"Natasha Romanov!" Clint called, poking around in the hallways. "Nat, you can't hide from me forever. Oh, this is very mature." He rolled his eyes and continued to pop his head into rooms, searching for his partner. She owes me twenty; I won that fight fair and square. Or I would have won; that trick with the punching bag was against the rules.
Continuing his investigation with no avail, Clint was seriously considering asking Fury to let him at the security cameras when he heard a sound almost totally foreign to his ears. It was pretty and tinkling, like a marimba riff, and so nearly muted that he strained his ears for a direction in which he could be closer.
The last and only time he had heard this music of sorts was on a mission in Paris, after a fairly average Wednesday of interrogations, escapes, and a little mass destruction with Natasha. Clint couldn't even remember what he had said that had caused the sound to escape Nat's lips for a precious few seconds. Now, two years later, the memory resurfaced. Because the earth stopped spinning, the clouds paused to stare, up was down and down was up and the Black Widow was laughing.
Clint followed the sound hungrily, as though deprived and searching for sustenance. His sharp ears eventually dragged him to a random empty meeting room. What he saw made him pull back quickly so that only his eyes protruded from the doorframe, not wanting to disturb the unexpected magic he was witnessing.
Natasha stood alone, a rare non-sarcastic grin tickled across her face. Plans of fleeing long forgotten, she held a small bag of dried fruit in one hand. She was using the other hand to toss the pieces to impossible heights, catching them in her perfect teeth with no effort. One particularly impressive save and the spy outside the door was rewarded with a live performance of her beautiful laugh.
Is that my Nat? Clint thought with bewilderment, though not necessarily displeasure. I almost forgot she could laugh. He watched silently for what seemed like hours and yet was far too short when the bag was empty. Just when he thought he was about to sneak away unnoticed, Natasha's voice slipped smoothly after him,
"Enjoy the show, Barton?"
Clint retraced his steps back into the room, a sparse smile making him look a little like a handsome, mildly pleased bulldog. "I like it when you laugh. It doesn't happen nearly often enough for my taste,"
Natasha looked surprised; her hands fell from their indignant position on her hips. She strolled swiftly up to Clint, their eyes piercing each other's, until there was hardly and inch of distance between their lips. When she whispered to him, her breath was as cold and goose bump-inducing as her demeanor.
"Barton?"
"Yes, Agent Romanov?"
"Give me a reason to laugh. Please. Just like Paris." The air stilled, and so did time, it seemed. Clint closed his eyes and ran his hands up and down her arms softly.
"Natasha?"
"Yes?" her eyelids were lowering now too, and she tilted her head slightly. Clint pulled her close, past his lips until he was whispering almost inaudibly into her fiery hair.
"You still owe me twenty."