SHIELD believes in being economical with its funds when it comes to on-base accommodations. 

Clint Barton believes in fucking with the system at any given opportunity.

Natasha Romanoff believes - actually Nat's just done with everybody's shit. 

***

Clint almost misses the fact that the door to his quarters is ajar instead of locked, which says a lot about how accomplished he's feeling about having wheedled the last piece of baklava out of Doreen from the cafeteria. 

Across the room that, while designed to house two, has long been his luxurious one-man accommodation, Natasha's in the process of transferring the contents of a large, SHIELD-issue duffle bag into the second metal locker. 

He's really gotten into his head about how he's going to outsmart Hill's latest measures to protect her secret Nespresso stash and how he will make the most out of the half-eaten confectionary he's still holding almost comically aloft, so he's not at the top of his wit when he finally finds his tongue.

"Er, hi," he greets eloquently, lowering the pastry. "You're... moving in?"

"I can tell why your callsign is Hawkeye," Natasha replies drily, continuing to precisely arrange her folded clothes in the limited space.

"Why are you moving in?  Wait, am I moving out?" Clint asks, watching her place a very small pair of steel-toed boots in the bottom of the locker before closing its door with exaggerated care. 

Facing him, she offers a smile that has little to do with mirth but is probably catalogued somewhere under 'close combat arsenal'. 

"Somebody checked the F rather than the M box on their application for on-base accommodations and the task to assign quarters fell to a new recruit who, let's say, went with the Shakespearean approach as to what is in a name and with commendable tolerance accepted that you are listed as female in your personell file. Which leads to us now being roommates."

Clint flinches, which at least nudges her expression more towards the amusement end of the scales. "That was an inappropriate joke that happened when Bobbi, my ex, was still stationed here. We tried to trick them into placing us in the same quarters. I'm really sorry, Natasha. It didn't even work back then so I thought somebody had just noticed and changed it back. Let me go talk to Seema from records, she knows everybody and can probably fix this mess right away." He points the pastry behind him and is already half-turned to leave when Natasha waves him off. 

"Don't bother. I already tried all that. There's no other options right now as they're still decontaminating the entire eastern barracks after that sex pollen incident in lab 7. Additional camp beds have been put everywhere they could fit them, so we should probably be glad it's just the two of us in here."

Clint pulls a face. "I'm really sorry."

"It's okay. We're both grown-ups. Think of me as just another comrade," Natasha shrugs, folding the now empty duffel and hanging it over the back of one of the chairs. Brushing past him to presumably get the rest of her stuff, she hesitates in the doorway. 

"Unless you snore. In which case I'll slit your throat in your sleep," she adds with a disconcertingly cheerful wink.

*

As unconventional as the arrangement is, it works. After all, this is not a 'there was only one bed' scenario and they are not confined to a shared hotel room on a rainy holiday. On the contrary, life at SHIELD HQ often bears more than passing resemblance to an ant-hill with how busy it is. There simply isn't all that much time they spend in the barracks, even if most days finds them keeping the same hours.

Clint doesn't expect their new situation to drastically change their relationship, but the new proximity does go a long way in helping them understand each other better, an effect that soon shows an undeniable positive impact on their teamwork and budding friendship both. 

While they have worked the odd smaller mission together at this point, Natasha is still predominately kept on-base, which she accepts without complaint. Being the only one who gets to see her apart from the rest of the force, Clint is beginning to learn her tells, and soon he can't miss that she's starting to get increasingly antsy. The frustration is understandable: for someone who has excelled at a variety of strict military trainings, it can't be anything but dull to start all over again as a recruit, rather than transfer and apply previous knowledge to a different organization's existing structures. 

Clint learns of the straw that breaks the camel's back through the grapevine during target practice one day, and the tale is already highly embellished by the time it reaches him. At the core of it seems to be a stupid accident during a sparring session, resulting in a higher-ranking agent with a bruised ego uttering some derogatory remarks unfavourably connecting visual appearance, gender, and fast-tracking the Widow through the lower ranks of SHIELD. The outcome is an instructor with a broken nose and confinement to barracks for provisionary agent Romanoff until a decision has been made whether further disciplinary actions will be taken. 

At that point in the retelling, Clint decides to cut short his training and pack in his bow for the day. 

When he arrives in their shared space, Natasha's foul mood hangs like a thundercloud over her head. While she's still in the standard issue sweat pants, she's stripped to a gym top that is little more than a glorified sports bra. Clint suspects the less than regulation outfit is due to the spray of red droplets he spies among the sweat stains on a more suitable grey t-shirt hanging haphazardly from the edge of her bunk. 

The other thing he notices is that it's been a while since he's seen anybody make shadow boxing sit ups as aggressively as she is right then, not even sparing him a glance as the door falls shut behind him with a metallic snick. 

"You alright?" he asks when it becomes apparent that she's not going to speak first. 

"Always," comes the breathless reply, the steady motion of rising and lowering herself never faltering, the jab of her fists continuously swift and measured. 

"Anything interesting happen today during training?" he tries again, but she doesn't turn, just keeps excersising. It's impossible to say how long she's been at it, but her ponytail's come almost all the way undone and sweat is plastering hair to her skin from her forehead all the way to the nape of her neck. 

Clint's eyes are drawn to her midsection, the punishing crunches she puts herself through, abs straining and releasing, the skin so pale under a sheen of perspiration. Natasha's breath is controlled but audible with exertion and in Clint's mind that makes for a mental connection of a very different kind, blood rushing south without his permission. 

She switches to linking her fingers behind her head, twisting into a sideways crunch and now that her fists are no longer flying, he dares approach, sitting on the edge of his own, lower bunk, just above where she's bracing her feet.

"I hear Agent Rollins had his ugly mug rearranged today," he says in a lighthearted tone. "Haven't seen it yet, but judging by the way he looked before, I can only guess it's an improvement."

She huffs, which may be a laugh or just plain old exhaustion. 

"Don't worry about it. Everybody knows what he's like. There won't be any follow-up."

"Not worried," she pants and Clint mentally chides himself to get his mind out of the fucking gutter. 

"Yeah you're looking perfectly calm there." He rolls his eyes but makes sure to let her know it's in jest. He may not be a genius, but he's smarter than Rollins and happy to keep his nose the way it is.

"Not worried," she repeats, "angry."

With a final moan, she lets herself fall backwards, knees up and together but arms flung wide on the floor, staring at the ceiling as her chest heaves and she slowly catches her breath.

Clint feels like a grade A pervert, but through some superhuman act of self-control manages to keep his eyes firmly on her face. 

"Angry at myself for letting him get to me," Natasha explains, now that she has more air. She props herself up on her elbows and looks at Clint for the first time. A bead of sweat runs down her temple, past the sharp angle of her jaw and disappears down the side of her neck. His eyes steadfastedly do not follow it, but his mind's eye traitorously supplies him with a slow-motion tracking shot past the dip of her throat to disappear into the secret space between her breasts.

"I'm already effectively confined to base. Now it's been strongly hinted I'm expected to go easy on my instructors," she huffs an incredulous laugh. "This is not the kind of job I signed up for. I'm going batshit crazy here."

He wants to make a dumb quip about blowing off steam, but his wit is suddenly as dried up as his mouth. 

If his life was a story, this would be the recurring theme, Clint realizes with rare clarity. He always feels it coming, too, like a hiccup in gravity.  

It's in the fraction of the second before his arrow leaves the string to cause irreversible consequences; in the instant between jumping and falling and eternally in the last shred of rationality before he reliably makes the stupidest fucking decision possible. 

He can't fathom what Natasha reads on his face, but her annoyed expression melts into one that he's tempted to call triumphant, as if seeing the effect she has on him is returning a tiny portion of power where their superiors tried to take some of it away. 

Without breaking eye contact, she parts her knees.

"This is a very bad idea," Clint hears himself say, but he's already sinking to the floor between her feet, crawling over her body, the heat of her flushed skin sinking into his even though they aren't even touching yet. 

"An exceptionally bad idea," she agrees, her voice admirably level. Still leaning on her elbows, she bares her neck, and this time he allows himself to look his fill. 

Holding himself above her body, only his gaze roams where his tongue longs to go; following the taut lines of her shoulder towards her clavicle and further down towards her chest. He can make out the stiff peaks of her breasts through the fabric of her top, the still-glistening sheen of fresh sweat on her abs and below, the red band of skin where the waist of her track pants has bitten into it. 

"Is it too cliché to tell you that my eyes are up here?" she says, amusement evident in her voice.

"I don't know, is it too cliché to admit I wasn't thinking about your face just then?" he replies, warmth pooling in his gut as her laugh washes over him. He motions for her to scoot up, to give him room to sit on his haunches between her legs, helpless to stop himself from grinning back at her when she goes willingly.

Clint considers leaning in and kissing that challenging smirk off her face.  

Something at the back of his mind tells him that's just the way things are done, that there's a certain order to be upheld in such situations, but the provocative glint in her eye tells him that he might get his lips bitten bloody for the courtesy. So instead, he returns her slightly manic grin, never breaking eye contact as he lowers himself and without further ado, presses his open mouth to the thick fabric covering her sex.

The gasp this earns him is sweet music to his ears and he seals his lips to the material, breathing out long and hot against her center, the layers of cloth spreading warmth evenly between her legs. In his periphery, Clint feels more than sees her whole body grow taught, soles of her trainers flat on the floor and hands curled into fists as she strains not to close her legs around his head. He mouths at the increasingly damp sweat pants, pushes the folds and creases against her core without holding anything back, as if, if only he tried hard enough, he genuinely could eat her through all those layers.

Where the previous noise was sweet, there is no word in his vocabulary for the sensation caused by the sudden hitch in her breathing; the way her thighs begin to quiver as he moves his lips over her. The scent of her exertion and cresting arousal makes for an intoxicating mix and it's spurring him on, making Clint's head swim as he chases her pleasure almost selfishly. With her clothes still separating them like this, finesse won't win him any favours. He uses his chin, even the blunt front of his teeth against her, nipping and biting hungrily in a way that has her gasping for more where it would be too harsh against bare flesh. 

Panting unevenly, Natasha loses all coherency. 

Driven by the sight of the muscles of her belly spasming, Clint reaches for her fists, their hands joining in a desperate clutch. His mind is spinning with the heady, mouth-watering scent of her sex, and a joyful, disbelieving laugh is pressed into her as she comes apart underneath him. She's shaking like a leaf all over as she spreads her knees wider, canting her hips and pushing damp fabric against his mouth, a guttural moan all but tearing from her lips. 

The ticking of the clock on the wall and her erratic breath are the only noise in the room for a long moment. 

Clint pulls back, self-satisfied and hungry in equal measures, his own arousal an almost painful presence edging into his awareness.

He cracks his neck a little bashfully, unable to stop himself from the pleased laugh bubbling up when Natasha, who has dropped down onto her back, shows no sign of getting up from the floor anytime soon.

"You okay there?" he asks after giving her a minute to recover.

"Always," she replies, but this time it lacks heat. "If you've got any more of this particular brand of bad ideas, I'm all ears," she adds, and the shaky timbre of her laugh is something Clint is sure he'll never grow bored of. 

This time he does bend over her boneless sprawl, his hands on either side of her head. When he slowly lowers himself on top of her, he makes sure to give her ample opportunity to object. Not that he isn't aware that she could kill him with her pinkie, if she decides he is out of line.

"Well, there's this one other idea I've got," he says, his body flush against hers, the length of him hard, insistent and unmistakable against the drenched junction of her thighs. "I can't say it's an alltogether innovative concept, but it's proven quite, mhh, let's say satisfying in the past," he offers, waggling his eyebrows. 

"Gotta respect the classics," she says, and finally pulls him in for that kiss.