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Barton
"You really think I need your help? I could be out of here in ten minutes."
Romanov has slipped out of her accent like a dress, aping his own now that they're safe (for a given value of safe) inside the States. Midwestern, harmless, even, easy.
Even the shape of her words tell a lie.
Clint doesn't disbelieve her claim.
"No, I think the only reason you missed Vindiktor was that you noticed me. I tailed you for a month and a half: you're good. Whether you have any goodness in you remains to be seen. I think you might."
Coulson
Barton knocks once, doesn't await a response, and walks through the door whistling. It swings open; he catches it in fluid motion, without thought, before the handle leaves a ding in the wall.
Something has gone wrong on his assignment, because he hasn't taken his ordinary eighteen-hours decompression time. Thirty-six on those with required death or collateral damage.
"Talk to me before I decide I don't want to know," Coulson says.
Barton smiles. The off-kilter music on his lips abruptly stops (Tchaikovsky, oh God).
"I brought you a present," Barton says.
Coulson shakes his head. "Oh no. You shouldn't have."
Romanov
Natasha leaves the safehouse, lifts the wallet of a woman who looks like she won't miss it with more than mild inconvenience, and finds a tea shop. She's on her third cup when Barton finds her.
"I didn't think you'd stay. I didn't think you'd pull a stupid stunt like this, either."
"So I should sit still and wait for the mercy blow?"
"They sent me to Russia to kill you," he whispers, voice tight and pitched to miss the range of any recording devices present.
She brings her cup to her lips.
That's different, then.
"What do you want?"