So so so so so so so sorry. Life's been insane lately. I apologize if this chapter isnt as good as the others, but bare with me.
Here you go!
It was Clint's turn to wait for Natasha. Fortunately, he excelled at waiting. The bathroom door had been closed for the last hour and a half, leaving Clint wondering how one person could possibly take this long to get ready. Their reservations were for La Pergola, at 7:45. By 7:15, Clint was beginning to think she was keeping him waiting just because she could. At 7:22 exactly, the door finally opened. The archer's jaw hit the ground as Natasha stepped out of the bathroom. The dark green dress she wore matched her eyes perfectly; the silky fabric reflected the light in the same way he knew her eyes reflected the sun. The v-neckline accentuated the darkness of the dress by showing more of her pale skin that stood out in stark contrast to the shade of green, and strappy sleeves bled into thinner strings at the back, crossing in a razor back. The mascara made her already long eyelashes cast shadows down her porcelain cheeks as she watched his reaction with rapt attention. Hawkeye rose numbly from his seat, moving towards her. Natasha smirked, reaching up to close his mouth. The assassin wanted to kiss her, badly, but he couldn't bring his body to react to his brain.
"Didn't we have reservations?" she prompted, dragging him out of his trance.
"We will probably be late, thanks to you." He scowled affectionately, only after bodily shaking his head to dispel the haze.
"Good thing you're such a good driver, then." She replied, smirking up at him. He winked at her, leaning away to grab his dress coat, purchased earlier that day, and Natasha's handbag off the desk chair.
Hawkeye must have broken every driving law in Italy by the time they reached their restaurant, on time.
Clint pulled up in front of the classy looking restaurant, threw the door of the Italian car open, and straightened his suffocating tie as he handed the car keys to the valet. He rounded the front of the car to see another man opening his partner's door. The archer grinned, leaning back against the marble pillar as he watched the helpless man. He expertly held back a chuckle as Scarlett Denea lifted her leg out of the car first, the slit up the side of the dress showing more of her toned legs than strictly necessary. Hawkeye would swear he could see drool dripping from the man's chin.
"Signora," he sputtered like a car run out of gas. Natasha rose from the passenger seat, throwing the valet a blinding smile. The moment she walked away, adding extra sway to her hips, Clint knew she was playing with the poor man. Clint took her arm, shooting a fleeting glare at the valet, laughing internally at the look on his face.
"That was mean," he chided. "The poor kid never even knew what hit him. He's going to be hung up on you for the rest of his life." Natasha shrugged.
"You're the one who scared him to death." She whispered back.
"Name?" the suddenly all too peppy concierge requested, eyes roving shamelessly over John Garrot. The man took his partner's hand as if to remind the lady that he was taken. Natasha suppressed a smirk when the woman scowled imperceptibly.
"John Garrot." Clint replied without hesitation.
"This way," she announced after surveying her list for a minute, smiling with sickening sweetness at John and glaring daggers at Scarlett. But no one had a glare as effective as the Black Widow's. Natasha fixed the blonde with a look that could level small towns; a look that sent the hostess away with her tail between her legs. Clint dropped his chin to his chest, laughing despite himself.
Clint walked ahead of the beautiful Russian, pulling her chair out for her. Natasha eyed him skeptically before she forced her concern for her usual façade away, and accepted the gesture. Clint released a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding when she sat down. His calloused fingers brushed over her bare shoulder blades, and he could feel how tense she was.
"Relax Tasha." He instructed, leaning forward so his lips brushed her ear lobe when he spoke. Clint knew without looking that her rigid posture had dissipated. Sitting down he picked up his menu in his right hand, taking Natasha's thin hand in his left. She tensed at the unusual public display of affection and moved to pull away, but Clint held tight, knowing if she gave it a second, she'd be ok with it. And he was right, soon she returned the grip and began to read her menu.
"Ciao, I'm Isabella, and I will be taking care of you tonight." A young girl announced in heavily accented English. Momentarily, her eyes scrunched up like she was debating whether or not she'd said that correctly.
"Parliamo Italiano." Natasha informed the waitress, smiling at her reassuringly. Isabelle sighed in relief.
'We speak Italian.'
"Posso ottenere e qualcosa de bere?" she asked politely, looking much more comfortable than she had minutes before. Natasha realized that she liked this girl, she wasn't flirting with Clint, wasn't even looking at him more than she had too.
"Una bottiglia di Barolo per favore?" Clint requested. Isabella smiled, nodded and headed towards the kitchen.
'A bottle of Barolo please?'
In the five minutes it had taken for their server to bring their wine, Clint had removed his tie. In the time it had taken them to receive their Petto di Pollo al Limone and their Linguine alle Vongole, he had taken off his silver dress coat and hung it over the back of the ornate looking chair. And soon he had rolled his white dress shirt sleeves up to his elbows. Natasha looked her partner over, smiling subtly as he shoveled the food into his mouth. His slightly grown out hair was spiked up, his white shirt set off his tan skin and revealed his muscled arms. He sensed her gaze and looked up to the blank emerald eye's of Natasha Romanov, he cocked his head in question and Natasha just shook her head and turned back to her pasta.
The SHIELD archer leaned back in his chair once he had all but licked his plate clean. And once again, he just observed his partner. She pushed away from the table, her handbag gripped tight in her pale hand, and stood. Clint watched her curiously as she moved towards him, leaning down and kissing his cheek.
"I'll be back." She whispered. But as he looked deep into her eyes for an explanation, he knew she wasn't going to the bathroom. His shoulders fell slightly and she nodded, ghosting over to the bathroom.
Natasha took her phone call in the ladies restroom, becoming more and more agitated with Director Fury. She hung up on her boss, and slipped her SHIELD issued phone back into her champagne colored purse.
She walked back into the dining room, to see Clint standing by the table, jacket and tie draped over his arm.
"When?"
"Ten tonight." She replied with hidden disappointment. But Clint picked up on it, squeezing her hand reassuringly.
"Do they not understand the concept of a week off?" he growled. Natasha shrugged.
"Did you honestly think they'd make a whole week without us?" she laughed.
"No. But I did think they could make it for more than three days." Clint grumbled. "Where to?" he asked, all dark anger having disappeared, draping his heavy silver jacket over Natasha's bare shoulder's as they walked slowly through the parking lot, breathing in the warm Italian air.
"Venezuela."