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

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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She sways with him, leans into him as they recover, though she manages to keep most of her weight off of him without making it look that way. She's playing along, not out to make him suffer. She giggles a little, the sound far too bubbly for the conversation they're really having, to add to that.

"Let's go with that, then."

And so they continue through the streets, keeping an eye out for an older model of car that seems to have less attention on it. It doesn't actually take that long before he spots a potential prospect, though, and indicates it to Natasha before he heads them toward it, to back her up against it a little roughly.

He's not trying anything, here, he just wants to make sure there's not a proximity alarm enabled on it or that someone isn't going to come out of a bar and yell at them to get away from their ride.

Actually getting handsy or not, Natasha still hums as he backs her up against the car, and loops her arms around his shoulders so she can pull him in for a decidedly unchaste kiss. It helps sell the act, after all, and it's not like she hasn't done worse for the sake of other acts. This is nothing.

When she breaks away, she takes a moment, only half-feigning breathlessness as she looks up at him, expression smoky, and then softly, points out, "No alarm."

Clint's right there with her, really, and returns the kiss, sliding one hand up her shirt a little, just enough to sell this. If anyone is watching them, it should be enough to illicit a reaction.

There's nothing, though, either from the car or people on the street, and he hums agreement to her assessment. "Or anybody telling us to fuck off," he murmurs. "You got a pin?"

In her hair, he means, considering he doesn't have his picks on him.

Humming, herself, she reaches up, seemingly to smooth a hand over her hair, flustered, and comes up with a handful of bobby pins. Rather than just hand them to him outright, still selling the act, just in case, she puts her hand to his hip, pins palmed, and slips them into his pocket.

"I'm a ballerina," she answers, as if that wasn't answer enough. Like she wouldn't have a hairpin or two on her.

"Yeah, I figured," he returns, dipping two fingers into his pocket after the pins. He fidgets with them for a moment, one-handed, grinning at her blurrily as he reaches back into his pocket again. He wishes he had actual keys on him to drop, but some change will do, and he looks after it with a laughing "oops" and turns to crouch to go for it, jamming one of the pins into the car's lock as he does.

Trusting her to help him sell this or at least keep an eye out, he gives his attention to getting into the car. It doesn't take long before there's a clunk, and he stumbles to his feet (a twinge in his side means he doesn't have to work as hard to sell that). A quick glance back the way they came doesn't show him anyone watching, and he reaches for the car again, this time to open the door.

She looks down at him, apparently amused but unimpressed by his tactics (and not for picking a lock), and then pretends to decide to humor him, regardless, nesting her hands in his hair as she leans back against the car. For all intents and purposes, it looks like he's eating her out or building up to it. It's not something that won't get them in trouble, if they're caught, for all that they're still in public, but it'll be less of an issue than if someone stumbles by and realizes they're stealing a car.

She feigns disappointment and breathlessness, both, as he stands again, and then turns them, to push him into the car, still carrying the act.

Clint reaches back to pull her in behind him, backing clumsily over the center console, laughing too loud as he ends up briefly almost upside down. It's more controlled than it looks, though, and he rights himself, waiting for her to get the door closed before he pulls her down before he reaches for the steering column, to begin hot-wiring it.

She laughs, too, when he ends up near-upside down, never mind the fact that she's all but having the same problem. She, too, however, rights herself after a moment, and when she does, shifts to close the door before stretching out over him. She presses a kiss to his jaw, a finishing note for the act, now that they're both out of sight, thanks to the dashboard, and murmurs, "Give it a minute, before you start it."

That way, if anyone has been watching, they'll assume they had a quickie.

"See anything fishy?" he returns, because he didn't, but this is also the first time he's really had a chance to check in with her without having to find a way to pretend that's not what he's doing.

He also does wait to start the car, as she's advised.

"No," she answers, putting words to her earlier thought, "but assuming we missed someone keeping an eye out, they might lose interest, if they think we're actually having sex." And not just using their very public lead up to it as a cover.

He hums acknowledgement of that, shifting a little pointedly a few times, making the car shift as he reaches for the steering column, to go about the actual process of hot wiring the thing. He can do it faster, but if it takes him a moment longer, he figures it'll only help sell their cover.

She shifts with him, though it's a more deliberate thing, as she reaches to unbutton her shirt and run her fingers through her hair a few times, tussling it, though not overly so. When she's satisfied with how disheveled she looks and after another several seconds, she murmurs, "Whenever you're ready."

Should be good, she thinks.

With a last twist of the wiring, Clint finishes the job and starts the car before he sits up abruptly, taking deep breaths before he shoots her a smirk - both for the show and what he actually just did - and then reaches for his seat belt.

"You ready?"

Natasha sits with him, sliding out of his lap and into the passenger seat with ease. She makes a show of rebuttoning her shirt, raking her fingers through her hair to fix the mess she made of it, and then reaches for her own seat belt. That done, she shoots him a smoky but satisfied smirk, the final note of the dance they've been doing, here, in case anyone happened to be watching, and nods.

"Drive."

I lose the joys of life. (For speaks_latin)

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