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aa_natasha 9/8/2012
The hotel is modern, at least compared to the rest of the city in which it dwells. It is midscale, nice enough to warrant warm rooms and soft sheets, bright lights of electricity running through the rooms, but not enough to have an inconvenient doorman to notice comings and goings, nor attract too much attention to the American tourists staying within.
For all that this is Natasha's native country and she's coached him on his accent, Clint can't pass as Russian enough. The cold affects him too much, the slight flatness of his accent stubbornly persisting whenever he attempts the Russian that he knows. So they both pose as Americans, at least within the hotel, so as not to explain their companionship beyond the assumptions made. He sits at the simple desk, sliding rounds into the clip of his gun, and waiting.
Natasha returns from their habitual sweep of what they're making their safehouse, so much as anything is here, with a brief knock on the door in the short pattern that indicates her identity before she slips inside. "Clear," she says, dropping to the bed behind him with a slight bounce.
"You see anything for dinner?" Clint questions, no surprise at the news for all that he makes his sweeps with as much seriousness as she does hers. He slips the last bullet into the clip, palming the weight of it as he shifts in his chair to look at his partner.
"In the mood for borshch?" Natasha questions with mild humor as she tugs a pistol free from the small of her back and settles it on the bed next to her for a more comfortable backward lean into the brace of her arms. She considers Clint for a moment, gone silent in her study, and then announces, "I know a place. You'll love it."
Clint's brows lift upwards at the question, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he shakes his head in a subtle gesture. He looks suspicious at the announcement, questioning, "Did you find a burger place?"
Natasha rolls her eyes and grabs at a pillow to direct it toward her partner's head with remarkable aim.
Even with the clip in his hand, Clint catches the pillow with a snort of laughter, folding it onto his chest and hugging it there like an overgrown stuffed animal. "Where?" he asks, stubbornly.
Natasha follows her eye roll with a small but deeply genuine smile that creases the corners of her eyes. Her gaze drops pointedly to that pillow before she draws it up to lift her brows at him for a moment. Really, Clint? Really? Only then does she answer, "Conveniently located near one of the bars I want to case. If you're good, I might even treat you to real Russian vodka."
What? Clint looks innocent. He is just a grown man hugging a pillow, what is so weird about that. He even drops his chin onto the fluffy, white cotton and levels a look at Natasha. "I'm going to hold you to that," he says. "Give me the details on the bar."
"Last time I was here, it was a not-so-secret front for the most powerful local bosses of the organizatsiya." Natasha fixes on Clint, her tone all business, but her lips twitch at the corners and even when she schools them into obedience, her eyes still shine amusement. "Even if it's changed, I'm betting that someone there still knows someone we can pull on."
"Security and layout?" Clint questions, his own tone dropping away to something more sober and businesslike as well for all that he does not yet give up his pillow.
Natasha pushes off the bed to cross toward the small desk, and she jots the layout for Clint with a few quick strokes and sparse symbols that communicate exits, security, lines of sight. It's a familiar process, and when she pushes it toward him she only has to clarify a few specific points for this new location, adding, "There's a two story building across the road, but otherwise it's low-level all the way around."
A frown touches briefly at Clint's expression as he studies the map, grumbling off-handedly, "This is the problem with old cities. No height." He takes a while to memorize the map before folding it up and handing it back towards Natasha to dispose of.
"There's plenty of height in Moscow, moy yastreb," Natasha says with a twitch of her brows as she plucks the map from Clint's fingers and digs a lighter free from her pocket with a hitch of her hip. "Just not where we're going tonight." She pushes away, looping her foot around the small trashcan to drag it to the center of the room before she flicks the lighter into glowing life and lets the flame eat the paper into soot and ash. Her eyes flick toward him. "Think you can handle it?"
"Do I ever ask you that?" Clint jokes, humor returning dryly. He leans back in his chair, his brows lifting upwards, but he does nod finally. Yes.
"Do you ever need to?" Natasha retorts, but there's a teasing edge in her voice if you look closely enough. She flicks the last bits of the map into the trash and rubs her fingers together before jerking her head toward the door and promising, "Dinner first."
Clint stretches to his feet, tossing the pillow back onto the bed and sliding his clip into his pocket as a spare. "How much do you tip in Russia?" he asks, lightly.
"Don't worry, sweetheart," Natasha says, giving Clint a coy flutter of her lashes with a glance over her shoulder as she retrieves her gun from the bed and tucks it away again. "My treat."
"If this means I have to put out later, I am game," Clint replies, moving for the door and propping it open for Natasha in a gentlemanly gesture.
Natasha responds to that with laughter, a sound that trails after her into the hall as she slips effortlessly from Natasha Romanoff to the fluttery tourist who finds bad jokes really funny and doesn't hesitate to humor her companion. She's totally pleasant company during dinner. Maybe it's a nice change.
The hotel is modern, at least compared to the rest of the city in which it dwells. It is midscale, nice enough to warrant warm rooms and soft sheets, bright lights of electricity running through the rooms, but not enough to have an inconvenient doorman to notice comings and goings, nor attract too much attention to the American tourists staying within.
For all that this is Natasha's native country and she's coached him on his accent, Clint can't pass as Russian enough. The cold affects him too much, the slight flatness of his accent stubbornly persisting whenever he attempts the Russian that he knows. So they both pose as Americans, at least within the hotel, so as not to explain their companionship beyond the assumptions made. He sits at the simple desk, sliding rounds into the clip of his gun, and waiting.
Natasha returns from their habitual sweep of what they're making their safehouse, so much as anything is here, with a brief knock on the door in the short pattern that indicates her identity before she slips inside. "Clear," she says, dropping to the bed behind him with a slight bounce.
"You see anything for dinner?" Clint questions, no surprise at the news for all that he makes his sweeps with as much seriousness as she does hers. He slips the last bullet into the clip, palming the weight of it as he shifts in his chair to look at his partner.
"In the mood for borshch?" Natasha questions with mild humor as she tugs a pistol free from the small of her back and settles it on the bed next to her for a more comfortable backward lean into the brace of her arms. She considers Clint for a moment, gone silent in her study, and then announces, "I know a place. You'll love it."
Clint's brows lift upwards at the question, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he shakes his head in a subtle gesture. He looks suspicious at the announcement, questioning, "Did you find a burger place?"
Natasha rolls her eyes and grabs at a pillow to direct it toward her partner's head with remarkable aim.
Even with the clip in his hand, Clint catches the pillow with a snort of laughter, folding it onto his chest and hugging it there like an overgrown stuffed animal. "Where?" he asks, stubbornly.
Natasha follows her eye roll with a small but deeply genuine smile that creases the corners of her eyes. Her gaze drops pointedly to that pillow before she draws it up to lift her brows at him for a moment. Really, Clint? Really? Only then does she answer, "Conveniently located near one of the bars I want to case. If you're good, I might even treat you to real Russian vodka."
What? Clint looks innocent. He is just a grown man hugging a pillow, what is so weird about that. He even drops his chin onto the fluffy, white cotton and levels a look at Natasha. "I'm going to hold you to that," he says. "Give me the details on the bar."
"Last time I was here, it was a not-so-secret front for the most powerful local bosses of the organizatsiya." Natasha fixes on Clint, her tone all business, but her lips twitch at the corners and even when she schools them into obedience, her eyes still shine amusement. "Even if it's changed, I'm betting that someone there still knows someone we can pull on."
"Security and layout?" Clint questions, his own tone dropping away to something more sober and businesslike as well for all that he does not yet give up his pillow.
Natasha pushes off the bed to cross toward the small desk, and she jots the layout for Clint with a few quick strokes and sparse symbols that communicate exits, security, lines of sight. It's a familiar process, and when she pushes it toward him she only has to clarify a few specific points for this new location, adding, "There's a two story building across the road, but otherwise it's low-level all the way around."
A frown touches briefly at Clint's expression as he studies the map, grumbling off-handedly, "This is the problem with old cities. No height." He takes a while to memorize the map before folding it up and handing it back towards Natasha to dispose of.
"There's plenty of height in Moscow, moy yastreb," Natasha says with a twitch of her brows as she plucks the map from Clint's fingers and digs a lighter free from her pocket with a hitch of her hip. "Just not where we're going tonight." She pushes away, looping her foot around the small trashcan to drag it to the center of the room before she flicks the lighter into glowing life and lets the flame eat the paper into soot and ash. Her eyes flick toward him. "Think you can handle it?"
"Do I ever ask you that?" Clint jokes, humor returning dryly. He leans back in his chair, his brows lifting upwards, but he does nod finally. Yes.
"Do you ever need to?" Natasha retorts, but there's a teasing edge in her voice if you look closely enough. She flicks the last bits of the map into the trash and rubs her fingers together before jerking her head toward the door and promising, "Dinner first."
Clint stretches to his feet, tossing the pillow back onto the bed and sliding his clip into his pocket as a spare. "How much do you tip in Russia?" he asks, lightly.
"Don't worry, sweetheart," Natasha says, giving Clint a coy flutter of her lashes with a glance over her shoulder as she retrieves her gun from the bed and tucks it away again. "My treat."
"If this means I have to put out later, I am game," Clint replies, moving for the door and propping it open for Natasha in a gentlemanly gesture.
Natasha responds to that with laughter, a sound that trails after her into the hall as she slips effortlessly from Natasha Romanoff to the fluttery tourist who finds bad jokes really funny and doesn't hesitate to humor her companion. She's totally pleasant company during dinner. Maybe it's a nice change.