Clint downed the shot of vodka—burns like hell, Russian, good stuff—for a little liquid courage and tossed the glass to the bartender, winking. "Thanks, cutie," he said, giving her a grin. She rolled her eyes. "Shove it Barton. Not my type."
He shrugged; it wasn't like he really wanted her. Sure, she'd grown up into a beautiful young woman, a far cry from the pretty-as-a-viper youth he'd once hated; she did them all proud, as surrogate daughter/niece/sister. In her time with them, she'd changed, evolved. Where once she'd been a sociopath, she was almost personable—almost. Anyway, his heart belonged to someone else and besides, her father scared the shit out of him, even more than she did. Instead of flirting with the other agent, he turned to scan the function hall. It was full with flashy outfits, expensive hookers, and enough push-up bras to make the whole city happy (or Tony. There aren't enough push-up bras in the world to do both).
Tony, with Natalie Rushman on his arm, was making the rounds—chatting up associates and gold-diggers, shamelessly flirting with everyone, with an omnipresent glass of wine in his hand. As they flounced through the crowd, shaking hands and charming for all they were worth, Natasha was slapping a sedative patch on each bodyguard and security officer they passed. It wouldn't be enough to knock them out, because they would be too obvious. They couldn't risk Devine becoming suspicious and fleeing; this was their only window of opportunity.
Which was what he told himself when he spotted another pair doing the same thing, a very familiar-looking pair. Ethan and Jane, doing the same routine as the mission in Mumbai; he heard his pulse in his ears. If they were here, then logically…yeah, there he was, heading straight for the target. Clint felt his heart stutter in his chest, and he took a shuddering breath. After all this time, he'd thought he had a handle on his feelings. He was a spy, dammit, he could handle a little thing like heartbreak; apparently not, as it turned out, because his head was spinning, his face was flushing, and his heart was doing the conga in his chest.
He looked back to Laura and met her eyes, asking without speaking—should we blow cover?. She nodded, two hard ridges appearing under the skin of her forearm—we should just kill them and get it over with. He shook his head sharply, giving her a quick peace sign before making a fist—don't you dare, kid. Keep 'em sheathed. She scowled, clearly disappointed there wouldn't be a fight, but the ridges retreated and she relaxed her stance. They had a kind of silent language between them; he didn't know if it was because of their history or if he was just good with teenaged psychopaths.
Clint swallowed drily and dropped his head on the counter, holding up a finger and down the urge to puke.
"I think I need another drink."
~ MI4 & A ~
Yes, I went there. XD Mwahahaha!
Because I'm so nice, and this chapter's so short, I decided to post it.
