Clint is a fucking professional, thank you, and that is the only reason he isn’t panting as he arrives at the random address Natasha texted him, alongside their codeword that means “SHIELD’s been compromised,” what is frankly the creepiest emoji he’s ever seen, and a request.
He took a long circuitous route, losing any tails that might have been trying to follow him, but he doesn’t blame the guy at the door for looking at him like he might be a spy (which, you know, he IS). But eventually the man cracks a grin. “Sam Wilson,” he says, offering a hand.
Clint shakes it. “Clint Barton.” He holds up the package. “Nat asked me for this?”
"Oh, thank god," Natasha says, coming from out of nowhere to lift the flat iron out of his hands.