Natasha likes them, she really does. Steve's nice and Bruce doesn't feel the need to fill silences with chatter and Pepper's always good for a trip to Barney's and even Tony has somehow managed to endear himself. Natasha likes them, but every Thursday her contempt runs a little deeper.
Thursday nights are pizza and a new episode of Dog Cops. Thursdays, barring a mission, are for sweats and blankets and leaning into Clint's shoulder on the sofa. The Avengers and their hangers-on are stealing her partner.
Thursdays at the newly-christened Avengers Tower are beer and poker, and Clint likes it. Thursdays at Avengers Tower are too much space on her couch and unread books and immature sulking.
The elevator dings, but Clint knows her private floor almost better than his own (he's the only one who's ever intruded here) and she doesn't bother to go meet him. She doesn't look up from the computer at all until Clint's standing in front of her, arms crossed and scowling.
"What is it this time?" he asks.
She saves things for Thursdays, lets excuses accrue, because one day maybe Clint will remember pizza and stupid reality shows and how she likes sitting with his arm slung around her shoulders.
Pathetic, she scoffs, and resolves to punish herself with two extra miles on the indoor running track tomorrow.
"Report for Hill," she tells him, and it isn't a lie. She conveniently forgot to submit her half of the report from their last mission. Clint frowns.
"What're you doing, Tasha?" He sits at the opposite end of the couch, but doesn't relax and lay his arm across the back in invitation. "You don't think I've noticed how you hide up here every week? Everyone's noticed."
"I'm busy," she says pointedly, and flips the laptop around so he can see her half-written report.
"You're busy on purpose," Clint accuses. She sneers a little and starts typing again.
"These team building things are important," he tries next. "You come to breakfast and paintball and Banner and Steve's book club. Why is tonight any different?"
"It isn't," she lies. "It's coincidence."
"Twice is coincidence. Six Thursdays in a row is…."
He raises his eyebrows and gestures for her to fill in the rest of the sentence.
"I'm busy," she says again, this time with the weight of dismissal. Clint darts a hand forward, slaps the laptop closed, and snatches it away. He sits a little straighter, squares his shoulders.
Thursdays aren't supposed to be for fighting.
"They don't leave us alone," she says simply. Confusion furrows his brow.
"We get tons of alone time. Yesterday we played six hours of Mario Kart. Nobody bothered us."
She makes a frustrated noise. None of their teammates bothered them, but they were still there. Steve in the kitchen, and Tony and Bruce drawing schematics for improved Iron Man armor atop the bar.
Clint likes belonging. Clint likes people and bonds and family, and he shifts and adapts in a way she never will. She likes the memories of their old routine better than the present.
"I'd rather go back to Washington."
Another truth.
"Where is this coming fr-"
He pauses, pins her with a deadpan expression.
"Really?" he demands, and he's figured her out so she averts her eyes to the opposite side of the room. "You're an idiot, Romanoff."
He discards the laptop on the floor, moves to sit beside her, and this time he does put an arm around her shoulders and pull her in close.
"You wanna watch Dog Cops," he accuses, and she hates the sly little grin he gives her. "You think that's our thing. We have approximately ten million things, d'you realize that?"
"We do not have-"
"Gelato every time we're in Italy. Harry Potter marathon every September first. That thing with the souvenir fridge magnets. I eat your stuffed crust and you get half my pepperoni."
He ticks them off on his fingers, and she ducks her head as six weeks worth of embarrassment for her sulking catches up to her. They have so many routines and rituals she couldn't begin to name them all, and the large majority have remained intact through their relocation.
"That's four, not ten million," she mutters sourly.
"How much time do you have? I'd list more, but you're so busy."
She slugs him in the arm and he barks a laugh.
"Normal people talk about these things, you know."
"Fine. Poker night sucks and I want to watch Dog Cops."
"Counteroffer. One hour of poker night, we set the DVR, then order in a late dinner and have our Thursday thing. We aren't Strike Team Delta here, we're Avengers. And this way we can skip commercials. Deal?"
He's right, although she'll never tell him that. It isn't smart to create rifts in a team so new.
"Deal," she agrees, a little grudgingly, and lets him march her across the room and into the hallway to the elevator.
Tony's brought in a real poker table covered in green velvet, and he's parading around the common floor in a matching green visor. She should want to smile at his antics, but only wonders if Clint meant one hour of total poker playtime or just one solid hour of being present.
"Hey," he says softly, and grips her forearm to stop her entering the living room. "We're going out tomorrow, you and me. We'll do the Met, grab a carriage ride through the park. That's our playing tourist thing. We haven't done that one since we got here."
She gives him a real smile, and he presses a kiss against the top of her hair, and okay, one hour of poker night isn't going to kill her.
"When we get back, we can do the shooting range thing," she suggests, and goes to meet the rest of the team before he can protest.
"No!" he yelps behind her. "The shooting range thing always turns into the knife throwing thing! Natasha!"
And if her smile turns just a little devious, well, Clint did forget about Dog Cops Thursdays for almost two whole months.