Mexico was nice. Clint leaned back in his beach chair and rubbed at the scar on his leg; it ached despite the hot sun. But he liked Mexico, and he liked the sight of Natasha in a white bikini swaying across the sand, margarita in hand and red hair blowing in the breeze.
They started out as rivals, two assassins working for the same boss, and there was only room for one hitman at the top. Much to their mutual annoyance, they ended up on the same job, both given the assignment probably in the hope that one would kill the other. They killed the mark together, because it was that or die trying to finish the job separately.
Clint found Natasha in his bed that night, naked and seductive, and he knew she was there to kill him. He fucked her anyway, pinned her to the bed and fucked her until she screamed, and then she took her turn, tying his hands to the headboard and blowing his mind.
After that night, they decided they worked well together, in bed and out of it. He was the guns and she was the brains. She was a beautiful distraction and he never missed a shot. They stole from the best, traded in secrets, killed for the highest bidder.
Natasha settled on her chair, a smile curving the corner of her lips, the sun bright on her pale skin.
“You were thinking about ditching me in Stark’s lab,” Clint said, and Natasha looked at him from the corner of her eye. “Why didn’t you? Or are you going to ditch me here? Or, better yet, kill me? That way you’d get all the money.”
One last job, and they could tell Justin Hammer to go fuck himself. Just break into Stark Industries and steal the schematics for a weaponized suit, and then they could take the money and run, go hide out in Mexico until the furor died down, and then they could go anywhere.
Stark caught Natasha in his lab. Clint had never been in a Mexican standoff before, but he trusted Tasha’s trigger finger more than he was worried about Stark’s. Rich boy probably never shot a gun before in his life.
Natasha saw the guards before Clint did. A bullet hit him in the thigh, and he went down, but she kept her gun on Stark. She thought about leaving Clint there, but something held her back. She wasn’t used to the feeling, but she thought it might be loyalty.
“You two are good,” Stark said, thumbing the safety back on and setting his gun to the side. “I don’t know how you got through my security, so you’re probably the best. I can’t believe Hammer could actually afford you. Why don’t you put your guns down, kids, and we can work out a deal.”
Stark’s pocketbook was bigger. They left Hammer drowning in his own blood and wiped his company clean.
Mexico was nice, and Stark’s paycheck—plus a little extra skimmed off of his accounts—sat in an account in Switzerland with two names on it—not their real names, but they laid claim to it anyway.
Natasha took a long, salty sip of her margarita, rolling his words around in her mind the way she rolled the tequila and lime around her tongue. “I like you,” she finally said. “I like having you around.”
He could read her well—he was the only one who could read her. That was as good as he would get from Natasha, but she might as well have come out and said that she loved him. When she kissed him, he could taste salt and lime and Patrón Silver.
Clint sat back in his beach chair and wondered when they would get bored. There was always another job.
