The apartment building hasn’t changed in the two years since his last visit, when he and Natasha had dropped in after the Antwerp assignment to patch themselves up, sleep, and wait for extraction. It’s modern and more than a little ugly, three stories tall, faced with crumbling brickwork and festooned with windows that don’t seem to quite line up.
He leads Rogers to the side of the building and points up. There’s no proper fire escape, just a ladder bolted to the side of the building that ends ten feet above the pavement. Rogers shakes his head. “Do you have something against going through the front door?” he asks, kneeling to give Clint a boost.
Clint grabs the bottom rung of the ladder with one hand and pulls himself up the rest of the way. “This place has twenty-seven apartments,” he says over his shoulder, climbing up far enough that Rogers has a place to land. He hopes the ladder doesn’t break; it would be extremely embarrassing to die from a fifteen-foot fall with his bow and arrows still in the bag across his back.
Rogers jumps up after him; the ladder holds. “So?”
“So,” says Clint, continuing to climb. “We want room twenty-eight.”
Now, PASSING OUT TIME.