"Soviet Yak-3. Far superior."
"P-51?"
"Uh Guys?"
"They look funny and they turn too slow."
"Mphmph. Guys?"
"You've flown Mustangs?"
"I've flown everything."
"Did your feet even touch the floor!?"
"I could use a little help here!"
"Messerschmidt 109?"
"Bad visibility."
"Dammit. I thought that was a hard one."
"ANYONE!?"
"Yeah we heard you."
"Well do you think you could help, Natasha?"
"Relax Barton, Rogers and I were in the middle of a discussion."
"Oh, my apologies. I'd hate to let my being beaten up by the bad guys to interrupt your discussion."
"We are thirty seconds out Hawkeye. Get ready Cap."
"A hot air balloon?"
"Three…Two…One. You're up."
Steve dropped out of the back of the quinjet on Natasha's signal, landing a couple of feet away from Clint.
"Glad you finally decided to show up." Clint said breathlessly, smacking the onrushing goon across the face with his bow and dropping him hard to the floor.
"Did you know Natasha flew fighter jets during the War?" Steve asked, frisbeeing his shield around a couple more.
"She's flown everything, everywhere." Clint replied, echoing Natasha's words.
The pair were down to the last few thugs, working fluidly in tandem with each other, Clint picking off the ones further away with his bow and Steve finishing off any who dared to come within arm's reach. Finally, the mob were down, leaving the pair breathing hard in the middle, dust settling around them.
"Hawkeye to Simmons. Target neutralised, clean-up requested."
"Request granted. Standby for extraction."
"Romanoff, what's your status?"
"Twenty-five miles out. ETA four minutes."
Orders completed, Clint allowed himself to slump to the floor, landing on his knees with a groan before sitting down and stretching out his legs. He sat semi-reclined, staring up at the vast expanse of night sky, absentmindedly etching arcs through the sand with the heel of his boot.
"You know if you're trying to have a measuring contest with Natasha you'll never win."
Steve dropped down next to him, feeling his face go hot. "I'm not. I wasn't." He sighed and shook his head. "Yeah I'd never win."
Clint laughed. "You should ask her about the time she commandeered a C-46 Commando and its crew from the Himalayas, or, 'borrowed' I believe is the word she uses."
Steve raised an eyebrow.
"And there was that unfortunate incident between a buoy and her ekranoplan." Clint narrowed his eyes. "On second thoughts don't mention that one. I think it's hilarious but she still doesn't see the funny side. Last time I brought it up she gave me a dead arm that lasted days."
Steve was interrupted from asking details by the familiar whine of the quinjet screaming in from the distance, and they both ducked to cover their faces from the whirlwind it kicked up on touchdown. The pair settled down in the back, allowing Natasha to keep the cockpit to herself. Steve lifted his leg, intending to empty his boots, but had barely raised his foot when a voice cut through the cabin.
"If you get sand in my jet you're walking home."
He dropped his foot back down and stared at Clint, mouthing 'how does she do that?'
Clint just shrugged, but kept both of his feet firmly planted on the floor. He'd learnt that particular lesson after Botswana.
The three of them were sprawled out across the sofas in their lounge. The debrief at the Triskelion had been quick and they were soon back in their own quarters, Clint muttering about the places the sand had and hadn't got to the whole way to his bathroom. Showered, and muttering slightly less he'd installed them with snacks and paperwork which the trio were now quietly undertaking. Steve was bent studiously over his own stack of papers and looked deep in concentration, though he hadn't written anything for some time.
"Martin Marauder." He said slowly, with an undercurrent of confidence which suggested he was finally going to win a round. He knew they were notoriously difficult to fly and couldn't imagine her handlers would risk losing their most valuable asset in something so unpredictable.
Natasha paused and looked up from her flight logs, realising it was her that was being addressed. Clint stopped too, smirking as he watched them both.
"It was called the Widowmaker Steve. We were practically twins."
Clint laughed. "You're gonna have to admit defeat at some point Cap."
"I can't believe my tally has been bested by a kid. I bet she couldn't even see out of the cockpit without a booster seat." A slight hint of jealousy was bleeding through, but he was smiling and his face was full of mirth, indicating he found the whole situation amusing and was only messing with her.
"Now now hotshot. I'm sure you did big boy things too." Clint poked.
"Least I've never hit a buoy." He mumbled sassily, before he could stop himself, stabbing his pen into the paper. He registered the beat of silence, then just caught a blur out of the corner of his eye as Clint flung himself over the back of the sofa in a vain effort to escape the redhead launching herself after him.
"I'm going to kick your ass you pigeon." She said, skidding across the floor to give chase.
Steve watched from the sofa as Clint hurled himself over the kitchen counter, quickly followed by Natasha vaulting over the top. Now out of his sight all Steve heard was a high-pitched "not the arm! Not the arm!", followed by an "oof" and finally a whiny "aww dammit."
He watched as Natasha emerged first, nonchalantly padding her way back to the sofa, a smug grin on her face. Calmly, she picked up her stack of paper and continued as if nothing had happened.
"Sorry." Steve offered bashfully, his voice a little more squeaky than normal.
She stared at him for an uncomfortably long period of time. Steve tried not to blink, thinking the nanosecond his eyes closed she would be on him. He could hear Clint knocking about in the background, struggling to get himself off the floor by his one good arm.
"I've never been in a hot air balloon." She conceded magnanimously.