"Did you check the weather?" Clint asked, looking dubiously at the heavy grey clouds out the cafeteria window.
"Yes," Natasha replied emphatically. "Hurry up, Barton!"
She gripped his wrist and gave an ineffectual tug, earning a groan in return.
"Are you sure this is how you want to spend our morning off?"
"Please?"
It wouldn't work on Clint, but she stuck out her bottom lip ever so slightly and made her eyes go a little wide anyway. The chin tilt was next, down and to the right at just the precise angle to perfect that kicked-puppy expression.
"Don't give me that shit," Clint chuckled. "You win."
He pushed himself out of his chair and led the way into the corridor beyond the cafeteria. Natasha trotted along beside him, bouncing on the balls of her feet in anticipation of fresh air, if not sunshine.
"I don't get it," Clint said as they did their stretches by the Triskelion's main entrance. "I keep you so exhausted with mission simulations and workouts, I thought you'd be happy with a little downtime."
"It's not the workout I'm after, it's the change of venue."
Clint obliged, jogging across the bridge and past the security checkpoint into D.C. The route was familiar from the previous times she'd tagged along for his run, taking them past traffic and tourists and monuments.
"Bored with our gyms already?" Clint asked a while later, interrupting their rythym.
"Tired of being stuck inside," she panted.
"You're allowed outside. You know that."
"Doesn't count," she told him. They paused at a crosswalk. Clint did his goofy running-in-place thing to keep his heart rate up, but she wasn't that invested today. "I'm still locked up."
The S.H.I.E.L.D. base wasn't the worst prison she'd ever been confined in, but it was undeniably still a prison. The fact that it was situated on an island made the sting of isolation bite a little harder.
"Wait a minute." The light changed, but Clint put a hand on her shoulder to stop her crossing the street. "We're spending our free time doing extra workouts when you could have just asked me to take you off base for a break?"
She had considered it, but only briefly. It seemed less awkward to ask him for a run than a trip to grab lunch or a movie. She understood the business side of their relationship perfectly, supervising officer and trainee. Clint had convinced her of another dimension of their relationship: friendship. Video games, pizza and cheap beer, reality tv, all enjoyable.
But those things happened on base, in either her quarters or his. Surely he had a life outside S.H.I.E.L.D, old friends and favorite dive bars and football viewing parties. She wouldn't presume to think she'd be welcome there.
"Natasha," he prompted. "Would you rather be doing something else?"
"This is good," she said truthfully. She enjoyed seeing the parts of the city Clint found important enough to point out, an historical landmark or which hole-in-the-wall diner had the best hashbrowns. When Fury finally let her off leash, when Clint was no longer obligated to keep her company, she wouldn't feel so lost.
"Let's at least go somewhere new," Clint suggested. They'd missed their chance at the crosswalk, but he turned to the right and joined the group of pedestrians crossing the intersection in a different direction.
He didn't start jogging again. They walked instead, side by side. Clint pointed out interesting dogs, and her stomach gave an odd little swoop every time he bumped his shoulder against hers to get her attention. Natasha made a game out of finding the tourist with the most garish red, white, and blue ensemble, mostly so she'd have an excuse to nudge Clint in return.
He paused at a street vendor and bought them each a plastic souvenir cup of too-sweet lemonade. The morning stretched, the sky growing progressively darker as they worked their way past the White House and Smithsonian and rows of nondescript federal buildings.
"Almost there," Clint said at last.
They rounded the corner and a new building came into view, white with a domed roof and columns. The tour groups had thinned out. Thunder rumbled faintly in the distance.
"Which dead president gets that one?" she asked, trying and failing to summon a believable bit of enthusiasm. Clint snorted a laugh.
"Jefferson, but that's not why we're here. I've gotta get you a history book or something," he added as an afterthought.
They drew closer to the memorial and Clint grabbed her arm again.
"Close your eyes," he requested. She arched an eyebrow. There was nothing about the building that merited a surprise reveal. "Order, Romanoff."
She scowled but complied, allowing Clint to lead her by the hand for what she judged to be a solid five minutes. He liked to play games, but she had discovered that the end result was usually worth playing along for.
She was beginning to grow impatient when he pulled her to a stop. He planted his hands firmly on her shoulders and positioned her where he wanted her.
"Okay," he said at last, and stepped back.
She found herself on the path that ran around the edge of the lake, the Washington Monument visible off in the distance, but that wasn't what made her breath catch. The trees, barren and spindly the last time she'd noticed them, were now heavy with pink blooms. The limbs reached over the path and made a canopy, tiny petals raining down around them as the wind kicked up.
"Better than a run?" Clint asked.
It was. They had the area to themselves, and the quiet serenity was in direct contrast to the crowded halls and barked orders at S.H.E.L.D. It was the time away she hadn't known how to ask for.
"Thanks, Barton."
"Next time you ask for extra training, I'm taking you to the Smithsonian," he informed her, and led the way further down the path. She recognized the statement as an invitation, and smiled a little while his back was turned.
They didn't make it far before the glassy surface of the lake began to ripple with raindrops, tiny ones at first, but then thunder rumbled so deeply she felt the ground shake and the gentle spring shower turned into a monsoon.
"Maybe we should pay Jefferson a visit after all," she suggested, subconsciously taking a step closer to Clint as lightning forked across the sky.
"Good idea," he agreed. They set off at a run, and bounded up the steps of the memorial as the first hailstones bounced off the concrete.
"I thought you checked the weather," Clint accused. He dropped down to sit on the edge of the concrete platform, back resting against a column. He leered at the dark clouds and shook water from his hair.
"I did. You only asked if I checked, not what the weather was going to be," she replied coolly. Clint's eyebrows shot up. "You wouldn't have come if you knew it was going to rain."
"Of course not," he retorted, but he didn't sound truly angry. She sat beside him and nudged his shoulder. He returned with a good-natured shove, and she took it to mean she was forgiven. "I'm in charge of weekends," he added. "You're officially banned from planning any more downtime."
She watched the cherry trees sway in the storm and shrugged. If all his outings turned out to be like this one, it was a stipulation she could live with.