"Barton, Romanoff? Your mission reports on the Rio op could not be more different. Care to explain?"

Coulson sounds weary as he pinches his nose. Clint looks at Natasha, Natasha looks at Clint. They both talk at once.

“Honestly? I couldn’t really see through the slime, sir.” “I think maybe the sand got in my eyes?”

Coulson takes a deep breath.

“So, which was it – sand or slime? Make up your minds, agents.”

Natasha looks at Clint, Clint looks at Natasha. He shrugs. Your turn, babe.

“What if it was both? Truth is a matter of perception,” she says.

Coulson is not amused. “That’s like saying protesters at a Nazi rally are the same as the Nazis, depending which side of the road you’re standing on.”

Clint stretches in his seat like a cat and leans forward.

“Now you know that’s bullshit, sir. We know what Nazis looks like. Swastikas, anyone? But aliens? Who knows what they make you see or feel like, once they mess with your brain.”

Natasha nods in agreement.

“And that guy with the orange spaghetti for hair? Definitely from outer space.”

Coulson looks down at his papers and shuffles them around for a bit.

“Fine,” he says, sounding displeased. “Never thought either of you might be vulnerable to mental manipulation. We'll file this under 'momentary lapse of clarity.' But now I suggest you both go and take a shower. That vodka the alien poured over you stinks to high heaven.”