A/N: This was written for AVLand, the MCU land comm on Livejournal. There was no specific prompt (just to write something), so I figured I'd go with a Clintasha fic, since I haven't really gotten a chance to write much for them. It's sad, because they're my third favorite MCU pairing (after Lokane and Pepperony).

So here's a pre-Avengers (and pre-MCU in general) Clintasha oneshot. I hope you like it!

It's a calm summer night in Tuscany, but Clint can't really enjoy himself. It would be one thing if he was spending the night alone, sitting in the tallest tree he could find with the wind in his hair and the leaves under his boots. It's no coincidence that his codename is Hawkeye. He's always felt the most alive in a makeshift nest with the world at his feet.

The real problem is that Italy has never agreed with him. Too warm all the time. He's more partial to Sweden and other Scandinavian countries.

There is one very good reason that he's standing out on this balcony in the middle of the dreariest cocktail party in the history of dreary cocktail parties, dressed to the nines in his finest monkey suit, and trying to forget that his wine is of the wrong label and far too dry. It's not the bomber who's sent a dozen anonymous threats to blow this whole place sky high tonight, and it's definitely not to sample the high class Hors d'oeuvres (which all taste like stale balloons to Clint's low class American tastes). The real reason is in a curve hugging red dress, swaying her hips for the balding old man she's been charming information out of for ten minutes. Her hair- ever changing like day and night- is in an elegant updo, curling sections hanging loose over the ears. Perfectly applied makeup (his own work; she sucks at doing it herself) gives her an air of refinement, counteracting the deadly beauty she possesses by nature. She's like a doll here, sipping champagne and hanging off the arm of a moldy senior who is probably not the bomber. She would've given him the signal by now if he was. The old man's hand finds her waist, fingers splayed over her hip in a way that makes Clint wish he could drag him to the basement and break off his thumbs anyway.

'Nah, she'd just beat me to it.'

She removes herself from the man now, disgust hidden from all but Clint (he knows all her tells). He reads her lips and knows she's excusing herself to the powder room. That's part of their code. It means it's time for a meeting, and that she's going to need twice what he's drinking to get through this.

She steps out with two glasses, the liquid gently rotating between delicate fingers that harbor the power of a killer. She empties one glass and drops it on a passing waiter's tray. A sigh is on her lips, held within a red painted 'O' as she waits to let the alcohol take affect. Clint isn't bothered by her indulgence, she's worked with perfect poise and grace on more than this. The second drink disappears as fast as the first, and now she rests her hands on the railing, looking out over the Tuscan skyline, which even Clint can admit is a sight to behold.

"Great party," he says, and that's not the code, it's just small talk. He's getting kind of bored of the generic classical music that is all the sound he can hear. He's always hated the sound of violins to begin with.

"I've had better," she says. Also not code. It makes Clint smile.

"Make any new friends?" Now he's back to work. He hates small talk even more than violins. He's asking her if she has any leads, because he's got nothing.

"I've met some interesting people," she says. She's not sure yet, but maybe.

Clint accepts a new drink from an attractive barista (still not dry enough). He's pretty sure she's left her post to bring it to him. With a flirty wink and a fond farewell in husky Italian, she's gone. She's a lucky woman; had she stayed any longer, there'd be a kunai in her neck.

"You're certainly popular," his partner says. Her hand is coming out of her purse and going to her hair instead, checking for loose strands. He could laugh at how obvious she is. It's... wrong to use the word 'cute' to describe her- or any derivative thereof- but it doesn't stop the word from coming to him. He could just take her in his arms right now and...

"I've got too much work," he says, and that's their code now. Work is no longer on the table in spite of how it sounds. He means something entirely different, something only she is privy to. He sees a ghost of a grin across her features, but it might just be the champagne kicking in.

"I like that tie," she tells him. Clint looks down on instinct. He's wearing a bowtie, plain and black. Not much to write home about. "His is better."

She's watching a man sitting alone at the bar, nursing a brandy with a sullen look on his face. He stares at the empty stool like a man stood up. Those who walk by and let him in their sights share looks of sympathy before returning to a world that revolves around them. Clint squints his eyes, his eagle-like vision zooming in on a small, square bulge in his jacket pocket.

"Looks like our guest has arrived," he says. The bomber is in the building. "I like him better than the old guy."

That isn't a code of any sort, either theirs or SHIELD's. That was all Clint, and on a better day in a better mood with a little less alcohol in his system, that would never have come out. Clint is bites down on his tongue, both figuratively and literally. He'd like to think his control is enough to keep her from knowing, but that isn't possible. Where he always knows her thoughts and feelings, she always knows his. It's why they work so well together, why Fury keeps pairing them up when any other agent would not be afforded that kind of camaraderie. They are so in sync with each other, that if Clint were a more spiritual man, he'd say they were soulmates, born for the sole purpose of finding each other. He'd like to think she'd agree.

(What is he saying? Of course she does.)

A real smile- one that makes him want to grab her and forget all about this stupid mission- follows her when she starts to move, her hips going back and forth in the same hypnotic way as before, like it was always for his benefit and never for the greasy old men she had to seduce. Her hand slides over his. She guides it to her side, right over the spot where that old bastard had dared to touch her.

"That's all for you," she whispers in his ear. "Later."

Oh, what a tease she is.

Clint would love to take that 'later' now, but their guy is on the move, and this place could go up in flames any second. Allowing his hand to snake around her waist, he pulls her into the circle of his arms and she rests her head on his chest, the top of her hair tickling his chin.

"How about a dance?" he asks, which means he's ready to go if she is.

"Maybe just one," she says, which means she was ready five minutes ago, and what's taking him so long.

He's forgotten if that's their code or SHIELD's, not that it matters.

They re-enter the building hand in hand, while their free ones reach into purses or pockets for whatever deadly weapon they reach first.

All hell is about to break loose.