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aa_natashaAnd that's it, folks. Generally it should be ICly known that Clint and Natasha are off on some SHIELD business and there's no word on when (or if) they'll be back.
It's been swell!
10/18/2012
=NYC= Clint's Room - Second Floor - Avengers Mansion
Perhaps more surprising than the size of this three-room suite is the quiet. Thick walls and multi-paned windows keep out the city's daily clamor -- and neighboring noises, too. The plush carpet that softens the floor in the study and bedroom is a miracle of modern material sciences. You won't believe how easy it is to get bloodstains out of it! The tiles in the bathroom have the look of old stone, and warm in cold winters to chase away the chill. Each suite has its own set of environmental controls, so no fighting over the temperature.
Furniture defaults to a gentle modernity of soft curves and long lines. Comfort has not been sacrificed to style, nor style to comfort. The color palette is different in each room, but never jarring. While the rooms lack active video surveillance, Jarvis is at hand, though he speaks only when spoken to.
Natasha travels light. Wherever they're headed this time, it does not, apparently, require suitcases full of 'I'm a tourist' for cover. She's settled a backpack on the floor at the foot of Clint's bed and slung a duffel next to it, both ignored for the moment. She perches on the edge of the bed with one legged curled up under her and watches Clint gather the last bits and pieces of his own necessities in a companionable silence.
The last bits and pieces are mostly toiletries, razor and shaving cream and after shave all stored away in one ziplock bag and folded into a suitcase that is as old as he is. "You think they got a handle on it all?" he asks finally, glancing towards Natasha as he tries to fit the ziplock into the space between clothes and the hard edge of his suitcase.
Natasha is silent for half a moment. Her gaze fixes on a point beyond the window, and she watches the bright orange of an autumn leaf drift past before she looks back to Clint to answer. "We have to trust that they do. It's why we created them."
The corner of Clint's lips twitches upwards at Natasha's answer even as he finally slides the ziplock into place and rearranges the clothing that was displaced. "Yeah," he agrees, easily. "And its nice to know they can get ahold of us, just in case."
"Uh huh," Natasha answers, dry and low-voiced as she shifts a bit to peer shamelessly into Clint's luggage. "Just in case the gods and monsters can't manage to do some damage, they can call /us/."
It is boring, all blacks and tans and muted colors of clothing. A gun lies on top of them, though how Clint expects to get that past security, who knows. "Or at least let us know, so we can get the fuck out of Dodge," he answers with the flash of a smirk.
That, coupled with Clint's smirk, teases a small smile from Natasha. "Probably the smarter idea," she acknowledges.
"That's more like it," Clint murmurs to Natasha's smile, flipping the lid carelessly down on his trunk before he moves to leverage himself into a seat next to the woman. "I thought you'd be excited for getting out into the field, getting some action in that's more our speed."
Natasha stands, stirring to action with a quick stride toward the window. It's not quite restless, but there's a sense of restrained energy in her movements. "I'm not sure /excited/ is the right term," she answers, quietly musing. "But it will be a-- relief. To find our speed again." She pauses, turning to look at Clint over the curve of her shoulder. "Staying here is like painting a giant target on our backs. We've already been compromised once."
"Haven't we always had giant targets on our backs, Black Widow?" Clint questions, the words free of any censure, only quiet concern lingering on the edges of the syllables as he watches Natasha pace away.
"Our backs never held still long enough to acquire one," Natasha answers, shaking her head fast and short. She turns toward him, one hand braced against the window's cool glass. "Not like this. Not like sources in Russia who shouldn't know a damn thing about us. Not like /gods/ we can't keep in captivity for a week."
Clint's gaze meets hers, the line of his shoulders shifting as he eases himself back on the brace of his arms and lets out a long breath. He agrees, simply, "No, not like this."
"This isn't what we were meant for, Clint, and you know it." Natasha turns her head away again, the line of her spine stubborn as she studies Central Park beyond the glass. "Fury's got SHIELD again, and a full team of superhereoes to fight these battles."
"But, it was nice to be the hero for a while." The reply is careless, light, but Natasha has known him long enough to get the hint of true feeling beneath the sentiment, even if Clint's smile lingers on his lips. "We'll talk to Fury about more of our old stuff, after this mission. There's no need to put the cart before the horse, though."
"You've been a hero for a damned long time, Clint," Natasha says lowly. The words linger into silence for only a heartbeat before she clears her throat and straightens away from the window. Her voice is brisk, all business, as she casts a glance down to his gathered luggage and says, "Ready?"
"Tasha," Clint starts. It is a start to saying something, to confessing something, but he cuts himself off as she straightens, as she asks him if he's ready. "Always am."
"Let's go, then," Natasha says, moving past his aborted confession with nonchalant ease. Despite her words, her turn takes her to settle at the head of his bed, crosslegged against the pillows, and she settles her hands open atop her knees as she lapses into silence.
Silence settles around them like a comfortable old blanket, shared without a moment of awkwardness as Clint falls quiet as well. Eventually, they'll get their luggage down to the waiting cars, disappearing like that without leaving much in the way of evidence in the mansion. At least, for now.
It's been swell!
10/18/2012
=NYC= Clint's Room - Second Floor - Avengers Mansion
Perhaps more surprising than the size of this three-room suite is the quiet. Thick walls and multi-paned windows keep out the city's daily clamor -- and neighboring noises, too. The plush carpet that softens the floor in the study and bedroom is a miracle of modern material sciences. You won't believe how easy it is to get bloodstains out of it! The tiles in the bathroom have the look of old stone, and warm in cold winters to chase away the chill. Each suite has its own set of environmental controls, so no fighting over the temperature.
Furniture defaults to a gentle modernity of soft curves and long lines. Comfort has not been sacrificed to style, nor style to comfort. The color palette is different in each room, but never jarring. While the rooms lack active video surveillance, Jarvis is at hand, though he speaks only when spoken to.
Natasha travels light. Wherever they're headed this time, it does not, apparently, require suitcases full of 'I'm a tourist' for cover. She's settled a backpack on the floor at the foot of Clint's bed and slung a duffel next to it, both ignored for the moment. She perches on the edge of the bed with one legged curled up under her and watches Clint gather the last bits and pieces of his own necessities in a companionable silence.
The last bits and pieces are mostly toiletries, razor and shaving cream and after shave all stored away in one ziplock bag and folded into a suitcase that is as old as he is. "You think they got a handle on it all?" he asks finally, glancing towards Natasha as he tries to fit the ziplock into the space between clothes and the hard edge of his suitcase.
Natasha is silent for half a moment. Her gaze fixes on a point beyond the window, and she watches the bright orange of an autumn leaf drift past before she looks back to Clint to answer. "We have to trust that they do. It's why we created them."
The corner of Clint's lips twitches upwards at Natasha's answer even as he finally slides the ziplock into place and rearranges the clothing that was displaced. "Yeah," he agrees, easily. "And its nice to know they can get ahold of us, just in case."
"Uh huh," Natasha answers, dry and low-voiced as she shifts a bit to peer shamelessly into Clint's luggage. "Just in case the gods and monsters can't manage to do some damage, they can call /us/."
It is boring, all blacks and tans and muted colors of clothing. A gun lies on top of them, though how Clint expects to get that past security, who knows. "Or at least let us know, so we can get the fuck out of Dodge," he answers with the flash of a smirk.
That, coupled with Clint's smirk, teases a small smile from Natasha. "Probably the smarter idea," she acknowledges.
"That's more like it," Clint murmurs to Natasha's smile, flipping the lid carelessly down on his trunk before he moves to leverage himself into a seat next to the woman. "I thought you'd be excited for getting out into the field, getting some action in that's more our speed."
Natasha stands, stirring to action with a quick stride toward the window. It's not quite restless, but there's a sense of restrained energy in her movements. "I'm not sure /excited/ is the right term," she answers, quietly musing. "But it will be a-- relief. To find our speed again." She pauses, turning to look at Clint over the curve of her shoulder. "Staying here is like painting a giant target on our backs. We've already been compromised once."
"Haven't we always had giant targets on our backs, Black Widow?" Clint questions, the words free of any censure, only quiet concern lingering on the edges of the syllables as he watches Natasha pace away.
"Our backs never held still long enough to acquire one," Natasha answers, shaking her head fast and short. She turns toward him, one hand braced against the window's cool glass. "Not like this. Not like sources in Russia who shouldn't know a damn thing about us. Not like /gods/ we can't keep in captivity for a week."
Clint's gaze meets hers, the line of his shoulders shifting as he eases himself back on the brace of his arms and lets out a long breath. He agrees, simply, "No, not like this."
"This isn't what we were meant for, Clint, and you know it." Natasha turns her head away again, the line of her spine stubborn as she studies Central Park beyond the glass. "Fury's got SHIELD again, and a full team of superhereoes to fight these battles."
"But, it was nice to be the hero for a while." The reply is careless, light, but Natasha has known him long enough to get the hint of true feeling beneath the sentiment, even if Clint's smile lingers on his lips. "We'll talk to Fury about more of our old stuff, after this mission. There's no need to put the cart before the horse, though."
"You've been a hero for a damned long time, Clint," Natasha says lowly. The words linger into silence for only a heartbeat before she clears her throat and straightens away from the window. Her voice is brisk, all business, as she casts a glance down to his gathered luggage and says, "Ready?"
"Tasha," Clint starts. It is a start to saying something, to confessing something, but he cuts himself off as she straightens, as she asks him if he's ready. "Always am."
"Let's go, then," Natasha says, moving past his aborted confession with nonchalant ease. Despite her words, her turn takes her to settle at the head of his bed, crosslegged against the pillows, and she settles her hands open atop her knees as she lapses into silence.
Silence settles around them like a comfortable old blanket, shared without a moment of awkwardness as Clint falls quiet as well. Eventually, they'll get their luggage down to the waiting cars, disappearing like that without leaving much in the way of evidence in the mansion. At least, for now.