Marvel One Shots

"Italian Suits"

"Director! It's crucial to the operation! You can't just go in wearing a perfectly tailored Italian suit for a business banquet!" Clint was fixing Director Fury with his best death glare. Unfortunately, he didn't seem to be concerned.

"And just why are you set on refusing a perfectly good suit because 'you can't go in wearing it', Agent Barton? You aren't really in the position to refuse." Fury spoke coolly, which made him ever more aggravating.

"Why?!" Clint's voice went so high in indignation it almost squeaked. "Why, you ask? Because normally, when you infiltrate a high-end business banquet to catch some baddies, you don't work out for a few days. Why? Because chances are that 90% of the people at that banquet are middle aged white guys who ate about 14 too many shrimp cocktails at the last banquet they attended to make corrupt deals. ((The other 10% being a combination of the hired help and the people hired to pretty up the banquet.)) When aforementioned business men see a significantly younger, very in shape individual, they get suspicious. Suspicion leads to ticket checks, and ticket checks lead to a blown cover and a firefight. And we both know what that leads to. Every -good- assassin knows that in order to be trusted you lose your 'I'm a hardcore assassin' look for a more believable 'I probably went to the gym a couple weeks ago, but that was when I bought my membership' look. Also, you have to wear and ankle holster, which is really inconvenient, by the way. That's why I can't wear the suit!"

Natasha, who had been sitting quietly in the chair opposite Clint, rolled her eyes. "It's just a suit Barton, you know that right? If you're so put out about it just buy your own and get this over with. Believe it or not, I've got more important stuff to do."

Clint huffed, shooting Natasha with a petulant look. "How come you aren't on my side? I would expect you to sympathize."

All he got in response was an arched eyebrow. "Barton, you can complain when you're the one wearing the dress. Got it?" Natasha stood up, taking a quick look at her watch. "Director Fury, may I be dismissed?"

The Director nodded, waving his hand at the both of them. "Yes. You too, Barton, I'm done with this conversation."

Clint left with a resigned look on his face. He knew better than to argue with the Director too much. If you didn't catch the (not so subtle) hint that he was done with you then you might find a desk in the paperwork wing with your name on it.

--- Five days later---

Natasha knocked on the door that opened into Clint's quarters. "Hurry up Barton, I swear I will break your ribs if you make us late." She could hear a frantic bumping around inside of his room, and was tempted to pick the lock. Fortunately, Clint opened the door before that was necessary. They got about the same reaction from each other.

"You didn't buy a different suit." Natasha noted, casually looking Clint up and down. "Surprised?" Clint asked wryly. The suit was, as promised, perfectly tailored. It fit him nicely, to say the least. Though she could see his point about it being difficult to conceal firearms. Somehow SHIELD had fixed his hair so that it didn't look like he had just taken off a motorcycle helmet. Even the little crescent shaped scar next to his eye was covered up, probably by make-up. Natasha wasn't sure she liked that. Scars made people more identifiable.

Clint was feigning the same casualness that Natasha had surveyed him with as he scrutinized her dress . Of course, he was a good actor, (it came with the job) but it was difficult to pull off nonetheless. She looked like she always did, except for the fact that she probably had $2,000,000 worth of diamonds around her neck. Natasha's dress was the definition of a classic. Simple, black, the kind that was popular 20 years ago and would be popular 20 years from now.

Clint summed up his opinion in five words. "You clean up well, agent."

Natasha flashed him with a rare smile that looked almost smug. "Surprised?"

Clint shook his head slightly as he offered up his arm. "Not at all, Ms. Romanov. Not at all."