Living with Kate was great.

That's an understatement. Let me start again...

Living with Kate is incredible.

What was supposed to be a temporary arrangement quickly became a more permanent thing, though neither of us discussed it: it just kinda happened. I loved living with her not just because her home cinema was like going to an actual theatre; but because she made me feel normal.

No one at the carnival was aware about my deafness; and when I misheard, I'd just nod and smile rather than being an inconvenience and requesting they repeat it. It often landed me in sticky situations where I'd not carried out a command properly or not been somewhere on cue. Some of the carnies were unnerved by how I'd remain fixated on their lips during conversation and avoid me for that specific reason. But how could I tell them? I'd convinced myself they would send me out on my ear the moment they discovered I was defective. Who needed the toll of a deaf orphan in their employ?

Without being patronising, Kate catered to my disability: when I looked like a deer in the headlights she'd say "did you catch all of that," she never mumbled and moved her lips with exaggeration, and she'd switch the subtitles on the TV.  She made me feel less of a burden and my disadvantage, less of a disadvantage.

I was properly moved in in no time. I'd managed to cover the expenses of a new wardrobe with the treasures in the pillowcase. An awkward conversation concerning the origin of the stolen goods did ensue; but was shortened with a: "Do I want to know where this came from?" and a "Not if you want to be an accessory in court."

Pawning it without questions was easy enough in certain back-alley pawnbrokers. New York City's crime rate was by no means low. The return was good, and I paid my dues in groceries to Kate.

Kate even did me the honours of washing my circus clothes and patching them up. Apparently she had been taught to sew by her nanny, Maria. It was a sweet gesture, and a nice keepsake. She took care of me and I loved her for it.

My presence was something Kate quickly became accustomed to, and my habits along with it. She was endlessly picking my laundry off the floor surrounding the sofa, clearing up empty coffee mugs and teased me about my bow and arrows. I apologised profusely, of course - but I'd always reoffend: the life of a scatterbrain, a memoire by Clint Barton.

"Do you genuinely sleep with those things under your pillow?" She teased, handling the weaponry like a scientist might handle the products of an experiment; analytically eyeing it, testing the weight and breadth.

"They're my pride and joy!" I told her contemptuously. They were also the remnants of what was temporarily a happy time; and I tried to cling to the happy times since the bad outweighed the bad. The Swordsmaster, asshole as he may have been, did feel like a father for a short while; but inevitably, that turned bitter: just like everything in my life.

I dreaded to think that was what Katie would one day become.

She plucked one of the beautifully fletched arrows out of my quiver, with the black ebony wood shaft and the purple feathers at the end. "What the hell is this?" She asked, probing the oddly shaped tip.

"Trick arrows! Respect them!" I scolded, snatching back the explosive weaponry. She had no clue that the object she was handling could probably raze the flat.

"That's ridiculous!" She snorted, lunging for the arrow.

"Hey! You never know when they could come in useful!" I chastised, waggling the bit of kit at her. "At the carnival every second person was a thief, you kinda needed to stay alert! I got in the habit..."

I quickly got to know Kate's neighbours. They were all a friendly bunch who rubbed along without much friction. Ritualistically, they had barbeques on the roof terrace every Friday - even during the winter, or so they told me; I was regaled with tales of two foot snow and chargrilled sausages. At the barbeques, everyone from the infants to the pensioners would join in and have a laugh. Though I avoided the crates of beer, the rest of them chugged it and we played games of cards under the blistering sun of New York City in the summer. I loved it. They became a second family so fast, and I never wanted it to end.

Socialising with them, I fast made some contacts and made my name as a handyman. Working on a farm had made me a skilled manual labourer - and when our house was in a dismal state of repair on the brink bankruptcy, I had learnt how to fix things myself rather than calling a plumber of electrician.

"Just a blown fuse, Miss McKenzie, it's really not all that difficult to fix," I assured her, screwing the last screw back into the two pronged plug.

It made me feel good helping out. It made me feel part of something bigger. And the only pay I needed was the smiles on their faces when I fixed something for them.

"And how much will that set me back, Clinton?" She asked, jogging her baby up and down in her arms to try and hush his crying.

"You know what? Have it on me," I told her with certainty and plugged her television back into the wall.

With a flip of the switch, it buzzed to life; static at first, but then it cleared into colour. Sound crackled out of the speakers, and her baby stopped crying instantly - mesmerised by the picture box.

"How can I possibly repay you?" She placed her child down on a mat in front of the TV; he happily gurgled and hiccupped; clapping as his favourite cartoons danced on the screen. I couldn't help but smile at the endearing sounds.

Some of the people in the building weren't as privileged as Kate, and the rent in New York City was taxing, and being a single mom - as was Miss McKenzie's case - also had its financial pitfalls. Having had my unfair share of monetary issues, I was sympathetic; I didn't charge many of my customers unless I had to make up the rent for Katie.

I shook my head. "No need. Really," I reassured her. "It was dirt cheap and took no time at all to fix. Maybe just call quits on the poker money I owe you and we'll be just fine." I winked at her.

"I'd completely forgotten anyway!" She laughed. "I'm sure you'll rack up more debts soon though, huh? I know Mister Stanley on the next floor up is still bragging about how you owe him twenty dollars..." She shook her head and grinned.

"I'll pay up eventually, honest," I quipped, laughing with her.

"Anyway, thanks, Clint. See you around, take care!" She embraced me before opening the door.

Kate was just arriving home from work as I crossed the corridor back to her apartment.

"The McKenzies seem happy!" Kate chirped, opening the door to her apartment and shooing me in.

"Yeah; fixed a fuse and stopped her new-born crying," I announced proudly.

"I think that makes you entitled to a treat, Clint," she supposed, chucking her handbag by the door and draping her blazer over it.

"Oh yeah?" I called, flopping on the sofa and flicking through the television channels. "What a nice surprise!"

"Also, I can't be assed to cook; so we're ordering a pizza!" She started dialling the phone affixed to the wall in the kitchen; the number practically memorised by now. "What do you fancy?" She called, ringing phone clamped to her chest.

"Hawaiian!" I mouthed back. "Oh! And order a bottle of cola if they have any; we ran out today!" I added.

Kate garbled our order into the phone as I flipped sides, nothing but news shows that time of the night. Nothing interesting; blah, blah, blah - burglaries in Bed-Stuy, child molester beaten into a coma in Hell's Kitchen: found on railway tracks, and larceny in Manhattan near Central Park. Doom and gloom; but as luck would have it 'The Spy who Loved Me' was on - the film was just over a decade old, but Roger Moore was still just as suave and the film just as astounding as the first time I saw it. Grainy quality as it was, I adored it.

Bond was what I aspired to be; a chick-magnet, witty one liners and always saving the day. He's a paradigm of manliness and heroism. It would be great to be a hero, just for a day. A super-spy with sharp bespoke suits. An unbeatable marksman... Well, I suppose I'm half way there with that one.

A high-heel hit me in the arm and I turned to face, Kate, rubbing the bruised skin. "The delivery is really expensive because it's rush hour," Kate called over.

"I'll pick it up," I told her and Kate continued the call.

The walk from the apartment block to the pizza place was leisurely, especially in the evening when the heat had mostly dissipated. There were passing showers that evening too, and the rain was a welcomed and refreshing feeling on my skin. The parlour smelt fantastic and when I got there and it was but a wave to the usual till-worker to collect the food.

I picked up the box and strutted back out of the shop. Outside was a dog tied to a post, whining and scrabbling to get out of the leash. A golden retriever puppy, trembling and growling.

I couldn't ignore the adorable little pup. "Hey there, buddy!" I squatted by the dog, making it yap and whimper.

It sniffed around at the box and then yapped giddily, looking up at me with big doleful eyes.

"You want some pizza?" I questioned and the dog bounded up and down. Adorable, I tell you.

I couldn't resist. I fished a flaccid slice out of the box and dangled it in front of the dog. It strained against the lead and sprung into the air to munch it; munching it up in no time. The pup barked happily and licked its tomato sauce stained chops.

"You're a pizza dog! You like that, don't you, huh? Huh, pizza dog?" I ruffled it's head and it nuzzled into my palm. I offered the irresistible dog another slice and it gobbled it right up. It lapped at my hand affectionately, it's tail waggling frantically.

"Hey! You!" An accented voice called from over my shoulder. A swarthy and hairy man swaggered up, choking on a cigarette. "Yes, you, bro! Get away from my dog, bro! He's not safe, bro!" Russian, I thought.

"Dog likes pizza, how bad can it be?" I questioned, daring to laugh. I ruffled its head again for good measure.

"He not bred for getting fat! You should not feed strangers dogs, bro." The man strolled up, pot-belly first in his tracksuit and smacked the dog. "Stupid hound!"

Something snapped in me. "The hell d'you think you're doing?" I replied before I even realised I had spoken, getting to my feet. What kind of a sick bastard abuses a helpless animal? A puppy at that? I wasn't going to stand by and tolerate the brute harming the younger and smaller thing.

The small pup cowered, paws covering its eyes, it's tail shooting between its legs, and a small amount of pee trickled from the animal. It was quivering, petrified.

"He's my dog. Run along, bro!" I was shoved in the chest and tripped into the street.

The dog didn't like that; that was for certain. When its owner untied it, the dog coiled back on its haunches before springing and biting the man's wrinkled hand; its jaws locked around it. "Ow! You little runt!" He shook his hand until the dog fell back to the floor and drop kicked it into the road.

"Stupid dog!" He cursed.

To my horror, as the Russian stood there cursing and cussing in a hundred foreign words, a car was heading for the young dog. There was a screech of tires, a wail of breaks and the yelp of a puppy. Dropping the pizza box, both the driver and I rushed into the road to see the beat up dog lying on the road, blood oozing from its golden coat, muddy rainwater splashed onto its fur. The water had prevented the driver from stopping the collision in time.

"Oh my god, is it alright?" The diver asked, crouching over it with me.

There was only one thing I saw fit to do. "I don't want to wait around until it's not." So I picked up the mangled body, which I noted was inflating and deflating with breaths in my arms and ran away with the dog; stealing it, essentially from the man.

I hailed a cab across the street and jumped in. "Take me to the nearest vet! It's an emergency." I could see the Russian across on the other sidewalk waving his fist and running into the road. "Scratch that, punch it, get me outta here then worry about the vets!"

The rain having only got denser amidst the duration of the journey, I jumped out into the freak pouring weather and stormed into the veterinarian centre, jumping the queued patients. With every passing moment I got more and more concerned for the dog's wellbeing. It wasn't in good shape. If it weren't to survive, I would go and hunt down those brutish Russians, that was for sure.

"Fix this dog!" I demanded, putting the pup down on the reception desk.

"Sir, there's a queue-"

"I don't care. Please; it's an emergency. You're obliged to help right? Hippocratic oath or whatever?" I threatened. "Please, the pup is bleeding out." And my voice sounded whiny and pathetic with the worry of it all.

Reluctantly, with a clinched jaw, the doctor at the reception desk beckoned more vets to come with him. The dog was picked up and placed onto what resembled a miniature stretcher and was wheeled away towards the surgery rooms.

Nervous as anything, "Do you have a payphone?" I asked the addled looking intern at the reception desk, wringing my hands.

She pointed at the wall opposite and I thanked her, crossing the hallway to it and inserting a few nickels and dimes into the slot with shaky hands. I jabbed at the numbers and looped the curled cord around my finger. "Hiya, Katie," I said breathlessly. "Yeah, I might be a bit late back."

A/N - All you Matt Fraction fans have permission to go wild! You'll all seemingly be pleased to know that my birthday was absolutely amazing yesterday; and you all contributed to making it so with your humbling messages! Thank you!

This is a bonus update because by some miracle you managed to break seventy votes on the chapter before last! A logical new target seems to be eighty. On you go!

GCSE results day today, and I got 2 A's, 6 B's and 4 C's! Not a single fail in sight! I'm satisfied.

Dedication goes to WildUntilTheEnd! x