AN: Hoo, boy. I managed to find a snippet of service to upload this today., so hopefully it, y'know. Actually uploads.

If not, I'll try again later on this week. But, in the hopes that it works the first time, happy reading!


"So… tell me, what are you doing again? And why on God's green earth do you need cosmetics? You look positively hideous, by the way."

Clint refused to break his concentration from the mirror as he dug a brittle piece of the motel's supplied cotton balls into the powder he had picked up from a small convenience store on the way back to the motel. He frowned slightly as he ran the substance over his face in it's natural shadows, lengthening his features and accentuating the stubble he had let grow for the day. "I need a name. I can't just waltz into the hotel and ask where the newest bookings are staying, it's too suspect. I need more information. And since you don't know the scientist's name-" he raised his voice to be heard over the doctor's sudden grumbling, "-then I'll need to find it out some other way. I grabbed a map from the front desk; there's a café across the street from the hotel. My guess is they won't want to be far from their home base in case they need to make a run for it. I'll run some surveillance. As for the cosmetics," he dug the cotton back into the little palette of browns and beiges, ignoring the puff of powder that spilled onto the counter as he did so. "He's seen my face before. He practically scoped me for that grenade stunt of his. I'd rather not be recognized before I can even get within ten feet of the guy."

Holden was leaning against the doorframe, his now dry slacks and jumper back on in place of his robe the night before. The doctor had an eyebrow quirked sardonically as he watched Clint sweep the last of the cheap makeup over his forehead. "And what do you plan on doing with this 'surveillance', exactly?"

Clint stopped his motions for a moment before returning to his task and tossing the now dark brown cotton ball into the cracked trash bin beside the sink. "Listen very closely."

The doctor stared balefully at him in the mirror. "You're joking."

Clint barely bat an eye as he ran a washcloth over his hair, the temporary tint of a deeper brown running into the sink in dark rivulets as the spray-in dye he had grudgingly bought rinsed out. "Who, me?"

"'Listen very closely'? That's your plan?"

"Yeah. What's your issue?"

"Well, it's not a very good plan. Particularly for you."

"Are you making fun of the deaf guy? Because it sounds to me like you're making fun of the deaf guy."

The doctor quirked his other brow at that, actual surprise registering on his face. "De— I wasn't even aware of that little fact until just now."

Clint paused in his ministrations briefly before shrugging and going back to work. "That's not the point. The point is, until I have a name, I can't do anything to intercept the sample."

"You're telling me that you, a top agent of S.H.I.E.L.D, an Avenger, an assassin, are deaf?"

Clint huffed in frustration before turning to address the doctor in full. He felt the sudden need to defend himself, and he drew his mouth into a taut line. "Not… completely, but yeah. I've got hearing aids though, and believe me when I say they're the best the country has to offer. Now if we're done here, I need to pick up a few more things before I head out."

Holden stumbled slightly as Clint brushed past him to snag his hat and pull it over the top of his head. "A few things? What things? And what do you expect me to do all day while you're out 'listening very closely'?" He made heavy quotes in the air with his fingers then, his entire frame practically bobbing with the amount of sarcastic effort he put into the motion.

Clint already had a hand on the doorknob when he turned back with a thoughtful expression. "I dunno, ask for another map at the front desk and look for a library or something."

"And go there?"

"Nah, just find it on the map and stare longingly at it for a while."

"Barton!"

"Hey, you're the one who insisted to stay out of sight. So stay out of sight." He paused for a moment, a sudden thought occurring to him as he dug into his pocket. "Actually… while you're hanging around, here," he said, tossing a significant chunk of change at the doctor, who fumbled to catch it. "Get a gas canister for the car. There's no way we were running on anything of actual substance on the way in, and I really don't want to get stuck with a burnt out tank if we need to make ourselves scarce. Happy?"

Holden glowered at him, the money shoved into the pockets of his pants. Clint didn't give him a chance to say anything before he turned to leave. He was halfway out the door when Holden's frazzled voice reached him again.

"What things?"

Clint poked his head back through the doorway then with a grin, more for his benefit than the doctor's.

"It's laundry day."

The door had shut on one incredibly baffled doctor.

And so Clint found himself seated on a hard bench out front and to the far left of the little coffee shop, facing the enormous catastrophe of a building that was the Elk Valley Inn. He shifted slightly, the more convincing civilian clothing he had snagged with the last of his money from the thrift store down the road itching uncomfortably beneath the thick, generic workman's winter coat he had snagged from the motel's laundry room. There had been an outdoor seating area for a bustling restaurant a few turns down the block, and Clint had practically cheered his luck when he spied a solitary cellphone lying crookedly beside a dog eared paperback and a half eaten plate of panini at an empty table.

The decision had come to him quicker than he had realized, and with a quick glance around and deft flick of a hand from the pocket it had previously been shoved in, he had walked away with a new toy and a discreet crack of his knuckles. Now, he found himself adjusting the slightly bent wire frames of the eyeglasses he had tossed in last minute with the bundle of clothes at the thrift as he glared down at the little screen. A deliberate frown was plastered on his face as he tapped at the screen with all the urgency of a man highly inconvenienced, poking at nothing in particular and roving his eyes over the device until his gaze drifted lazily over the top of it at the sound of the doorman across the way greeting a new resident with a jovial shout.

Clint turned his head back to the stranger's phone when he saw the old woman the doorman was addressing, his fake frown deepening in genuine thought. So far, there had been no sign of the scientist and the deserter. The thought had briefly crossed his mind that Finn and Lucy might not have seen their targets at all, or they might have already left for wherever it was they were going, but he had quickly quashed it. If it truly was them the children had seen returning just that morning, then neither had apparently appeared to be in a frenzy to leave.

A chime from the phone in his hands had Clint glancing at the screen in earnest surprise, a bubble of text blinking up at him. He coughed to cover a snorting laugh at the amount of obscenities and accusations in the message, and it took a disappointingly enormous amount of will power to seriously resist the urge to respond with a "yeah, same to you, pal" reply of his own. Whatever the phone's owner had done to deserve the verbal beating they were getting from whoever this 'David' guy was was something Clint really didn't need to get involved with at the moment. He found himself flicking the screen to its settings menu, shutting off the GPS with a tap and thumbing on the device's airplane mode as he did so. His eyes drifted upwards again as he let loose a lip flapping gust of a sigh, his gaze riveted on the front door of the gaudy lodge inspired inn.

Maybe he had missed them.

And didn't that just suck to think about.

He wouldn't have a valid excuse for 'David' and the guy who's phone he stole if he couldn't stop the sample from being unleashed.

The half witted thought had only just crossed his mind when the doorman called out another greeting, and Clint glanced up from where his eyes had wandered once again, his gaze landing solidly on the form of a woman and her stocky companion striding briskly from the building, their faces set and sure. Clint held the phone up, squinting at it as if to try to read the screen better in the midday light. He watched them purposefully cross the street and hook a left down the road, their strides equally matched as they linked arms, the image of the perfect, happy couple out for a stroll.

The image would have been sold if their faces didn't seem so constipated.

Clint watched them carefully from the corner of his eye as they slowly made their way towards him, his peripherals picking up on the distinct familiarity of the woman's Armenian face immediately. As the two pulled up beside Clint to pass by the crowd lingering outside of the café, Clint's gaze darted to the man's shoes.

A scaly, flaking sort of material covering some serious business grade combat boots.

Like snakes, Finn had said.

Bingo.

He gave the duo a minute or so to walk well down the block and mingle within the crowd a bit before he stood slowly, removing the knit cap from his head and shoving it deep into the coat pocket as he did so. His eyes were trained solidly on their backs as they slowly worked their way through the controlled flow of the few workers out for the weekend. Clint felt another pang for his fortune when he realized it was indeed Saturday, meaning what little passerby's would have been on the street during the week was doubled, giving him a manageable amount of cover.

Straightening in full, Clint gripped the phone tightly in his hand, focusing his attention on it's screen and discovering a gait to match his image as he began to fluidly follow his targets, a loping, official sort of stride matching the stern businessman he had become. He kept well behind them, inching close enough to blend with other pedestrians but remain as within earshot as he could. They stopped at a crosswalk then and carefully settled into the crowd, a small group of individuals dutifully attempting to ignore each other as best they could.

The duo was entirely silent for a long while, and Clint was just starting to get antsy over whether or not he had been made when the man spoke. His voice was rough and throaty, and Clint couldn't quite keep the imperceptible roll his eyes gave. Of course the guy would sound like he'd swallowed a cheese grater, he only looked like a friggin' M1A2 tank. His dark, obviously new jacket was far too small across his shoulders, the material tugging tightly across his biceps and quite frankly looking just about ready to give in to it's fate and shred clean off. Whatever neck he might have had disappeared under the muscle bulging from over the collar of his coat. He seemed unperturbed by the few flakes that had drifted lazily downwards during the short stop, and the snow sat impaled on the cropped spikes of his buzzed hair. The guy practically screamed soldier.

All he was missing was the integrity.

His gruff words filtered slowly through Clint's brain as he got a read on his target.

"They should have called by now."

Clint tapped away at the screen to his phone, glancing up to glare pointedly at the signal as he glimpsed the scientist shooting a stony look to her companion. She spoke then, her own voice full of hard determination and purpose. There was a coldness to it that Clint dimly noted echoed Holden's voice a little too closely for comfort.

"They'll call when they're ready. You just need to be patient-"

"Patient?" The deserter interrupted with a hiss. "You want me to be patient? Do you not realize how much of a mess is left here? It's only a matter of time-"

He was silenced with a sharp heel on his instep courtesy of his compatriot as the signal flashed for them to walk, the crowd swarming across the road in a cluster of hurried footsteps and easy murmurs. Clint let himself be carried with the small crowd, his arms jostling left and right and wreaking absolute havoc on his ribs as he grit his teeth. He sucked in a sharp breath when a woman's purse bumped his left side, and he stared pointedly at her until she stammered a halfhearted apology before flittering off into some overpriced boutique. With a minute shake of his head, he turned back to his tailing. The duo had kept discussing their situation it seemed, and the man was in the middle of a sentence when Clint came back within range.

"—ey had the entire night to put something together, they should have just taken the damn thing with them! What was the point of them taking off so soon if they weren't even going to bring it with-"

He was interrupted harshly, an extra dose of ice in the scientist's voice. "They needed to prepare, Lucas, and you very well know that. This isn't exactly a cake we're delivering here, and with the demo man out of the picture, they need to pool our resources. You're just lucky they decided to leave you with it instead of taking you along with the others."

Clint's heart hammered suddenly at the woman's words. They still had the sample. Did he hear her right? Were there only two of them guarding it? No, that couldn't be. They wouldn't have just left the case unguarded in the hotel.

Would they?

There was another long silence as Clint belatedly realized the duo had stopped talking, an abrupt finality hovering over them. He became lost in the endless string of derr'mo, derr'mo, derr'mo, derr'moderr'moderr'mo that started running through his mind, some little piece of his consciousness rewinding through the last few seconds and desperately trying to find something that could have blown his tail. He found nothing, and as the duo slowed down to almost a complete stop, he found himself shutting the mantra of Russian swearing down in his head and morphing into full businessman mode.

Forcing down his urge to glance up from the phone, he continued walking, unsurprised to bump past the two as they stopped their pace entirely on the sidewalk. Ignoring the ignition in his chest at the movement, he shot a disgruntled glance to the man (Lucas, he strung into the mantra in his head) as he bumped shoulders and muttered something ambiguously annoyed. The defectors didn't even look at him. Rather, they were scrutinizing a menu outside of the outdoor restaurant Clint had already become acquainted with. He ducked his head and scooped the phone into his sleeve as he passed by. The table the phone's owner had sat at was cleared and the novel was missing, and he allowed himself to slow his pace, a slight twinge of guilt barely registering in his gut. It wasn't long before he was on the edge of striding out of ear shot of the duo.

Not that it mattered.

A grim, taught line of a smile pulled at his face. He had something to kick a plan of actual action into motion now. Even better, he had a chance of finding exactly what he needed unguarded and ripe for the picking.

With the thought in mind and when he was certain he was out of visual range, he slipped easily into an alley turnoff, pocketing the phone and taking off in a flat out sprint, the map he had analyzed earlier practically overlaying his vision as he began to circle back around to the hotel.

There was just enough of a timeframe to pull a snatch and grab while the defectors were at the restaurant.

He only hoped they decided to order dessert.


There was something about hotel hallways that always made Clint feel invincible.

He stopped in his tracks as the distant thought registered, and with a disbelieving shake of his head he continued his not-quite-run down the apparently never ending hallway of the Elk Valley Inn's (actually incredibly short) tenth floor. He wasn't sure if it was the feeling it gave of super speed when he ran, or the hyperawareness the muffled silence gave him; the knowledge of the hundreds of potential inhabitants just behind closed doors, one after the other and identical in every way, unsettling in just the right way to keep him alert. Whatever the cause, the quiet eeriness of an empty hotel hallway never failed to get to him.

Doors marked with charred wooden placards blurred past him as he sped towards the middle of the level, his eyes skimming the numbers in search for room 246. His eyes locked in on the number and the "Do Not Disturb" sign halfway down the hallway, and he dug his heels into the carpet abruptly, pulling up beside it and kneeling to inspect the lock. A quick glance to his left and right showed no one within the immediate area, so he fished around his jacket pocket for the general key card the maid would probably notice was missing within the next half hour and inform the receptionist, who would… well, who knew, really? She hadn't been the most helpful, anyways. Clint furrowed his brow as he inserted the key, shaking his head slightly at the memory.

Her hand had hovered uncertainly over the keyboard in front of her, her immaculate eyebrows raised in carefully measured surprise as she stared up at him, confusion in her eyes.

"I'm sorry, what did you say your name was again, sir?"

She had questioned him relentlessly, her disbelief much more obvious than she had probably intended.

Clint had drummed his fingers impatiently over the counter then, his face carefully exasperated. He puffed an aggravated sigh and glanced up from the stranger's pilfered phone he was staring at to shoot her a glance. "Rick. Rick Shermen, I'm here for a consultation with one of our associates."

She had flushed at the clipped annoyance in his tone, and Clint had found himself tapping his foot despite himself as she muttered a half hearted apology. A glance at the clock had told him twenty minutes had already passed since he left the restaurant. Confusing the receptionist for the room number had taken much longer than he had expected.

Maybe he should've gone with a more European based accent. God knew he'd heard enough Yorkshire in the last 24 hours to replicate it perfectly. He just had to dig deep and find the sense of affected entitlement the doctor seemed to hold.

His first choice had been Texan, and he had been highly regretting it as she scrutinized him. She had clasped her hands together, setting them lightly on the edge of her desk as she pursed her lips, her brain obviously trying to catch up with the conversation. "And who was it you were contacting, Mr. Shermen?"

Clint could practically feel the vein throbbing in his forehead. He had ignored it resolutely, choosing instead to tilt his head back, his gaze landing on the ceiling as he let out a disbelieving, humorless laugh. "How many times I gotta repeat myself, sweetheart? The room's under the name Lucas." He raised an impatient eyebrow, his eyes never leaving her face as her mask refused to drop. She had looked cooly back at him, although the slightest tinge of pink had appeared on her cheeks.

Damn.

Either she was a hard sell, or Clint was seriously beginning to lose his edge.

She had tapped away at her computer then, one hand planted on the giant book on the desk as the other hovered over the keyboard. She had shot him an annoyed glance of her own then, and Clint had blinked when she spoke.

"The last name. Mr. Shermen. The last name."

Clint barely paused as he scratched at the back of his head, his brow puckered. The perfect picture of the aggravated business partner. "I'm not sure how to pronounce it, really. Just met the guy yesterday. He checked in with the company yesterday morning. More like afternoon, really."

Her eyes had narrowed then as she turned her gaze away from Clint to scan the screen. She glanced up again, disbelief all over her face. "Trescott?"

Clint snapped his fingers, shaking his pointing index finger a bit as he let dawning realization run over his face. "That's the one. Trescott. Got a room number for me?"

Apparently not, for the likes of him.

She had apologized then, telling him he was welcome to wait in the lobby for Lucas to fetch him. Clint had felt his brain practically implode at that. Was it really that difficult to hand over a number?

It had turned out that all it took to get on her good side was a dropped hint that he had worked in hotel services "back down home in the States." She'd been suspiciously interested, but the more he had talked, the more relaxed she had become. Clint had dropped the cold business front instantly and played off of the more personal side, making a mental note to avoid Texas accents at all cost in the future.

In the end, he had Lucas Trescott's full name, room number, and a room service all-purpose card key courtesy of one unsuspecting maid who left her trolley unattended in the hallway leading to the elevator.

And a couple of the little chocolate things they put on the pillows.

Guy's gotta eat.

Or something.

The lock opened with a satisfying chirp click, and Clint slid in easily, closing the door with his heel behind him as his eyes swept the room. After a short moment of scrutiny, he allowed himself to breath.

They really had left it unguarded.

Why?

An enormous window dominated the opposite wall, giving a truly breathtaking view of jack shit nothing. The night's storm had coated the plain in white, and the only view for several miles was the single plowed road leading into the city. Even that only appeared to be visible for a couple of miles before it dipped down and back over a hill. Clint turned his focus away from the window and stepped further into the room, his gaze scouring the floor. No detail went over his head: the thick laptop shut on the desk and the scanner wired into it, the grey fatigues stuffed haphazardly into the duffel in the corner, the semi automatic handgun barely concealed beneath the stack of maps and random paper pamphlets. The classic key-and-handle locked door to (and silence from) the bathroom. The click of the lock as Clint eased it open with a painfully bright pink paperclip. The empty countertop. The open ventilation window above the cabinets.

And the neon yellow and bullet aluminum case stamped "hazardous" balanced between two thick metal clamps in the bathtub.

He was acting before he even knew it, crouched over the tub and leaning this way and that to inspect the clamps. They appeared to be pressurized to hold the case steady and in place, and as Clint narrowed his eyes to look closer, he saw a thick sealant of some form attaching them to the porcelain of the tub.

Clint found himself staring dumbly at the sample for several drawn out moments before he mentally shook himself back to the present. They hadn't set up any visible defenses, and the odds of it being rigged seemed slim to none. It was too delicate an item to set potentially dangerous hazards around.

At least, he hoped so.

After a second's hesitation, Clint brushed his fingertips lightly over the metal, pulling them away with a sharp jolt as soon as they came in contact. A few dead silent moments later saw no actual consequences for touching the metal, and Clint found himself quickly dipping his hands back into the dry tub to fiddle with the clamps. His fingers ran over a sudden divot in the back of the base of the clamp, and he rocked forward to stand on his toes as he peered over the side of the device for a better view. A small hole roughly the size of a quarter was dug into the metal in the side of the claw, an odd texture of overlapping gears and complicated circles running through the center of it. His brow furrowed as he ran his finger over the same spot in the other clamp and found no divot to match. With a flick of his wrist, he snatched the paperclip he had bent into a crude lock pick and prodded lightly at the gears, freezing as a series of clicks emitted from the clamps.

The sound was the only threat, it appeared, as nothing happened that Clint could see. With a disgruntled huff through his nose, he leaned forward further, gripping the arms of one clamp in a sturdy lock before pulling with a short, jabbing motion.

It didn't budge.

He pulled harder, teeth grit and foot planted against the wall as he strained against the device. His grip slipped as his chest flared in dull sensation from the exertion, and he let go with a gasp. The clamp hadn't shifted a single centimeter.

Clint rocked back onto his heels with a wheeze as his chest throbbed, his eyes narrowed critically as he surveyed the device. So much for leaving it unguarded. They hardly needed to post a guard on something practically bolted to the floor. If the case was going to be going anywhere, the hole that Clint assumed was a pressurized locking device of some sort would have to be addressed. And it certainly wouldn't be addressed with just a cheap gas station paperclip.

It had to have a key.

Even though he highly doubted the key would still be in the room as opposed to being on Lucas' person, Clint straightened purposefully to search the room. There was always a chance, and he had no margin for error. He either left with the case, or he didn't leave at all.

The thought no sooner crossed his mind when he froze at the bathroom door. There were voices in the hallway outside, murmuring incoherently as they drew closer.

Clint silently cursed the universe.

He hadn't really meant he needed the challenge when he decided he wasn't leaving without it!

Clint held his breath, ears straining desperately to follow the location of the voices. The noise gradually peaked what sounded like a few doors down, just before the deserter's room. There was an uneasy silence then that stretched on second after second. Clint could feel his muscles tensed, the knuckles on his hand on the bathroom doorknob bleached white from where they were clenched. There was silence.

Silence.

And more silence.

Clint allowed himself to breath, his hand unclenching slowly.

A cheery chirp and click from the front lock was all the warning he had before Lucas shoved the door open.

The bathroom door shut faster than Clint had thought possible as the archer pulled back abruptly, and he threw the little lock with silent force, his body coiled in full defensive mode as he backed away from the door. Lucas and the scientist's voices drifted through the wood in a muffled mess, their conversation hushed despite their supposed privacy. Neither gave any signs that they knew they had been breached, and Clint felt his eyes flickering throughout the bathroom in search of an improvised weapon.

They appeared to be arguing.

"—saying that I don't feel comfortable carting this out of the country in the state it's in. Do you really think it could get past customs?"

There was a disgusted snort from the scientist. "Please tell me you're joking."

"Might've gone over your head, Doctor Petrosyan, but I'm not really the joking type."

There was an incomprehensible mutter then followed by the scientist (Clint mentally red flagged her name) continuing. "Do you really think we're taking this thing through customs? What do you think this phone call is for, exactly? I already told you, they're preparing for it, that's why we've been waiting so long!"

"That's what worries me! It's taking them too long to be reliable! You can't honestly tell me you're one hundred percent okay with this right now-"

Clint filed away the tidbit of information for later as the argument continued outside, his mind racing in time with his heart as he scanned the counters, nothing of any potential use sticking out to him. His eyes fell on the window above the cabinets, and a sudden, wild thought occurred to him that had him mentally cringing at his own stupidity. Lucas' voice suddenly came closer to the door, and over the grating of his tone Clint could hear the distinct sound of pocket change and other metallic objects being rifled through.

He shot a glance between the door and the window. He needed the case. But he also needed information on who else wanted it. He could take Lucas out, but in such close quarters and with the knowledge that the man was armed while he personally wasn't tilted the odds just enough to have him searching for a plan B.

A key clicked into the lock, the handle jiggling slightly as Lucas shifted the object from the outside.

Clint was already scaling the cabinet, his feet sliding silently over the clouded metal of the handles.

The knob turned.

Clint gripped the upper frame of the window, a voice sounding suspiciously like Stark's resounding in his head with a sardonic you're a moron.

The door creaked open, Lucas' voice coming through clear as he stepped into the bathroom.

And Clint flung himself smoothly out the window of the tenth floor of the Elk Valley Inn.


AN: Thank you for reading! Any and all comments are greatly appreciated!