[ james, she says, and he can't help but feel that instinctive flicker of warmth beneath his breastbone at the sound of it, the way the syllable is shaped in her accent. hardly anybody calls him james anymore, so it's a pleasant little surprise every time. his mouth quirks into an equally-small smile, which he bites back. ]

There's no room under the bed. That's where I keep the rest of the guns and ammunition.

[ and one of his backpacks full of notebooks. and a loose floorboard, under which sits yet another bag filled with foreign currencies and a few fake passports. (that whole ultra-paranoid thing.) he says it a little distantly, though, finally putting the safety back on and storing the gun back in the duffel before setting it neatly indoors. when yelena looks at the bullet hole, his gaze follows hers and he glances down, surprised — he'd almost forgotten about it — as his gloved fingers poke at the hole in the fabric. ]

Rough job. You ever think about how unfair it is that the others wear metal rigs and body armour and flying suits? I just have the one arm.

[ and it's bullet-proof, hence him not bleeding everywhere right now through that hole, but. still. ]

And, y'know, you're lucky I haven't wired this place up with boobytraps. Crossbows and spike traps and getting tarred-and-feathered. I finally saw Home Alone.