Prompt(s): Ugly Sweater/Mistletoe
The soft chirping of the keypad in the hallway announced Clint's arrival. Her first instinct was to bound into the living room and find out what the big deal was about his ugly Christmas sweater. He'd been annoyingly secretive about his outfit for the party, putting her off with 'You'll see' and 'Don't want to ruin the surprise' and 'You need to do your own thing this year, there's no way we can match.' She wouldn't admit it, but she quite liked attending the S.H.I.E.L.D. Annual Ugly Christmas Sweater Party with Clint in matching hideous sweaters. It was their thing.
Barton and Romanoff? They never have an extraction plan.
Barton and Romanoff? Of course they're going to win the Ugly Sweater Trophy again this year.
She wouldn't admit it, but maybe she wasn't quite dressed yet because she'd been sulking in her underwear for the past half-hour. She didn't want Clint to know that, so while he banged around in her kitchen she pulled her sweater on. The sweater was custom made, fitted to hug her curves in all the right places, and was more dress than sweater, as it came to mid-thigh. A bright Christmas blue, with the silhouette of one reindeer humping another crocheted in white. Thank you, Etsy.
She tugged on black leggings and a pair of heels as Clint came to lean against the doorjamb, sucking a candy cane he'd presumably stolen off her tree.
"Aren't you ready yet? We're gonna be late."
She eagerly flicked her eyes away from the strap of her Louboutins and looked him up and down. At first, she didn't get it. Disappointment swelled in her chest; she'd been expecting something really spectacular. His red wool sweater was reasonably benign, if a little oversized, but then...
"Ohmygod, Clint! I am not going with you like that."
"Yours is just as bad!" he counter indignantly.
"This is an Ugly Sweater party, not a Get Written Up For Sexual Harassment party. You can walk in by yourself."
God, he'd blown their winning streak for that? The knife hidden in the top drawer of her nightstand seemed like an appropriate response.
"You're not even wearing pants!" he scoffed. "You don't have any room to talk about harassment."
"Leggings are pants, genius."
She brushed past him to gain the living room, reminding herself that it was Christmas and she should be kind and forgiving and not stab her partner. He smacked her ass.
"Write me up?" he suggested, and waggled his eyebrows. "We could skip the stupid party."
Was that his game? Pick an outfit guaranteed to embarrass her, give her an out, and spend the rest of the night naked in bed?
He absolutely did not deserve hot sweaty sex, especially since he'd cost her the trophy. He wasn't getting out of this one unscathed.
"But you put so much effort into your costume," she deadpanned, and followed it up with an eye roll. "I've already told Hill and Carter we're coming."
If he was disappointed, he didn't let on.
"Wish Cap was making an appearance." Clint sighed wistfully and pulled a dreamy expression. "The night might actually get interesting."
"Hill and Carter aren't going to catfight over Steve. Find another source of entertainment."
He followed her to the door, apparently intent on badgering a little hint of office gossip out of her.
"Please, I saw Maria checking out his ass in the conference room last week."
"Everyone checks out Steve's ass. I check out Steve's ass."
Clint paused in the doorway, causing the automatic sensor to bleep angrily.
"You check out Spangles?"
Natasha shrugged and continued down the hallway. She could imagine his crestfallen expression, the sad puppy eyes.
"I check out your ass, too."
What the hell, it was Christmas.
"Yeah?" Clint called after her, audibly brightening. He jogged to catch up. "Whose is the best?"
"Mine," she answered decisively. He considered for a moment.
"Eh, fair enough."
They were fashionably late, but Natasha didn't much care. The first hour was always awkward groups of rookies hovering around the karaoke stage and wondering how much alcohol was appropriate for an office party. Hour two was usually when things picked up.
She came up short at the door, waved Clint through, and gave him thirty seconds lead time so she wouldn't be associated with...that. Almost immediately she heard 'Bro!' and 'Nice one, Barton!' and 'That's my vote!'.
She took another thirty seconds to master the stab-my-partner impulse.
When she entered, she spotted Clint by the bar, fighting his way through what appeared to be the entire R&D department to place a drink order. Hill and Carter were stationed at one of the tall cocktail tables scattered around the perimeter of the room. Natasha detoured, leaving Clint to his fate.
"You and Barton fighting?" Hill asked in greeting. "You don't match."
"He wanted to do his own thing this year."
Carter stood on tiptoe and craned her neck to get a better look at the bar.
"His sweater doesn't look that special," she assessed. "I think he blew it."
"Oh, he definitely blew it. It's not the sweater. It's...just wait. He'll bring drinks in a minute."
They had a round of 'Nice sweater!' and 'Love the shoes!'. Carter had a big Rudolph head splashed across the front of her sweater, complete with a blinking red LED nose. Hill's sweater was more understated but classic, Merry Christmas Ya Filthy Animal picked out in red thread on green wool, but she'd found a pair of Manolo Blahnik glitter pumps that brought her game up a level. Natasha eyed them enviously.
They were making bets on which of the rookies would need carrying off the karaoke stage by the end of the night when Clint appeared. He shoved in between Hill and Natasha and plunked four beers down on the table
"Well?" he asked, taking a step back and spreading his arms wide, inviting opinions.
Carter's eyes lit up as if Christmas had come early. Hill choked on her martini.
"Ohmygod!" Carter assessed gleefully.
"That's what I said," Natasha agreed, "but not with that tone."
She popped the cap of her beer against the edge of the table and downed half the bottle in one long draw.
"Why?" Hill wanted to know, shaking her head faintly as disgust curled her features.
"Are you going to karaoke, too?" Carter suggested.
"Hey! Not bad, Carter!" Clint bumped shoulders with her; she shot him an annoyed glance as beer sloshed out over her fingers. "See? She gets it! How many people here have a song-and-dance number to go with their outfit? I'll totally win."
"I'm not drunk enough for this," Hill groaned, and disappeared in the direction of the bar. Natasha privately agreed.
She finished her beers and waited impatiently for Clint to finish the last two, so she could send him back for more. They spent the next hour wandering around the room together. The girls from payroll giggled stupidly at Clint and flirted their eyes, Coulson stopped dead ten feet away and called 'I am not dealing with that' before vanishing seamlessly back into the crowd, and Natasha kept scanning the perimeter of the room.
And then she saw him, Father Christmas himself, minus the beard and plus an eye patch. Fury was chatting with the head of the IT department, decked out in a red velvet Santa coat with white fur trim and a matching hat.
"Hey, look!" she said brightly, and grabbed Clint's wrist in a death grip. "Saint Nick!"
Clint dug in his heels and tried to pull away.
"Nat, no!" he hissed urgently. "Don't be an asshole!"
"Director Fury!" she called. She raised the hand that held her fourth (Fifth? She couldn't keep up.) beer and waggled her fingers.
Fury broke away from his conversation and made his way over. Clint stopped struggling, and she whispered 'You're not taking my trophy' sweetly in his ear.
Oh, she would have let it go if he'd chosen a run-of-the-mill hideous sweater and taken a stab at the trophy that way. She liked a little healthy competition. But she absolutely was not going to be associated with her partner having his junk gift wrapped.
Her eyes flicked down to Clint's crotch, where a brightly wrapped present was suspended from his belt, complete with a glittery mesh bow on top and a giant sprig of mistletoe.
Fury greeted them with smiles at first, and Natasha wished him Merry Christmas and waited for the shit to hit the fan. Fury's expression visibly hardened as he took in their ensembles.
"Agent Barton," he began, his tone dangerously soft and composed, "are you implying there's a dick in that box? And are we invited to provide you with sexual favors? Is that why you've incorporated mistletoe into the gift wrap?"
"I think that's the idea," Natasha interjected helpfully. Clint cut his eyes sharply in her direction. She pressed the beer bottle to her lips to hide her smirk.
"Son, you better rethink your fashion choices. I'll take a lap of the room, mingle, and when I come back I do not want to see that box."
"Aww, Fury! I was gonna win!"
Fury pinned him with a glare that made even Natasha retreat a step, before turning his back and walking purposefully toward a group from accounting.
"You were going to get suspended," she shrugged, unrepentant. She drained the rest of her beer and helped herself to Clint's. "Then I'd be out a partner for Sao Paulo next week."
"Fury can kiss my ass," Clint muttered, not paying her any attention as he grudgingly removed his belt and the box with it. "I didn't even get to do the song."
Note: Sorry, not sorry. If you're lost, look up the SNL skit "Dick in a box" then come back and read it again. (: