ISOLATION ~ JOHN LENNON

…

Hawkeye stood at his room's balcony, staring out over the slow-moving street corner. The summer night in Paris was warmer than most would be, the lights bright, the atmosphere calm. Couples strolled down the quiet streets, while a string of musicians played romantically on the sidewalks. A small restaurant on the corner perforated the air with delicious smells. The Eiffel Tower glowed, statuesque in the distance.

All of it made Clint want to rip his hair out. He had a corner of a beautiful city to live in. He did things without a hidden agenda, without reporting to someone. He had the time to meet normal people, for Christ's sake.

All was not right in Agent Barton's world.

It was all just so goddamn peaceful. He was 'taking a break,' Fury's words, not his. It'd been a relief right after Manhattan, but it'd been months since then. This was what he fought for, though. This is what he bloodied and bruised and broke his body for, what he stressed over for years and years on end. Peace. But, God, did it drive him crazy to live in it.

Clint sighed and leaned on the wrought-iron railing, clenching it in his fists. He had to do something to fix his mood. If he didn't find a solution soon, he'd end up doing something foolish, reckless, and potentially compromising.

He resisted the immature urge to repeatedly bang his forehead on the railing, walking back into to his room to find the stash of cigarettes he kept handy.

Natasha bent down to check her target's pulse and then zip-tie the woman's bloodied hands together. Then she moved the unconscious blond informant to a sitting position behind a stack of crates.

Clearing her throat, Natasha put a hand to her earpiece and spoke: "Target in custody."

She straightened, looking out over the street. As far as she could tell, no one had seen the takedown. The alley and street beyond were deserted; no windows were in the buildings on either side.

S.H.I.E.L.D. answered through her earpiece quietly. "Roger that. Transport is en-route."

Natasha readjusted her black leather jacket around her shoulders, peeled her fingerless gloves off, and leaned back against the brick wall, watching the alley entrance. She felt good.

Paris really was beautiful at this time of year. Her job had gone well and if her calculations were correct, she'd have some time off to spend; all that was missing from the picture was a bottle of vodka and a rooftop.

Two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents arrived by car a few minutes after she'd called it in.

One of the agents quickly debriefed Natasha, writing everything down on the tablet in his hand. Then the other agent presented her with a small black bag, complete with Stark Inc. cellphone and false identification.

"You will be contacted in a week's time with an update, unless there is anything that requires your attention earlier," the first agent explained. "The Commander sends his regards."

"Thanks," Natasha nodded and pulled the bag's strap over her head, across her body. Without another word, she turned and began walking.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. car slipped away, driving in the opposite direction.

Natasha strolled through the slow, easy streets. She couldn't remember the last time she'd strolled anywhere. Well, without faking it to deceive a target, that is. She actually paused outside a well-lit restaurant, listening to the slow jazz music traveling from the speakers to the tables outside. A couple was sitting at a table, comfortable and quiet and unsuspicious.

Something about this peaceful part of the world had her feeling sleepy, made her want to slow down for a few precious days, even if a part of her would never relax completely. The image of a rooftop and bottle of vodka returned.

She needed to find a liquor store.

Clint took a long pull from his fifth cigarette of the night and exhaled the smoke slowly, slumping against the balcony rail. The nicotine did nothing to calm his agitation, but it did help him clear his head.

A sudden burst of laughter from below made him look around; a couple of American tourists, college girls by the looks of them, sat under the restaurant's canopy. Clint chuckled sardonically, shaking his head as he took another drag from his cigarette; some Americans were so fucking loud, it was almost embarrassing.

With his eyesight, watching people was easy to do, a "hobby." Hobby wasn't a good description. It was more of a job that wormed its way into everything else in his life. He didn't even know if he liked doing it; he just did it.

Clint turned his attention to the other people along the streets. A restaurant cook leaned heavily against an alley wall, bottle in hand; from his posture, Clint knew the cook wasn't a slacker by nature, merely stressed. A violinist stood at the other corner, playing slow love ballads; she swayed and leaned with the music, but the expression on her face suggested boredom and frustration, possibly at the lack of recognition for her skill. A head of red hair caught his eye in the dim light of a street lamp. Clint watched as the redheaded woman walked quickly down the street away from him, her high-heels wobbling on the cobbled street; late for a fancy evening somewhere, judging by the dress and up-do.

Even if he didn't know Natasha from a mile away, he'd know that wasn't her down there; Natasha didn't wobble. The woman was a damn cat. He'd watched her run full-tilt across a three-inch wide railing once.

Feelings of nostalgia suddenly flooded him, catching him off guard. Another reason Fury should stop fucking around and declare his 'vacation' officially over...