The plane shook as it flew through the air; the blades on the engines whirling threw the slight cloud cover. Clint gazed out his window, looking at the ground down below. It was a mountainous area, covered with forests, the land undulating and shifting below them. From up here, it was strikingly beautiful. He memorized the lay out, taking in certain formations, as well as the location of a large body of water. Not quite a lake, but sizable. They'd be at the drop-point soon, and he was starting to feel a little jittery. This was all Natasha's idea.

She'd taken him aside when she'd gotten back, and they'd gone out to their favorite bar, one that catered to agents where they could talk openly. They played a few rounds of pool, each of them holding their own, downing shots of vodka as they bantered playfully. Clint was soon too buzzed to continue playing, at least according to Natasha. Although he wasn't stumbling or slurring, he was missing half his shots. Giggling like children, they sat down at their booth as an order of burgers and beers arrived. Natasha had flown out to Hawaii, one of her favorite travel spots, as clichéd as it may have seemed. They'd started reminiscing about old fights and old flings, and Natasha had looked at him and said, "I think there's something you're not telling me."

Flabbergasted, Clint had frozen. How had she known? Natasha smiled crookedly at his expression, and he took a guess.
"Jarvis?" he croaked.
"Yep."
"What did he …?"
"Everything…you perve you."
"I didn't..."
"I know. But you want to, don't you?"
"Yeah, but …"
"He does too."
"WHAT!?"

"Relax, I didn't say anything. Let's just say, he's not against the idea, or at least he seems to not be. You should find out, at least for 'closure'," she said, creating air quotes around the word.
"I don't know how or what…"
"Don't worry – I've got it all planned out ," she'd said, sipping at her beer.
" Without even asking me, "he pouted, poking at his fries.
"What can I say Clint, you're predictable."
"I am not ! Jarvis said the same thing."
"Then Jarvis and I agree."
"Shut up. What's the grand plan?" he grumbled, curious nonetheless.

Natasha leaned forward, explaining. S.H.I.E.L.D had an outdoor training facility. It wasn't a facility in the sense that the FBI's space in Virginia was, but an area of wilderness, with some obstacle courses built in, and a diverse terrain including woodland and rock land. The only way in was by parachute and S.H.I.E.L.D would send agents there to train, but it was also used as a retreat. It had an operations building two miles away from the edge of the area, and it did not do area surveillance, although it monitored all traffic into and out of the area. They sometimes took up desk agents for weekend retreats, to allow them to practice the field skills that otherwise rusted away unused. Natasha had called in a favor, and the place would be cleared for one week for Steve and Clint to go in and have some time together, doing outdoorsy things , where they wouldn't be disturbed, and where they'd also be safe.
"One week?" Clint had asked, incredulous. "What if we end up hating each other?"
"You'll have a communicator with you," she'd said. "If things don't go so well, holler, and we'll come pick you up. No muss, no fuss."

They had gone home, and Clint had broken the news to Steve casually the next morning. Steve had been excited – army training and military service aside, he'd never experienced wilderness, having grown up in Brooklyn, and had spent the next two days prepping for their trip, wondering what he should pack. Clint had had the great satisfaction of showing him all of S.H.I.E.L.D's trekking gear, including collapsible cooking pots, which had mesmerized Steve for over an hour.

Clint snapped out of his reverie, as the plane's captain chimed in over the intercom.
"Alright boys, we're over the drop zone. Get those packs on," the voice intoned, slightly distorted by the static, but distinctly Natasha's
"Are you sure you won't join us Natasha?" Steve asked, as he pulled on his parachute, and checked the cords of the chute attached to their supply bundle.
"There's no place to park this plane down there Steve," Natasha responded, crackling on the intercom. "I'll join you boys another time."

Clint moved to the rear of the plane, flipping up the protective cover of the button that would lower the door they'd be leaping out of. Standing ready, he nodded to Steve, who slid their supplies over. The supplies would drop first, and the two men would follow after. Steve was grinning like a looby, the excitement of the adventure holiday getting to him. Clint couldn't help but grin back at the contagious exuberance. He flipped up the cover, and the door slowly lowered, letting the outside air rush in. Planting himself firmly, Steve dropped out the supply bundle, counting to ten before activating the parachute. It flared open below them, gently guiding the supplies down towards the clear landing area.

Steve turned to Clint.
"You first?" he shouted, barely audible over the noise of the plane.
"If you insist," Clint shouted back as he stepped forward and jumped out of the plane. As he fell, he was struck by the similarity between leaping out of a plane and leaping into love. He was thankful that for at least one of those, there was a functioning safety device that could be implemented.

The two men touched down gently in the field, pulling their parachutes in and bundling them up, field training instinctive at this point. They waved up at the plane as it passed over them, and then the silence returned. Trotting over to a corner of the landing zone, Clint opened up a camouflaged metal bunker, which he placed his bundled up parachute into. It would be retrieved at a later point by a cleanup crew.

He then walked over to Steve, who was by their supply bundle, making sure everything was intact and ready to go. He stood up, passing Clint his backpack, and slipped his own on, his movements deft and assured. Clint idly imagined those hands on him, and blinked in surprise as Steve stepped towards him, his hands reaching out. Clint froze, wondering if he'd gained a telepathic power, when Steve reached past him to zip the pack closed, so that its contents wouldn't fall out. Chiding himself for overreacting Clint proceeded to buckle up the backpack clips, tilting his head to take in the view of Captain America bending over to wrap up the extra cords left lying on the ground.

The two of them wore similar clothing, tough khaki trousers, soft cotton shirts, Clint's a slate grey, and Steve's a sky blue, with broken in army boots on their feet. They had spare clothes in their packs, including socks and underwear, but Clint knew that at this moment, Steve was commando under those pants – he'd accidentally walked in on Steve getting dressed, and had seen him slip on his pants with nothing on. The quick glimpse of skin, and the sight of the shirtless man had left his heart racing, and his groin tight, but he'd kept his cool and teased the Captain about chafing.

Steve had pulled out his compass, and was waving it about maniacally.
"What are you doing?" Clint asked, amused.
"The needle was jammed," Steve explained.
"Well sure, that thing's an antique, you can't expect it to function well, "Clint teased.
"Ha-ha, very droll, Agent Barton.
"Clint," Agent Barton corrected. "Remember our deal? No job titles this trip."
Steve smiled.
"Very droll Clint," he said, "Do you know where we're going?"
"Why yes Steve, I do," he said pointedly, pulling out his GPS device. "We're heading north, where we'll reach our first location of interest, and then we'll make our way to our camping spot."
"Lead the way," Steve replied, grinning again.
"Absolutely. We're heading uphill, so we'll have a really great view."

"I've got a really great view from where I am," Steve thought to himself silently, as he followed Clint, who was jogging lightly out of the landing zone. The fabric of Clint's pants moved with his body, his muscular glutes flexing, revealing the line of his briefs as his muscular legs carried him. Steve started his jog as well, wishing he'd put on underpants, fighting to control the blood that was threatening to rush south.