Budapest

Clint - Bullets and Ballerinas

CLINT

Bobbi had been giving him a good verbal lashing for an hour straight and Clint was nearly ready to rip the ear piece out again.

"Don't ever take your com out, Barton," Bobbi said for the millionth time. "This is your first mission, you stay in contact with me at all times."

Clint had been quiet in the hopes that Bobbi would eventually stop on her own, with nothing more to say, but that seemed to be impossible and he finally cut in.

"Bobbi."

She huffed. "What."

"I get it, okay? I won't take it out again, cross my heart, scout's honor or whatever."

"You weren't even in boy scouts."

"No I wasn't."

"Can't use scout's honor then."

"Carnie's honor doesn't quite hold the same weight."

"Touche. What are you up to now?"

Grateful for the change in subject, Clint replied, "I'm on my way to get something to eat, I'm starving. Nothing exciting. I would ask for radio silence but don't really want to press my luck at the moment."

"You have very little luck to press," Bobbi said in an irritated tone. "But since you asked politely, I'll oblige. Just keep your com on and for pete's sake, Barton, don't take it out again."

"Yes ma'am."

Bobbi went quiet and Clint breathed a sigh of relief. He appreciated her company but he was still struggling to find a tactful way to say that having her in his head all the time was distracting and unnerving. When he was talking to Romanoff, with Bobbi making comments the whole time, he felt like his brain was getting pulled in two different directions. So he had taken the com out. And apparently the sky had fallen, the world had ended and hellfire rained down on his head. Clint and Bobbi were still ironing out a few kinks working together across so much distance. It was one thing to work face to face on the sparring mats, it was a whole new ball game when Bobbi couldn't see or hear or experience what he did.

But now, Clint was off to find Percha-what-cha-mah-call-it that Miss Romanoff had recommended. He couldn't even pronounce it properly. His crash course in Russian at SHIELD hadn't stuck nearly as much as Coulson said it would.

Clint had obtained a map, which he couldn't make much sense of, and asked for directions a few times but people either didn't understand him or gave him weird looks and practically ran away. He finally found the place and boy, did he not have a good feeling about it. He had pictured some pricey upscale restaurant that served Barbie sized portions of hors d'oeuvres after he sold off a few body parts to cover the bill and he'd still be hungry afterwards. But this...it was definitely not anything like what he had imagined.

It was tucked into a dark alley with the faint, sickeningly sweet smell of opium clinging to the air. He would know that smell anywhere. Jacques used to be addicted to the stuff and Clint had become used to the cloying scent. For a moment, Clint debated turning around and hightailing it out of there. It would have been the smart thing to do but his job required that he check out every lead on possible HYDRA agents. He had no idea where Romanoff had sent him but as much as he dreaded what lay before him, curiosity prodded him forward.

As Clint approached the door, shrouded in pale, anemic yellow light, he slid one hand into his jacket, wrapping his fingers around the gun tucked into the holster against his ribs. The feel of the cold metal provided a small measure of comfort as he knocked on the door and waited.

Several seconds passed before the door opened and a mountain of a man filled the doorway, muscles straining to bust the seams of his black t-shirt as he towered over Clint. His short dark hair was cropped close to his head military style and his bottom lip stuck out, making him look dangerously close to the infamous missing link between ape and man which Clint decided he'd better not comment on. A cloud of opium smoke wafted out after the giant ape man and Clint took a step back, waving a hand in front of his face to dissipate the heady smell.