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Summary
“I want to fuck the team,” Clint says one day, out of the blue while he’s making breakfast. It’s four in the morning and they’re the only ones awake, Nat sitting on the counter in her workout gear, with her hair piled into a bun and her eyes on her Stark-approved e-reading device (“Every book in the world,” Tony had said. “Even the ones that aren’t technically published yet.”). His hands don’t even shake when he says it, despite the fact that he’s been anxious over it for the past two or three weeks.
“No, you want the team to fuck you,” Natasha replies, eyes never leaving her not-a-Kindle-damn-it-Barton. “There’s a difference.”
“Semantics. But yeah.”
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