Work Text:
"Shhh."
Clint waved a hand above his head to underscore the shhh.
He hadn't opened his eyes yet, but someone had clattered into his room and switched on the overhead light in an attempt to blind him regardless. Probably enemy agents. Hydra? Crap, where did he put his bow--
"Aiee! Sorry, sir, your door-- there was no sign--"
Oh. Housekeeping.
"Shhh," he repeated, opening his eyes just enough to squint at the woman.
She had a hand covering her own eyes. Huh. What was that-- oh. He grabbed a pillow to cover himself and half sat up. As the room shifted from mad spinning to just a bit of blurriness, he noticed his phone blinking on the dresser.
"Hey, uh--" He whistled to get the woman's attention and immediately regretted it. "Ow. Hey. Um, can you pass me that?"
The woman peeked at him and, apparently satisfied with his modesty, picked up the phone he indicated. She passed it to him with a trembling hand before retreating.
"Thanks," he called as the door closed behind her. He made a mental note to leave a generous tip.
His headache only got worse as he scrolled through fifty missed calls and twenty texts from Natasha, three badly-typed texts from Rogers (why did they even give him a cellphone), and an essay-length list of links from Stark (accompanied by a disturbing number of exclamation points). He added another mental note to never take a vacation again.
He ran a hand through his hair then picked up the hotel phone, ordered breakfast and aspirin from room service, and headed for the shower. So much for a whole week in Budapest this time.