Sorry I haven't posted in a while! I had summer school. Algebra 2 is hell. Anyways, the idea for this dumb cute little fic popped into my head a couple months ago, and I finally had time to write it! Here it is! :)
"I don't know how much more of this I can take," Clint groans.
He's sitting in a brightly-lit office, sprawled in a chair, a half-finished mission report on the table in front of him. A headache is pulsing behind his eyes, and he thinks for the umpteenth time about his warm, cozy bed and soft blankets.
Natasha sits across from him, her pen moving quickly across the page in front of her. The harsh overhead lights are making her red hair glow, and she tucks it behind her ear, frowning down at her report.
"Three more, Barton," she says vacantly. "We need to finish these in time for the review."
Clint makes a dismissive gesture. "We're wasting our time. They're gonna let you through either way."
"We don't know that."
"I do," Clint says with a shrug. "You're doing good work here, they don't need these reports to see that. They're idiots if they keep you on probation."
Natasha glances at him across the table, then returns to her work.
"Regardless, they'll want these tomorrow."
Clint sighs heavily. "Yeah…"
He folds his arms and leans his head back, closing his eyes. For a moment, the room is silent, apart from the sound of Natasha's pen.
"You know it's after one-thirty?" he mumbles sleepily. "How much longer do you think we'll be here?"
"Longer if you keep talking," Natasha says without pausing her work.
"Ha. Hilarious."
"It wasn't a joke. I'm on my last one."
Clint pouts. "Not fair. You write faster than me."
He hears Natasha's pen pause briefly on the page, then continue.
"You were up early this morning, yeah?"
Clint smiles wryly. "Yeah, you could say that. Coulson wanted me to go over that target profiling stuff before STRIKE left for Burma. Has me running ID confirmation tomorrow morning too. 'S terrific."
Natasha pauses. "Are you on Peru?"
"Nope. Still on Jersey," he grunts. "Just getting started on it."
Another pause.
"Jersey was just in and out. We were together the whole time."
"Yeah," Clint murmurs.
"So our reports are going to look almost identical."
Slowly, Clint lifts his head and looks at her across the table. She's watching him silently, pen motionless on the paper.
"Yeah… what are you getting at?"
Her eyes fall to the page in front of him. "Let me do yours."
"What?" Clint straightens excitedly. He hesitates. "It's against regulation."
Natasha scoffs and pulls the paper toward her.
"You're—you're actually gonna do it?" he says, elated. "Natasha Romanoff, you are incredible. Have I ever told you that? You're fantastic. You're the best."
"Shut up," she says, her pen already scribbling across the page, but there's a pleased edge to her tone.
Clint sighs happily and leans back in his chair. "Nat, I could kiss you."
He casts his mind over the two reports he now has remaining: Peru and Philly. Peru was a more involved job; he'll have to do that one himself. But he and Natasha hardly had to split up at all in Philly. Maybe if he could get her to do at least part of it…
Suddenly he realizes he can't hear her writing anymore. He looks up at her, and finds her staring at him, a curious expression on her face.
"What is that supposed to mean?" she asks.
"What?" he says blankly.
Natasha raises an eyebrow.
Clint tries to remember the last thing he said, and finally it hits him.
"Oh, that." He laughs awkwardly. "Um… nothing. Nevermind. It's just an expression."
She squints and tilts her head.
"Well, you know," he says, suddenly self-conscious. "It's an expression. Have you… not heard it? It just means, you know, that I really really appreciate it."
Natasha frowns. "You appreciate it so much that you want to kiss me?"
"No! God, no," he stammers, warmth rising to his face. "Definitely not."
Her expression doesn't change.
"Er—not definitely not," he amends hastily. "I just mean—you know—I don't mean—that's not what I mean. I mean, that's not the point. The point is just that I really really appreciate it."
She's still watching him across the table, brow wrinkled, and he tries again.
"See, kissing you or not kissing you isn't really the point," he says quickly "I mean, when I said I could kiss you—well, obviously I could kiss you, but I wouldn't. At least, I shouldn't. Er—not that I shouldn't, but—you know, 'cause if I did, that'd be—well, but I wouldn't, 'cause I mean—"
"Barton. Barton." She stands up, cutting into his fumbling stream of chatter, and leans across the table on her palms. Her face is suddenly level with his, and he can see amusement playing in her eyes.
"Let me settle this once and for all," she says; and then her mouth is on his and she's kissing him, long and slow and deep, and his head is swimming and he can't focus on anything but the taste and feel of her lips.
She draws away, unhurried, leaving him strangely dizzy and breathless. She appears casual and unconcerned, but he notices a faint flush of color on her cheeks, and is relieved to know he's not the only one who's so unexpectedly affected by this. He struggles to compose himself, tries to be as cool as she is pretending to be.
"Okay," he murmurs, once his head has stopped spinning. "Glad we sorted that out."
The corner of her mouth quirks, and then she sits down again, picking up her pen. She has clearly decided to move on, and he decides to do the same, trying to think about something other than the way her lips felt on his.
"Hey Nat?" he says at length.
She looks up, her eyes catching the light.
"As long as you're doing Jersey… do you think you could maybe give me a hand with Philly, too?"
She sets down her pen and folds her arms on the table, smirking at him.
"Maybe," she says. "If you think you would really, really appreciate it."
