Disclaimer- I do not own the Avengers or any recognizable characters mentioned within.
The day was hot and sticky by the time Clint opened the door onto the hotel room. Natasha was behind him, backpack slung over her shoulder. The last three days of tracking their target through backwoods Michigan all went out the window as soon as Clint collapsed onto the single queen bed, stretching his arms above his head. Natasha threw a shirt at his head.
"Take a shower and get your boots off the bed, Barton. You stink."
He smirked at her but went into the tiny bathroom and examined the facilities. By the time he got out, Natasha was slipping into a clean shirt while examining the local paper. Clint flopped down on the bed again and snagged a loose page. An advertisement caught his eye, the bold black letters screaming out CARNIVAL in all caps, an out-of-town group passing through that promised games and toys and fattening, greasy food. Perfect. After a short internal debate, Clint sighed and fished through his pockets and wallet for cash, coming up with a twenty dollar bill. And no keys.
"Tasha?"
"What?" She was skimming an article about a man selling carved wooden lawn ornaments. Clint put on his best puppy face and hoped that he was more interesting. She looked up.
"No." He let out an exasperated sigh.
"You don't even know what I was going to say, Nat."
"I can read." She looked at the article in his hand. "Honestly, Barton?"
He grinned as she slapped him on the head with the paper, grabbing her tennis shoes.
"Fine. But I get to drive."
Twenty minutes later saw them standing in front of a handful of dilapidated booths, food trucks, and a saggy yellow tent, the shouts of children coming from the beach just beyond. Clint made his way over to the nearest food truck and squinted at a stained menu. The teenage girl behind the window popped her gum and waited.
"Funnel cake, huh?"
"Comes with powdered sugar and your choice of strawberry, caramel, or chocolate sauce." Another voice sounded from inside the wagon, and the girl pulled back to confer before turning to Clint.
"We're out of chocolate. Sorry."
Natasha poked him in the shoulder. "I want a pink cotton candy. On a stick."
Clint grinned at her as he pulled out his rumpled money. "One funnel cake with strawberry sauce and a pink cotton candy for the lady." The teenager flipped on the machine, and Clint caught Natasha staring as the stick pilled up with pink fluff, swelling to gargantuan size before she passed it out the window, along with Clint's strawberry heart attack. He took a fork from the canister and took his change over to where Natasha was delicately stripping strands of sugar with her fingers. She looked at his funnel cake with disgust.
"You really want to risk it, Barton? After Vegas?"
He paled at the memory, but put a forkful of hot, fried dough into his mouth anyway.
"Totally worth it." She hummed in response and cast her gaze on a game booth.
"Look, Clint, a shooting range. I hear they're rigged." He snorted.
"Bet you a blue cotton candy stick I can't get-" He consulted the prize racks.
"That orange tiger." Nat pulled off another string of pink floss. Clint looked at the cat, stuck up on the top prize racks. It was really damn big, fluffy white fur a bit squashed on the underside. It was almost as big as Natasha herself.
"Why that one?"
"If we're remembering Vegas we might as well go all out."
He stuck out his hand, and they shook.
Clint went over to the booth. A tiny old man was reading the paper from behind the counter, seated in front of multiple ducks of varying sizes in faded neon colors on stilled conveyor racks. He folded up his paper and looked at Clint, who smiled sheepishly.
"A cork a quarter. Hit a big duck," He gestured to the closest, most dinged ones, about the size of a tea plate, "And you win yourself a small prize. Two and you get a medium, so on up the line."
Clint looked up at the tiger, and then at Natasha.
"Wanna give me any handicaps?" She looked at the old guy, who was fiddling with one of the guns. He held up two fingers with a grin. She gave him a rare smile back.
"I'm feeling generous. Three shots."
Clint put three quarters down on the scraped counter and took the gun and three corks from the guy, who settled himself out of the way on his little stool. He pulled a lever back, and the ducks began moving by at moderate speed.
Clint raised the gun to his shoulder, feeling the weight. It was way too light, and the scope was just a plastic ring with a cross of wire. He fitted the cork into the end.
Pow.
The little cork winged the top of a medium sized yellow duck as it slammed into the backboard. The duck went down.
"Come on, Barton." Nat balanced on the edge of the counter, peeling a strand off and wadding it into her mouth. "Don't tell me you used all your shooting skills up yesterday."
He looked down the scope at the little ducks on the top row as calliope music began to filter through the grounds.
Pow.
A little blue duck fell, the cork catching it square in the head. Nat raised an eyebrow.
Ping. His last shot snapped between two little ducks, a trick he'd picked up from his days at the circus. It shot back between a green and a pink duck and flipped them both forward. The incredulous guy brought the game to a stop as Clint lowered the gun and grinned at Natasha, pleased with himself. She scoffed but slid off the counter as the guy approached.
"Mighty fine job, young man. What can I get you?"
He exchanged a look with Natasha.
"That orange tiger, please." The man wrestled it down from its hook and set it on the counter. He turned to Natasha with a flourish and squished it into her arms, the toy's tail nearly touching the ground.
"For you, milady."
Nat ran a hand over the fur. "This tribute is acceptable. Your payment will follow shortly."
The guy chuckled.
"You kids've still got a large prize if you want it." Clint pointed to a grey hawk toy on a high shelf.
"I'll take that one."
The guy passed it down, and they slipped off between townspeople to find Clint his blue cotton candy.
The guy shook his head and fixed the flattened ducks before going back to his paper. There was a pretty good article about a woodcarver.
"I think I'll name him Jeffrey." Clint flaps the hawk's wings from his seat on the end of the pier with one hand, the other clutched around his cotton candy stick. Natasha reclines next to him with her head on the back of the stuffed tiger. He bites off another bite of the blue sugar and leans back to join her.
"It's not the worst you could do. Agent Blake will be flattered."
Clint wrinkles his nose at the mention of Jeffrey Blake.
"Three shots, huh?"
"It seemed appropriate if we're doing Vegas again. A tiger, bad funnel cake, and three shots. All we're missing now is the blue van and a fruitcake." Clint laughs softly.
"I've never seen Coulson so confused as the day we landed on base with that fruitcake. He wouldn't let me eat it- they took it away for analysis."
"I stole a piece," Natasha murmurs. "It wasn't bad considering-"
"-we got it at a strip club?" Clint finishes.
"Yeah, not bad. I think Bruce stole a slice to 'analyze' when he heard. I saw him munching on it later." Clint laughs at the thought of their resident gamma radiation expert eating strip club fruitcake and polishes off his cotton candy, looking up at the darkening sky.
"I'll give you twenty dollars if you bring the tiger to debrief tomorrow."
Natasha turns her head and looks him in the eyes, mouth twitching.
"Deal." She stands. "To hell with it. I want another funnel cake. With caramel."
Clint's not one to deny fellow assassins their sugar fixes, so he gives her a hand up and they go back into the lit-up carnival grounds, Natasha's tiger tucked under her arm and Jeffrey in Clint's left hand. They get their funnel cake and go back to the beach, where the skinny strip of sand meets the foaming waves of lake Michigan. Clint lies back on the sand and Natasha stretches out next to him, their hands resting atop one another. The stars pop out overhead and Clint takes another bite of funnel cake before Nat bops him with a tiger paw. Tonight, anything can happen. And tomorrow, only one thing is certain.
Coulson will be confused as hell.