2013-11-04 - What's For Dinner

The low murmur endemic to higher-end places to dine fills the air in Romeo's Italian Restaurant. Waiters bustle purposefully to and fro, the dim lighting in the restaurant and the light tinkling of glasses make the room feel somehow... intimate.

Seated in a booth in the back, where the most privacy that can be available in such a public venue is, a woman leans back in the plush booth, sipping at a glass of water while she waits for her company. Expensive-looking, tall heeled pumps are on her feet, making long, toned legs look even longer. The little black dress she wears is simple, tasteful, yet elegant. A simple necklace of silver chain and a single ruby the color of her hair rests at her throat-- her hair tumbling down past her shoulders artfully.

If anyone had ever said Natasha Romanov was anything less than a knock-out, they had no idea what they were talking about.

A cell phone lays on the table by her bread plate, a small black purse with silver highlights sits at her feet.

The doors open to admit Clint Barton, dressed in a black suit, black shirt and a dark purple tie. The dark colours make him look taller, and while the suit once might have been tailored to fit, it hangs a little loose on his frame. It's also a year or two out of date to be cutting edge fashion, but he still draws a look and a smile from the hostess when he breezes in.

"Um, meeting someone red head, probably wanted a table by the back close to an exit..." he explains to the girl, as he leans on her podium and scans the restaurant. "Ah, there she is," he says when he sights Natasha. The hostess escorts him through the restaurant and when they reach the table she offers to take his jacket. Clint declines shaking his head but unbuttons the front before he sits smiling at Nat. "Wow, you can sure pick a place," he remarks. Naturally, as well dressed as Clint may be right now, his hair is still a bit of a mess and he hasn't shaved.

Shaking her head, Natasha gives Clint a mildly amused look. "Could not bother to shave?" she says lightly, though she does not look surprised.

The waiter chooses that moment to step over to the table, a bland smile on his face. "Ah, good evening, sir, madam. May I start you with a glass of wine, perchance?"

Natasha shrugs delicately. "That sounds fine," she replies in her clipped accent. "Clint, did you wish to choose something?" she gestures to the wine list.

Clint shrugs and rubs the stubble on his cheeks "There were people with pokey needles. I was busy," he smiles easily across the table at her then looks up when the waiter arrives only to turn his attention to the wine list. He scans it for a moment then holds it out to Nat. "Actually, I think I'll be a gentleman and let the lady decide," he says and then with a glance back towards the waiter he adds "That, and I don't know from wines."

Nat skims the list, and chooses a red wine that brings a smile to the waiter's face. "Of course, of course. The appetizers tonight are peperoni arrostiti and cozze in brodetto; followed by the soup of vedure e legumi in brodo; the main course for tonight is saltimbocca alla romana with fettuccine a modo mio; with, of course, a dark chocolate and raspberry tiramisu for dessert."

If what the waiter listed off is unfamiliar to the assassin-turned-Avenger, she shows no sign of it. "Sounds wonderful," she nods.

Clint looks up at the waiter and nods firmly "Excellent, thank you," he says and then takes a sip of his water to hide his smile. When the waiter departs he sets down his glass and looks across the table at Natasha, eyes sparkling with amusement. "So, I understood the pepperoni thing, oh, and the tiramisu, any chance you understood the rest?" he asks her.

He pushes a hand through his hair then, and leans an elbow on the table and rests his head on his hand "So, how have you been anyhow? It's been awhile."

Natasha laughs lightly. "Some," she admits. "But I understand that they seldom make food here that is not worth eating."

His question brings a small, almost imperceptible grimace to her face. "It has been... some time. Yes." She tilts her head, then says coolly, "I have been fine, of course. Just busy. New position, you know. Keeping hotheads like you in line, making sure Coulson does not have a coronary."

Clint smiles "Well it's me, if it's food odds are I'll eat it," he says taking his head off his hand and taking a sip of his water.

"Yeah, that would keep you busy, especially the last part," Clint agrees as he sets the glass down again and goes back to leaning on his hand. "Sounds like a rough gig. Do they at least let you out to play from time to time?"

Nat snorts derisively. "'Play', Agent Barton?" she replies with a roll of her eyes. "Depends on your definition of that, I suppose." She gives him a penetrating look. "Speaking of /your/ definition of fun, fallen off any buildings lately, or are you managing to keep in one piece?" She sips her water. "You are a valuable asset to SHIELD, you know."

The waiter returns then with the bottle of wine. He pours them both their glasses, and leaves the bottle on the table. "Your first course will be out momentarily," he says, before taking his leave again.

Clint chuckles softly. "Yeah, play, field work, the fun stuff," he says with a touch of irony. Of course he knows the 'fun stuff' is often messy, complicated and brutal, but he likes to put a good face on it. "Or have you become a house cat since your promotion?" he teases.

The wine comes then and when Clint's glass is poured and the waiter has gone away again he sits up and raises his glass "To important assets of SHIELD?" he asks, grinning.

Then however the toast goes he answers Natasha's question with a chuckle "And no, no buildings. Was sort of dead for a bit because of a poison dart though, that was new."

Natasha lifts a brow. "This house cat has claws, if you recall." Though she raises her glass and clinks it lightly with Clint's, murmuring, "To important assets."

"Dead, you say?" she asks with an incredulous look. "Well, I am glad you did not stay that way. My life would be much more boring."

"True," Clint replies and clinks glasses before taking a long slow sip of the wine savouring it. "Nice, good choice."

"Well, mostly dead, still had brain function," he waves a hand absently. "It's complicated, and yeah, I /was/ heading towards that white light, then though, hold on, Nat might get bored, so I came back, just for you," he says and then nods sagely. "True story."

Natasha laughs, reaching across the table and taking Clint's hand, squeezing it. "And I appreciate your concern with my level of boredom," she grins at him, eyes twinkling. "And I am doubly pleased you came back-- I would not have wanted to deal with the paperwork."

Clint studies Natasha for a moment then squeezes her hand in return a smile on his lips. "As far as the boredom and paperwork, well, you know me, I'm a helper. Besides it was Tony's ex who shot me, it would be bad news if you got to her first if she'd really taken me out."

"Is that so?" Natasha says dryly. "Another reason for me to return the favor, then. Besides, like I said yesterday, she seems more of a distraction than anything else." She shrugs.

Clint lets go of Natasha's hand to point in her direction. "Where Sawyer is concerned, no disintegrations," he warns with a hint of a smile on his face, before he takes on a more serious expression. "It would destroy Tony. Anyhow, I agree with you about the distraction thing, that's why I am looking for Sawyer and I'm letting our heavy hitters watch the tech."

Natasha laughs lightly. "But I enjoy disintegrations," she comments. "Especially when the target deserves it." She sighs.

"Just be careful," she says after a moment's pause.

The appetizers arrive-- colorful roasted peppers soaked in oil seasoned with garlic, basil, and oregano; and mussels in a savory broth. Natasha looks pleased at the peppers especially.

"I know you do," Clint says with an easy smile and leaning back against the plush cushioning of the booth. "Which is why I am taking point on this," he says and then nods. "I will be careful though."

When the food arrives he takes a fork and spears one of the peppers popping into his mouth. "Okay, you were definitely right about this place," he says when he's finished chewing. "So any ideas on where HYDRA might be operating in the city?"

"There's a few places," Natasha replies non-committally. "A safehouse or two we may be letting go under the radar, so they feel like they are making advances." She chews on one of the mussels, thoughtfully. "However, we have been monitoring them, so I do not think the little girl is there."

She swirls her wine in her glass and sips it. "This is troubling," she admits. "I cannot see what their end goal will be-- and knowing what the enemy truly wants is the most important thing to knowing how to defend against them-- or /offend/ against them, mm?"

Clint frowns when it seems like there wasn't going to be an easy solution to this one. "Hmm," he says picking up his wine and having a sip. "Right, motive," he says looking down at the table for the moment. Then he sets down the cup and grabs a mussel from the table and chews. "Let's say it did turn out to be personal. Say someone working for HYDRA had a reason to want to get Tony," by the way he says it's not a theory.

"Hmm. Say this is so. Then Stark should make fine bait-- stick him somewhere he is an easy target, wait for his attackers to close." Natasha lifts a brow. "If Tony is truly to end target, why not bring him out and make it easy for HYDRA to try? Between SHIELD and the Avengers, he will be easy enough to drag out of the fire once it occurs."

Clint nods at the suggestion. "It makes sense. Will be fun to pitch to Tony though," he smiles. "Still, if it brings an end to all of this, I am sure he'd go for it." He slips his Avengers ID out of his pocket and taps a quick message into it in PDA mode. "There," he says. "Pitched, we'll see what he says," he tucks the ID back into his pocket. "So, long term you just helping as a favour to me or are you coming back to work with the Avengers again?"

"Favor to you?" Natasha asks with a short laugh, then daintily pops a roasted pepper in her mouth. "Whyever would you think that?" she replies with a hint of teasing. "In seriousness, Clint... I suppose it depends on how my meeting with Tony goes."

She takes another sip of wine, and goes quiet for a few moments, lost in thought.

Clint smiles. "Hmm, because I'm me and I'm awesome?" he asks almost chuckling before he picks a pepper from the plate and pops it in his mouth. He chews and swallows. "And fair point, just um, don't mention the past and I'm sure things will be fine."

He falls into companionable silence for a few moments before he asks "Ruble for your thoughts?"

"The past?" Natasha muses. "No, never good to mention such things-- the past is over, done with, da? We will never come back to it, and it is better not to bring such things up." She grins wryly, finishing her wine.

The waiter arrives with the soup-- similar to a minestrone, it seems, with beans, vegetables, and pasta. He refills both glasses of wine and water, fretting over them politely before disappearing off to another table.

She sips her newly refilled glass again, and shrugs lightly. "Such is life. 'Everything changes, nothing disappears.'"

"Yeah," Clint says letting his breath out slowly. "The past is done with," he agrees. The arrival of the soup cuts him off from saying more he just lets the waiter fret and when he's gone Clint takes a sip of his re-filled wine cup and nods. "True. Also, speaking of the past, one thing, Sawyer, she isn't one of ours is she?" he asks.

Natasha shakes her head. "Not that I know of," she responds, her tone suddenly cold and businesslike. "But if she were, only Director Fury would know anyway."

She looks across the table, her bright blue eyes catching his. "It would be, of course, how it must be." Her voice is still cool and emotionless, but her eyes are the closest to apologetic they ever get. "And even if I did know, I could not tell you."

Clint puts down his wine and nods, his eyes do catch Natasha's for a moment and the he does seem to register what's there but he doesn't comment. He just sighs "Right, standard procedure, nobody knows anything, least of all me," he says with a frown and a shake of his head. "I know what you and Fury do is for the greater good and all, but it's a total pain in the ass to deal with. Just saying." He goes back to his wine.

"I apologize," Natasha replies dryly. "I forget how your ease is the top priority of SHIELD. Let me call Director Fury at once to let him know you disapprove of being left out of the loop." She takes a couple bites of her soup, but the bites seem to be taken woodenly, completely by rote-- any enjoyment being leeched out by the conversation... and where it touches, ever so slightly.

The flesh around her eyes tighten, and she refuses to meet the man's eyes again for now.

Clint snorts. "Great," he answers before he goes back to his soup as well, where Natasha eats hers woodenly, he attacks his like it's personal. He goes on like that for a bit, keeping his eyes on what he is doing and off Natasha, until he stops and sets the spoon down on his bowl. He let's out a short huffed breath "So, we were saying something about the past being gone?" he says looking up offering an olive branch.

"This is not," Natasha mutters, "giving me much hope for my conversation with Tony."

Before she can say anything else, the waiter sidles up with two plates-- and the smell wafting from them is divine. Thinly-sliced veal topped with proscuitto and sage, marinated in a red wine; fetticini with a cream sauce with just a hint of tomato sauce mixed in, with mushrooms, aparagus, and artichoke hearts and a touch of sun-dried tomatoes.

A small mewl of anticipation escapes from Natasha's lips as she eyes the plates set neatly before them both. "Oh."

"Probably not," Clint says but he too is cut off by the arrival of the food. He takes it all in with an anticipatory smile. "Okay, this looks great," he remarks to Natasha and the waiter both. Though Natasha's reaction gives him cause to smile and he remarks "That's a noise I haven't heard from you in a while, this must be good." He digs in, and makes a mmm, of appreciation, but lets the comment hang.

Natasha chokes a bit on her first bite at Clint's comment, and, in rare form, a hint of pink brightens her cheeks. "Dammit, Clint," she manages after swallowing a bit of water. She coughs again, bringing her napkin to her mouth, almost, but not quite, glaring at him.

Once she is completely done coughing, she returns to her meal, taking a bite of the pasta and closing her eyes. "This was a good choice, I think."

Clint can't help but laugh. "Blushing, wow," he says. "Definitely shaping up into an interesting night," he teases before he takes a second bite of the pasta and mmms, again. "And you're right, /definitely/ a good choice. I'm going to stop teasing you now so I can live to enjoy it."

Natasha nods, and seems content to enjoy at least a good portion of the main course in silence-- save the clink of utensils against the plates and tinking of glasses being set down between sips. Her plate is almost cleaned before she seems willing to speak again-- she looks as if she has quite been enjoying dinner.

"How many vials of blood did they take today?" she asks finally, wiping her lips with her napkin. "Since, you know, this was to try and rebuild your strength after Coulson set his vampires on you."

Not to catch up at all, of course. Never. 'Personal' and Nat were antitheses of each other.

Clint can manage quiet, and the food certainly helps too. He sets down his fork before Nat speaks taking a moment to enjoy the wine. "Hmm, I lost count, felt like a few dozen. The scary part is Coulson didn't tell me what it was all for, except I know it's not cloning, the last thing Fury and Coulson would want would be more of me running around the office. Hill too, now that I think of it," he shrugs. He's never had the greatest relationship with the bosses. "Though as ways to regain my strenght, this has definitely found a spot at the top of my list. Company's not bad either," he remarks smiling as he has another sip of his wine.

Natasha blinks at him, and then chuckles. "Few dozen? He only really needed four. They must have taken a few extra just to see how long you would let them drain you."

Or they had other reasons. Who knows with SHIELD.

"I suppose the food was a good idea then." She gives him a half-smile. "And no... the company... isn't horrible." She finishes her wine again, and reaches towards the bottle.

"It's not impossible I lost count, the nurse was pretty," Clint admits with a smile. "At least I hope I did. Oh well, not like they can do much with my blood, I'm not the Hulk or anything, unless injecting it into people gives them super-snarking powers, I think the world is safe."

When Natasha reaches for the bottle he grabs it first. "Allow me," he says and pours her a bit more wine before doing so for himself. "And I'm glad I'm not horrible."

Rolling her eyes at Clint's comment about the nurse, Natasha gracious accepts the refilled wine. "Thank you. And as for what they wanted the blood for-- your guess is as good as mine. I had to give it the other day. For whatever reason, any active agent was require to do so."

She smirks, and idly twirls the stem of her glass in her fingers. "I wonder if they managed to find any blood in Hill, or if they had to make an exception."

Clint chuckles "Probably gave her a pass, the needle would have corroded anyhow," he says and then nods. "Guess they want to make sure we're not dying on them, or Skrulls, or Doom Bots or LMDs... you know we really have a lot of weird enemies," he smiles. "But anyhow, we've both done the tests, so at least we know who we are."

Natasha laughs again, lightly. "That is a most confident comment... we know who we are," she murmurs, sipping her wine. She pushes away the mostly empty plate, sighing. "Yes, our enemies are strange, but I think they will only serve to get stranger. It is never over, you know."

She leans back into the booth, seeming to relax a bit. "Part of me," she admits, "would enjoy nothing more than to go kick in the door to the nearest HYDRA safehouse with you tonight."

Clint sits back and nods. "Well if we can't trust us to be us, then who can we trust?" he asks before he answers for Natasha. "You're going to say no one aren't you?" he smiles. "And yeah, it's never over, there's always going to be someone who needs to be dealt with, even if we got rid of all the AIMs and HYDRAs of the world. There'd just be someone else."

Nat's suggestion though earns a grin and Clint leans forward. "We could do it. I've got my kit back home and knowing you you've probably got your gear stowed in the coat check."

"Bah!" Natasha waves off the idea with a frown. "As... exciting as that would be..." and she gives Clint a quick look-over, "we must leave them alone for now."

She muses. "Besides," she shrugs, "You enjoy it too much. We kick in doors, throttle bad guys, and then you will get no sleep tonight." She eyes him levelly. "You need food and sleep after so much blood was taken."

Clint reaches over and puts a hand on her arm still grinning. "Damn right I enjoy it too much," he says. "And I need it too, more than sleep and food. All these plots, and women, and reponsiblities. I just need to be the arrow guy again. Just like I know you need to be Black Widow for a bit and not Deputy Director Romanov."

Natasha smiles wistfully at Clint. "That would be something, wouldn't it?" she asks, gaze distant. "Like Cozumel-- taking out those AIM agents-- remember that?" Her eyes twinkle merrily. "I could have sworn you had pulled the wrong arrow to use, but you surprise me with your ingenuity sometimes."

Clint smiles fondly and is clearly right behind Natasha on memory lane. "Yeah well I figured they'd expect an explosive arrow. Figured the boomerang arrow could hit that one guy's power pack, y'know for that laser thing they had " he taps his head "Strategy" he nods before taking a sip of wine to cover the taste of bullshit.

"I miss it," Natasha admits, taking another drink of her wine. "Field work is easy--" and before Clint can shoot her a look, she stops to explain. "It is. There is bad guy. Stop him however you must." She sighs. "Being the one to decide who is sent out to take care of what problem; or what problems will even get taken care of in the first place? /That/ is a nightmare. And don't even get me started on the paperwork."

She makes a derisive sound, low in her throat. "Being in the field is adrenaline, thinking on your feet, intuition, quick-quick-quick!" she shrugs. "And undercover work, it has its own adrenaline inducing moment, da? Will I be caught, will they see through me?" She takes another sip

"But /management/. Takes all the fun out of being an Agent, sometimes."

Clint holds up a hand. “Hey I know what you mean,” he assures her about field work being easy. “There’s not enough money in the world to make me an administrator,” he says with a nod and another sip of wine through a smile.

“I understand about the adrenaline thing too. When you guys freed me from the Skrull, I had money, I tried to do the whole retired thing, didn’t stick. People like us Nat, the need to do the hero thing, to be out on the pointy end of the operation, that’s another thing that doesn’t stop. Which is why I am still for busting a few heads tonight. Just think if we interrupt a surveillance on that safe house or something, maybe Fury might get mad enough to demote you,” he suggests with an impish grin.

Natasha shrugs. "It's not about the money, it is about what Director Fury needs," she says evenly.

But his suggestion brings an equally impish look to her face. "Ah, it would take more than that," she admits, "to earn a demotion. Though I would certainly earn his ire if I blew a sting just because I was... what is the term? 'Jonesing', yes? for an adrenaline rush."

"Though," she muses, "I could always blame you, and say you took advantage of me while I was drunk-- convinced me to do it." She gives him a brilliant smile, and takes another sip of her wine. "Then I could have you reassigned to Siberia for a few months. Builds character."

He holds up both hands this time in surrender. “Not saying it’s about the money, Nat. I was just saying that because I had money I could have retired, and I didn’t because I needed the excitement.” He lowers his hands and takes a sip of wine.

“Yeah Jonesing is right,” he says then he laughs. “Yeeeah, I am going to have to pass. Me and the cold don’t get along so well,” he tilts his head thinking. “And me and Russians now that I think about it, present company excepted,” he smiles back and then shakes his head. “Also, Fury would never believe I was able to take advantage of you.”

"True," Natasha replies. "Besides, knowing the Director's sense of humor, he would assign me with you, so that you had a translator, and that /my/ character was built as well." She shakes her head. "Tragic, it would be."

Clint sits back and sips his wine. “Tragic? Nah, not if you were there. Just think of all the time we’d have to,” he pauses. “Um, build character?” he says before he lifts his glass to his lips before he thinks better of it and sets it down on the table. “But yeah, better to not mess up any SHIELD ops, as much fun as it might turn out to be. Stupid responsibility.” He settles on another sip of wine anyway.

Natasha settles back in the booth, crossing her legs neatly. "Are you saying," she asks smoothly, "that 'character building' and 'responsibility' go well together, then?"

Clint’s brow furrows and he tilts his head. “Um, yes?” he answers with a little laugh. “I think I may be a little lost in subtext land right now. Also, this wine is really, really good.”

Natasha nods. "Yes, it is."

She glances over at him, and opened her mouth to say something-- but the damnable waiter slips up to them again, a couple of under-waiters hurridly removing the plates.

"Ah, sir, madam. Dessert will be out momentarily... but first," he slides the empty wine bottle over, replacing it with another-- not the same wine, but also another red. He uncorks it, and pours the rich liquid into two fresh glasses.

"A gift from a friend, it seems," he smiles.

Clint turns to regard the waiter and his under-waiters with a look that’s equal parts confusion and annoyance. “Huh,” he says and glances around the restaurant. “So who’s our friend then?” he asks the man.

He glances at the wine in the cup, and over to Natasha. Maybe it’s being back with SHIELD folks, but he’s just a little bit paranoid.

Flirtation and sexual tension drains in that moment, as Natasha's eyes go from heavy-lidded with the atmosphere, the company, and the wine-- to suddenly alert and suspicious.

"Who?" she asks firmly, echoing Hawkeye's question... perhaps a bit /too/ firmly, from the shock in the waiter's face.

The color drains from him... this is obviously not the reaction he expected for bringing a gifted expensive bottle of wine to a table with a pair of seemingly young, urbane professionals.

"Ah-- ah, madam, I did not ask him his name-- he just gave me this bottle to serve you-- and a fine bottle! This is a very, very fine wine! We do not even carry it ourselves, too expensive... Let me-- ah, let me go find him. He said he wished to remain-- remain anonymous... just wanting you both to enjoy your date." He worries with his hands, handwashing obsequiously.

Agent Romanov's face darkens, and she says nothing, her eyes settling on the bottle.

After a few moments of terrible silence... and the waitstaff scurrying to find their anonymous benefactor... the Deputy Director asks, in a calm, cold tone, "Barton. Do you have any toys of Stark's we can test this with?"

While the Widow talks to the waiter Hawkeye scans the faces of the patrons. Looking for a familiar face, or worse, a threatening one. Under the table he reaches into his pocket and grabs one of the spare arrow heads he brought along, rigged for throwing.

The waiter’s terror is ignored and when he goes and he’s asked the question by Natasha he shakes his head, eyes still on the room. “No, nothing on me,” he says. “What’s the play?” he asks.

Black Widow narrows her eyes, also scanning the room.

"Well, either we have a problem, or someone sent us a thousand dollar bottle of wine," she says quietly, brilliant blue eyes still sweeping the room. "I cannot think of any 'friend' who would spend that sort of money-- and would assume we were out on a date."

Well, to be fair, anyone who had been watching them for the past couple of hours might assume such. But that fact is trivial.

"Find the target," she says finally. "Recover information." Her eyes flit to the wine. "Bring in the evidence." She pauses. "Keep an eye on things, be ready to move if you see anything suspicious. Hold this position for now-- they may have expected us to move for the door."

“I could see Tony sending it to us,” Clint admits. “However there’s no way he can slip into this place and not be noticed by everyone.”

He keeps his eyes on the room and then sliding out of the booth stands up. So he can get a better look around. He also uses that time to transfer some of his arrow heads to his other pockets to be ready for action.

“Right,” he says about her recommendations. As he slips back down into the booth. “So nobody I can see looks suspicious, so, wait for the waiter then decide on if we can make our move?”

"Tony?" Natasha scoffs. "As what, an 'aim for her pants' gift to you?" Despite the harsh words, she does seem slightly amused at the thought-- for a moment. Then she is scanning the crowd again. "You're right, though. He would be noticed."

"There."

A man in a dark suit, sitting at a table by the door, stares right at them. In his hand, he has a small fob, similar to a automatic door opener for an automobile. He waggles it at the two, and smiles.

Natasha's brow furrows. "Who is th--"

“Notably, you’re not wearing pants. But yeah, that’s the idea,” Clint replies, eyes still on the room.

When Nat points out the guy in the suit his eyes swivel that way. “Yeah, five bucks says that doesn’t just open a car,” he says about the remote.

Shrugging he waves and beckons the guy over. “Better he comes to us right?” he says sidelong to Natasha.

"<>," Natasha mutters under her breath in Russian.

The man shakes his head, and mouths two words from across the room. The Widow narrows her eyes. "Drink... up?"

Clint frowns and turns away from the man so he can’t read his lips. “You know this guy Nat? And is there any reason I shouldn’t be able to put a Taser arrowhead into him before he can push that button?”

"No. I was about to ask you the same thing." Natasha tilts her head down, her hair obscuring her face and lips. "The bottle. Look at it."

The bottle of wine of the table seems normal-- at first glance. But the label seems a hair too thick, and the red liquid in their glasses seems a touch too viscous.

Clint lift’s his shoulders in a shrug. “I’ve pissed off a lot of people, can’t say I remember pissing this guy off though.”

He lets his eyes travel down to the bottle and to the wine. “Yeah, not going to drink that,” he murmurs to Natasha. “So, plan B. I go find out what is going on first hand.”

He pushes up from the table and makes his way across the room to join the man at his table. If he makes it that far he slips into the opposite seat and says lowly “Sorry to say buddy you got stiffed, fake label and something’s funny with the wine. So, what’s up? Did we foil a plan of yours or something?”

"That was a mistake, Mr. Barton," the man says with a genial smile.

"You see, you left your girlfriend alone with the bomb."

Still at the table, keeping a wary eye on Hawkeye and his new 'friend', Black Widow reaches out for the glass of 'wine', swirling it around and looking at it, brow furrowed.

The man pushes the button in his hand. The bottle explodes.

Clint’s head whips around shouting “Nat! Bomb!”

It’s already exploded.

Clint stands grabbing the edge of the table to flip it onto the other guy and then swings the Taser arrow at him, firmly gripped in his fist. Take him down fast then get Nat, that’s the plan.

As expected, the mostly-civilian population of the restaurant panics-- some screaming and mobbing the exits, some hiding under tables, all of them useless and easy targets.

Natasha Romanov is not a civilian, however, though her enhanced agility and reflexes are put to the test as she sees the man at the table press the button, and she makes an attempt to dive from the booth.

The liquid from the glasses and the glass shards fly in the explosion, and a line of blood trickles across her cheek from where a flying shard ripped the flesh there open. Splotches of red liquid are splattered across her body.

Her dress, sadly, between the mysterious liquid and the explosion and flying glass, is ruined.

She rises, shakily for a moment, and then she steadies, moving quickly towards Hawkeye and the unnamed man.

The smell of burning cloth, wood, and electronics fills the restaurant

The man with the keyfob, however, keeps his attention on Hawkeye. He smiles, kicking the chair out from under himself and dodging backwards, grabbing a nearby civilian-- ironically, perhaps, the very waiter that had been tending to the two SHIELD agents that night.

"Wouldn't try it, Barton," he replies. "Collateral damage is somewhat pleasing to me, but I won't indulge until you force me."

Clint catches Nat’s escape in the corner of his eye and the relief is plain in how he carries himself.

It also lets him focus on keyfob guy fully. “Seriously. Who /are/ you?” he asks. While he does, he looks for angles. Ways he can get this guy without hitting their waiter.

The man is also looking for angles-- angles of escape. He steps back towards the door. "Oh, you'll see," he sneers. "I've already gotten what I needed from this."

Black Widow is already removing a pair of heavy-looking bracelets from the rapidly disengrating purse that had been laying at her feet, letting the cloth fall to the floor as she clicks them on her wrists.

Her hair is wild. Parts of her little black dress have either been sliced, burned, or melted away, leaving very little to the imagination. Blood and red fluid splatters her pale skin.

Her eyes are burning with anger, and she raises her hand, pointing her wrist at the man.

Clint scowls “Great, /thanks/ mystery guy,” he snarls at the non-answer. His eyes cut towards Nat and he takes a step to the side cutting off her shot with his body. “Let the waiter go and get out of here. But count on me finding you later,” he tells Keyfob.

He has angles he could use, he knows he can make the shot but the wine is going to slow his reaction time and that might cost the waiter his life. So, for now, at least in Clint’s mind Keyfob gets a pass.

The man smirks, and shoves his way through the crowd, disappearing down the street after shoving the waiter back towards Hawkeye and Widow.

Natasha snarls wordlessly, dropping her wrist. "Damn it, Hawkeye!" she snaps. "I could have shot him if you hadn't moved in the way."

Clint pushes past the waiter when Keyfob lets him go. He reaches into a pocket for a tracker arrowhead and lets it fly after the man, along with a broadhead. If the tracker hits the arrow head part will drop off and leave the little device clinging to his coat. The broadhead is just there to hurt the guy and make him think /that’s/ what hit him.

Whatever happens he turns back to Nat. “Yeah, but would the waiter have made it? We had a lot of wine tonight.”

Natasha scowls at him as she stands there, the lace of her underwear and bra peeking out from the gaps in the ruined dress. "I could have made the shot."

The undertone, of course, is that she had not completely considered the safety of the civilian involved.

"Let's get out of here," she says finally, looking around at the ruined restaurant. "Who was that guy, anyway?"

Clint nods grimly when he sees the tracker hits. “Got you,” he says before he turns back to the restaurant and has his first real look at Nat since the bottle exploded. He has a hard time looking elsewhere. “Uh, here,” he says taking off his jacket and offering it to her.

“And I wasn’t worried about you making the shot,” he answers before he looks around the restaurant taking a glass and a napkin off a table he moves to the remains of their booth and brushes some glass and whatever the wine like stuff was into the glass. Once he has it he says “This might help us find the guy if he finds my tracker,” he explains then nods for the door. “Let’s get out of here.”

Natasha nods grimly, accepting the jacket and slipping her arms into it, wrapping it around her. "I see you are still making friends and influencing people," she says dryly as they slip out the door, moving down the street in the direction of Central Park.

A crowd has gathered, but they are more busy staring at the blown out windows and smoke than paying attention to a mussed couple escaping the ruins of Romeo's. After they are free from the press of the crowd, Natasha sighs deeply.

"Ugh," she grumbles. "Whatever this is, it's destroying this dress." And so it is, the fluid seems to be eating away at the black fabric. In fact, it is also eating away at the polyester lining of Clint's jacket.

Well, that catches her attention. "Shit. Clint, your coat."

“Seems like it,” Clint says as they slip through the crowd. Clint leading the way.

He looks over when she mentions the dress, and the coat. “Don’t worry about the coat, we need to get you off the street before you’re naked,” he says. “How far to your place? If it’s too far we may need to grab a cab.” Won’t that be that cabbie’s lucky night.

"Cabs take longer," Natasha says, already beginning to move a bit quicker. "This time of night? We'll be lucky if we don't end up sitting in one for the next hour." She purses her lips, thinking. "Damn."

She looks at him ruefully. "Central Park West," she says. "It's a bit of a hike. Your call."

"Yeah, should have brought my car," Clint mutters before falling into a fast walk besides Natasha. "No cab then, we'll walk and hope you still have some clothes on by the time we reach your place. Also, sorry about this, Nat. When I find out who this guy is I am going to kick his ass."

By the time they get to Natasha's apartment building, much of her dress is gone. She had tightly wrapped Clint's coat around her-- surprisingly, only the lining and the buttons fell to the liquid's power-- the outer wool shell remained intact.

Much to both of their reliefs.

Her heels fell apart somewhere around Broadway, and, with no other option, she had continued the walk barefoot.

She punches a code in the door, and lets them both into the lobby, making a beeline towards the lift. As the elevator door shuts, she grumbles, "A shower. I have never needed one so badly."

"Not true," Clint says turning once the lift doors close. "Remember that HYDRA base in that sewage treatment plant in Belize? I still have nightmares about the smell," he says with a grin curving the edge of his lips as he nudges her gently. "Anyhow, coat held together, that's a win."

"Eugh." Natasha winces as the lift starts rising. "I /had/ blocked that memory, thanks, Clint." She leans slightly against him, looking exhausted. "And it did. I wonder why?" she asks, curiously.

Cling-click-shnickt.

One of her wrist guns drops to the floor, a large gap where it normally would connect.

"What the hell?" she asks, kneeling down to scoop it up.

The door opens.

Clint grins down at Natasha when she leans against him "I'm a helper," he informs her sagely.

Then when she brings up why the coat held together, he considers it a bit. "What was your dress made out of?" he asks her. "The jacket's wool, Jan made a big deal about that when she had it made for me," he shrugs. Janet Van Dyne, Avenger and fashion designer, and frequent despairer of Clint's lack of fashion sense. "Could be it only eats certain kinds of materials?" he suggests.

When the Widow's Sting hits the floor he jumps, and the grimaces at his own skittishness. He rolls his neck and remarks "Shaping up to be one of those nights," he says and then nods towards the partially open door. "Want me to go in first and sweep the place? Since your weapons are sort of falling apart on you."

Natasha shrugs, picking up the damaged weapon with a scowl. "Spandex and some other synthetics, I think. Dress like that tend to be." To his offer, she nods. "Second door on the right," she says, gesturing.

Key? Ha. She moves up to the doorframe, and presses her hand against it. A concealed panel slides out, and she rests her hand on it. The door clicks unlocked.

Clint hmms "Sounds like it only works on synthetics then, not natural stuff. That's why it didn't burn through the wool, or thankfully your skin," he says and then pauses. "It didn't did it?" he confirms.

Then when the door clicks open his brows go up "Neat," he says about the security. "I really need to get one of those." Then sliding one of his spare arrowheads into his hand he nudges open the door and begins his sweep room to room until he's sure the place is empty.

Natasha is right behind him, her working Sting up and aimed. When they finish their sweep, the apartment obviously clear, she sinks against a wall, sighing.

The apartment itself is a nicer one-bedroom. A clean, seldom-used kitchen sits in the center, a living area with a semi-circular black leather couch with a handful of red throw pillows and a red blanket is the centerpoint of that area. A television with a computer hooked up to it hangs on the wall.

The door to the bedroom is open, revealing a neatly made queen sized bed, continuing the black and red color scheme.

The search done, Clint allows himself a smile at the red and black colour scheme throughout the apartment as he goes back to the door and nudges it shut. That done he engages any locks that don't already engage on their own, then heads back to Nat. Finding her slumped down by the wall, but awake, he crouches down beside her poised on the balls of his feet. "You okay?" he asks her gently, real concern on his face.

"Just tired, that's all. And need a shower. And clothes." Natasha looks up at him and gives him the winning seductress smile-- the one that only looks perfectly real if you don't know her.

Clint can't help but smile in return, his blue eyes meeting her own. He shakes his head though whether at himself, her, or the situation it's hard to say, but he leans forward putting a hand on the wall beside Natasha and for a moment it looks like he's going to kiss her, but he lets his head go past hers and whispers in her ear "You've still got it Nat," then he pushes off the wall and rocks back onto his heels to stand and offer her a hand up.

Laughing lightly, Natasha grasps his hand, pulling herself to her feet. She runs a hand through her hair, and glances towards the bathroom. "I think I will shower," she says wryly. "There is beer in the fridge, if you want." She shrugs. "The television has cable-- I never watch it, but if you want, feel free."

And she slinks back towards the bedroom and bathroom, dressed, literally, in nothing but his coat.

The invitation for beer and TV gets a nod. Normally two of Clint's very favorite things, but right now he barely notes the offer. "Great," he says, and then leans against the wall to watch Natasha wander off to the bedroom and close the door behind her. He lets his head thump quietly against the wall "Being good sucks," he mutters to himself before some part of his brain reminds him of the prospect of beer and TV and he turns and heads into the kitchen.

When he's there he raids the fridge for a beer and then heads over to the living room and flicks on the TV. He does a little channel surfing sipping his beer before he hits on a movie "Tombstone, nice," he says as he leans on the arm of the couch half watching half trying not to let the blood loss, the receeding adrenaline rush of the confrontation at the restaurant, and the alcohol lull him to sleep.

After half an hour has passed, Natasha walks back out, toweling her hair dry. She is dressed in jeans and a black tank top, and looking concerned.

"Clint," she says, finishing with her hair and hanging the towel on the back of a chair. She moves to the fridge and pulls out a beer of her own.

"Whatever that stuff was, I suppose it's gone. I didn't see any when I was washing off."

"Mmmhuh?" Clint says his head sliding off where it was resting on his hand. He sits up and cradles his beer to make sure it doesn't spill on the furniture. "That's good right?" he asks. "The stuff is gone." He gets up and checks where he put down the cup from the restaurant with the sample to see if that stuff is still there or whether it has evaporated. As he does he continues "I was thinking about it while I was napping, seems like this stuff is pretty harmless, so maybe it's just a guy I pissed off not /really/ pissed off."

The glass and the liquid are fine, and the glass shards remain intact. Curious.

"He said he got what he wanted," Natasha says coolly. "Perhaps he just wanted to blow up a bit of Romeo's." Her tone, however, says she believes differently. "The samples are gone--" she glances down at a bare arm, "and I didn't have any sort of reaction, but I don't feel like it simply vanished."

She looks at him pointedly. "I'll get checked out at SHIELD HQ immediately. No point in guessing, I suppose Coulson will get to have his vampires take more of my blood, hmm?" She is worried, though hiding it well. Except for the slight tightening around her eyes.

When the stuff is still in the glass he curses "Fuck." He turns to Nat, reading the worry in her eyes. "Nah, I think he wanted to hurt me and I think he was alright trying to do it through you," he lets out a breath. "Beginning to think I should have let you shoot him," he says it but he doesn't mean it then he's turning towards the door. "Come on, you got a car here or something? I'll drive you to the office, make sure you're alright."

But Natasha has already grabbed her backup phone, and dialed.

"I need a pick-up. My place. Fairly quickly. ...All right, ten minutes."

She hits a button to end the call. "There will be a car in ten downstairs," she says. "I'm going to grab your coat-- bring it in for testing." She pauses, looking at him. "...you can come with, if you still want. I'm sure a debriefing will be in order."

There is a little quirk of Clint's lips at that last turn of phrase. "Yeah, I'll come along for the debriefing," he says before he nods and scoops the cup off the counter in the kitchen. "I'll bring this too. The techs will want to have a look."

They head downstairs, and shortly a black limo pulls up. The door opens, and Natasha slides in, followed by Clint.

After moving through the city's traffic, they are brought to SHIELD's New York office, where they are quickly separated, debriefed, and given a myriad of tests-- and wounds tended to.

It was the early hours of the morning when the two were brought back to the front lobby to await a car to take them both to their respective apartments.

Natasha leans against the wall, waiting, her cheek freshly tended and a few neat pricks inside her arm. Two new Widow's Stings rest on her wrists, though with the tank top she wears, they look more like fancy overdone bracelets than weapons. Though those who know better... well, know better.

Clint looks like he is asleep on his feet when he joins Nat in the lobby. His tie is dangling from his pocket and the top two buttons on his shirt are undone. Seeing Nat he perks up and walks more than he drags himself to her side. "How'd it go. Was the stuff gone or was it something else."

"There were some anomalies," Natasha says, covering a yawn. "But nothing too serious. I will have to come back in after they've finished running tests, but I'm free to go home and sleep."

"What about you?" she asks.

"Me? I'm fine. Just got a talking to about drinking after they took so much blood but I didn't tell them it was your fault ," he yawns and smiles. "But sleep sounds great."

"It does," Natasha agrees as she gets into the car. Once Clint is inside too, she settles into her seat and leans against the marksman.

Clint slips into the car beside Natasha and leans into her as she leans into him keeping each other upright for the drive to their homes. "Glad things look alright, but you'll tell me if you hear anything more about those anomalies right?"

"Mm." she makes a slight noise of affirmation, and closes her eyes, dozing until the car stops in front of her apartment building.

"We're here, Deputy Director," the driver says.

Natasha's eyes flutter open. "Thank you," she replies, reaching for the door handle. She stops as her hand grips it, and she turns, glancing at Clint.

"You coming?"

A loud snore answers Natasha's question. Clint arms are folded over his chest his head is lolled back at an awkward angle, dead to the world.

Natasha shakes her head, laughing softly, as she departs the vehicle.

"Take him home," she says, before shutting the door and disappearing into the building.