thehawkinhisnest | I lose the joys of life. (For speaks

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I lose the joys of life. (For speaks_latin)

Warning: Will contain violence.

Clint fiddles with his cufflink, looking away from the window overlooking the street below. This is the last step of a mission he's been working for the last two weeks, and while he's as anxious as ever for it to be over, there's no sense of victory on the horizon. He's used to that with these missions, of knowing that once he's finished, he'll feel a sense of accomplishment, of having something to be proud of. But no matter how hard he tries, he just wants this one to be over.

He's supposed to kill a child.

Not really, of course. The girl (The Black Widow. Natalie. Natalia.) is only a few years younger than him - their intel says she is actually eighteen, though he's wondered about that in the time he's been watching her this week, while he decided the best way to play this, while his contacts set up this meeting. Natalia was his date to a dinner for some rich assholes this evening, and the longer the night goes on, the more certain he becomes that he can't go through with this. She's a killer, has taken out more targets than S.H.I.E.L.D. can actually keep up with - but he sees more when people don't know he's watching. He's seen the black cars and men that dog her heels, and the looks she gives them when she thinks no one's watching aren't to reassure herself that they're there. He's seen her steel herself before she talks to them, before she came up to meet up, tonight, and they all paint a picture different than the one in her file.

He has weapons hidden nearby, should be hiding one of them on himself now while Natalia freshens up in the bathroom - he doesn't want to think about why she thinks she needs to freshen up, she's a child and not even one allowed to make her own decisions - but he can't. He can't do it.

But he has to, and he finally takes his hand away from his sleeve, turning to find the closest handgun, to tuck it away as the sound of water stops in the bathroom and the door opens, to school his own expression and posture back into the relaxed, confident swagger this cover requires, to let himself leer a little when he turns to face her.

Another hour, and this will be done.

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He's just not going to mention his side and hope she more or less forgets about it, nevermind the sting he can feel.

"So, downward?" he proposes. "And run like hell if we catch any sign of your buddy?"

"Best plan I've got," she says by way of agreement and with a shrug. Slipping out from behind the door, she opens it cautiously, clearing the hallway as before, and then steps out, expecting Clint to follow.

Clint does follow her, sliding out behind her and then closing the door quietly behind them, following her toward the stairs. The eerie quiet continues, the elevator still not in use. He's glad both of them are capable of making so little noise - it would sound like a rock concert in the stairwell if they weren't.

They're just about to the lobby, when Natasha stops. She reaches out, grabbing Clint's wrist as he does, too, and pulls him down the hallway that leads, presumably, to a laundry room, if the smell of fabric softener is any indication. Not that that's important. What is important is, "They're going to start letting people back in, soon."

So, maybe they should wait here and then slip out through the crowd.

Clint gets another step forward before he lets himself be yanked to the side. "We'll have to give it a minute," he returns lowly. "It'll look weird if we walk out right after they let people back in."

Even with the crowd that will be coming back in, two people fighting against it would be enough to catch attention if the wrong people are still watching.

"I know," she promises. Never mind the fact that she might have tried slipping out, against the crowd, without the reminder. She's ready to be done with this -- or at least this part of it. She knows that 'done' is relative, that even once they escape the hotel and James, it won't really be over.

"We're fine," he says quietly in response, trying to reassure. He doesn't blame her for the anxiety; he wants to get on to the next step of this, too, but if they rush now they'll undo everything they just did. .

"I know," she repeats, no louder but a touch more shortly, this time. A pause follows, as the sound of doors opening and voices and footsteps approaching start to reach them, and then she tugs him a little further down the hallway and into the laundry room. "Close the door."

She figures no one will be in here for at least a little bit, and it's better than loitering in the feeder hallway.

Clint does as asked, following her into the laundry room and nudging the door closed behind them. He keeps close for a minute, listening through the door as the sounds of speech and footsteps grow louder, as people start to pass them.

Leaning back against one of the dryers, Natasha folds her arms over her chest and settles in to wait. She distracts herself, counting breaths, the number of times the dryer thumps behind her at the start of a new revolution, how many individual voices she thinks she can pick out of the cacophony as it passes. It helps, and by the time the voices in the hall start to die down, she seems less on edge.

"Give it another few minutes, maybe?"

Clint nods mutely, playing the same game as her. "Anybody asks, we came to check on stuff we left running," he offers - though he doesn't really think anyone will, is being a little overprepared with that - but it's better to have a story than not and need one. He's already learned that.

"That was the plan," she agrees. That was the first thought she had, when she managed to get a handle on her restlessness, of the same mind that too prepared is better than under-prepared. "I'm not sure we'll need it, but."

Clint nods. "Never hurts to have one," he agrees - and then smirks a little. "'m a little curious what's in there," he jokingly admits.

"Couldn't hurt to look," she decides after a moment, considering the dryers in earnest, now. If nothing else, it'd give them something to do to kill a few minutes and lend credence to their story, if someone comes in and catches them pawing around in one of the dryers.

Clint pauses for a moment - and then shrugs, immediately turning to pull it open. "Well, at least it's not underwear," he says as he comes up with a shirt - and then snorts at the purple mark on the sleeve. "Well, someone's attempt to not pay for dry cleaning failed."

"Is that lipstick or wine?" Natasha asks, peeking over his shoulder as she tries to decide. It's not really important, either way, but -- again, it's a good time-killer.

"That's wine," Clint returns. "But I would bet...." he continues, shaking the shirt out to get to the collar - where there's a smudge of faded red. "Called it," he finishes, grinning at Natasha.

"A child could have called that," Natasha shoots back. Never mind the fact that she looks at least dimly amused by the whole exchange.

Clint hums a distracted agreement to that, busy checking the size. "Eh, it'll do," he mutters as he sets it on top of the dryer and starts working the buttons of his own shirt. There's a decent tear across it, blood spattering it. When he pulls his shirt off, there's more blood on his undershirt, but he ignores that for the moment to pull on the one taken from the dryer. "Ready to get out of here?" he asks once he has all but the top couple of buttons done up.

Better to look like someone with their girlfriend than someone who's been nearly stabbed.

Natasha watches him, frowning at the bloodstains on his shirt. It's a good idea, stealing someone else's clothes, one she might have suggested herself, once they got through the ridiculousness of this all, but -- well. She's not sure the fact that he has to change at all thrills her. She hopes he doesn't bleed to death before they get to where they're going. That would be inconvenient.

"Whenever you are," she answers, in lieu of commentary to that effect and as she looks back to him.

Clint starts out of the laundry room, catching her hand to pull her along after him - and then slowing his own gait to match hers once they get back out of the hallway and into the lobby again.

There are still a few people milling around discussing what just happened, and Clint leads the way easily through them, pulling Natasha a little closer to him , keeping his expression open and a little unfocused, aiming for looking a little buzzed, giving the impression they've already had an evening to match the stains on the stolen shirt.

Natasha lets herself be pulled closer, going as far as to lean into him a little, a hazy not-quite smile on her face. Clearly, she's a little affected by the fire alarm going off, but she's already starting to forget about it, for all that it was apparently a false alarm, and is eager to get back to her night. Less obviously, more realistically, she keeps an eye out for James or any other complications as they head for the doors. She's not sure if the fact that they seem to be getting away scot-free makes her more nervous or just relieved.

Clint's watching their surroundings, too, keeping an eye out as much for S.H.I.E.L.D. as he is for James. He's almost more surprised he doesn't see his people, considering his destruction of his earpiece, but he's also not going to make it look like he's looking, to avoid drawing more attention.

"So now where, sweetheart?" he drawls in a voice a little different than even the one he was using earlier in the evening, in case anyone's listening, to avoid his voice pinging as familiar. It's an honest question, though - they need to get out of town so he can get them to a safe house so they can talk without people breathing down their necks, but he'd take any input she might have on the best way to do it.

"Anywhere but here," she pouts, half in question, playing up the idea that she she really doesn't want their night interrupted again by someone pulling a fire alarm, somewhere. More honestly, she's -- really not sure where they should go from here. If she was still with the Red Room, there are a hundred places she could go, but well, that's out, now. She's a little out of her depth, now.

"I got somewhere in mind," he drawls and assures her simultaneously as he keeps them moving onto the sidewalk. At the corner, he catches a brief glimpse of a black SUV that looks familiar. Without looking directly at it, he focuses a little, realizing with some relief a moment later that it doesn't seem occupied. While he's not stupid enough to go for one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s vehicles, turning the corner to head away from it, it does give him an idea.

I lose the joys of life. (For speaks_latin)

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