|
  |
"Barton!" The voice echoes down the hallway of the Baxter Building's lower floor. It's underneath the tall building in Manhattan's skyline that a portion of ACT-F's agents have taken for their own. They have their very own break room, facilities, storage, training areas, the works. But, one thing they don't have, are windows. What's more they also have what could be called a closed in working space considering that all it takes is for a loudly intoned shout to reach almost everybody in the working pool. Which, unfortunately, does not include Clint Barton at the time.
"He's not here, McConnell." One of the myriad field agents pushes his rolling office chair back out of his office so he can make eye contact with the office head who just shouted. "He's down in Training Room 7 with the crisis team."
"Huh." McConnell responds, "Go get him. This is important. He can play cops and robbers later."
A sigh comes from the agent, but duty is duty. He rolls to his feet, stuffs his hands into the pockets of his 3-piece government issue black suit and wanders off down the hallway. Eventually he gets to the room, imparts the message and in due course…
The man known as Clint Barton comes strolling along the hallway, pulling on his own black suit jacket though it doesn't entirely match his jeans and the white t-shirt underneath. At least he left the bow behind though the trail of smoke he leaves behind him is enough of a signal as to his current stressed state of mind. And if that weren't enough when he raps knuckles on the McConnell's door and squints across the way at the section head, well his current state of lacking any fucks to give is conveyed in the slight scowl on his lips.
"Barton, took you long enough."
"Yeah, sorry about that, chief. Trying to make it so our newbies don't get killed."
"Yes, well. Got your next assignment for you. Considering how well you handled the last figured you were just the man to tap."
But then there's a pause before Hawkeye can respond, McConnell frowns for a moment. "Where have you been, by the way?"
"Wha? Me. Just got this sorta side gig lately. Don't worry, I got it handled."
"Moonlighting, Barton?"
"Hey, if I just went with what you cheap bastards paid me I'd barely be able to keep myself in cigs. A'right?"
"Hah!" McConnell at least seems to be in good humor. But then he holds up a folder. "Here's your next job. Get to it. The subject is upstairs, ground floor." He looks Barton over for a moment. "You… might wanna get cleaned up for this."
"Meh." Is Clint's answer for now as he catches the hurled folder, tears the seal and starts to peruse the contents even as he starts to walk back down the hall.
*
QUITE POSSIBLY A FEW HOURS AGO:
Early in the A.M:
*THUNG!*
A sharp kick goes to the side of a car that remains abandoned upon the main street of Harlem; the hood hitched up as steam begins to sizzle and smoke from the radiator, creating one hell of a smell. If one wasn't a mechanic, they wouldn't be able to tell if the automobile itself were to caught fire, save for the man kicking it, who owns his own shop but left his tools at home.
'Fucking piece of shit..' He hisses, banging his fist against the grill of the car as he turns to light a cigarette. Yet in the shadows, a pair of blue eyes remain upon him as she steps from them, hooded cowl and all as if she were to do battle in that very moment.
"This beast offends you." She says, amused. It was a clear observation and with a tone so highly nice. "Let me assist you in it's defeat."
While the man stares, the cigarette hangs upon the corner of his mouth, soon snapping shut as he waves a hand. "Nah nah lady. It's alright. She just needs a.. WHU.. HEY!'
The 1964 Pontiac Bonneville was the talk of the town when the man had received it. It was a gift for the family, for it was a full sized car that fit three of his children in the back and a wife in the front. Since there were appointments and school field trips to be made, he handed the Bonneville to his wife with careful instructions to bring it by for servicing. That was in January. It is now April. And it had slipped both of their minds.
Until this very moment; Diana, the cloaked woman, lifted the offending vehicle high within the air, the man falling upon his ass as the cigarette falls from his lips and onto his shirt, the cherry red embers flying all over as he screams and bats himself within a flurry.
Perhaps she was being tracked, for cars immediately begin to descend upon her position, lights shining upon the face of the Princess, guns and various weapons of mass destruction leveled upon her as a lone man in a suit steps out to block out the light, giving his silhouette an omnious stance..
"This is ACT-F. Drop the car or be fired upon!"
Diana looks towards the man with a scowl (the man on the ground, to be exact), his hands still batting away at his chest as he finally says.. 'Lady.. I.. I think you better listen..'
NOW:
And that is the story of how Diana wound up at the Baxter Building. There was not a cowl to hide her face, yet the tiara lifting high upon the top of her head to keep her dark curls tamed behind her ear. In the lobby, she remains seated, poised as she was and guarded heavily by many suits in which she stares at. Their manner of dress was much different than home. The depictions of Man were.. false.
She must educate the Amazonians soon.."
*
Unknowingly and seemingly advanced as ambassador for mankind in more ways than one, Clint Barton eventually emerges from the elevator perhaps twenty minutes later. After reading what they had on Amazons, Themyscira, and this particular princess of that land, well he figured it might be a bridge too far to show up like his usual self.
Not that he's exactly clean cut at the moment either.
When he comes out of that elevator he's not smoking at the least. He's clean for the most part, freshly showered, hair still a little wet and slicked back and the faintly bloodshot eyes are hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. Oh he didn't quite have time to shave, though he did run an electric blade over the stubble so it's at least fairly uniformly short. And the clothes he wears… are clean, though the only nod to the established black suit uniform is the jacket over his arms. Still, the jeans lend an informal aspect to him.
At first he might not draw the eye of hers. But when he approaches across the way, hands deep in the pockets of his jacket, he'll catch her gaze and stop a stride away from her and say, "Princess Diana of Themyscira? I'm Agent Barton. I've been assigned to be your liaison and contact for the foreseeable future."
*
Fingers lay across the armrest of the comfortable couch-chair that she settles on, tapping out a soft cadence upon it's surface, not impatient in the least, but complete with a slight restless leg syndrome that has a need for her to rise to a stand. But she doesn't. It wasn't as if they had given her orders not to move, but she was upon their soil, and she did ask to meet their leaders a-many a time during her travels.
Through Central Park and a snafu with Fashion Week, her services could be rendered here. Or denied. So the best tactic of diplomacy was to remain settled. Not act. If they were going to assign her someone then she must be humble. And ask questions through the humbleness and be polite.
And if she finds their tactics unagreeable: Go home. Speak to Mother. Speak to Zeus. Talk to Ares. And destroy all humans..
The ding of the elevator does not draw her eye. Only the approach of worn shoes that stand and the voice that addresses her. With a quiet grunt, she rises swift as she would, graceful as she could, all six feet of her to present her new escort with a flourish of a bow.
"Agent Barton. It is an honor." She says, offering up a little smile that barely reaches her eyes. "It is my assumption that.. yes. Liasion. Contact. And escort to your leaders should the time of diplomacy come to pass?"
*
As she rises it seems she keeps going up and up, and those legs go all the way down. She's eye to eye with him and that's… a rarity to be fair. He meets her eyes, tilts his head slightly, seems about to smile but then doesn't exactly and instead opts for a more serious look as he says. "Well, yes. Mainly point of contact to make sure you're situated and happy when the high muckety mucks roll around with the idea to do the big meet and greet."
The things he says aren't exactly flattering or staggeringly positive about people, but the slight upward inflection at points might lend the feeling of amusement to it… though he is a bit deadpan at times. He accepts her bow and in some impromptu form of a bow of his own he sort of slides a foot back and opens his hands palm up towards her as if to say, 'is this right?' but knowing it's not.
He looks to the side, perhaps checking to make sure people aren't filming this or maybe this whole thing is a big joke. At least it's not Shuri all over again. That girl was a trial
Looking back he gestures towards the door. "Forgive me if you've been asked this before, I'm going on what little they've told me. Do you have a place to stay? I've been authorized with a decent enough expense account to put you up somewhere decent in style if you like."
*
Confusion. It was riddled upon her face clear as day, her brows lowering into a slight frown as her lips curl almost disgustedly. "I'm afraid I do not understand the meaning. Is this something to fear? What is this muckety muck.. does it.." She shakes her head completely, a hand lifting to fan away at the air as she takes a step back. His bow, as messy as it was, was met with appreciation because he was the only one who -tried-. The outstretched hand? Was met with a thump of her finger against his palm. She's seen that gesture before. Though she was unaware that monetary goods were being exchanged, or perhaps just a simple cigarette.
"I do not have a.. place to stay, as you put. I was hoping that once I meet with the Unity of Nations I would be allowed to erect an Embassy befitting of Themyscira. One that would allow my people to teach.." She gestures around.. "..of our customs and information to be exchanged." And as she speaks, there was a need to walk, but she did not do so, not just yet. Her eyes do scan the area once more, for he looked around and so should she, right?
"I do have another who has traveled before me. Mayhap she has better luck. If need be, I shall stay with her, to not expend your expenses."
*
"Still, might as well go get you set up with a place of your own. Just in case. Always better to have options." He offers this as he seems to catch the vibe from her, his own gesture shifting once her fingers tap on his palm. Now, instead, he motions towards the door and then starts walking along the way. It's towards the front door that he heads and once he gets there he'll hold it open for her to precede him before they step back out into the evening air.
"Sorry, Muckety Muck is a turn of phrase. It means something along the lines of somebody high up, with power. Like a king, or queen, or leader." He falls into step and both of them being roughly the same height their strides are even. "From what I could tell, people are sending messages on your behalf to try and get you the… audiences you need. You'll probably have to meet with a few people before you get to do a big public meeting. But… yeah." It's probably hard for her to tell, but he's focusing on his language and manner, trying to make sure he's understood moreso. Perhaps he's learned a few things about that whole diplomacy gig.
"As for the expense, don't worry about it. We get a budget, and if we don't spend the budget then next year we're punished for not doing our jobs to the best of our abilities." That's a novel way of explaining how government bureaucrats work, but it's true… in a way.
*
"If it is required. Then I shall stay there." Diana affirms. It would be nice, after all, to have a place on her own and not surrounded by her aunts, sisters, and her mothers guards. The thought of it gives her pause, pause enough to realize that he was walking and begins to fall in line. The flow of the cloak behind her is gentle, and yet she still has the means and need to draw the cowl over her head as she walks. Her fingers tug the cloth around her as she keeps in step with the man, her gaze flattening into something deadly curious as she listens to his explanation.
"And Princess, I am assuming. Therefore.." She states, a little smile curling her lips. "..I am Muckety Muck." Then, is when her grin spread as she looks towards the side of his cheek, turning away there after to continue on with that smile as her own stride turns to a more relaxed form of movement.
"A few people such as who?" She asks finally. "I am still unknowning of the way this world works. The currency, the diplomacy, the manner of dress and the way of speech." She gestures about, mostly towards a couple who cross the street before they do. Their clothing was business attire, so it was nothing short of special. But in her eyes? Odd.
And yet, hearing about the way he would be punished for not spending his.. money gave her pause. Pause again enough to stop in her tracks, filing that little tidbit away for later and yet, drawing back upon it again seconds later. "Your justice system confuses me as well. We shall spend all of your currency, so that we do not see you drawn and quartered. It shall be a shame to lose someone of your standing. You have been most gracious in the few moments that we have met. I find you agreeable."
*
A hand lifts as he waggles it back and forth, "Maybe a bit of a Muckety Muck. I'll give you that." His lip twitches and she might catch him instinctively reaching for his back pocket, but he checks that motion to go for a cig and instead just keeps walking.
When she asks her question he gives it some thought before answering. "Well, here's what's probably happening right now." Clint walks along and then holds a hand in front of her for a moment when they come to a red 'DON'T WALK' flashing sign ahead of them. It's while they wait there, occasionally given a curious glance by the various New Yorkers, jaded though they are. "The Director of ACT-F, which are the people I work with right now, is probably making phone calls. It's rare a nation is 'discovered', and so a lot of people who used to think they knew everything about the world are being told that they're wrong. So word has to go from person to person. Eventually word will get to the President of the United States and he'll want to talk with you. After that you'll probably be asked to speak before the United Nations. After that… you'll have barely a moment to yourself as…" He stops and tries to think of a word she might recognize, "As courtiers of various nations will try to talk to you and figure out which way you prefer about certain political topics. Like what philosophy your country operates under. What divinity you embrace. That sort of thing."
He spreads his hands and smiles, "After that, you'll be super busy and have forgotten about all us little people."
Though he says that easily, and with a rather deadpan delivery, if she looks at his features she'll see the hint of a smile.
Then she mentions about possible punishments inflicted on poor Clint and his agreeableness. So he smiles a bit and looks away. "Much appreciated. Though I don't think they'd go that far. You're not so bad yourself, Princess."
*
It would have been a precarious thing if she would have skipped out into the street. Clint may have been hurt, but the drivers behind the wheel of those mechanical beasts may have suffered a worse fate than her. So once his hand goes out, she immediately stops, her hand dropping down towards her side to rest upon her sword-handle as she looks left and right, just as she watched a child do a few days prior. And yet, the conversation stalls any further movement, for she finally turns towards him, her attention rapt. Her brows lower once again as she commits his words to memory, of things that would happen, could happen, and just may will.
"You are not little. You seem to be the same size as me." She remarks, noting the smile, and yet she was serious. "How could one forget?"
With the light green, she begins to walk along, her jaw clenching ever so slightly. "Still. There are many punishments the government takes upon its people. From lashings, to beheadings, to a very many other thing that may well destroy its people as a whole." Her throat clears faintly, unknowing of his compliment. "No. I am good." Which that in itself, is a matter of perception.
*
A grin then and he shoves his hands back into the depths of his pockets as they walk on, "I mean normal people. Not muckety mucks." His smile drifts to a smirk as his eyebrows lift a touch to add the punctuation to the sentence. But then they're across the street and he slips back into stride with the tall woman at his side.
"Oh don't worry, they won't beat me or anything. Well…" He crinkles his nose a bit as he looks up, as if loathe to even hint at a lie in this particular moment as he says. "They might make me teach a few dozen more classes for the agents, and sometimes that involves some fighting. But I mean they'd more likely punish us with being given less equipment in the future. Somethin' like that." At the last his accent slips in slightly, as if he was becoming more at ease with her and the moment.
*
"It is clear that none of you on this level of existence are completely normal." One eyebrow shoots up, the grin that remained upon her face returning in full as the walk continues. Still, it was a concept that was in dire need of her to get used to. The other worlds existences which she knew briefly of, the fables.. tales, magic, even upon a place like this tugs upon the strings of her fate which she could feel wholly.
The smile drops once again, his honest words and tones, even if they were joking, still seemed a little bit of a loss.. "I have armories that you may have access to should you need. Once the rest of my sisters are allowed upon this isle, send them word. For your graciousness in conversing with me, you shall have whatever you desire." She stops, a brow lifting. "Within reason, of course." And then she continues on.
"How far is the trek to this domicile?"
*
Motioning with a toss of his chin, Clint indicates a building some few blocks down the way. He makes sure he conveys it with an added gesture to point it out with his hand as they walk along the sidewalk. "That, is the Ritz." The black and gold building with the lovely decor does indeed seem to stand out decently against the skyline. "Closest thing we have to a palace for visiting dignitaries."
He rubs a fingertip along the bridge of his nose as they pause for a moment for a large truck to pass long enough for them to walk through the crosswalk. The crimson awning is close enough in view as they move towards it and he tells her, "I figured a brisk walk would be better than finagling up a limousine, making you wait a while longer, and then going through all this kerfluffle to get you settled."
There's a moment that passes, perhaps as he catches a look of confusion from her. So he clarifies. "I mean, better to walk than to put together a token gesture that I thought you might not appreciate considering that… well," His lip twitches, "The file did mention you are a person of some seriousness."
*
The motion of his chin does warrant some confusion, yet the gesture with his hand, that was clear. Another note to ask about later. Was that a greeting? Did he have an itch? The hair upon his face was slightly scruffy, it was quite possible it was making his skin a bit tight..
And yet the building itself was spectacular. For the city itself not to be built upon a clear mountaintop or side, the Ritz had many floors that actually had her chin lifting. Perhaps that gesture was him admiring the building itself. "Amazing." She quietly murmurs, her jaw steeling quietly as she pauses.
That was a large one, the truck. One that has her staring for a touch, her hand lifting to gesture towards the large one as she murmurs quite proudly. "I once thought that the beast was rare. That is number five." The fifth time she's seen a rather large car. It amused her!
And yes, once again she was confused, confused about a limousine, kerfluffle.. yet settling she understood. "Am I to settle upon a kerfluffle? I hope it is as soft as it sounds.." Her? Serious? Nah! Alright, she was a bit uptight. But not serious! She could turn a joke or two! Maybe..
*
A small snort comes from him, but he does eye her sidelong, not sure if she's joking or not. For an instant he squints at her and then hehs slightly, shaking his head. But now it's his turn to hold open the next door for her, only to have that duty taken from him by the doorman who smiles widely to them. "Welcome to the Ritz, sir. Ma'am."
Then the doorman steps back and guides the door closed behind them as they're ushered into the lobby. Inside there's that large water fountain gurgling in the hall, the marble floors, the hustling bellhops all around, and the various sitting areas filled with some people enjoying drinks and even a few meals here and there. It's towards the desk that Clint moves and he glances back to her. "One moment, let me get things settled."
And in that moment he steps away from her, moving to the front desk. It might give her a moment to gauge him without him in turn measuring her. He's a lean man, athletic, rough around the edges for sure. Now that his hair has dried it's got this bounce to it even though it's mostly unbrushed and untended to it and now and again he'll push it out of his eyes with one hand.
He turns back, moving towards her, and for an instant their eyes meet. Only for him to look to the side as he closes the distance, as if something else grabbed his attention. But once he's close again he'll look her in the eyes. "I'll show you to your quarters. Will show you about, and then I'll head off to procure whatever you may need if there is anything."
He again steps back and motions towards the elevator, "Just a little bit farther. We'll need to ride in the elevator…" He perhaps again catches that slight hint of confusion or perhaps just figures it best to explain it. "It's a small room that rises upwards to allow us to access higher areas in the building."
*
Just as she took a step aside to allow Clint his manly duties, someone else took the reigns. Now, this would be called the pivotal point of a movie, where new sights and sounds were to be seen, where a rush of emotion and wonder fills her gaze as she's swept up into the business of the Ritz. She did not have bags that needed be taken, and yet, the cloak itself was tugged a bit tighter, tight enough to conceal the armor that she wears and the weaponry that may bring fear to its denizens.
As Clint leaves her side, she does watch after his backside, the way he walks and stands to complete whatever transaction he makes, the flurry of luggage that was carried by upon the cart that has her wisely stepping back. How most laughed and the way they clung to each others arms like lovers, even a few who skipped along as if they were on some important business.
Such a bustling affair was almost overwhelming, yet when their eyes meet he could almost see the trepidation that nearly creeps into her features. It calms almost immediately, a little smile playing upon her lips, and with a breath, she finally steeles herself and nods. "Very well."
As he motions towards the elevator, she enforces a bit of dignity as she walks, lifting her chin to hide the little bit of fear that crept within. "An elevator.." She states, to make herself sure, stopping to allow Clint to lead the way upon the lift should he please. "There are stairs here, are there not?" She asks, with a bit of a glance. "What sort of trap is this.."
*
"There are stairs," Clint tells her as they move up to the ominous sets of double doors that loom so treacherously before them. Some of the intimidation, however, probably flees when the smiling man greets them as the doors open. "Hello, welcome to the Ritz. What floor, please?"
"Penthouse, please." There are only 'four' penthouse rooms on the top floor, but what they lose in number of guests… the hotel more than makes up for in amenities for those that decide to indulge themselves. Clint then steps into the room and awaits her to join him and the bellhop there in the narrow confines of that tiny tiny room.
But then again perhaps it's not that tiny, really. Once she joins him he'll tell her gently, "For most of the people it would be quite a long time and effort to climb thirty some floors. So the elevator was invented to make it easier."
When Clint has to explain this to her, the Bellhop sort of gives Diana a once-over, then a second-over as he smiles to himself. He looks back as he continues on his duty.
*
There was an uncharacteristic grunt as they move up towards the doors. She would have rathered the stairs. The stairs were safe. They were a sure thing, and the only mistake that would be made was the self if they happened to misstep or misjudge. And yet, when the door opens, there was a man inside, a man so pleasant that it causes Diana to give a look towards Agent Barton that nearly resembled a slight scowl. A scowl to hide the obvious oddness of the situation.
Yet, he reacted with ease, and so shall she. The step upon was tenative at first, fully there after as she moves towards the back of the car, pressed against the wall it provides with her hands at the ready to burst through the roof and leap high should she need. This.. this would not do.
The gentle tones that he carries with him allows her a moment to draw down her cowl, fixing it upon her shoulders as if it were a thing to not be still, her shoulders rolling as she takes his lesson in stride with a nod of her head and a look towards the Bellhop who gives her a glance.
And he would see it then, the decorative hilt of her blade, and a raise of her brow that could not be assed about his observation. And yet, it was her turn to take on a gentle tone, but if one could hear, there was a slight tremble to her speech. "What is wrong with time and effort? Do most not appreciate the work, here?"
*
"Well," Clint looks towards the bellhop for a moment, so that man's presence probably couches the ACT-F agent's words. He looks back towards her and smiles as he murmurs, "People from all walks of life have to be able to get to their rooms. The old, the infirm, so best to make a way for them to be able to ascend." Another slight look at the bellhop and he leans back and slouches against the back wall of the elevator even as it lurches faintly with its upwards motion. But this distance allows him to speak in a tone slightly lower that it might be harder for the fellow to hear.
"And, to be fair, not everyone is quite as…" He looks sidelong at her, and for a moment she can feel his gaze rather openly upon her, drifting over the curves of her form though perhaps not so much so lascivious and more considering. "Athletic as you are." His lip twitches and then he murmurs self-deprecatingly, "Like me, I'd prolly only make it up ten or so flights, and then I'd be gaspin' fer breath."
And there's his subtle accent again, accompanying that lazy southernish smile that seems like it'd be at home sipping mint juleps on the porch of an old house.
*
There was a concept that she was somewhat familiar of. There were women who were -almost- elderly within the ranks of the Amazons, and yet they still carried the picture of health about them. They were not old crones with white hair, who walked with canes, hunches and assistance. While their hair did lighten and change, their backs were straight and they were able to wield sword and bow just like the younger. Compared to what she's seen here.. immortality, or longevity was not a gift. So his explanation was understood with tight lips and a nod.
T'was unfortunate..
Though as he examines her, her brows curl downward as if she were angered at the thought of him watching her, yet that betrays the smile upon her lips as she turns with a lean, quite possibly closing the distance in which they stood by that act alone. And yet..
"Lies." She states, then finally takes a sniff. "Though I do smell the lingering hint of cloves." Her head tilts a little too far, which causes the tiara she wears to lightly thump against the wall. Her hand lifts to immediately fix it into place, and soon she turns to press her back against it once more. "But I know a warrioress when I see one. Or a warrior. I can read your body as if it were an open book."
*
"We all have our vices, Princess." Clint confides with his smile remaining entirely unrepentant. He remains in his place with his hands in his pockets and his back against the wall, slouched a little bit and just enough so he can cross his legs at the ankles. "Though…" He looks askance at her as if eyeing her anew as he adds, "Maybe you don't have any."
But he looks away, pressing on before she can perhaps answer that as her latter statement piques his curiousity. When she declares this normally rather closed off tome of thoughts and body language to be so easily deciphered he pushes on that line of questioning by asking her, "Oh is that so?" He looks off to the side as if somehow looking beyond the bellhop who is now minding his own business rather naturally.
"If that's so tell me what it says on the first few pages."
*
"Perhaps." Diana states, keeping the mystery of her vices just that. A plain mystery. One day she may develope a love for chocolate, or the cigarettes that Clint had smoked a few hours earlier. But now? She just may not tell Clint as a thing to keep to herself. Not like.. she spoke much of herself either way.
And yet, he was inquiring about her skill, her arms hung lightly about her side, her body attempting to form the same lazy stance against the wall just like he. The cross of one ankle against the other. The southern drawl which she wouldn't dare try to replicate. For he certainly doesn't sound like he was from -here-..
"You slouch even though it's not necessary." She states. "I would automatically assume that you are not aware of your surroundings. But you are." Her hand lifts. "And that is all I shall regale you with. When will this contraption stop. I do not like closed spaces. Nor the way that I stand. It does something ill to my own spine."
*
"Just a few more floors, ma'am." And indeed, the bellhop has been listening as he answers Diana's question. But then he perhaps realizes his faux pas and clears his throat, cheeks colouring faintly as he looks so determinedly at that unchanging keypad in front of him.
Of course this just causes Clint to smile a bit more roguishly as he perhaps pointedly straightens up on his posture, adjusting the hang of his jacket with the sweep of one hand. "I could just be intensely lazy and need the support of a good wall to hold me up. Ever consider that, Princess?" But then he perhaps catches himself. Perhaps such informality is not acceptable. So he clears his throat then in such a curious mirroring of the bellhop's manner. He instead gestures, "Almost there." As if that would distract the Amazon.
But then, luckily, the doors slide open after a bell rings. "Penthouse. 1 and 2 are on the left. 3 and 4 are on the right. Enjoy your stay here at the Ritz." The bellhop smiles happily as they depart.
*
Diana didn't even register that the bellhop was listening where he shouldn't. She just nods towards the back of his head and allows the movement that she could feel and not see take her in. And yet, Clint's levity of the situation gains a steele jaw. "I expect nothing short of amazing." Those were her words. Words that allowed her to fall silent as a small grin appears, and a side glance into his direction and back again towards the bellhop.
As the doors slide open, Diana soon pushes herself off the wall and begins to walk, though her version of walking could be seen as gliding by the way her royal wear drags behind her. Royal traveling wear. They have them. "I assume.." She says towards Clint over her shoulder. "..that you will be afforded the same luxury as I? A room nearby. Should you be prepared to service."
*
That causes him some small measure of discomfort. Oh not hugely overt really, but she can see the slight furrow mark his brow as they walk down the hallway. "That depends on you, Princess." Clint scritches at some of the stubble along the curve of his jaw as he walks. "Part of my orders are to keep an eye on you, to urge you to keep yourself to yourself in your quarters until things can be prepared. But I get the vibe that if you have a desire to run off that there's not much I could do to stop you."
It's past the first penthouse door that they walk, the keys in his hand jangling slightly as they move towards the second. "As for quarters, there's a sub-suite off the main for servants and the like. I figured I could set a cot up there and hunker down so I can be on hand if needs be." He spreads his hands a bit, "If that doesn't fit propriety's sake I can always grab something down a floor and be available by telephone. Depending on your wishes, Princess."
*
"In other words, I shall be wise and consider myself some sort of Prisioner for this Act-F, until the time comes for me to talk to their betters." She did not like that at all. But she understood. And he was right, she would not listen. But if she weren't going to listen, she may as well put Agent Barton to work to ensure that no trouble befalls her, or this country. "No, there is not." The Amazon states, standing in the middle of the hallway, the apex of decision. Which door shall she choose? And if she chooses wisely, would there be a treat?
As he passes, she follows along, waitiing behind him for the door to be opened, her hand lifting to brush a bit of hair from her face as she draws in a slight sigh. "I suppose indentured servitude is what's to be expected from your organization." Admittedly, it was a welcome surprise to see that not only men were held in captivity.
"I do require my servants to stay in close quarters. So yes, the sub-suite is where you shall stay. And as per your correct assumption, I will not confine myself to these walls during times that I am awake. So I shall require linen to blend in.." This hurts her to say. "..and a safe place within these walls to.." She wants to cry now. "..hide my blades.." Maybe. She straightens then, finally releasing the clasp to tug away her cloak, which was offered towards Clint with a pinch of her fingers. "I need a bath."
*
"Ahem," Clint seems to eye her, and it's a thing that's often seen in the face of a junkyard dog. But he softens it by saying, "Not to be rude, your worship. But I said servant's quarters. Not that I'm a servant. As it were. Savvy the difference?"
And he lets those words hang there for a moment. But then he pushes on as he does accept her cloak and without looking… unerringly tosses it behind him to land on the hook of the coatrack at the side of the door, a rather astonishing throw considering the distance and the fabric. But still, "Though if it makes ya feel better, I can maybe get you a maid to look to some of the other duties needed. If that's the kind of princess you are." Oh no judgement there. But he does step further into the room.
"So if we want to get down to it, I'll show you around. Try and keep up if ya can."
*