"This isn't even a real mission," Clint grumbled, and dropped heavily into his seat. "Since when are we freelance?"
"Since we owe Coulson about ten million favors. Can't blame him for calling one in."
"Fury made me take vacation time. I was saving it."
"You have four-and-a-half months of vacation. When are you ever going to need that much downtime?"
"Maybe I want a four month long honeymoon."
"We're not married."
"That's not what Elvis said last week."
"Vegas weddings don't count. He wasn't even a real priest."
"It counted," Clint assured her. "The guy was ordained. Anybody can marry people, even Elvis. Hell, I bet I could get ordained before this stupid show's over."
"Okay," Natasha agreed. "If you can do it by intermission, I won't put our marriage license through the shredder."
"Challenge accepted," Clint smirked, and pulled his phone from his tuxedo jacket. "One more for the collection."
Natasha watched the orchestra file across the stage and settle in the pit. Their surveillance target was easy to spot despite being dressed almost identically to the other orchestra members: her instrument dwarfed the others in the string section.
"She's gonna recognize us," Clint muttered, studiously jabbing his fingers against his phone's screen.
"She won't," Natasha replied dismissively, more confidently than she felt. Coulson had introduced them only two months ago, but she had been blonde then and Clint had two week's worth of beard. Civillians weren't usually perceptive enough to make those types of connections. This particular civilian was dating Phil Coulson, however, so anything was possible.
"What is this, anyway? Carmen? Tosca? Shrek The Musical?"
Natasha looked blankly down at her lap, realizing with a start that she'd neglected to pick up a playbill.
"It's a surprise," she replied. Clint snorted.
"Jet lag doesn't look good on you, Romanoff."
"Rushman."
"Whatever. This is a milk run. Hope we've got a swanky hotel to match the car Coulson sent."
She hummed her agreement and scanned the crowd, although her thoughts were fixed more firmly on a plush mattress and room service than potential threats. Stepping off an international flight and into a limousine was overkill, even for her. Clint had done her hair with a curling iron plugged into the limo's cigarette lighter, for God's sake. She was pretty sure he was still bleeding somewhere under the tuxedo.
The lights went down, earning an immediate hush from the crowd.
"Done!" Clint hissed triumphantly beside her. He thrust his phone under her nose, proudly displaying a digital certificate declaring him a minister. The balding man next to them cleared his throat disdainfully. "We're still married."
"Thought it'd be more complicated than that," she mused.
The actors stepped onto the stage and began the show. The songs were all in French, and she stopped paying attention in favor of studying the audience and ushers for potential threats. It was nearing intermission when she felt Clint go stiff beside her, sitting erect with his eyes fixed on a point above the stage.
"Aww, sniper, no," he groaned softly.
She followed his gaze and caught a glint of metal from the catwalk over the set.
One of the actors went down, a red stain blossoming across the front of his costume.
"Milk run," Natasha repeated with an eye roll. She pulled the Glock from her Swarovski crystal clutch. "I'll handle Audrey."
"Got your back," Clint assured her, already stripped out of the restricting tuxedo jacket, a gun in each hand.