get into some trouble?
IT STARTED OUT WITH STEALTH. then it went to hell. tip from an ANONYMOUS caller (on his private phone -- unnerving): word of an attack, civilians still in the building, a paramilitary merc group packing heavy, an ambush, some millions involved probably. in his vicinity, on his STREETS. and of course it came with no word on the who or why, only the when, the where, and thought you might like to know. so cavalier. whatever psych profile or cache of information they no doubt have on him probably says something along the lines of easily baited, which he resents. resents more the fact that this is something he missed.
[ steady heart-rate. exotic perfumes. flash of a san francisco window smashed. skin on sheets. steps silent on the ground. almost able to sneak up. almost. if only she didn't cut through the noise. ] if he hadn't clocked it as SHIELD before... GET INTO SOME TROUBLE ?
there's a second team a floor above alerted and ready and gearing up. he tastes the gunmetal, the clicks of ammo locking into place scratching at the back of his mind. there's a siren somewhere bleeding out the specifics of numbers, but no less than ... ten? no, fifteen. not exactly easy, but nothing he hasn't done alone before. not alone. natasha. he opens his mouth to say something smart, whatever that might be, then-- the last man coming up for a round two, bigger than the rest, heart-pounding, gut-twisting. a lumbering rise of a fist, panting breath, damn near sluggish. his radar charts that blur of motion, give of momentum, muscle memory rolling -- a quick twist, and daredevil drives a kick into the man's gut, HARD, sends him flying back with the faint, wet crunch of a busted rib. he'll live, but he won't be getting back up. they're in a circle of groaning bodies, flattened to the bone.
he can feel the smile digging into his cheeks. can't quite force it off. thinks: I WILL NEVER DO ANYTHING FOR SHIELD AGAIN. then: if I wasn't in trouble before. old habit of widening his stance, loosening at the shoulders, resting his batons on them, rolling onto his back heel. maybe -- eyes on him ? he can never tell with her, what she's thinking, what she's feeling, if if if. she slips over his senses clean as a razored edge. his radar closes up, blotted out, down just to the body and natasha in front of him. knuckles stinging, blood in his mouth from a lucky punch. she's still beautiful as ever in his minds eye. not right now. ❝ ... fancy meeting you here. ❞ goddamnit. ❝ right on time, like always. did you place that call ? ❞