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A Deluge of Dancers

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Movie night, and it was Pepper's choice, which meant that it was some sort of movie with historical and/or cultural-slash-artistic significance and blah blah blah. Last time they'd watched Vertigo, which Clint had to admit was an excellent film, but this week was A League of Their Own.

Which was about baseball. He actually thought Geena Davis was kind of hot, at least in that film, but baseball. Worse than baseball: baseball movies.

At least it wasn't Field of Dreams. He shuddered.

Clint settled in in his corner of the couch, watching everyone else settle. This had better be over soon.

It was, in that way where he fell asleep and then a couple hours later Natasha poked him in the side and he woke up.

"That was really good," Steve said, and Clint tried really hard not to snort and failed. He thought he might have succeeded at turning it into a yawn or cough or something, but Natasha glared at him, and he shrugged.

"The dance scene," Steve said, and looked down at his hands. "I was supposed to learn to dance. I sort of missed the date."

"You can't dance? Even I can dance," Jane said, and all heads in the room turned and looked at her. "What? I can," she said. "Well, sort of. I could. Swing dancing was popular when I was in high school and college. My roommate dragged me to a few swing-club meetings. I can probably remember some of it."

"I can dance," Tony said.

"You can do the society shuffle," Pepper said.

"I can do more than that," Tony said. "Please. You think I wasn't forced into ballroom dance lessons as a kid?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"I feel like I'm in trouble now," he said, and she nodded. "Okay. Moving on. Can anyone else dance?"

"I can perform the traditional Asgardian dances!" Thor boomed.

"I would like to see that sometime," Steve said, "but not right now. I don't think we have enough room."

"Most likely not," Thor said.

"I can dance," Natasha said.

"We knew that," Tony said.

She shrugged. "You asked."

Clint reached up and stretched. "I can dance."

"Oh really," Tony said. "What style? I bet you do a damn fine Martha Graham."

"Nah," he said. "Swing, mostly; some light ballroom. I do a mean cha-cha."

"When did you learn?" Natasha asked.

"You remember that gig I had out in Chicago without you, back in '05?" he said.

She nodded. "Oh."

"You learned how to dance on a job?" Steve asked.

"No, actually before," Clint said.

"Who taught you?" Natasha asked. She sounded curious.

Clint opened his mouth to answer, but then closed it. He had no problem telling them; he just knew that there was no possible way anyone would believe him. "Classified," he said, and fended off all their groans as he left the room.

No, seriously: there was no one alive who would believe him that Nick Fury taught him how to dance.