Well, here we are again, with the fourth of my Clint and Natasha stories. While the previous stories are not strictly necessary to enjoy this one, I do recommend reading those first for the benefit of things like back-story and character development arcs. Other people have said nice things about the earlier works too! You should find out if you agree with their assessments and report back to me on your findings!
Anyway, for my regular readers, I think I have put my finger on one of the things that prevents my posting as promptly as I ought to. When I get into a writing mood, I tend to write on the nearest flat surface that will take a pen-mark. I have written on the back of receipts, on scratch paper, in one of my many, many notebooks, used envelopes, class notes, church bulletins, police bulletins, the back page of old textbooks, and once I made notes on my arm because I had a really good idea, and I was afraid that I would forget. The trick is trying to get all of the different pieces of each story all together in one place so that I can type it up. The good news is that I finally found all of the pieces for this story, and now I am sharing it with you! The better news is that the next story is already typed up, and as soon as I finish reviewing it with my long-suffering friend and beta-reader, Nae-Nae, it too will be posted!
I wish all of you celebrating Thanksgiving this week a happy and blessed Thanksgiving, and for those who are not, I wish you a happy and blessed fourth Thursday of November.

All my love and affection,
Ballerina Terminator

The Fools

"Absolutely not."

"Oh, come on, Natasha, please."

"Have you entirely taken leave of your senses? I said no."

"It will be fun, not to mention the fact that we will be absolute legends when we pull it off," Clint insisted. He stood in front of the inclined bench that Natasha lay upon, holding her feet while she did sit-ups while holding a 25 lbs. weight.

On her next sit-up she paused at the zenith to respond. "So like last time, then? Thanks, but count me out, and, while I'm at it, you can leave the interns out of it as well. That poor boy didn't deserve what happened to him, all because he listened to that 'wonderful idea' of yours." She lay back on the inclined bench again.

"That 'poor boy' is two years older than you," Clint said resentfully. "Besides, it was his fault for blabbing everything when he got caught. No interns this time; I need someone that I know I can trust. Anyway, you have the skill set that I need."

"It's nice to know that I'm so useful," she said dryly.

"Seriously, Natasha, this time it's going to work."

Natasha paused again, and this time she turned a look of such incredulity on him it would have shaken the most ardently-held beliefs of the world's most devoted fanatics. "Clint, has it ever worked before? For anyone? Ever?"

"Well, no," he admitted, "but that doesn't mean that it will never work. Sure, Coulson's good, but he's not omniscient. I'll admit that it was a bad idea to mess about with Phil's cards, even though they never were in any danger of damage, but this year will be different. Come on, I just need you to help with one little step, and I already have all the necessary supplies."

"What do you need me to do?" she asked suspiciously.

"I need you to get us in the door," he said, hope rising in his voice. "We have a very limited window to set up, and you're faster at picking locks.

"And what, exactly, do you have planned?"

"Meet me in my quarters at 1400, and I'll show you," he countered.

She lay back down on the 45 degree incline for the hundredth time and set the weight on the ground next to her head and gave a sigh of resignation. "Fine, I'll help."

It would surprise a lot of people to know how popular April Fools' Day was for SHIELD agents. If the enemies of the agency were ever to become aware of the level of distraction at SHIELD HQ and its various satellite bases around the world on the first day of April each year, the result would be devastating. Fury tolerated the low level of chaos that the holiday because he recognized that people working in the high stress environment that was SHIELD occasionally needed a chance to decompress, The holiday was, he acknowledged, a good opportunity for his subordinates to let their hair down for once, and it wasn't like he didn't know when it was coming. Therefore, the director of SHIELD let it be known that he would allow the April Fools' Day "festivities" continue as long as things did not get out of hand and it did not materially interfere with everyone's work.

So, the pranks continued with a set of unofficial rules that everyone strictly followed as though they had been set down by God:

1. The first rule was one set for safety. Every agent in the field was exempt from being the target of a prank and pulling pranks. No distractions could be permitted where the welfare of agents or the success of an op could become jeopardized.

2. While causing permanent damage to anything was harshly frowned upon, any personal property damage, be it temporary or permanent, resulting from a prank was the financial responsibility of the individual committing the prank, and absolutely no irreversible damage was to be done to SHIELD property. If someone programmed the PA system to make the people making the announcements sound as though they had just taken a lung-full of helium, that was okay as long as the PA system was back to normal by midnight on the second day of April.

3. The last and final rule was, arguably, the most important. No one was ever, ever, ever to try to prank Director Fury.

At 1400 hours on the 31st of March, Natasha arrived at the door of Clint's quarters as previously arranged. He opened the door with a mischievous smile, grabbed her arm and pulled her into the room shutting the door firmly behind her. She sighed and rolled her eyes at this bit of childish dramatics which was not really a very objectionable reaction if one considered that any other person on the base who had tried to grab her arm would have found themselves laid out on the ground.

SHIELD had long provided agents with the option of long-term on-base living quarters, a prospect that was popular amongst the mostly-single, constantly-traveling field agents as well as many of the support staff. For SHIELD headquarters, just outside of New York, the long-term living quarters consisted of a series of apartments in a structure that was technically part of the base's main building but it had been added on sometime after the initial structure had gone up. The result had been more the child of practicality than that of aesthetics. The second construction had definitely meant to be part of the original edifice, but the style was different enough that the living-area was spoken of as though it were a separate building. The several amenities were afforded including a mess hall, a laundry room, an impressive gymnasium, and a handful of small media rooms and lounges for common use. The quarters themselves were not exactly college-dorm small, but they were modest and practical. Each had a small living area with a tiny kitchenette, a storage closet, a bedroom, and a private full bathroom. Aside from one built-in bookshelf, each agent was responsible for furnishing their own quarters.

Clint's rooms were a mirror image to Natasha's own. A television was mounted on the wall to the right, and a couch was placed up against the wall just opposite. In between, leaving just enough space for a path to the bedroom and bathroom beyond, was a coffee table. Natasha observed eight completely unique alarm clocks, all apparently battery powered, as each glowed with the correct time. A feeling of apprehension began to rise in Natasha's stomach.

"Please tell me that you're just having a hard time waking up in the morning."

Clint ignored the tone of disbelief. "We are going to-" Clint began, but, at the sound of her protests he amended. "I am going to set all of these clocks to go off, on right after another, and I will hide them around Coulson's room. They are set to go off at 0400."

"Clint, darling, that is one of the oldest pranks known to man. There is literally an 80-year-old novel that starts with this prank."

"That's the beauty of it," Clint insisted. "It's a classic, and, not only that, it is very simple, making it harder to screw up."

Natasha did not appear convinced.

"Look," Clint continued in a more subdued manner, "Every year, someone – usually several someones - try and pull off a prank – any prank – that catches Coulson off-guard. They are always elaborate and involved, and they have never worked. Hell, usually Coulson manages to make them backfire. I've decided to at least try something new. "

Natasha had to admit he had a point. This was only her second year to be on base for the first of April as Clint had believed it wiser to absent themselves for the year that she had been on probation; but she had participated in a minor role during the last year's debacle, and she had certainly heard stories and seen pictures of many years previous. Each year's pranks had been more convoluted than the last. All had failed spectacularly. This was the first time she had heard it suggested that a simple plan might work where the complicated one flopped.

After a moment's consideration, she gave a slight shrug. "I guess it couldn't hurt."

Clint grinned. "Excellent," he said, picking up a roll of black electrical tape. "Give me a minute to cover the faces of the clocks so that the numbers don't glow in the dark and give the game away. Then, I'll be ready."

Natasha sighed. "Here, I'll help you," she said, sitting down on the couch next to him, "but only with the taping, mind you."

"Of course."

At 1430 hours, Natasha and Clint sauntered up to the door to Coulson's quarters, and Clint stood watch as Natasha picked the lock. She made short work of the project; no more than thirty seconds had passed from the moment she knelt down to second that the tumblers fell into place. Before opening the door, they checked for wires or alarms, but even after finding none, they opened the door very carefully. Once certain of the lack of possible obstacles or traps, they both stepped quickly inside and shut the door.

Although Clint had been in Phil's quarters a two or three times in the years that he had been a part of SHIELD, Natasha had not had an occasion to visit. She took the opportunity to inspect the décor.

"I like the painting he picked," she said thoughtfully, referring to a large print hanging from one wall. "It's a little dark, but somehow peaceful. It's very Coulson."

Clint glanced over from the desk where he was pulling the alarm clock from his backpack and paused briefly to consider the matter. "An interesting analysis of the work, but I see what you mean."

As Clint returned to the clocks, Natasha wandered over to the bookshelf. Coulson had added a glass front to the shelves, turning it into a display case, and the collectable cards that he so treasured were exhibited on the top shelf.

"So those are what all of the fuss was about last year, huh?" Natasha said curiously. "I never even got a chance to see them. Oh, my God! Is that glass actually bullet proof?" At the realization that the glass front was actually an inch thick, she reached out to touch it, but before her fingers made contact with the surface, Clint had crossed the room in three quick strides and closed his hand around hers, pulling it firmly away from the case.

"Careful," he said, releasing her hand. "That is hooked up to a pressure sensitive alarm, and it doesn't take much to set it off. After last year, he decided that the bullet-proof glass was not enough. Come on. Let's not give him an excuse to add neurotoxins to the security system."

Natasha, rather startled, followed Clint over to the bedroom and leaned on the door frame while watching him find places to hide his alarm clocks. Considering the unadorned nature of the room, he really had his work cut out for him. After she watched him place a couple, one behind books on a bookshelf and another placed in the closet, she felt the urge to contribute.

"You should put one under the bed too far back to reach without pulling the bed out," she decided after considering the carefully organized room.

"Thanks," he said. He took her up on the recommendation.

"Oh, you know what would be good is if you were to open a drawer of the desk and tape one to the bottom of the drawer above it," she suggested, obviously proud of this brainwave.

"Are you sure you don't want to help?" he asked with a chuckle. "Feel free to grab one should you feel the desire."

"No, I'm fine," she insisted, taking a sudden interest in the ceiling.

Clint finished quickly, finding some very ingenious hiding places for the remainder of the clocks, and before he left, he planted a very tiny camera programmed to record video starting just before the alarms were to set to go off. They checked the hallway before leaving, and Natasha locked the door behind them.

Nearly twelve hours later…

The buzzing sound was so out of place that Natasha woke with a start. As a result of deeply rooted habits, she had a gun out and the safety off within three seconds of waking.

Her room was dark, and there was no movement in the shadows cast in the room by the dim red glow of the numbers reading 0300 on the alarm clock that stood on her bedside table. Still, the loud, constant drone continued to reverberate through the small bedroom.

When a second, higher-pitched, pulsing screech joined the first sound, Natasha's still-drowsy mind finally caught up with her body's automatic response, and she knew exactly what was going on. Natasha groaned in frustration, slid the gun's safety back on, and put it away. Now completely awake, Natasha kicked of her blankets and reached over to the lamp on the bedside table, stretching to feel for the switch. When her fingers found the tiny knob, she gave it a twist.

Nothing happened. There had been a faint click with the turn of the switch, but no light followed. When a few more turns failed to produce any change in the darkness, Natasha made a closer examination and found the light bulb to be missing. Her weary sigh was barely audible as a third alarm clock hidden somewhere in her room began its unrelenting report.

The missing light bulb only confirmed her suspicions. There were a handful of individuals whom she could believe would have both the ability and the nerve to set up a prank in her bedroom, but that already limited list became significantly shorter when she considered those who might enter her room where she slept - notoriously armed - and remove a light bulb, and Coulson was at the top of that second, much shorter list, his name written in bold, capitalized red letters.

This was all Clint's fault, she decided as irritation flamed into wrath at the addition of yet another alarm to the already echoing chorus, and Natasha refused to stumble around in the dark for who-knew-how-many alarm clocks while listening to this unbearable racket. He had dragged her into this tomfoolery, and he was going to be the one to deal with the fall out.

She groped around for a hoodie for a minute before abandoning the attempt in disgust and marching out, barefoot with only cotton pajama pants and a camisole against the cold. She stepped out into the cool, well-lit hallway, and closed and locked the door on the clamor that could still be heard. The tousled heads of sleepy SHIELD agents peeked out of the nearest rooms as those in auditory range searched for the origins of the disturbance, but Natasha, still seething, ignored the looks of inquiry as she stalked down the hallway.

When she came to Clint's rooms, she started pounding on the door, still so livid that she didn't even consider how else might be disturbed. Even when she could hear movement, she continued to bang on the door. When the door finally opened, Natasha opened her mouth to give Clint the verbal assault of his life, but she froze when she actually laid eyes on her partner.

Clint was covered, absolutely drenched, in a thick, lime green liquid that was, judging by the smell, paint, and it was such a shock to Natasha that she barely registered the sound of multiple alarms echoing from Clint's own bedroom. Suddenly, all her anger was sapped away to be replaced by hilarity. She tried, she really tried, to stifle her amusement, but when he glared at her poorly concealed glee, she lost it completely, dissolving into uncontrolled giggles.

"It is really not that funny," Clint mumbled defensively, but if he had hoped that would help the situation, he was wrong. Natasha just laughed harder, and clutched at a stitch in her side.

By this time, the doors to the surrounding rooms began to open, and other agents wandered out into the hallway to see the commotion. For once, they went unnoticed by Natasha, who was, with considerable effort, trying to catch her breath.

Just as she was beginning to regain her self-control, Clint crossed his arms and asked peevishly, "Are you done yet?"

Natasha was sent off into fresh peals of laughter. When a camera flash went off from somewhere in the small but growing crowd, Clint threw up his hands in exasperation, flinging flecks of paint around the hallway. Natasha had to lean on the wall for support.

"I swear to God, Tasha, if you don't stop right now, I will make sure you regret it," he threatened, trying to sound angry, but a hint of humor was creeping into his voice. He was starting to smile despite himself.

In response, she just shook her head, still laughing so hard as for speech to be impossible, and wiped away the tears that had started to brim in her bright green eyes. She never even saw him move, and she gave a startle shriek as she was tackled into the slimiest bear-hug of her life and lifted off the ground. The assembly of onlookers began to applaud.

Even in the midst of a fit of hysterics, Natasha Romanoff would not be taken down without a fight, and with a few acrobatic twists, she had Clint pinned on the ground. A moment later, however, he had freed an arm, and, wrapping the arm around her waist, managed to pry her off through sheer brute strength, although this feat was assisted by the viscosity of the paint which was preventing her from maintaining a secure grip. By now the spectators had chosen sides and began encouraging each in turn.

At this point, Natasha was half covered in the green smears, but this was apparently insufficient to satisfy Clint Barton's quest for vengeance. He took up as much paint into his hand as possible, ran his dripping fingers through her hair, and pulled her into another slippery hug. Natasha's cries of protest were completely ignored.

A moment or two later, the impromptu paint fight was brought to an abrupt halt when they heard the soft but familiar sound of Agent Coulson clearing his throat. Silence fell, and they both looked up to see Phil standing over them with a rueful expression.

"It's a shame," he said with a quiet smile, "to see co-conspirators fall to so easily to in-fighting."

The two paint-covered assassins sat up, Clint helping Natasha upright as he sat forward. She pushed her hair back from her face, spreading even more green through the copper curls.

"A real disappointment," Coulson continued with a sad shake of the head. "I did have such high hopes of the two of you."

There was just a moment of silence as Clint and Natasha's eyes flickered toward each other, but all the necessary communication was held in that quick glance.

"Phil," Natasha said in a soft, affectionate voice, "how fast can you run?"