Natasha examined the camera footage once again, looking for any suspicious characters. The beach had been filled with families enjoying their day, and any person who could have done this was lost in the fray and hubbub that ensued after the conflagration. Clint had not returned yet, and she continued to glance idly at the door in anticipation.
Fresh air tinged with salt rushed into the small motel room, a whisper of a breeze before a storm, and Natasha swung around to see Clint in his full faux leather Hawkeye glory, standing in the doorway with his figure silhouetted by the dark grey storm clouds. He raised his arms, opening them wide and grinned.
"Miss me?" Natasha chuckled when he opened his arms a bit too wide and hit his hand on the door frame, hissing in pain and clutching his hand as he hopped around.
"I just saw you earlier." She laughed, smiling. "But, sure. Yes, I missed you."
Clint rushed over to the computer, surveying the screens of camera footage shot from nearby resorts and restaurants.
"How'd you get this film?" He rewinded it, watching the little figures skip backwards in fascination. Natasha blinked slightly, looking over at Clint with a bewildered expression.
"What do you mean?" Natasha asked.
"Without a warrant?" He continued, watching Tony's building put itself back together.
"Clint, you got it for us. You handed it to me earlier." He gave her a blank look and she began to get anxious as the wind picked up outside and whistled through the thin windows, bouncing off of the low popcorn ceiling.
"Nat." He started slowly, standing up and placing his bow down on the squeaky bed. "I just got here in Florida a half an hour ago. Are you feeling okay?"
He jokingly placed the back of his hand on her forehead to check her temperature. She frowned and pushed it off, her eyes narrowed at the footage and her brain wandering. Her eyes widened dramatically and Natasha swore, hitting the table with a fist.
"Woah there." Clint took a step back. It was easier to go hands off when Nat went into her moods. She had either just realised she missed something or she was angry. Maybe both, considering the steam that seemed to be escaping her ears in an almost cartoonish fashion. She huffed, beginning to fast forward through the footage while pressing inordinately hard down on the mouse.
She focused on a figure walking up to the wreckage, itching the back of his neck. It was almost as if he was wearing a wig. He touched his neck, and she could catch a glimpse of a shimmering on the footage. Cursing once more, she swung around in the chair and pointed to the person on the screen, placing her head in her hands with an ashamed grumble.
"That looks like me." Clint narrowed his eyes. He watched his imposter walk up to Nat and Phil and proceed to have a conversation before the man walked away.
"Are there any fingerprints?"
"What?"
"On the flash drive." Nat gave him a dry look.
"Obviously I took fingerprints because I was suspicious of my friend who was wearing gloves at the time." Clint rolled his eyes at her obvious sarcasm and pulled it out of the computer quickly.
"He couldn't have been wearing gloves the entire time, genius." He responded with an equal amount of sarcasm. Natasha sighed dramatically and used her legs to swing the office chair around to nab the flash drive. Clint sat down on the squeaky cot to watch her work, boredly examining the room in his spare time.
It was small, one bedroom, with a window covered by thick tan curtains bleached by the sun that was the only view of the outside. The walls were covered by patchy red paint, hints of former wallpaper showing here and there, and the ceiling was a standard hotel ceiling with a grainy texture, complete with water stains and a blinking fire alarm. The bed he was sitting on was covered in harsh and granular white sheets with a suspicious stain at the foot. The carpet was slightly moist, and the room smelled faintly of mothballs and dead animals. The rickety desk in the corner was occupied by Nat's gear and computer. The most modern thing in the room was the old desk chair that Natasha was sitting in.
"Got it!" She cried, using a paper swab to take a copy and inserting it into her scanning machine. A copy of the fingerprints came up onto the screen, and she put it into the program that would scan for any matches for known criminals. Ten minutes later, the computer let out a series of small beeps that indicated a negative result. Clint frowned.
"Try the civilian and universal database. Maybe he's not from here." She pursed her lips before deciding and changing the settings. She turned to face Clint, and recapped what happened with Tony.
"We believe that this is the same person. Which means that this is the second time I have encountered this assassin, and he has fooled me each time. Our intel shows that…" She hesitated, finding it hard to speak. Clint leaned forward on his knees, enraptured in the case already.
"He has been trained by the Red Room." Clint's mouth dropped open slightly before he regained his composure. Remembering the lethality and ruthlessness of the red room agents gave him pause, and he shivered.
"I thought they were neutralised years ago." He confessed.
"Clearly we were wrong." Natasha was stiff now, and her face had been schooled into a carefully apathetic expression that he hadn't seen in years. This was definitely affecting her. He sighed, shaking his head and looked to the computer again, waiting for the tell-tale beep. Just a minute later, his prayers were answered, and the computer sang.
"Peter Parker…" She said out loud, examining the file. The last photo they had of the kid made him look like a six year old. "It says that he's been missing since the Stark Expo. Clint. That was eleven years ago."