a study in murphy’s law ; barton + hill


By now all of the sounds that the Quinjet makes, all of the little jumps and shudders that happen during the course of the flight are familiar.  Even with his eyes closed he’s able to discern the second that they start to decrease altitude.  If the noises aren’t enough then the changing pressure in his ears is a good indicator.

He hasn’t actually been sleeping.  At least, not for the last few minutes.  That he got any sleep at all is simply a testament to the level of trust he has for Maria Hill.  There is a very short list of people he would trust enough to have his back to even consider sleeping around under the circumstances.  She’s definitely on it.

He could do without the poking, though.

Clint finally moves when he feels the air shift next to him and he knows Maria is no longer in her seat.  He pushes to his feet, slings his bag over his shoulder, and makes his way toward the back of the ‘jet.  He hits the ground with little to no noise and lets his gaze sweep over the area.

He makes a show of yawning, if only to release the pressure in his ears.

“It was rejuvenating,” Clint deadpans.

The jet lifts off, musses their hair in the wake of the propulsion but Maria’s pointed in the direction of the traffic control tower, squinting. His sarcasm is taken in stride, her returning drawl just as impassive.

      “Good. Gonna need you to be on your a-game.” 

She’s already moving, the words drifting back to him over her shoulder, the slight cant of her mouth nearly indiscernible against the set of her profile. Keep up, Barton. He’s capable, more than that, and maybe she gets amusement out of keeping him on his toes. Pushing a little more because she knows he can take it. 

When he catches up, she tips her head toward him, shifts the bag on her shoulder. 

     “We have thirty-six hours here. That leaves a minimal amount of time for reconnaissance and under no circumstances can we miss our extraction.” Maria doesn’t need to confirm if this is clear or not- there’s an underlying amount of trust that she reserves for Clint that’s not normally outwardly expressed. 

There’s a taxi stand just past the terminal that they slide through without a drawing second glance and Maria shuffles into the queue, folding her arms. Turning her back to the person in front of her, the positioning becomes strategic as she scans the span of airport behind him. She sighs, shifts her gaze so that she’s looking at him directly, not past him. 

     “Let’s get our agent and get out of here.”


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