang out, Sam?"
Sam balked, "I really don't think this qualifies as 'hanging out,' Nat."
Clint clapped Sam on the back, tossing his half empty mug in the sink on the way, "That's the spirit, Sam."
Natasha hungup on Charlie as he was mid-rant, and Sam.hoped the man didn't die before they reached him. It made him wonder how on Earth he became friends with rhese people, and he slid into the passenger seat of the black Jeep that was parked in the driveway.
"Alright," Natasha revved the engine, "to Australia!"