He shouldered the bag tossed to him by the other man, grunting at the sudden weight. A glare was shot in his direction as the assassin hissed at him to keep it down with a nod in the direction of the bed. Looking between the bed and his friend, he nearly dropped the bag with the realisation of what that meant.

Something in his expression must have given the thought away because Clint cracked a smile and shook his head.

"It's not like that," Clint muttered, throwing a (thankfully sheathed) knife for Steve to catch. He did, barely, fumbling with it for a few moments before adding it to one of the many side pockets this bag contained. The archer strode out, taking it off him and slinging it across his body, reaching over behind a small table for a bow that Steve had never noticed before. He let the bow sit atop the bag as he found what he called his emergency quiver; it was small, relatively compact, and much lighter than the standard quiver, chiefly because it carried half the number of arrows and those it did have were slimmer and lighter, though no less dangerous. Steve took it from him to carry; he had far less baggage and it was only sensible for him to take some of the weight.

With a last check over everything, Clint decided he'd packed his fair share of items, at the very least enough to get him through any foreseeable danger - and anything else that popped up. As he nodded to tell Steve it was time for them to get going there was the familiar click of a handgun being cocked and ready to fire. Both men went still immediately and the archer raised his hands in the air, resting them against his head. "Natasha," he called out, without turning around, "It's just us. It's just me and Steve."

After a few tense seconds there was a second click - she had, likely against her better judgement, unloaded the gun. He turned to give her a reassuring smile and had to stifle a laugh instead; the sight of her sitting upright in bed with a gun still clutched in her grip was just too much. Her red curls were tangled and spiked up in places, with her sleep-filled eyes giving her a dopey look compared to the serious expression on her face. Grasping the sheets and pulling them up to her chest she set the gun down beside her and, after wiping her eyes clear, gave the pair an expectant glare.

"We've been called out on a mission. It's just for a few days."

She was still glaring at him. He shrugged at her apologetically - it wasn't his fault she still hadn't been cleared for active fieldwork. But right now, he had a leader to assassinate, and Steve had a kidnapped something-or-other to rescue. Clint hadn't been paying attention to that part when they'd gotten the briefing an hour ago, at two o'clock. It had been more along the lines of interrupted sleep, barely listening while being given the basic instructions, and then falling asleep while the Captain was told his side. They were being flown out to a jungle in the middle of nowhere in which a complicated and angry conflict had begun. The leader of one side had kidnapped the youngest daughter of the other, and SHIELD had decided to send its four best agents that weren't currently suffering any injuries - Clint Barton, Rachel Leighton, Steve Rogers, and Daisy Johnson - before things got nasty enough to start making the news.

"We'll be back before Christmas," he offered. The glare softened.

"Don't die," she said eventually, before laying back and snuggling into the blankets, the pistol shoved inconspicuously under the pillows on his side of the bed.

"You too," he replied, as he walked out to the hall where Steve had chosen to wait. He looked exceedingly uncomfortable in his new SHIELD bodysuit; as this was a stealth mission, the stars-and-stripes had to go. Instead a junior agent had come by and delivered a dark grey suit with the SHIELD logo on the chest. It had a small collar, short sleeves, and Tony had asked if they were headed to the Hunger Games upon seeing it. Clint could see why. It did bear some resemblance to a training suit from one of the movies, though he personally felt ashamed he'd sat through enough viewings of the damned film with Tony to know that. As they made their way up to the roof he made a silent vow to never watch it again. And if Stark called him Katniss, he'd punch the son of a bitch in the face.

It was too early in the morning for this shit. He hoped there would be coffee on the jet, but he didn't like his chances.

"So, you and Natasha?" Steve interrupted his thoughts with a side glance to the shorter man. It wasn't like he hadn't known. They all knew; it was as obvious as the sky was blue. He just wasn't sure to what end the relationship extended. The spy and the assassin were incredibly close, almost in perfect sync with each other. He supposed they had to be given their career. But he'd just found Nat in the archer's room, and well, they didn't share a room. "I didn't think you two...you know."

"We don't," Clint said in a flat tone, barely looking up as he stored his things under his seat. He gave a vague nod of greeting to the three other agents sitting inside; he knew Leighton and Johnson from around the base but rarely spoke to them. The third was the recruit that had been with them the day Natasha had gotten hurt - he couldn't quiet remember her name. It was something Hispanic. Mendez? Morales, that was it. He gathered from her wide-eyed, adrenaline-filled expression that either this was her first real field mission, or she'd already gotten into the coffee.

Steve looked over the other agents as he packed his things away. One was a long-legged and slender woman with fair skin and caramel coloured hair, whose green eyes pierced into him. She was fiddling with a small set of blades she held in one hand, toying with them, flicking them over her fingers like it was some kind of fantastic game. With a wolfish smile she told him her name was Agent Rachel Leighton, but over comms he could call her Diamondback.

He smiled and nodded in return, his introduction rendered unnecessary when Clint jerked a thumb towards him and said, "That's Steve. Call him Captain."

"I know who he is, nitwit." Rachel Leighton looked pretty pleased at nothing in particular, still playing with the small blades in her hand. Wordlessly she pocketed them and pointed to the agent sitting to her left. "This is Daisy Johnson. Call her Quake."

Quake had a passing resemblance to an actress Steve knew he'd seen but couldn't quite remember the name of, with dark hair that seemed to spike up of its own accord and cool blue eyes that were calmly cataloguing everything in sight. They passed over him and she gave a disinterested shrug of her tiny shoulders; while Leighton was thin and tall, Johnson was almost waiflike compared to the other agents he knew. She looked almost as young as Morales, who was sitting primly in her seat and watching them all with an unnerving focus that reminded him of Tony when he'd gone too many nights without sleep. He twitched an eyebrow in the other man's direction, who cracked a smile and shook his head. With a shrug, he decided there was no point in sitting silently for a five hour flight.

"Morales?" He asked. The girl nearly jumped out of her seat, but quickly composed herself to sitting even straighter than before, something she achieved without somehow snapping her spine.

"Yes, Agent Barton?" It was disconcerting to see her so...ready to go. He briefly wondered what had happened to the snarky rookie that had shot down Stark and, to use her own words, 'had a minor disagreement' with Maria Hill.

Without bothering to keep the humour out of his voice, he asked her, "You do know drug use on the job is against the rules and regulations, right?"

Daisy snorted while Rachel looked between the rookie and her fellow assassin with a smirk. The two knew exactly what the younger agent's problem was; they'd seen it enough times in inexperienced trainees. It was a combination of nerves, lack of sleep, and an abundance of caffeine running through her veins. Most senior agents had running bets on how long it would take the newbies to crack on their first real mission. In that moment, Daisy had twenty on Agent Morales lasting three hours. Rachel was a little more generous; she gave the girl fifteen hours before the inevitable snapping.

One's first snap on the job was sort of an initiation at this point. The ones that didn't break, well, they were the ones SHIELD knew were keepers. The ones that did got dumped back in training for another year, or told to join a less stressful agency. Something quiet like the CIA or the FBI.

"I have never been one for following the rules and regulations, sir. But I am not on any illicit substances." Morales flashed him a nervous smile and at that point Steve realised why the others were laughing quietly behind him and decided to take pity on the girl.

"First field mission?" He asked gently. The other three shut up at being on the receiving end of Captain America's glare. Morales pulled a face and nodded. "You're a little nervous, aren't you?"

"I really don't want to fuck this up." Her face paled upon realising what she'd sworn and she put a hand up to her mouth. "Shit - I mean - um...I don't..."

Steve chuckled. "It's okay. I live with Tony Stark, you remember what he was like. And Clint," he nodded in the man's direction, "Isn't exactly the best when it comes to watching his language."

"Bite me," The archer grinned, his tone almost identical to the one Natasha used. The two women shared doubtful looks as Steve continued to talk to the girl calmly. Diamondback didn't care if he thought he could keep the rookie from losing it; if anything it meant more money for her if he delayed the inevitable for a few hours. Quake, while grateful she wouldn't be going into a mission with a panicked mess, had been counting on the 'panicked mess' side of things coming in before they arrived, so they could go in alone. Ever since SHIELD had decided every top agent mission should have at least one recruit with them - work experience, they claimed - she felt everyone had been getting increasingly sloppy. Morales, bless her, belonged behind a desk. Doing paperwork. For another six months at least, maybe with the occasional recon mission to keep her skills fresh.

"Alright, everyone shut it," Daisy spoke up as the jet began its descent into a SHILED-friendly location twenty miles from where they had to be. Once on the ground they would stop, get supplies organised, and break off into two groups. After that it was a simple matter of everyone being in the right place at the right time to get all the information, kill the right people, and rescue the appropriately distressed damsel.

It was going to be a piece of cake.