Clint Barton could not quite wrap his mind around what had just happened. True, he could remember the softness of her lips, and he could recall the soft scent of the perfume or shampoo or whatever that still clung stubbornly to her hair, but he couldn't convince himself that it was real. Because there she sat, placidly eating her breakfast as if there was nothing at all wrong, as if the universe hadn't turned itself inside out.
"Tasha," he began. Stopped. Tried again. "Romanoff." She glanced up and raised an eyebrow. "You cannot do that," he said earnestly. "That's not how this game works."
"What game?" she asked with a laugh.
"You're supposed to be the unassailable virgin, and I am the obnoxious schoolboy who wishes to attain the unattainable," he explained.
"First of all," she began, setting down her fork.
"Shut up, I know," he cut her off. "Let's not get our panties in a wad over technicalities, okay?" She stared at him with that placid sarcasm that he loved - hated - ahem - so much. He hated the placidity. Hated it. Her eyebrows were always slightly up, making her eyes look particularly wide and gray and pretty and what the futz, Barton, pull yourself together!
"Relax, Barton, it's not like we haven't kissed before," she said, rolling her eyes. "If you really hated it that much, it doesn't have to mean anything." Her manner was blase, but he saw the way her eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
"No!" He said. "That's not what I meant!" He licked his lips. "That's not what I meant at all, I just meant - I meant -" A sudden thought struck him and he sat back, suddenly chilled to the bone. "You weren't just trying to distract me, were you?"
"No," she said with surprising heat, standing up abruptly. "If I'd known - just forget about it." He stuck one foot out to trip her as she stormed past him. Her foot hit his and she fell, just barely catching herself on her hands; her chin cracked lightly against the tiled floor. And he could only stare, stunned.
"What, exactly, did you think was going to happen?" she demanded later as she sat on the counter and he attempted to tape her chin back together with the med kit.
"I thought you would step over it!" He protested. "You usually do," he added under his breath.
"Well, that time I didn't," she snapped, waving her hands uselessly before letting them fall back into her lap. "Dammit, Clint." She slumped forward as well as she could with her chin pointed in the air.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he muttered, smoothing the tape over her jaw. She lowered her face to look him in the eye. "Will you at least let me buy you dinner?" he asked, with a ghost of his old grin.
"Dinner will not fix my chin," she told him severely. The grin faded and she relented. "But if you bring me Indian food, it will go a long way to restoring you in my good graces."
"I'm on my way," he said, snatching his wallet from the bowl he'd thrown it in earlier. He was almost out the door when she called, "Clint."
He turned.
"Nice boxers," she reminded him. He looked down, debated for a moment. Then looked up and grinned.
"Thanks."
He swung jauntily down the sidewalk, typing in 'Indian Food' as he walked, moseying down the sidewalk as if boxers and converse were totally normal fashion choices. His bewilderment and preoccupation with this new development even caused him to forget himself enough to whistle.
It was then, of course, that a baseball bat cracked across his skull.
