They said something about a mission, but forty-five minutes ago, Clint and Natasha vanished into one of the spare bathrooms. She was wearing a silk robe and carrying a small duffel bag; he was carrying a garment bag and a tackle box. Tony knows for a fact that the bathroom in question has a jacuzzi tub, no attached bedroom or other exits, and ventilation ducts too small to crawl through. (Of course he's read the Evil Overlord List, and he most certainly took it into consideration when designing Stark Tower. Except for the parts about goatees and building sentient computers. He's still holding out hope of talking Pepper into the stainless-steel bustier, though he knows himself well enough to admit that it would probably be gold-titanium with red accents.)
Frankly, he's proud of himself for waiting three whole quarters of an hour before "accidentally" walking in on them.
Whatever he was hoping to find, this isn't it. There are more hair appliances and makeup products than Tony has ever seen spread out all over the counter, and that's speaking as someone who previously made a hobby out of dating supermodels. Natasha is sitting up on the edge of the sink in the only clear space left, her head titled back as she stares at the ceiling. She's presumably wearing whatever was in the garment bag, since her robe is in a pile on the floor, but it's covered up by Clint's button-down. Clint himself, stripped down to a torn t-shirt, was leaning in toward her but is now pulling back sharply and turning toward Tony with a glare that's oddly familiar from the multiple times he's barged in on Pepper getting ready in the morning... and yes, that's an eyeliner brush in his hand, which means that there really is a universal facial expression for you-almost-made-me-put-an-eye-out-you-idiot. Good to know. Also, one more thing to add to the 'why Fury wears the eyepatch' list.
Looking him full in the face now, Clint has a black eye and split lip that Tony would swear weren't there this morning. And looking closer, the skin isn't actually broken, it just seems like it. Right down to the smear of dried blood under his chin and rusty stains on his shirt collar.
"Can we help you?" Natasha's turning toward him now too, and wow, he had an excuse all planned but he's forgotten it now. Her hair has been twisted up into an elaborate fall of curls that probably has a name, not that he knows it, and the half-finished makeup job is already pretty damn stunning. Barton's got a solid fallback career if his bow arm ever fails him.
"Ah, no, sorry, carry on. Good luck with whatever top secret thing you're about to not do."