Chapter Text
They run into one another - accidentally, again - three months after New York, when SHIELD sends Clint and Natasha in on infiltration, and IMF sends Ethan and his team to retrieve a mark. Fate has this strange way of throwing them in each other's path, Ethan realizes, watching an entirely too familiar figure stroll down the ballroom.
"Aaron!" Their mark booms, an arm quickly sliding around the other man's waist, and Ethan has to really look twice to confirm his suspicions.
The scanner in his contact lense captures Brandt's striking features when he turns, features relaxed with a charming grin on his face, and Ethan chances a quick look at his phone. The name 'William Brandt' is scrawled across the screen, alongside his title - senior analyst, IMF, retired - and Ethan's brows knit together momentarily, wondering why SHIELD hasn't removed their now-retired undercover agent from the IMF roster.
Across the room, Brandt sidles close to the mark with the grace of a jungle cat. It's almost easy to forget that under that suit Brandt hides toned muscles and scars from places none of them have been to when he smiles in a flash of teeth, all charm and masked predator.
Benji sputters over the comm; he'd followed Ethan's line of sight to the last person he'd expected to see ever since three months ago.
You have got to be joking, Ethan thinks, and then belatedly, their mark really is otherwise inclined, as proven by his hand wandering lower to brush against Brandt- no, Clint's lower back. Across the room, another man in a suit glances up to aim a glare at the back of Clint's head, and out of sight, the archer chuckles softly.
"Bloody hell, is that-?"
The tech's surprise is clear even over the comm, tinny and crackling with static.
A soft click of heels draws Ethan out of his thoughts, and a few moments later Jane is standing beside Ethan, eyes narrowed at the sight of Clint looking so comfortable in a suit and hanging onto the arm of their mark. He's dressed in black, but his shirt is a pale shade of blue or purple, from this distance, neither IMF agent can tell.
"No, way."
Benji coughs, then clears his throat, sounding a tad more hoarse than he should be. "Well, in his defense, I mean, he did say that next time he'd be seducing the rich guy."
Jane and Ethan simply exchange looks that are equal parts abject disbelief and utter amusement.