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It's 3:15 on a Thursday afternoon, they're somewhere in northern France, and for once the world isn't falling apart around their ears. A rare mission where everything went according to plan had left them in comparatively one piece and with nearly seven hours to idle away until their flight.

The bed is a mess of skewed pillows and tangled sheets, the floor equally strewn with discarded clothes and weapons that neither of them can summon the energy to care enough to pick up. Natasha's laying on her side, her head propped up on one elbow, her body all creamy skin and gentle curves. There's sunlight streaming in through the windows, lighting her hair on fire and bringing out the small golden flecks in her eyes, washing her over with a pale glow; and Clint thinks absently that it's a shame so much of their lives are lived in darkness and shadow.

From his position with his head pillowed on her thigh, Clint has the perfect view. He faces her, one arm draped lazily over the gentle slope of her hip bone to idly trace the raised starburst of an old bullet wound at the small of her back. Their bodies are curled just enough to form a vaguely ying-yang shape, and inside that loose limbed circle they aren't S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, they aren't assassins loaded down with secrets and ledgers. They're just Clint and Natasha. It's a rare moment, maybe once in a lifetime for them.

She's laughing at him with just a sideways quirk of her lips, her fingers tangled in her own mussed hair as she clasped it back from her face. "I can't believe you picked Lily-of-the-Valley," she teased, the undercurrent of laughter bring a lilt to her voice.
"I didn't know he was allergic," he defended, "That was entirely accidental."

She rolled her eyes, "Of all the flowers in that shop to pick from."

"I picked the one flower that would kill him without even letting me shoot him first, I know," he groaned, "Took all the fun out of my whole week."

She arched a wry eyebrow that pointedly encompassed their surroundings, "All the fun?" she repeated dryly.

"Well," he allowed, affecting an innocent smirk, "I did get a kiss out of him first. I told you it should have been me in the slinky dress this time." She shoved his shoulder in retaliation and he laughed, rolling with the motion so that he was fully settled in her lap when she sat up and loomed over him.

Crimson painted nails on delicate fingers smoothed over his cheeks and into his hair as her shadow closed over him and they looked at each other through the fall of her hair. Her mouth still tasted of lipstick and champagne when they kissed, and Clint reflected that she was an infinitely better kisser than their target had been; where he'd been all sucking and tongue, she was finesse, a chaste brush of lips and just a teasing flicker of more.

"You can't pull off the slinky dress like I can," she murmured, and that was a point he had to concede. So rather than argue he kissed her again and let the taste of her lips the smell of her hair fill him up, blocking out the rest of the world for just a little longer.