The music thunders in Clint's ears, so loud he can feel every beat roll through his whole body. He takes another sip of his daiquiri – virgin, because alcohol belongs to a past life, not this one, a new chance – and closes his eyes. He lets the song blast away all those maudlin thoughts that have been swirling around in his head day in, day out, for the past couple of weeks.  

The mission Kate gave him, to go out on a Saturday night and chat up someone, anyone, just to get back into the swing of things, is only half accomplished. But maybe that's okay. He's here. He got off the couch, picked out something nice to wear, dress pants and dark purple shirt. He took the subway and he went to a club he's seen ads for on his commute to work. So what if he doesn't find anyone to chat up tonight? It's a start. He's sure Kate will agree. 

And then she'll promptly start hounding him to do it all again next weekend. 

Clint sighs, downs the rest of his daiquiri and decides that getting off the bar and closer to the dance floor would be a good step forward. He remembers a time when he genuinely loved this; being a part of the mass of bodies swaying to the music, exchanging smiles, floating towards another person as if it was the easiest thing in the world. 

Now here he is, ten years later; divorced, depressed, and really pretty sure his market value as a partner for dancing and more has dropped considerably. He hovers by the edge of the dance floor, one of those sad losers who kinda wants to dance but also sort of doesn't have the balls, when he catches sight of a woman in a tight white dress with sequins that catch the light just right, red hair pulled into a messy bun, holding a long drink in one hand, while the other... oh. 

With her other arm, she's half-embracing a guy that's no less gorgeous than her, if a little less eye-catching, dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt, hair tousled as if they've just returned from a wild make-up session in the bathroom that affected him far more than it did her. 

And Clint doesn't feel jealousy. He feels want. He wants both of them. It's an irrational desire – he likes to think he's not the kind of man who'd willingly break up someone else's relationship, for one, and also these two look so lost in each other that Clint's sure no one could get between them. A brief flash of disappointment brings with it the idea to drown his sorrows with a series of shoots at the bar, but it's gone as quickly as it appeared. It's not like he truly lost anything, and hey, at least he gained confirmation that his libido is still alive and well. 

He watches the woman go up on her tiptoes to whisper something into the guy's ear – or yell, rather, with the volume of the music. He watches them smile at each other conspiratorially and files the sight away as fuel for some alone time later, at home. He watches her take the guy's hand and lead him through the crowd. 

He shakes his head a little, then, to get rid of the delusion that they might be heading towards him. 

Clint turns his back on the dance floor and heads back to the bar. That might mean he'll leave without fulfilling the second half of his assignment from Kate, but it's the safer route. He's clearly not ready for more than that. Some other time, in a few weeks, or months, or maybe never. Being single isn't so bad. He's got friends and a dog and a good job. He'll be fine. 

“That's rude,” a lovely female voice says suddenly, from right behind him. Clint pivots, turning around on his heel to stare into that beautiful face of the woman in the white dress, her beaming smile now obviously aimed at him. “First you flirt with us, and then you run away.”

“Us?” Clint parrots - although it's hardly more than a mumble, directed more to himself than to her - and her smile turns into a bit of a mischievous smirk. She nods her head at the side and next to her, the guy she was dancing with gives a little wave. It’s sort of dorky and, dare Clint say, shy, but he too is smiling at Clint. Directly at Clint. Unmistakable. 

The guy then inclines his head, concern weaving into his expression. “Natasha,” he says, glancing at his dance partner (girlfriend, wife, Clint has no idea). “Look, now you spooked him.” 

Natasha hugs the guy from behind, cheek resting against his shoulder. She's still smirking, but the look on her face but a little more mild; a little more curious, a little less femme fatale. “I'm sorry if I came on too strong,” she says. “We noticed you were looking at us and we thought you might like to have a drink, talk for a bit, see where it leads.” She goes on her tiptoes again to kiss the guy's neck. “This is James. I'm Natasha. Nice to meet you.” 

“Uhh,” Clint stammers. “Yes. Sure. I mean, I'd love to.” But, okay. Nope. That's not good enough. They took the first step, after all he did was look. They want him. There's no reason to be so self-conscious. He stands up straight and takes a deep breath. “Clint. My name is Clint. Hi.” 

James beams at him and all Clint wants is to freeze this moment in time – or be the reason for a smile like that, again and again and again, if he's allowed. Natasha gazes up at him like she feels the same and winks at Clint - encouraging, intimate, like she understands exactly, like they're in this together. She raises her glass in a salute and extends her other hand in Clint's direction, stepping towards him. 

Clint takes her hand.