souffle_girlek | (no subject)

(no subject)

Clara Oswald feels that the correct number of times you should wake up in a bed you don't remember getting into, provided there isn't an outrageous party the night before, should be zero.

Tragically, she realizes, as she stares up at the ceiling blearily, she's up to two. Honestly. This is a sign she has a problem.

And then she hears the low hum of voices in the other room, and realizes she may have an even bigger problem than unfamiliar beds. After a quick check of her surroundings (clothes: on, complete lack of jammie dodgers, no kids, no cybermen, planet not blown up, still wearing space Roman jewelry) she decides it's time to sort out the mystery of why she's in bed without explanation this time. At least she won't have to go far to ask.

Perhaps the two SHIELD agents could be polite and pretend she was kinda sneaky as she peers around the doorframe?

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"Specialist."

It's such a usefully vague classification.

"Sergeant Barton and Specialist Natasha?" She tries, hoping like hell it sounds better in nanny-voice because she's not buying it.

She gets the feeling there is no part about today that's going to be easy.

"Sergeant Barton and Specialist Romanoff," Clint corrects, easily. The titles sound natural in his mouth -- the lack of questioning helps.

"In most armies, the COs don't have that much on-the-ground experience, so it's not your place to convince them who we are," he adds, faintly reassuring. "That's on us."

And to people who know what to look for, they're very convincing.

(At least, Natasha is when she's not trying to pretend she has no military experience.)

Clara, who's spent more time in Russia than she ever thought reasonably possible in her day-to-day life, frowns slightly at the corrected name. However, she knows how to pick her battles - if the woman who may or may not be part of INTERPOL but sounds more like some sort of lady James Bond wants to be called Romanoff and not Romanova that's fine. She'll just add it to the list of 'things I'll probably never find out about', a list that grows steadily by the day.

"Sergeant Barton and Specialist Romanoff." She mimics, sounding at least superficially more confident about it. "I wouldn't tell the captain your theories on the competence of commanding officers, she seems a bit touchy about the whole thing."

He breathes a slight laugh.

"They're more competent at interfacing with a larger force part than I am," he says. "But thanks for the heads-up. I'll play nice.

"Was there anything you wanted to have prepared before we leave?"

The question is to both Clara and Natasha.

Natasha shakes her head.

"Just pull on my clothes, grab my things...we need to pick up those communicators from the Bar before we go."

Clara shakes her head as well, but more mutely - she is both desperate to get back, and completely unwilling to go. This is the first time the bar has appeared in the middle of one of their adventures, and this one has her the most scared.

(This is a lie, but it's a lie she doesn't know she's telling. There's a theme to her life. Lives. Whatever.)

Her fork is centered very neatly on her plate, and her hands are folded tightly so she can keep from wringing them into knots, and she's really really like it if they could just go now. Please.

Clint nods, taking the plates. He can wash them while Natasha gets ready.

"Then let's meet downstairs in fifteen," he says. He remembers, right before turning on the sink -- "You'll probably want to take the opportunity to use the restroom before we go," he says. "Battle's not really the time to realize you should've gone earlier."

Various emotions war for supremacy in her expression - disbelief, consternation, bemusement, terror, relief - before she gives up entirely and does an about face to scurry back to the room she woke up in.

Does he know how much that made him sound like some sort of bizarre school teacher?

She's never going to find out, because she's not going to tell him.

Natasha does not, for the record, laugh at Clara's expression. Or giggle. She might, however, smile. Just a little. Once Clara's back is turned.

"Meet you downstairs in fifteen."

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