He becomes aware of the eyes on him. And it might be distracting at first, but that's just part and parcel of this whole little ritual. Weed out distractions. Regain focus, sharp as the edge of his katana.

Clint starts with the smaller weapons. A few throwing knives, several shuriken. Each one gets the same amount of thorough attention. Sharpened on a whetstone with smooth, precise motions. Until each edge is to a demanding satisfaction. Polished after, not a trace of grit nor finger smudge left. They are packed away neatly and safely where he'll strap them to his person later, easily on hand.

He does the same with the retractable sword. It still looks good for all the cleaning he did on it already, but this, too, goes through the same careful and thorough treatment, movements easy and practiced. Distraction falls away. The plan is in mind, solidified. His hands are steady, his features stone. His gaze leaves nothing to chance each time he holds his blade out against the light, inspecting the edge. Until he finally polishes that as well and sets it aside, cleaning up the supplies.

The uniform, such as it is, does require him to move back into the bedroom space, but his focus never seems to waver. Every seam is inspected. Leather gets polished. Each bit of armor is looked over for integrity.

When the work seems at last finished, everything is set out on the bed as though waiting for someone to inhabit the silhouette it forms. And Clint breathes in deep, holds it with eyes sliding shut, and lets it go again slow and easy.

And now the wait. But he feels, in a way, that he can face anything with the same deadly countenance as the Ronin. That includes patience.

He did not forget that Steve is there. It's just that Steve became background noise.