JOHN MAYER ~ SLOW DANCING IN A BURNING ROOM

…

Natasha punched at her friend and he suddenly disappeared from sight. Then his leg had appeared, hooked around her ankles, and his arm was across her back, pushing her forward.

She wasn't strong enough to redirect and Clint was on top of her before she could do anything about it. They both crashed to the ground, Clint pushing her face-first into the wood floor with his shins across her thighs and his hands on her elbows.

Natasha grew still, assessing the situation and trying to think of the best way out of this, but Clint was too heavy for her to do anything without seriously injuring both of them in the process. Unless he managed to fuck up his advantage somehow, which would be a miracle.

"How's that for defense?" Clint asked, amused. Smug, drunk asshole.

"Get off me," Natasha said.

Clint laughed.

As soon as his weight left her arms, she threw her elbow back into his gut, making solid contact.

Clint jerked and began groaning, rolling off of her. Natasha smirked, rolling on to her back as well. They ended up with his arm under her neck and her hand palm-up on his stomach.

"Cheap shot," Clint breathed, looking at her with glazed eyes. For a lightweight drinker, his control was pretty impressive.

"All's fair in war," Natasha said simply, turning her head to stare at the blank ceiling. It was amazing how relaxed she felt now.

"I think the expression is 'All's fair in love and war,'" Clint said.

"I made it better," Natasha shrugged.

Clint shrugged with her, "True." He really was wasted.

"I think you need to sleep," Natasha said, staring at him.

"It's hot in here." Clint ignored her, rolling away and grunting drunkenly. He got onto his hands and knees. "Why is it so damn hot?" He set his head on the floor, his body wobbling unsteadily as his blood rushed to his brain. "Isn't it hot in here?"

Natasha crouched next to him. "That's the vodka."

He leaned up and sat back on his heels, attacking the collar of his gray sweater until he'd pulled it up over his head. It left him with his white undershirt and a very messy head of hair. He sighed, staring up at the ceiling. "Better." He must've been bodybuilding since she'd seen him last, because his arms were thicker than she remembered.

Natasha sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. She was no lightweight, but she could feel the headache coming on now and she hadn't even slept yet. "Clint…" she started to say.

Clint smiled and looked at her. "You hardly ever say my name."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Get up." She grabbed his arm and started pulling him up.

Clint grunted again, grabbing onto her hips for support as he tried dragging himself to his feet.

"Whoa, ok," Natasha stumbled, putting her arms under his arms and trying to slowly ease him up.

It was harder than it should've been; hadn't he just masterfully pinned her to the floor a minute ago? How did he get this drunk since then?

When he was finally standing up, Natasha exhaled in relief. "Heavy bastard! How much do you eat?"

Clint chuckled vaguely. He looked unsteady, his hands still on her waist as a form of stability.

Natasha ran a hand up and down his bare arm briskly, trying to get him to focus. But it only encouraged him to pull her closer, wrapping his arms around her completely in a tight hug, his face in her neck.

She let him hold her. She didn't allow herself to think about what it meant to be hugged; she just put a hand around his shoulder and the other around his bicep, trying to be a strong body to lean on and nothing more.

After a few seconds, Clint began swaying again. Natasha was afraid he might be passing out, but he didn't ever fall. Then she realized he was shuffling, not swaying. He began humming.

"Are you serious?" Natasha asked into his shoulder. She didn't stop his leading her through the dance though.

Clint chuckled again in answer, pulling her hand from his arm and holding it against his chest. He continued to hum.

Natasha was finding it a little hard to think now. She wanted to push him away, but for some reason, she didn't. She allowed him to keep dancing with her… even though it made her thoughts burn like hell. They weren't on mission and this wasn't for show… it was spontaneous but she didn't think it was just for fun… It was meaningful to him and she didn't know what the hell to do.

Clint's humming gradually turned into lyrics, slurred but still intelligible and musical. "We're going down… And you can see it, too… We're going down… And you know that we're doomed… My dear, we're… slow dancing in a… burning room…"

Natasha felt her lungs constrict.

It was happening again, whatever it was that made her feel like she was about to lose her soul; already, she could feel it vibrating against every atom in her body, knocking on the window she kept trying to board up.

She threw her weight against the proverbial window, adding her support to the barricade. Clint didn't know what he was doing; there was no way he could know what he did to her. It was completelyher fault, and so Natasha would have to suffer through it alone. She wouldn't call attention to it. She could never let him know.

She tried to distract herself. "You are very drunk." She sounded cold even to her own ears. That was good.

"Mmm," Clint agreed against her skin, ignoring her.

Natasha hastily pulled back to look at him, desperately trying to hide the way she was so deeply shaken. "You smell like smoke."

Clint paused and frowned, looking at her in worry. He must've seen how freaked out she was.

"You lied to me," Natasha stated, the 'burning room' still making her feel trapped, feel desperate.

He looked a little confused now. "I know how much the cigarettes bug you."

Natasha put her hand behind his neck, making him look at her, "Not as much as you lying to me."

That sobered Clint right up. His serene little moment was effectively gone now. "I lie all the time, Nat," he said warily.

Natasha's jaw clenched, as well as her fist in his hair, and then she forcibly relaxed her body, turning away. She slowly walked over to the bed and sat down, staring at the wall opposite to her.

Clint watched her, still feeling the affects of the alcohol, but coherent enough to see the way her shoulders were bunched. Had she been feeling this the whole time he was dancing with her? He hadn't meant to overstep whatever boundaries Natasha put around herself; he respected her too much and knew she respected him the same way. Maybe he'd let his goddamn cheerfulness bleed a little excessively and it made her uncomfortable.

Clint walked over and sat carefully next to her. "Tasha?"

Natasha's head whipped around at him, her green eyes flashing. "Is it really so easy to lie to me?" she asked.

Clint was not prepared for one of Tasha's rare moods, but he decided to proceed… with extreme caution. "Tasha, I lie for a living…"

"I'm not looking for excuses, Barton," she said stonily. "I'm not some insecure little housewife. I just want to know why it's so easy."

Clint hesitated, and then shook his head, "It isn't easy."

"Why did I believe you then?" Natasha asked.

Clint got a little frustrated. "Seriously? We were on the phone! Even then, I was about to tell you the truth, but then you started talking about… skills and matches and stuff." He rubbed and smacked his head vigorously as he talked, trying to get rid of the alcohol in his brain so he could fucking think clearly. "It's never easy to lie to you. I've only ever lied to you about ten times since meeting you and you didn't believe most of them anyway." Clint hoped to god she didn't ask which ones she didn't catch.

Natasha seemed almost hesitantto ask her next question. "Why do you never believe mine?"

Clint froze, looking up. He was having a hell of a time reading her non-existent expressions.

"Why do you always catch it when I lie?" she repeated, scaring him shitless with the return of her god-forsaken mask. He hadn't seen it in years. She was suddenly just like the girl he met in Rome.

Clint's brain was working on overdrive, trying to find out what his answer was. He tried. "Because… I know you," he said quietly, still unsure.

"But you've never believed me," she said softly. "Even from the beginning, when you were sent to question me in the Glass Box. You knew I was lying even then, before you knew me."

Clint couldn't believe that they were having this conversation when he was this drunk. To be honest, he'd never thought about why he could call her bluffs. He just knew. It was instinct. And instinct was what kept him alive most of the damn time, so why question it?

Besides, how was he supposed to know that she'd never been able to deceive him? He'd accepted that it was just part of the lifestyle they led; it was acceptable that she was going to lie to him sometimes… just like he lied to her.

Goddamn it, he did not need another reason to feel guilty.

"What the hell do you want me to say, Nat?" he asked, trying to stay calm. "I just… know you. It's instinct."

Natasha's mask finally broke. Her mouth didn't seem to want to close from the half-open stance it was in. She was staring at him as if she wasn't seeing him. She looked… dazed. That was unexpected.

Clint waited for a response. "Natasha?"

Natasha flinched and looked down at her hands, breathing deeply. "Forget I said anything. Just… forget it."

Clint didn't need to say anything, just put his hand on her arm and smiled when she finally looked up at him. He could see that she was done with being honest for now…

Fuck. She was a mess. They both were.