resolution, n.

definition: a firm decision

rating: K+

A/N: Happy 2016, everyone! :)

He hadn't kissed her at midnight.

It was five 'til twelve, almost exactly a week since New Year's Day. Strike Team Delta was almost finished filing mission reports for Coulson, and Natasha was still fixated on the fact that, a week ago, Clint had kissed a field agent named Daisy at the beginning of the new year.

She wished she could stop thinking about it; she had been going over that night almost nonstop since it had happened and she couldn't figure out why. Especially since she'd never kissed Clint on New Year's before as far as she could recall, so it wasn't as though he owed it to her. So what made this year any different from all the others?

Nothing, she told herself decisively. Nothing is different, Romanoff. He's welcome to kiss whoever the hell he wants. So quit worrying about it and worry about mission reports instead. With these instructions secure in her mind, Natasha returned to the stack of papers in front of her, but somehow, she still couldn't seem to focus.

The minutes ticked by slowly, the silence interrupted sporadically by the clean whisper of paper, scratching of pens, shuffling of file folders and the grating creak of the spring in Clint's desk chair.

Eventually, he sighed with satisfaction and sent his pen clattering onto the table. "Done," he announced, and Natasha could hear the smile in his voice without looking up. The old spring complained again as Clint rolled his chair closer to hers.

"You 'bout done? I'm beat, but if you want help finishing up, I'm prepared to offer you my services before I take off. Since, you know, I'm done."

His tone had grown teasing, and a smirk grew at the corner of Natasha's mouth. "Stop gloating, Barton; it's immature. And we weren't officially racing."

"That is where you are wrong, Romanoff," Clint argued. "It became official when I said 'loser buys coffee tomorrow morning.'"

Natasha spun her chair around to face him. She was ready to roll her eyes at him and make a sarcastic remark about his competitiveness, when she noticed a clock hanging on the wall behind him and froze. It was twelve midnight, and when she met Clint's mischievous gaze, she was affected by a sudden desire to…

Impulsively, she leaned forward, taking a fistful of the front of Clint's shirt, and slanted her mouth over his. Taken by surprise, Clint didn't react immediately, but then his hand found the side of her face and he deepened the kiss, pulling her closer. It far surpassed any vague fantasies she may have had in the deep corners of her mind about what it would be like to kiss him, and Natasha fell mesmerized by the moment.

Too soon, he drew away.

"Not that that wasn't fun, and incredible," Clint began, "but I have to ask. Um, why, again?"

"Why didn't you kiss me on New Year's?" Natasha heard herself asking, and her face grew hot. "I mean, why did you kiss Daisy Johnson?"

Clint shrugged. "Why'd you kiss Cap?"

Natasha's lips parted in surprise. "Wait, why were you paying attention to who I kissed at midnight?"

Clint quirked an eyebrow at her.

Natasha smirked. "Touché. To answer your question…" She hesitated, suddenly realizing she should have asked herself why she'd wanted to make out with Clint before actually doing it. "I just – I don't know," she answered honestly. She settled back in her chair and placed her hands in her lap, studying them self-consciously. "I guess I just… felt like kissing you. And I've never wanted to kiss anyone before in my life. So I chased that feeling." Natasha shrugged apologetically, realizing how absurd it sounded out loud.

Clint slid his chair forward, bumping his knee into hers. "I'll remember that for three hundred and fifty-eight days from now."

Natasha's eyes traveled up to Clint's face, and found him grinning.

She gave him half of a smile in return. "I look forward to that."