Hawkeye never misses his target. It's a proven fact. Ask Coulson. Ask Maria Hill. Heck, even ask Director Fury. So why does Natasha Romanoff beg to differ? Tony Stark and the rest of the reachable Avengers will wonder. Post-Avengers, pre-Phase 2. Written in celebration of the newest word of 2014: hashtag.

Natasha knows there are more discreet places for a team of Avengers to meet than the newly rebuilt tower of Tony Stark. And yet she finds herself hailing a cab from Queens and heading straight into the heart of Midtown where the tall height of the Stark skyscraper beats even that of Oscorp or the Empire State Building.

Natasha paid the cabbie generously, and stepped out into the long shadow of the building. The chilly breeze nipped at her bare arms—this was why she didn't like downtowns.

A small price to pay in comparison to the amount of gossip Tony Stark gave her.

Natasha smirked to herself.

…

"Agent Romanoff. Miss me?" called Stark from behind the bar counter as she entered the room.

"Not really," she admitted. It was the closest thing to truth she'd said all day. She could see the top of Banner's head peeking up over the top of the sofa and Rogers craning his head around to stare at her. "Hey, guys. Missed you," she called out to them pointedly.

Stark didn't pout like she might have expected of him. He instead just stared at her for a long time, the way he used to when she was Natalie Rushman, a mystery girl he couldn't figure out. It seemed his thoughts were echoing hers, because he asked, "Want a drink, Natalie?"

"No thank you, Mr. Stark. I'm a bit of a light drinker." Natasha added a smile or two in between, and sat down comfortably on the couch.

"I doubt that," he muttered, his distance doing nothing to mask his voice.

"Why do you call her that?" asked Banner from his spot on the couch.

Tony returned to the group with three empty glasses and a bottle of vodka. "Didn't I ever tell you she's the best spy ever?"

"Multiple times," snapped Rogers. "Now, get on with the story."

Tony rolled his eyes, and focused on Steve intently with his unnerving brown eyes. He even leaned in as if telling a scary story. "She spied on me, and I had no clue."

Banner chuckled, while Rogers' face became increasingly irritated. "And…" Steve prodded.

Stark relaxed back into the seat, two hands cupping the back of his head. "Take it away, Agent Romanoff."

Natasha gave him a long eye roll. "Just an assignment I got from Fury."

"Triple Agent," mouthed Stark, pointing in amazement.

Natasha shook her head. "The Hawk's better at sweet talking."

Banner's dark eyes fixated themselves upon Natasha. She was not intimidated, but the look did not put her at ease. Neither did the wicked grin he was sporting. "And you would know because…"

Stark whooped, while the Captain looked moderately appalled—that is to say, scandalized.

Natasha tilted her head to the side casually and shrugged. "What I meant to say was that he's better with people than I am."

"Anybody is," muttered Stark, which was followed by an, "Oww!"—the result of a swift kick to the shins. "Still, you don't ever compliment me on my people skills," he complained.

Captain America sighed. "Stark, you only get people to hate you, not like you."

"You, for example?" asked Tony rather curiously.

Steve laughed. "I'll consider it."

Natasha still tried to plead her case. "Just when we go on missions together—"

"Together," sang Stark. Natasha ignored this.

"—he's usually the one that wins people over," she finished.

"Still, sweet talking aside, what do you make of him as Hawkeye?" wondered Bruce.

"Guys, don't speak of ill of others," Steve reminded.

Tony laughed. "What are you preaching from, the Bible? Go ahead, Natasha. Tell us what of you think of Hawkeye, the archer who never misses."

Natasha pursed her lips. "Well, actually, he's missed more than a couple times."

Three Avengers froze in their seats. "No…" they all seemed to gasp simultaneously.

"The trick is to keep his center of balance always moving—essentially, off-center. He isn't as accurate when hanging upside-down from a tree, and well, when he's tied down to a chair and blindfolded, he's pretty distracted." Natasha let her voice dip a little in tone, let it insinuate something else. She laughed to herself, while Rogers, Banner, and even Stark himself were rendered speechless.

Not for too long though. "So that's what you do in your spare time," remarked— surprise!—Stark.

The humor left her eyes as she stared at him, oozing waves of disapproval. "Look, he doesn't miss his target; his targets just end up moving. Trust me, you hardly ever get a straight shot. At least not in our field." Natasha kept her words clipped and short; she needed to find a way to change the subject.

"Our field, ma'am?" Steve Rogers repeated.

Her eyebrows knit together. "It's a phrase. In this case, I mean S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Oh." Steve Rogers pulled out a mini notebook and mini pen from his pocket and began scribbling something away. Natasha didn't look too closely.

"So," she said commandingly. "Are we straight?"

Tony Stark blinked. "Well, that's kind of a personal question, don't you think?"

Natasha stared him down, ice cold as ever. She'd had enough of this. She stood up suddenly: "I should get going. Fury's got an assignment for me in Brazil."

Cap and Stark stood up suddenly, locking their hands on her arms and dragging her back down to sit on the sofa. "Not so fast, Natasha," said Cap.

"Do tell us more," urged Stark.

Natasha grumbled, "Old Maids," under her breath, but it didn't seem to faze any of them. After all, they were Avengers. Their nerves were made of steel.

Bruce pursed his lips. "What I want to know is how Hawkeye gets a 100% success rate, and misses in the field."

Natasha shrugged. "Maybe S.H.I.E.L.D rounds up. Hell, go ask them."

"Maybe I will," murmured Steve.

Tony snorted. "As if you could coax anything out of Stepmother. When did you become an expert on thermonuclear astrophysics?" he mimicked in a high-pitched voice. "God, so suspicious, all of them."

Natasha, Steve, and Bruce gave him three equally puzzled, blank stares.

"Maria Hill," he explained. "Whatever," he said after more elapsed time.

Natasha stood up for the second time; no resistance was offered. "I really should get going."

"Enjoy your honeymoon in Brazil!" shouted Stark at her retreating form. How did the hell did he know?

"Bye," the other two marginally sane people in the room hollered.

…

Hawkeye was on base, polishing his bow for the thousandth time when Natasha approached him with her full bag/arsenal of luggage/weaponry. "Ready," she said to him.

He was a much different person now that Loki had taken him. They'd both always prepared for betrayal—almost unconsciously, even—but they both never could have expected Loki. Magic, monsters, they'd never prepared for it. Clint was a shell of the person he was then. Natasha had to work hard to find the old Clint. Only time would tell.

His left hand paused in its motion. He raised his stormy blue eyes up to hers, and with a smirk that rivaled her own, asked, "Did they buy into it?"

She nodded. "Fed on it so quickly."

Clint sighed heavily. "Great, now knowing Stark, this new intel should be up on Twitter in—" —he glanced at his wristwatch— "—the next 15 seconds. And this should make our job in Rio much easier, don't you think?"

Natasha smirked back at him. "Of course. You think it'll take down that #coulsonlives?"

"As much as I like hearing my codename retweeted over the Internet, I don't think Coulson appreciates that much attention."

"You never know," said Natasha.

Clint laughed. "Yeah, keep telling yourself that," he said sarcastically.

Natasha reached over, putting a hand on his taut forearm. "You okay?"

"Yup."

Natasha pulled her hand back, letting it limply hang by her side. "Long live #hawkeyenevermisses."

"If only I had a nickel for every time I'm going to hear that in the next 5 months of my life," muttered Clint.

Natasha laughed, great peals of laughter that had Clint instantly joining in, the pair of them looking nothing short of loony to any outsider. Any outsider wouldn't understand.

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