1964-05-11 - Spycraft
Summary: Clint and Nat discuss the op.
Related: The Meanest Town on Earth Plot
Theme Song: None
natasha clint 

Day seven of working for Fisk. Pay is good. Hours are good. Company is…

Clint Barton looks up from his notepad and eyes the person across the room from him in the supposed safehouse. He gives her a sort of scrunched up eyeballing as if taking her measure and gauging the very worth of her immortal soul. Then he looks back down to his pad of paper and adds.


He is settled in an old wooden chair that could definitely do with a pass of varnish. A few radios are set upon the table before him that occasionally offer a few sounds now and then that are little more than radio clicks, just people on patrol signalling in to verify their continued integrity this night. Outside, in the streets and alleyways of Hell's Kitchen, other operatives in the employ of Wilson Fisk are going about their tasks, their efforts aimed and coordinated by none other than Hawkeye.

The same Hawkeye who is putting down his pen with a faint click and he clears his throat, then addresses the other person there, "Gonna need some results soon, if we want to keep him happy. May have to actually make a run at this Devil guy."


Natalie Rushman is no Natasha Romanoff. High heels. Stiff pleated black skirt. White blouse. No, Natalie Rushman is a lady. Natasha Romaoff would deny any assertions to that effect. Present company, however, gets a momentary drop of the visage, offering a glimpse of the spy behind the mask.

Clint's scrutiny earns an eyebrow raise and a simple smirk. "I'm a lot of things, but I'm not the Devil of Hell's Kitchen," she replies slyly before shifting her weight and reaching for one of the radios. "Or we find a way to expose Fisk." Her lips purse. "Unless you've become soft in your week of employment. Meanwhile I've been at this for months."


"Hey, I figure I'm just here to augment your play. So I'm leavin' the thinkin' to you. Besides, I find myself with a deplorable excess of free time lately."

He rolls to his feet then as he finishes speaking, tossing the pad of paper aside as well as the pen. Around the margins of it are various scribbles which upon closer inspection be found to be various incarnations of him shooting arrows at a clock. But as he stalks across the way he takes the sextet of darts out from the board that's found a home against the hallway door that leads out of this particular safehouse. He begins to walk back away from it and gets set to throw a few darts as he speaks.

"I figure when it comes down to it you'll point me in one direction and let me go. I'm just feelin'…" His nose crinkles slightly as he then adds, "Restless." And that's when he throws the first dart, thwok, into the board.


"You need a hobby," Nat asserts as she opens up the back of the radio and begins playing with the wires therein. Her fingers nimbly begin to reconnect the wires, altering each of their patterns in turn and trading different connections in the process. "I recommend a cat." The radio continues to be the most interesting object in the room as she speaks to the machine rather than Clint, "You seem like a cat person."

The back of the radio slides easily into place, ad Nat sets it once again on the table, opting for another. "The op is slower than I'd like," she admits. "It's possible we could bring in the Devil and see what comes of it." Her mind is working. "I know him," she states casually. Evidently this was not deemed an important piece of information earlier.


"I am _not_," /Thwok/ "A cat person." Clint keeps his eye on the target, calm, steady, each dart going where he aims it as he informs Ms. Rushman of this fact about himself. He does, however, listen to her as she speaks and then again his nose crinkles as he looks at her sidelong. "Oh you know him? Or you _know_ him?" And if one only knew him passingly they might not pick up on that slightest subtlest hint of what could be construed exceedingly distantly as perhaps a creature akin to jealousy.

Probably not though.

Instead he gives a small nod as he sends another dart towards the dartboard and then starts to walk towards it to regather them, having finished his first set. "That might be good. Or possibly could arrange me to have a run in with him. Maybe get a trophy of some kind to keep the boss happy."


A smirk follows Clint's first assertion, but Natasha doesn't look up from her work. "I know," she agrees at his not being a cat person. "Too loyal to consider a cat. A dog, maybe." Her lips purse.

The two versions of the same question side-by-side prompt Nat to perk up. She issues Clint a vague smile. "Is there a difference?" she asks innocently. The second radio, after she's reconfigured its insides is returned to the table. A third is plucked from its perch. Like the first two, the back is removed, and she begins to fidget with the radio's insides.

"Why did you go to Act-F anyways? I thought your loyalty was… decided."


"Mm," Clint doesn't answer right away as he stands there in front of the dartboard, lightly tapping the set of darts against one inner palm. Then he turns around, still looking at them as he walks back to his former firing position, taking his time as he strolls just so.

"A few things went down rough with SHIELD. Started to get a bad vibe off a few ops. My brother came to town and showed me what things coulda been like if I went down another path." He casually flips a dart in her direction, causing it to /thok/ into the side of one of those radios before he turns back to face the dartboard.

"I went into my boss' office and was gonna ask for some time away. But I told myself if the conversation went one way I'd pack up and head out. It did, so I did." A smirk touches the corner of his mouth, "For a time I was thinkin' about getting a hog and riding it across the country. Just for the hell of it."


The deadpan look that Nat sends Clint sends a very clear message: she is not amused by the dart trick. Or, at least, she's pretending not to be amused by the dart trick. It's always hard to tell for sure. Her chin lifts slightly, "My intel tells me SHIELD has been a mess lately," she says smoothly.

"That said, I didn't think I'd see the day you'd move one." She issues him a one shouldered shrug. "Don't know if they'll ever straighten themselves out fully. Trust is difficult to recreate. They had a rough year." She sets another radio down. "I have them wired to emit a second frequency. Anything anyone else says will be hearable on a separate frequency. As long as no one opens them up, it should be undetectable."


"Good idea," Clint replies, ignoring her initial comments for now. He strolls over to reclaim the errant dart, leaning over her shoulder as he reaches for it and then for one of the radios as well, turning it somewhat to examine the work she's done. He straightens up, frowning for a moment as a few old thoughts flit through his mind, most likely about SHIELD and the job itself.

"Yeah, I figure it's pretty messed up. And I dunno. I never figured I'd finish out my days there. Then again, I never really imagined myself retiring."

For a moment a wry smile touches his lips as he meets her eyes, just that faint sardonic look as he murmurs. "House in the suburbs, big green and yellow riding lawn mower, white picket fence. Not really my speed."


"Sounds like a difficult role to fit," Natasha asserts in turn with a nearly self-deprecating smile. "What instead? Waiting for everything else to catch up?" there's nothing satirical or comical about the thought. Expiry dates are far too real. She rubs the back of her neck and treads to the window to peer out. "Sometimes I'm not even sure what the mission is." Her lips purse.

And then, she returns to the earlier comment, "And I don't know. Maybe the riding lawn mower isn't so different from the hog. Mind, I'd prefer a sickle," she casts an ironic smile towards Clint.


"See, you inserting yourself into my vision of the idyllic ain't exactly fair, Ms. Rushman." For a time he leans there against the back of the chair she just vacated, making eye contact with her and holding it with that mildly ironic smirk that seems to reach his eyes for once.

He casually tosses one of the darts over his shoulder into the dartboard with a light /thwok/ even as he smiles at her while he gives voice to a few more thoughts. "See in my vision I always sort of imagined you as the sultry temptress next door who likes to wash her car on weekends in her bikini." At that she can see him feign utter languid ease, when really he's about ready to make a break one way or the other in case she sends some form of violence his way.

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