Return to Russia

Chapter 4

A shill ringing abruptly wakes me. I groggily look around, taking in the mess of our usually pristine bedroom, and finally locate the source of the noise.

"What do you want?" I grumble as I answer my cell phone.

"Were you sleeping?" Nick asks, astonished. "You do remember that you have to leave your house in less than an hour, don't you?"

"There's no way it's that late already," I frown.

"Dear God. Please tell me you've packed at least."

"Well, my answer depends on whether or not you feel like being lied to."

"Get it together, Romanoff. What did you do with the rest of your time after you left my office?"

"I've mainly been sleeping. And... I've been trying to make things right with Clint."

"I see. Just don't let your... reconciliations detract from your focus. I need you sharp."

"Yes, sir. Anything else?"

"Just hurry. This plane is leaving at 0300 sharp, regardless of your presence."

"Of course, sir." I hang up before he gets the chance to yell at me. "Clint! Get up! We have to get ready!" I shake my husband's shoulder as I climb out of bed.

"But Nat, I'm tired," he mumbles.

"We have to pack! We must have fallen asleep..."

"We've got plenty of time. Just let me sleep a little longer."

"We have to leave in under an hour! And I don't know about you, but since we missed dinner, I could use a meal before we get on the plane."

"You know me—always willing to eat!" He finally sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "And how is it already so late? Or, early, I guess..."

"Because we fell asleep, dummy. Come on, we have to be in the car, ready to go, in 45 minutes. I'm not missing this flight."

"Right, Russia. Man, it all happened so quickly, it almost feels like a dream."

"Yeah, well, it's not. Let's go."

Clint reluctantly picks up his now-crumpled clothes from where they fell yesterday, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles and refold them. My suitcase is still partially packed from my quick trip to Jenna and Steve's house, so it doesn't take me long to finish getting ready. By 2 o'clock, I've loaded everything I should need for this trip into the trunk of my car. Since Clint's still screwing around upstairs, I start throwing together sandwiches for the road.

At 2:10, I start the car, hoping that Clint is almost ready to go. Five minutes later, I get sick of waiting and go back upstairs. The scene I find in our bedroom would be amusing if we weren't almost running late. The suitcases are packed and set by the door, but it seems Clint is not alert enough to bring them out to the car; he's sprawled across the bed, out cold, with his shirt half-buttoned and his belt undone. Sighing loudly, I shake his shoulders. When that doesn't work, I grab his foot and drag him off the bed, careful to ensure he lands upright. As soon as his butt hits the floor, his eyes fly open. In one swift movement, he grabs his bow from under our bed, the sharp point of the loaded arrow trained right at me.

"Natasha? Why am I on the floor?" Clint slowly lowers his bow, returning the weapon to its hiding spot.

"You fell asleep again. Finish getting dressed because we need to leave in the next two minutes if we want to be on time."