"Now hook your leg and lean back," Natasha ordered, watching critically as Clint made a halfhearted effort to execute the move she'd just demonstrated. He slid down the pole and landed hard on his ass. Natasha blew out a sigh.

"You're too stiff," Pepper told him with a frown. "He's too stiff."

Natasha hummed her agreement.

"Languid, Barton," Hill called from across the room, half glancing up from her tablet. "Everything should blend together into one motion."

"Look, can we not do this right now?" Clint asked, directing the plea to Natasha. "Not that I don't appreciate the help," he added quickly, "but Pepper and Maria…I don't wanna know. I don't wanna think about it."

"It's exercise, Clint," Pepper snapped. Hill snorted.

"Five minutes," Natasha relented, and gave Clint a hand up. "We take a class."

They went to the kitchen for water, sitting side-by-side on the counter to cool down.

"You take stripper classes?"

"It's an exercise class. Nobody takes their clothes off."

"Too bad," Clint muttered bitterly, "'cause somebody's gonna have to show me how to do that part, too."

It was his own fault, but Natasha chose to at least feign sympathy, even though she didn't really feel any.

"How long have you known about this op?"

"Couple weeks," Clint admitted, and ducked his head. "I kept hoping Fury would reassign it. Or cancel it. I think it's payback for parking his car on the roof."

"That was a good one," Natasha agreed. "Thanks for leaving me out of it."

Clint scowled and drained his water bottle.

"Can we try something besides the poles? Somewhere that isn't the common room?"

She almost told him no, that Pepper and Maria were useful critics, noticing flaws she couldn't while she showed Clint how to move, but then….

"Why is there exotic dancing paraphernalia in my living room?" Tony had discovered the three shiny new poles. "Not that I'm opposed…. Pep, is this an early birthday present?"

"Barton has an undercover op."

"As a male dancer?" Tony asked gleefully. "Okay, I volunteer as tribute. Let's see what he's got."

"Tony, no," sternly from Pepper, ever the voice of reason.

"Upstairs," Natasha said, because she didn't have the strength to deal with Tony in addition to Clint. They slipped out of the kitchen and into the stairwell, choosing her floor over Clint's; Tony wouldn't dare trespass, not even for blackmail material.

"What else was in the dossier?"

"Lap dances?" Clint said, the words lilting into a question. "And the club, it's a…um…it's a place for men?"

"Clint!" she admonished. He hadn't mentioned that, and it made her wonder what else he was withholding. She'd been using the wrong sets of critical eyes. "Okay, maybe we should get Steve-"

"No!" he all but yelped. "I mean, probably. But not right now. At least show me what I'm supposed to do first."

"Well, you're going to have to take it seriously. You won't be dancing for a bunch of bachelorette parties. The drunk girls would've been way easier to entertain."

"Yeah, Magic Mike stuff, prance around in a fireman hat and suspenders, whatever. This isn't that. I'm supposed to really make it believable. I have to get the mark to take me to one of the back rooms."

A tall order, and one he probably couldn't fill, even with a crash course in sensual lap dances. But you just didn't give up on your partner, even when it seemed hopeless, so Natasha dragged him over to her couch and made him sit, kicked the coffee table out of the way, and shucked off her workout clothes.

"This isn't going anywhere," she warned, pulling her hair tie loose and shaking out her hair. "Pay attention to what I do and how I do it, not your dick. Got it?"

"Yup," Clint replied. "No sex because you're mad I left this til the last minute."

"Exactly," she said, and straddled his hips. It was strange to move against him without any of the usual kissing or touching, but as Clint actually listened and kept his hands to himself and studied how she moved, it seemed selfish to give in to her own impulses. It wasn't until she turned her back on him, to grind her ass against his thighs, that she felt his erection and began to regret putting a ban on any extracurriculars.

"Sorry," Clint said quickly when she paused. She glanced back and watched him adjust himself through his basketball shorts. "But you did the hair thing."

"What hair thing?" she asked, puzzled. She hadn't done anything special, or hadn't meant to.

"Y'know, the hair thing. You arch your back and run your hands up the back of your neck and sort of flip your hair. It's hot."

"Your turn," she said, rather than admit that perhaps she'd been a little too into it, too busy imagining the things she'd said they couldn't do.

They switched positions and Clint stood shuffling awkwardly before her, clearly unsure how to start.

"You'll be in your underwear," she offered. Clint gave the basketball shorts an unceremonious tug and kicked them across the room. Natasha rolled her eyes. "The shirt, too. Slowly."

"You want a whip or something?" he muttered. "Stop giving me orders, I know how to do it."

"Fine, do it," she retorted.

He did a tepid little strip tease, then sat on her lap and squished her into the sofa.

"Clint."

"This is bullshit."

A new idea struck her.

"Turn around," she told him. He growled but complied, kneeling on the sofa and leaning over her. "Now sit." He folded his legs and sat on her thighs. "Kiss me."

"Thought this wasn't going anywhere."

"I just changed the rules."

He kissed her and ran his hands through her hair and bit her lip, and after a minute or two she felt him relax, felt the self-conscious way he'd been holding himself fade. Just like she had, he got too caught up to think about exactly how he was moving, and he wasn't doing half bad, his hips rolling against her and his knees squeezing her thighs.

She had only meant to prank Clint with the fake mission, get him back for putting honey in her shampoo bottle, but the role reversal was an unexpected bonus, and unexpectedly hot. Maybe she'd save the big reveal until later, after he'd taken her to the bedroom.