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aa_natasha 9/19/2012
Their hotel and room have both changed half a dozen times in the two weeks they've been in Moscow. This particular one is rather nicer than their usual fare, as cover dictates, and it hasn't quite gathered that lived-in feel just yet. There's a doorman to swing the door wide as Clint and Natasha enter and a concierge to smile at them in warm amusement as they slip into the elevator together. Neither one of them notices the expert shift of sharp eyes that check surroundings and civilians as the redhead clings to the man's arm and laughs up at him. It's an act they perfected years ago.
Once safe behind the closed door of the hotel room (checked again, always, just in case), Natasha turns to Clint with a smile that is far more genuine, for all that it's smaller, quieter. She lifts one arm to pluck sharpened hairpins from the elaborate mass of upswept curls and leaves them on the bedside table as she says, "I'd call that a success."
"We know who he is working for now, at least," Clint answers in agreement, his fingers first going to dislodge the gun hidden in the small of his back, behind the dark fabric of his tuxedo. A tie is knotted at his neck, for all that his jacket has not been buttoned all night. "Planted a bug in the senator's car. Did you get anything from talking to him?"
"Flattery," Natasha answers with a flutter of breath that's not /quite/ laughter. Her hands linger in her hair, tugging at a long, thin wire that she wraps neatly around her wrist. "Not door codes, unfortunately, but a fair sense of his schedule for the next several days. We shouldn't have any trouble arranging a more private conversation."
Clint quirks an eyebrow upwards, teasing where he asks, "You mean that he's going to want to meet with me, and not Marina?" Working at the knot at his throat, he turns away to kick his shoes off into a corner of their hotel room.
Natasha gives Clint a dry flick of her eyes as she settles one foot on the edge of the bed and slides her hands up beneath the heavy skirt of the gown she wears to free the rest of her weaponry from their hidden holsters. "You're concerned with what he /wants/? I'm sure the good Councilor will be flattered." Her gaze lingers on him tracking the lines of his posture and the work of his hand at his throat.
"I'm only concerned when they employ several body guards with big guns," Clint answers with a half-smile, for all that he remains turned away from Natasha as he divests himself of remnants of clothes. His tie is left loose around his neck, even as he shrugs out of his jacket, tugging at it when it catches on his arm. "Hopefully one shady politician leads to another, though. All of the updates out of New York are making me anxious to get home."
Natasha's expression falls closed at that, and she lapses into silence for a long moment as she brushes past Clint and into the large bathroom, her arms bent back and her fingers already working to pick bobby pins loose from her hair.
"No? Not you?" It catches his interest, that silence, and Clint trails her into the bathroom with a study of her in turn. He lingers at the doorway. "What is it, Tasha?"
Natasha catches Clint's gaze briefly in the reflection of the mirror, then turns her eyes firmly back to her own as she works. "You're right," she says vaguely. "We should get home."
"You worried?" Clint questions quietly, his shoulder presses against wood as he intrudes into her privacy.
Something dark flickers over Natasha's features, and with only Clint present, she doesn't bother to check it. "Aren't you?" she asks, voice flat as she pauses and drops her hands to rest palm-down on the counter in front of her. Her gaze lifts to his, reflected, again. "It's been too long, Clint. We need to get SHIELD back, but at this point-- it doesn't matter. Whatever he wanted, he's got it."
A snort catches in Clint's throat, a quiet sound of agreement before he goes on to reason smoothly, "He's still there. Might not have got it all, or maybe he's just hoping to keep it." A pause, and then he adds quietly, "Of course I'm worried, Tash."
Natasha lets her shoulders slump just slightly, bare above the low neckline of her gown, and for just a moment she closes her eyes. "I know you are," she allows. With a small shake, she opens her eyes again, resets her shoulders, raises her hands once more to the task of picking pins loose from her hair.
Sighing, Clint pushes himself away from the frame of the door to step forward into the bathroom. He brushes her hands away lightly, before plucking at the pins himself, efficient and gentle. "We'll be done soon," he says.
Natasha drops her hands to her sigh at Clint's touch and remains quietly motionless in front of him. She watches him in the mirror under the warmth of incandescent lights, and after a moment she gives him half of a small, crooked smile. "The Motherland brings out the pessimist in me," she murmurs, halfway to apology for her mood.
"More reason to get the fuck out of here sooner," Clint agrees quietly, the pins picked one by one from her curls as he draws close against her back, for a moment at least.
Natasha shifts and settles her weight into the solid surety of Clint at her back. She draws her tone lighter as she watches him. "Careful, Barton," she says, low-voiced. "You're starting to sound like you don't like me, here."
Clint's arms wrap around her, palms curved over the pins he has taken out as he presses his chin into her curls. "Bullshit. I like you anywhere," he jokes lightly.
Natasha lets herself steal the comfort of Clint's arms for a dozen seconds, then a few more before she straightens away and lifts her hands to scrape her fingers through her loose curls. "And that's how we know Clint Barton has always been a little off," she retorts in light tease before she cranes her neck to look back at him and requests, "Get my zipper?"
"Don't tell anyone," Clint agrees to that assessment, pulling back to pure efficiency as he unzips her dress in one long gesture. "I'll go get some ice." It is likely more of an excuse than a need, his thumb jerking backwards as he moves to step away and give Natasha some privacy in the hotel room.
"I'm remarkably good with secrets," Natasha assures. One hand presses the top of her strapless gown firmly into place until Clint's stepped away. She looks after him for a moment, then sweeps back into the room proper to take advantage of his absence and change into clothing both more comfortable and more sensible.
Their hotel and room have both changed half a dozen times in the two weeks they've been in Moscow. This particular one is rather nicer than their usual fare, as cover dictates, and it hasn't quite gathered that lived-in feel just yet. There's a doorman to swing the door wide as Clint and Natasha enter and a concierge to smile at them in warm amusement as they slip into the elevator together. Neither one of them notices the expert shift of sharp eyes that check surroundings and civilians as the redhead clings to the man's arm and laughs up at him. It's an act they perfected years ago.
Once safe behind the closed door of the hotel room (checked again, always, just in case), Natasha turns to Clint with a smile that is far more genuine, for all that it's smaller, quieter. She lifts one arm to pluck sharpened hairpins from the elaborate mass of upswept curls and leaves them on the bedside table as she says, "I'd call that a success."
"We know who he is working for now, at least," Clint answers in agreement, his fingers first going to dislodge the gun hidden in the small of his back, behind the dark fabric of his tuxedo. A tie is knotted at his neck, for all that his jacket has not been buttoned all night. "Planted a bug in the senator's car. Did you get anything from talking to him?"
"Flattery," Natasha answers with a flutter of breath that's not /quite/ laughter. Her hands linger in her hair, tugging at a long, thin wire that she wraps neatly around her wrist. "Not door codes, unfortunately, but a fair sense of his schedule for the next several days. We shouldn't have any trouble arranging a more private conversation."
Clint quirks an eyebrow upwards, teasing where he asks, "You mean that he's going to want to meet with me, and not Marina?" Working at the knot at his throat, he turns away to kick his shoes off into a corner of their hotel room.
Natasha gives Clint a dry flick of her eyes as she settles one foot on the edge of the bed and slides her hands up beneath the heavy skirt of the gown she wears to free the rest of her weaponry from their hidden holsters. "You're concerned with what he /wants/? I'm sure the good Councilor will be flattered." Her gaze lingers on him tracking the lines of his posture and the work of his hand at his throat.
"I'm only concerned when they employ several body guards with big guns," Clint answers with a half-smile, for all that he remains turned away from Natasha as he divests himself of remnants of clothes. His tie is left loose around his neck, even as he shrugs out of his jacket, tugging at it when it catches on his arm. "Hopefully one shady politician leads to another, though. All of the updates out of New York are making me anxious to get home."
Natasha's expression falls closed at that, and she lapses into silence for a long moment as she brushes past Clint and into the large bathroom, her arms bent back and her fingers already working to pick bobby pins loose from her hair.
"No? Not you?" It catches his interest, that silence, and Clint trails her into the bathroom with a study of her in turn. He lingers at the doorway. "What is it, Tasha?"
Natasha catches Clint's gaze briefly in the reflection of the mirror, then turns her eyes firmly back to her own as she works. "You're right," she says vaguely. "We should get home."
"You worried?" Clint questions quietly, his shoulder presses against wood as he intrudes into her privacy.
Something dark flickers over Natasha's features, and with only Clint present, she doesn't bother to check it. "Aren't you?" she asks, voice flat as she pauses and drops her hands to rest palm-down on the counter in front of her. Her gaze lifts to his, reflected, again. "It's been too long, Clint. We need to get SHIELD back, but at this point-- it doesn't matter. Whatever he wanted, he's got it."
A snort catches in Clint's throat, a quiet sound of agreement before he goes on to reason smoothly, "He's still there. Might not have got it all, or maybe he's just hoping to keep it." A pause, and then he adds quietly, "Of course I'm worried, Tash."
Natasha lets her shoulders slump just slightly, bare above the low neckline of her gown, and for just a moment she closes her eyes. "I know you are," she allows. With a small shake, she opens her eyes again, resets her shoulders, raises her hands once more to the task of picking pins loose from her hair.
Sighing, Clint pushes himself away from the frame of the door to step forward into the bathroom. He brushes her hands away lightly, before plucking at the pins himself, efficient and gentle. "We'll be done soon," he says.
Natasha drops her hands to her sigh at Clint's touch and remains quietly motionless in front of him. She watches him in the mirror under the warmth of incandescent lights, and after a moment she gives him half of a small, crooked smile. "The Motherland brings out the pessimist in me," she murmurs, halfway to apology for her mood.
"More reason to get the fuck out of here sooner," Clint agrees quietly, the pins picked one by one from her curls as he draws close against her back, for a moment at least.
Natasha shifts and settles her weight into the solid surety of Clint at her back. She draws her tone lighter as she watches him. "Careful, Barton," she says, low-voiced. "You're starting to sound like you don't like me, here."
Clint's arms wrap around her, palms curved over the pins he has taken out as he presses his chin into her curls. "Bullshit. I like you anywhere," he jokes lightly.
Natasha lets herself steal the comfort of Clint's arms for a dozen seconds, then a few more before she straightens away and lifts her hands to scrape her fingers through her loose curls. "And that's how we know Clint Barton has always been a little off," she retorts in light tease before she cranes her neck to look back at him and requests, "Get my zipper?"
"Don't tell anyone," Clint agrees to that assessment, pulling back to pure efficiency as he unzips her dress in one long gesture. "I'll go get some ice." It is likely more of an excuse than a need, his thumb jerking backwards as he moves to step away and give Natasha some privacy in the hotel room.
"I'm remarkably good with secrets," Natasha assures. One hand presses the top of her strapless gown firmly into place until Clint's stepped away. She looks after him for a moment, then sweeps back into the room proper to take advantage of his absence and change into clothing both more comfortable and more sensible.