A/N: My muse is an odd little thing, especially when the be_compromised Promptathon is on. So here I am, two bang/exchange deadlines looming this week, one Promptathon piece halfway done, and then this springs out of my head overnight - based on my own prompt, no less. (In my defence, though, there are also trace elements of another prompt in here, namely happily_dancing's "Natasha falls first.")

I hasten to add that the first handful of Avengers/MCU stories I read were Clint/Coulson. So while I have since moved firmly into the Clint/Natasha corner of the fandom, absolutely no disrespect is meant to one of the biggest ships out there.

Oh, and yes, this is a sort of companion piece to an earlier story of mine, "The Pool", although you don't have to have read that one. (Of course, I'd be Very Happy if you did.)

The Thing

By Alpha Flyer

"Maria," Natasha asks over their weekly cappuccino. "Do you have any idea why so many people suddenly seem to be convinced that Barton and Coulson are a Thing?"

Natasha has always been grateful to Maria Hill for taking the time to be normal people with her (whatever that is). There weren't many people who'd been prepared, in the early days, to answer with equal grace and without shaking, the Black Widow's questions about life in S.H.I.E.L.D., how to fill in an expense claim or just whyParis Hilton was famous. In fact, there are still only three such people, and Maria is the only one of those three whom she can ask this particular question.

"What do you mean?" Maria seems a bit distracted. She's brought a file to the café, the top of which says STARK, so Natasha is prepared to cut her some slack. "Coulson and Barton? Don't be ridiculous."

"That's what I keep saying," Natasha nods, trying to make her protest not too emphatic. "Coulson has that cellist he keeps on about and Clint … well, according to Carter, he's slept with most of the female agents in S.H.I.E.L.D. at least once. Plus, he was married to Morse, and she's never complained about that aspect of their marriage."

Maria waves her off. "I don't know how it works in Russia, but just because Barton likes to fuck women and is good at it, does notmean he couldn't also want to fuck a guy. The man has, by all accounts, an extremely well-developed sex drive."

Really? Natasha considers this briefly. Clint has never been less than professional with her. Never even tried to make a pass at her. Some sex drive.

Maria must be misinterpreting her silence somehow, because she adds, "I'm sure he likes you just fine. Actually, he started most of those rumours himself."

Natasha feels oddly … flustered? Not a sensation she is familiar with.

"No, I didn't mean … Really? Why would he do that?"

The Deputy Director fixes Natasha with that level gaze that usually translates as what is your clearance level again? She must have come to a relatively quick conclusion, though, because she continues almost immediately.

"Now before we go on, I want it noted for the record that we did talk about the Manila op before we started talking about a man."

When Natasha raises her eyebrow, Maria explains about the Bechdel test.

"I usually try to have better things to do with my time than talking about men," she says firmly. "I am making an exception because you're my friend, and because we've already talked about something useful."

Natasha nods. Bechdel test. Not something she would normally have issues with – in fact, she whole-heartedly agrees with the concept. But that doesn't mean she's not still looking for an answer. Answers.(The questions are beginning to pile up.)

"So why would he start a rumour like that? Sleeping with half of S.H.I.E.L.D., I mean?"

Maria gets that lopsided grin, the one not too many people in S.H.I.E.L.D. are privileged to witness.

"Lillian, in Statistics. She has that Thing where she gets a piercing every time she lands a field agent. She's been after Barton for years – rumour has it she needs him as incentive to get her left eyebrow done. He figured that if he made himself look like a cheap lay, she'd lose interest, or at least downgrade him to another earring. Apparently, he has a squick about piercings. Something to do with the circus."

Good to know. But …

"And you know this how?"

"He told Coulson. Coulson told me. And you're Barton's partner, so you're entitled to know. Hawkeye is a stud, but not entirelyindiscriminate."

Maria pauses, and looks at Natasha thoughtfully.

"Back on topic. So who exactly is saying that Barton and Coulson are a Thing?"

Natasha produces the piece of paper she's been carrying in her back pocket, trying not to seem too eager.

"That's a ledger," Maria says with a frown, looking at a computer printout with tables, cells and figures. "You still with the ledgers? Hasn't Psych talked you out of that yet?"

Natasha waves her off.

"That's just shorthand," she says, "for coming to terms with my past. Psych just hates that I don't use their vocabulary. But anyway, this isn't about me. It's about Barton and Coulson. And according to this," she stabs the sheet with her finger, "sixty-five percent of the S.H.I.E.L.D. betting pool are currently betting on when they're going to come out as a couple."

She takes a deep breath.

"Note that's when, not whether.And there's a deadline: By the end of the month."

"Give me this," Maria snaps, all business all of a sudden. "That betting pool of Sitwell's is still going? I thought we had put an end to that. I swear, that man is determined to destroy the moral fabric of S.H.I.E.L.D. from within."

Natasha rolls her eyes.

"Forget about the pool, Maria. It exists. It always will. It's a Thing. But … Coulson and Clint. Why? I mean, apart from both being pretty badass, they're polar opposites. Coulson dresses like an accountant, eats balanced meals, likes classical music and actually believes in paperwork. Clint on the other hand …"

Maria finishes her sentence, ticking Clint's shortcomings off her fingers one by one.

"… dresses like a slob, feeds from cardboard boxes, listens to Springsteen, and drinks coffee from a pot. My coffee, which he manages to keep stealing, and don't think for a moment that I don't know it's him. I took finger prints."

Natasha ignores that last bit and ploughs on.

"So you agree then? They're the most unlikely Thing ever? You've known them both longer than most people here."

Maria takes Natasha's measure with her cool blue eyes.

"Of course I agree. I've never bought that 'opposites attract' mumbo jumbo. But that doesn't answer the question, does it. Just why would two-thirds of the S.H.I.E.L.D. betting pool think they're an item?"

They're both trained in analyzing intel, of course. Natasha feels a bit at sea on this one, for some reason, but she started this line of questioning and hence feels compelled to give it a go.

"History? Phil was Clint's handler for at least two years before he brought me in, and worked with both of us. So there was opportunity for them to get … close."

Maria shakes her head slowly.

"No. Field protocol. No sleeping with handlers. And Coulson breathes the rules. Also, I assume you would have noticed if they were going at it, now that there 's the three of you. You are, after all, a trained spy. So that leaves …"

"New Mexico," they both say at the same time. Maria nods decisively. "Barton was detailed there by Fury to do guard duty on that hammer. No handler. And you weren't around to observe."

Natasha nods. "I was in New York, working in Stark Industry's Legal Department. Something must have happened in New Mexico."

Natasha remembers her first long-term solo mission only too well. Baby-sitting that eccentric billionaire, waiting for text messages from Clint, whom she found herself missing rather disproportionately, despite his horrific dietary habits. He'd obliged by finding ever more inventive ways to describe his boredom in Puente Antiguo. Surely he hadn't relieved his boredom by …

Maria disrupts her thoughts, which is probably just as well.

"So who would have been there to come to conclusions about Coulson and Hawkeye's relationship?"

Natasha remembers suddenly – one of Clint's complaints: Sitwell's being a real stick-in-the-mud. Totally spooked by Maxwell's Silver Hammer. Doesn't even want to leave the compound to go for a beer.

"Sitwell. And he runs the pool."

Things are clicking into place, although what that place is, isn't quite clear.

"Time to do some research, Agent Romanoff. The game's afoot."

Maria is Level Nine, of course, and can get her hands on the security footage from Puente Antigua in minutes. Neither of them comments on the fact that their coffee break has already extended well into the afternoon. They only take one a week although they're entitled to two a day and there's no global crisis to avert just now, so.

After the third time listening to the raspy exchange between Clint and Coulson – lines like "Do you want me to slow him down, sir, or are you sending in more guys for him to beat up?" punctuated by static from a major weather system and sounds from a fight - Natasha gives up.

"How on Earth could Sitwell read sexual tension into that? That's how they always talk."

Maria shrugs. "Maybe it's the time he called Coulson 'sir'?"

"Please. Clint was in the military for three years. Sometimes it slips out. That doesn't mean he's actually a submissive."

Maria looks at her, a little scandalized. "A what?"

Natasha hauls out the pool sheet again.

"It's a whole subcategory in Sitwell's pool. Here: D/s. That's what that means. And don't ask me how I know this."

It's Maria's turn to be a little scandalized.

"Barton? Submissive? The guy who told the World Security Council to go fuck itself when they gave him a hard time about bringing you in?"

Natasha notes that lack of respect for authority and certain sexual practices aren't necessarily a contradiction, but Maria definitely has a point – being submissive is not exactly a vibe Clint Barton gives off.

Then why the sudden image of a naked Hawkeye, tied to a bedframe?

Natasha hastily clears her throat.

"So. Emm … Listening to those tapes was a good idea, but we're no closer to solving the Clint/Coulson enigma."

Maria has gone thoughtful.

"Wait. What's Rule #1 of detective work?"

"In case of doubt, follow the money?"

"Exactly. In this case, that means the betting pool."

Maria punches a few buttons on the console.

"Aha. Just as I thought."

Natasha frowns her question. Maria's grin, in return, is triumphant.

"The tape. And there appear to have been recordings made, bits and pieces at a time. Certain words and sentence snippets have been accessed more often than others. Somebody has done some splicing."

Her fingers dance over the keyboard.

"Let's see if we can retrieve the final product."

Data retrieval is, of course, one of the Black Widow's specialty. Together they work in silence, in the name of science and for the greater glory of spy craft.

The recording, when Natasha finds it, is a masterpiece of editing. Even the rain and static have been used creatively, swallowing missing words.

"I need … Barton…"

"Do you want me to … down … sir? Or do you want to … beat … up?"

(Breathless panting)

"Eyes up high. Barton."

(Grunting noises)

"… sir …"

(More grunting noises, and some rapid breathing)

"Barton…"

"… sir …"

(More heavy breathing, sounding slightly triumphant, followed by a long, draw-out scream)

"Alright. Show's over. Up."

Natasha and Maria stare at each other.

"Well." Maria finally manages. "That was … enlightening. Although I have to say that scream at the end there did notsound like Coulson. It sounds more like that Asgardian fellow Fury wants for the Initiative."

She reaches for the record of Sitwell's pool, and straightens it out with her flat hands, rather more thoroughly than its not-quite-crumpled state requires. Her next question, though, is all business.

"How much do you know about betting pools, Agent Romanoff?"

That one is easy, even in Natasha's inexplicably fogged state.

"The main thing is, the bank always wins."

"Exactly. The holder of the pool gets a percentage of all entries. And the way this one's drawn up, the bank gets to keep it all if everyone puts their money on something with no hope in hell of an actual payout by the time it expires."

Maria's smile is now positively feral, and Natasha gets the sense that she knows where this is going.

"I think we all know that S.H.I.E.L.D. is a mosh pit. But it would be in management's interest to discourage having people betting on agents' private lives. Not to mention trying to rig the outcome."

She turns a thoughtful eye on Natasha.

"But there's one more thing you might wish to consider in private, Agent."

"And that is?"

"Just why exactly you are so interested in Clint Barton's sex life, real or imagined?"

..…

The briefing starts off as they all do, although with a larger number of observers. ("Training, sir," Maria had explained to Fury. "I've invited the entire senior cadre, to see how Strike Team Delta takes briefings. They might learn something.)

Sitwell outlines the mission parameters, as usual, and Fury lets off his usual comment about how he wants no fuck-ups this time because the Council, et cetera. Barton, as usual, merely grunts his acknowledgment when he is being told who the target is and how Romanoff will lead the mark to him after a night at the opera.

Natasha gives her usual sphinx-like smile and, with a side glance at Clint, asks politely what the opera will be. The Staatsoper's repertoire this season contains some great pieces, but also some experimental things that really aren't up her alley. She is in luck; the mark has box seats for Götterdämmerung.

Coulson sits quietly at his end of the table until Maria drops the bombshell.

"We're taking Coulson off as your handler for this one, agents. He's got business in New Mexico, setting up Pegasus. You'll be with Evans for this one."

There's a sudden, pained, "Noo!" from Clint, whose chair goes flying as he gets up and heads over to where Coulson is sitting, eyes wide in shock.

"Please, sir, don't let them do this to us. I needyou …"

Clint is down on his knees beside Coulson's chair, burying his face in the man's crotch, while Coulson runs a hand through his spiky hair, muttering a There, there, I'll send for you in New Mexico when you're done, sweetheart.

The scene culminates with Coulson lifting up Clint's chin with one finger, bending down and …

The ensuing, searing kiss is a fine piece of Method acting, worthy of an Academy Award (for sound effects, at the very least). Natasha finds herself wondering whether the A/C on the helicarriers has broken down again.

There is stunned silence around the room. Fury's eye blinks slowly as he looks from Coulson to Clint, from Natasha to Maria, and finally arrests on Sitwell who has turned ashen.

The meeting breaks up pretty quickly after that.

Sitwell staggers out of the briefing room in a daze, besieged by Carter and Miyazaki, asking about the arrangements for payout; only Maria, Natasha and Fury stay behind with the still entwined couple to deal with the aftermath.

As soon as the door closes behind Sitwell, Clint is back in his seat, not-so-surreptitiously wiping his mouth and reaching for a glass of water. His triumphant grin fades a little when he looks at Natasha, who is still staring at him in mild shock. He rallies quickly, though.

"So, how much did you say Sitwell will have to shell out? Three thousand bucks? I think I'm good for a couple hundred. Party time."

Maria is vaguely scandalized.

"You put in your own bet? That's like… like insider trading."

Nobody seems to share her concern, and Clint just shrugs.

"Hey, no worries. Carnie, remember? I put it in under your name."

Fury, for his part, hasn't stopped cackling. It's a bit disconcerting, but not unpleasant.

"Of course, you realize now you'll never squash those rumours again, agents."

Clint and Coulson look at each other and shrug. Yeah, so?

"Worse things could happen," Clint says. "Sitwell could've paired me with Rumlow. We had some truly inspiring banter when he fucked me over that time in Algiers."

Coulson remains silent for a minute, almost as if he wants to make sure that he has everyone's attention. One of his eyebrows is rising, in what for him is surely an expression of smoldering passion.

"If I'd known you were that good a kisser, Barton, I'd have made a pass at you a long time ago."

"Hey!" Clint sputters, with the briefest of anxious glance in Natasha's direction. "I mean, no offence, sir. But … just no, okay? We'd never work out. I mean, you'd probably make me wear a fucking suit."

He's starting to babble now. Coulson's face, by contrast, is a study in soft power, lit from within with a gleam of … something. His voice is mild, but firm.

"If I'd let you wear anything at all. Agent."

Maria looks straight at Natasha, and mutters something about chemistry, which Natasha chooses to ignore.

Fury's cackling can be heard down the hall as he heads back to his office; Maria engages Coulson in a discussion about disciplinary matters in a low, professional voice, casting only the occasional surreptitious glance at Natasha.

The room is not getting any cooler. Finally, Natasha turns to Clint, who is still hyperventilating a little. Chemistry, indeed.

"I don't know about you, Hawkeye, but I'm ready for a drink. I have some vodka in my quarters. The good stuff. "

She puts her hand on his shoulder, the contact sending an unexpected jolt through her fingertips. And him, too, judging by the slight twitch in his upper trapezius.

"You coming?"

She senses Coulson's eyes on them as they leave.

…..

They're barely inside her room when Natasha makes a decision that, on consideration, has probably been long overdue. She turns and steps into Clint, eyes fixed on his still-swollen lips.

"Are you really that good a kisser, Barton?"

Clint, Natasha is happy to note, tends to take a show, don't tell approach to all things physical. And so it isn't all that much later - as she is licking her way down the chest she's been admiring for far longer than she'd care to admit - that she asks the other question that has been preying on her mind for some time.

"We all know that you have a Thing about suits. But - how do you feel about ties?"