"Taser discs," Clint announced, and dropped a small plastic box into her suitcase. "You got the extra battery packs for the Bites?"
Natasha hummed her assent, shoving aside a pair of skinny jeans to make room for the discs. Guns were next, just the small ones, concealed in a rolled-up sweater.
"I think I've got your spare magazines," she told him. Clint paused, studied the mess on the bed: suitcases, two mission files, sniper rifles, ammo, pizza box. He reached into his own suitcase, unearthed two clips and plucked another from the jumble on the bed.
"Switch," he said, and they tossed the magazines across with practiced efficiency. "You want any of these?"
She studied the selection of knives laid out beside his suitcase, chose the meanest one, a foot long blade with a serrated edge. Clint gave her a little grin, rolled his eyes at the predictability.
If she was taking a knife, she'd need poison for the blade.
She crossed to the dresser (scarred, the finish peeling off, 'you don't get to redecorate my apartment, Nat') and tugged open the middle drawer. Her fingers found the leather case, housing a row of tiny crystal vials, hidden beneath an untidy pile of rarely-worn lingerie.
"Wish you wouldn't put that shit on my good knives," Clint grumbled from behind. She looked up to meet his eyes in the mirror, a retort on the tip of her tongue, but he wasn't scowling.
He gave her a soft smile and looped a chain around her neck instead, hooked the clasp and pulled her hair through. His fingers brushed her skin, made her shiver.
"What's this for?" she asked. She ran a finger over the silver arrow at her throat, the metal cool and smooth.
"I need you to be safe," he replied. He leaned in and dropped a kiss against her shoulder, another into the curve of her neck.
She spun in his arms, back pressed into the edge of the dresser.
"Be safe?" she repeated, one eyebrow arched. They didn't say things like that before missions, no be safes or be carefuls or I'll miss you. Clint's expression turned solemn. "What's going on?"
"Dunno," he said slowly. "I've just got a feeling."
"What kind of feeling?"
He let her go, paced back to the bed and frowned down at the contents of the two mission files.
"Things always go to shit when Fury splits us up like this."
He had a point, and now she had a feeling too, a bad one, hues of brightest blue and hand-to-hand in the belly of the helicarrier.
She held the arrow between her fingers, felt it grow warm, and already it felt like a talisman, a charm.