A/N: I have had this stuck in my head all day, imagining the mischief Clint could get up with the comms on missions. Hope you like this completely random bit of playfulness. I self-edited, forgive me for any sloppy errors. Switches between Nat and Clint's perspective. Thoughts in italics, singing in bold italics.

Disclaimer: I own many things, some useful, some not, but I don't own any of the characters, situations, or places I have played with in this story. But oh, to dream.


A Still Small Voice

"How long did it take you to master it?" There was a soft thunk following the questions as Clint extended his collapsible bow. He peered over the lip of the roof, down to the hotel room where his conversational partner was positioned.

"Six months." There was a slight delay between the movement of her bright red lips and the sound of Natasha's voice in his comm. At least she was playing along. They had been working missions together for several months now, and she had finally started responding to his continuous sarcastic commentary and inquiry.

"Not a chance. There is no way you can assimilate that much in that amount of time." Clint knew that would get her. She loved proving him wrong. This was even more entertaining than baiting Coulson.


"Americans, always believing their world to be beyond the understanding of their enemies." Natasha moved around the room, making sure that she knew the layout and its obstacles as if her life depended on it, as it just might.

"I sense a challenge, Nat." She could almost see the smirk that was dripping from his words. "Care to prove your mastery?" Natasha sighed, knowing that she would play his game. The incessant chatter which had infuriated her during their initial partnership had become an almost soothing reassurance of his vigilance. He even managed to amuse her from time to time.

"Rules?" She looked at her watch. Only a few minutes before her mark was scheduled to arrive. She placed two glasses out, iced the champagne, and tucked the liquid sedative just beneath her bra strap.

"Interesting hiding place, Agent." He chuckled as she made a rude gesture in the direction of the window. "So, where were we? Ah, rules. American Pop Culture for 500. I give a clue, you give me the reference."

"Jeopardy," she said immediately, just to irritate him. "And when exactly am I supposed to complete this little assessment? He is due any moment."

"Well, you did say you wanted a challenge."


Clint began snicker as a not-so-quiet oath was muttered by the beautiful red-head he had in his sights.

"Yes, my dear Tasha, I am indeed an ass, but I am a smart one." He saw the tilt of her lips as she fought to conceal her amusement at his antics. Lord, but he loved the challenge of amusing her.

The knock at the door pulled her focus back to the task at hand. Just before she reached the door, she turned back to the wall of windows and winked. "Challenge accepted."

He watched as the door was opened to reveal their target, who looked to be getting quite an eyeful as she let her hands wander over her well-displayed curves. She stepped back to let him enter.

Clint's ear was soon filled flirtatious banter, as the gun-runner's valet began to regale her with tales of his recent travels. Damn. She didn't even have to ask, men just stumbled over themselves to give her intel. He decided to throw her a curve ball, see how well she played it.

"First question. This will be a musical clue. I just want your extra time and your kiss." Clint sang horribly off-key, making kissing sounds into his microphone.


The valet had just gushed over her beauty, and she giggled and tapped him on the shoulder. "Well, aren't you just a PRINCE."

"Good call. You may just ace this test, after all."

Between the blathering of this hopelessly clueless lackey and the whispers of her puckish partner, Natasha was quite occupied, but she had to admit that this was making this rather bland assignment much more entertaining.

Clint had gone silent for a few moments, but soon she heard him pick up again in a horrible falsetto. "There's no place like home, there's no place like home."

With timing so perfect, she could have kissed him (or maybe not, with the deadly breath of his), the valet began boasting of how he played a powerful role in his boss's household. She looked into his eyes, feigning the awe and admiration he was looking for. "I feel like Dorothy meeting the Wizard of Oz. You have such an important job." The dazzled man didn't even twitch at the randomness of her response as she shifted closer and placed her hand on his chest.

"Well done. I thought I would get you with that one," he chuckled.


Clint allowed a brief respite to her quizzing as she pumped the fool for the movements, locations, meet schedules, and opposition numbers. When all the information needed had been extracted and the boy was starting to get a lot more handsy than Clint appreciated, Natasha stood up and strolled seductively to the bar. She poured the champagne, slipping the drug into the valet's glass.

"Let's see, Question #3, that's where we left off, yes? Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn." He smiled, hoping that this throwback reference would stump her.

Natasha toasted the evening, encouraging the poor schlub to drink by taking two long sips. "I probably shouldn't drink this champagne too quickly," she purred, "my inhibitions will be Gone with the Wind." Well, hell, so much for getting her with an oldie.

She walked back over to the couch, leaving herself open for the sloppy advances of the moron. He was already showing signs of the drug. He was drooling all over her neck, but his head suddenly seemed a bit loose on his neck.

"I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti." He even made the slurping sound, but he ruined menacing quality of the line with a quiet snicker.


Natasha rolled her eyes in Clint's direction as she pushed the nearly-unconscious boy off of her neck, looking him in his heavy-lidded eyes. "What ever is wrong, darling. You're as Silent as a Lamb!" Thankfully, he was too far gone to notice the lack of sincerity or true concern in her question. He fell soundlessly to the side a moment later.

"You are lucky I give points for partial answers. Now that he is out of the way, let's continue!" She pinched her lips as she tried not to offer Clint an encouraging laugh. She patted pockets, looking for anything useful.

"My name is Inigo Montoya.."

She cut him off quickly, "…You killed my father, prepare to die. Princess Bride." She even used the accent. She huffed noisily as she rolled the limp body over, splashing a bit of the champagne on his shirt and positioning him with a bottle tucked in his arm. Checking the room, she once again faced the windows. "Ready to concede to my mastery?" she asked, eyebrow quirked.


"Last question, as you have about two minutes before you are meeting me on the roof for extraction. Musical clue once again. Took my Chevy to the levy, but the levy was dry."

This time Natasha didn't hide from him her cringe at the tuneless singing. She simply slipped out the door of the room and up the stairs.

There was a pause, and as Clint slid down the zip-line to the roof, he was thinking perhaps he had actually stumped her.

She slipped soundlessly out of the roof access door and sauntered over to him with a small smile. Patting him softly on the cheek, she walked to the just-landed helicopter and climbed on, and turned back to him with a victorious grin.

"The day you actually baffle me, Agent Barton, that truly will be the Day the Music Died."

A/N: I don't have anything planned, but I would love to continue the banter. I would love to hear any requests for situations you would like to read. As always, I hope to hear from you! Thanks so much for reading!