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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Clint hums an agreement, sliding into the closet and looking around for somewhere to position himself in case someone does try to check it for people. There's likely room behind the door for her, but he's going to have to pretend he's smaller than he is to get into a good position to be hidden.

Not that he can't do it, but it's going to take him a little more effort.

"If I say the next line, though, I'll end up jinxing us. Assuming I haven't already."

"So don't," she tells him. Despite that, though, she shoots him a sour look as she molds herself into the space behind the door. Clearly, she already thinks he has jinxed them, just by thinking it.

"Lips are sealed," he agrees - and then makes good on that, considering a shelving unit. He reaches out and shakes it, determining how sturdy it is - and then, when he seems happy with that, reaches up to a higher shelf so he can pick his feet up off the ground - and then slide through the side of the unit. It takes him a moment to walk his hands back down the shelves, nudging things out of his way carefully so he doesn't knock anything off the shelves -- and when he finally pulls his hands in, he's nearly completely hidden behind the supplies on the shelf.

Natasha watches him, once again impressed by his flexibility, but doesn't say anything. She remains silent even once he's settled, wary of talking now, as it's only a matter of time before someone's up to check this floor. She's not wrong, either -- a few minutes later, there's the sound of voices out in the hall, footsteps following as they get closer. She shifts slowly, pushing herself further into her corner as they approach, and waits. It doesn't take long until they're fading again, but while finally, she turns her attentions back to Clint, she remains silent. Better to give it another few minutes, in case they come back this way.

The only acknowledgement of the people passing is a quieting of his breathing as they pass, as the closet goes even more silent for the moment. He's fine where he is, though - one more benefit of his skillset is that he can remain still and silent in even uncomfortable places and positions if it means he can keep his eye on a target.

A good thing, too, considering Natasha continues to make them wait for quite some time, after, and rightfully so. She's not sure how much time has passed, by that point, but sooner or later, the footsteps come and go again as the people they belong to presumably head back down, their search complete. Natasha counts out another handful of seconds after she can't hear them over the sound of her breathing, however faint, anymore.

"I think we're good," she says, softly, when she's satisfied.

There's a quiet clatter as Clint shifts, a bottle of clear falling over, though it thankfully doesn't take anything with it. He reappears from the shadows, climbing back out of the shelf. "That was a lot more comfortable than I was expecting," he half jokes.

"You definitely made it look good," she shoots back, still impressed with how effortless he made that look, even if it wasn't really comfortable. She wonders, briefly, if she should add sniper to the short list she's keeping. She wonders how that makes her feel, if that is his area of expertise, considering it's James's, too.

She dismisses it after a moment and with a shake of her head. Now's not the time. "Ready to keep going?"

Clint smirks back at her. "Damn right," he returns - and then sobers, too, to nod. "Ready and able. What's our next step?"

"Getting out of here," she reminds him. They'll have to take it slow, so they don't outpace the rescue team on their way down, but she figures that won't be a problem, considering Clint's side and regardless of how 'fine' he is.

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."

I lose the joys of life. (For speaks_latin)

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