artificiallyimplantedmemories:
You don’t have to tell me not to lose him, you prat, she thinks. I know how to do my job. But she doesn’t bother wasting words, already running across the rooftop to the next where she’ll have a better vantage point. Clint doesn’t sound great, which means she might have to loop back and get him– or not. He says he’s up. That’ll have to do.
“6th and 18th. I think he’s aiming for the abandoned subway station. We need to get him out of public view, I don’t trust him in a crowd.”
Is this a trap? Or an opportunity?
There’s a beat while she assesses her options, and then. “You said five minutes. I’m heading down to street level to drag him down there. Get here and watch my back, I don’t know if he’s got other mercs with him.”
The archer halts his knee-jerk reaction of ‘wait, what if you get hurt, be careful, it’s not safe’, by tightening chapped lips into a fine line and clamping them shut between coffee stained teeth. If anyone needed insulting reminders of the potential precarious situations they may find themselves in today, it would be the dunce who’d just strolled off the edge of a building. Not her.
“Got it.” The ‘good thinking’, goes unsaid. “If I spot something, I’ll redirect attention away from you, toward the alleys.”
Clint drags along an aching right leg, cold pain dancing through nerves at every other step. It keeps him from escaping back to the relative safety of roofs, where the bright purple fletching would not be so easily spotted. Here, it paints a target along his nape and catches the curiosity of all who pass him, civilians and potential mercenaries alike.
Dammit, Hawkeye. Barton almost laughs, even in his own head, it is her voice scolding him like a broken record.
Better me than that bright red head of yours. He tells her disembodied voice within his own mind. Better this dummy than you.
“So how many times does this make it with us? Lucky number thirteen falls from tall buildings?”
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