"I'd never fake my death without you being in on it," Clint claimed, pushing back at her knee. "Except if, you know, I'm MIA and presumed dead and stranded somewhere. Then it's completely your fault for not finding me alive sooner than you do."

He leaned forward, shifting his weight and getting onto his feet. "Yeah, I know," he said, heading back for the fridge to get the bottle of vodka, which frosted immediately as soon as he took it back out of the freezer compartment. Natasha had punched him before, in training, when she was holding back. For such a little girl, she had a pretty powerful right hook. "You're expressively violent. It's what makes you so charming and sweet."

He stood next to the couch, topping up her drink from where it was balanced on her stomach, then reaching for the other glass to fill it as well.