"You're an ass. An absolute idiot." Natasha's voice is muffled as she wraps her scarf around her neck.

"Definitely." Clint agrees, shoving several rounds of ammo into his pockets.

"You're not arguing?" Her surprise is clear in her voice, and if this were anyone but Clint, it would probably have been offensive.

"Should I?"

"You usually do."

He doesn't look up. "I guess so."

Wordlessly, the two carry on packing, hastily shoving anything of use into their leather go-bags. The quietness is unnerving, most likely because Natasha is unused to it. She has been taught to always expect the worst from silence. Silence is an enemy's ally, and in her experience, it was always the calm before the storm. This time is no different.

"Why aren't you arguing, exactly?"
Natasha wonders out loud. "It's uncharacteristic."

"Worried that I'm an imposter, Tasha?"

"No. No imposter goes out of his way to leave bloody arrows all over the floor just to annoy me. And no imposter knows just how much those goddamn arrows annoy me. But still, you worry me when you don't argue."

"Well, I AM an ass. You're a pain, but I'm the ass in this partnership. That's how it works."

Natasha scoffs, a smirk playing on her lips.

"I wasn't such a pain when I saved your leather bound behind last week, was I?"

Clint's turn to smirk.

"Speaking of my leather bound behind, I didn't seem like such an ass when you started coming on to me in the middle of the hotel lobby?"

Silence.

Natasha thinks back. He's talking about last night, and upon that realisation, her cheeks flare up. She had her fingers crossed that Clint'd let that one slide. Of course not.

"If you're referring to that incident at two am, as you remember, I was after several margaritas. Once I get past six I'll come onto anyone. It was either you or that statue of Adonis by the check-in desk."

"Ouch."

Damn him and his sarcasm, Natasha thinks before she continues.

"And anyway, I didn't see you spurning my advances that quickly. But then again, YOU were pretty wasted too. And afterward…"

Oh, God. This is a different type of silence. This is the "oh shit, how drunk were we?" and "what the hell did we do?" type of silence. What happened afterward?…

"Did we?…" Clint questions.

"We better fucking not have, Barton." Natasha rarely swears, but in this case, she makes an exception.

"We did, Tasha." He informs her, flatly. "And you know it."

They usually share a bed in hotels. It saves money, plus they're used to sleeping in tents together, so waking up next to Clint wasn't unusual for her. But they've never slept TOGETHER.

Fucking hell. Fury's going to kill them.

"Do you think this violates the fraternisation policy?"

"I don't think we could have fraternised much more, Clint." She mutters.

"Then this car ride is going to be rather awkward, Tasha."

"Come on in, agents." Director Fury welcomes them at the doorstep of their next hotel. "It's freezing. You two must be tired from last night."

"What about last night?" Clint and Natasha demand in unison. Fury casts a suspicious eye.

"Your mission, agents. Did it not wear you out?"

Relieved, they both nod.

"Take a few days off. Rest. Spend some time together, whatever. Just be back next week, I have a case for you in Prague."

"Yes, sir."

"Tasha?"

"Yes, Clint?"

"It's two am."

"That it is, Clint."

Natasha rolls over in the bed to face him, and can just make out his expression in the shadows. She had never seen that expression before. Or had she?…

"Are you going to say something else, Clint?"

He smiles, mischievously.

"How about we get some margaritas in you, Tasha? Maybe then I won't seem like such an ass."

"Shut up." She informs him as she brings her lips to his.