Universe: Strike Team Delta/Pre-Avengers. Elements of Fraction comic book Clint, though. Can really take place in MCU or comics universe, where ever your mind chooses to take you.

Warnings: meh, drunken shenanigans and language

Pairings: Clintasha towards the end if ya squint

A/N: I found the prompt on coffin-prompts. Also, a bit inspired by a scene from Friends. Prompt in bold.

She woke up with a painful thump as her bedmate ever so rudely landed the finishing kick to off her from the hotel bed.

"I never thought it'd be you kicking me out of bed," Natasha said blandly, looking up at her partner. "Always thought it'd be the other way around."

Clint looked at her with bewildered, gray eyes encircled with the bruised tones of a hangover, hair sticking up in all directions like he'd just emerged from woodland underbrush. He had absolutely no fucking clue what was going on right now.

"Tasha?" He coughed to clear the raspiness of sleep from his voice.

He'd woken up with the feeling of a warm body next to him, and his first instinct told him surely an enemy was going for his throat, so his first reaction was just to get them away.

"Did we -? Uh, what I mean is, uh -"

After all, he was just in his boxer briefs, and she in a tank top and boy short panties.

"No, of course not," she scoffed. "You were incredibly drunk, so I brought you back to the hotel room. I took your clothes off, so you'd be more comfortable. That's it," she said with finality.

He gestured to her clothing.

"Well, I wanted to be comfortable too."

He nodded his understanding. Then a wide-eyed look of fear crossed his face.

"Wait, I got so drunk, I can't remember the last half of the night! Nat, I - I do things when I get really shitfaced."

She looked up at him with a small smirk. "I know."

"Aw, shit, what'd I do?"

"No, no, it was a good thing," Natasha assured him. "Nobody suspected the guy who ended up playing 'Wipeout' on his ass, pants pulled down, by the way, while stood up on the grand piano and his date could ever be spies. So I was able to grab JC's phone while I shared a dance with him, nab the SIM card, and put it back in his pocket. You were a great diversion; he was totally unaware."

Clint's eyebrows shot up with interest, and he perked up a bit.

"Jay-Z was there?"

"JC," she said enunciating each letter. "As in Justin Carlisle, the arms dealer."

"Aw, Jay-Z, no," he whined, disappointed.

Natasha waited for a moment.

"Wait, I did what while I was drunk?!"

"There it is," Natasha quipped. "'Wipeout' by The Surfaris on your bare ass. Standing on a piano."

"I did not!"

Natasha smiled again and reached for her phone on the bedside table. "I never knew you were a drummer, Clint."

"Oh, oh, God, please, no," he whimpered as she showed him the footage. "Delete it. Delete it now," he demanded.

"I can't. Coulson will want a full report, written with all audio and video accompanying supplementation." She suppressed a smile that wanted to stretch across her mouth.

"This does not need to be included in the report!" Clint insisted beginning to reach for her phone.

Natasha quickly shoved the phone into her bra.

"I'll go in there," Clint said in all seriousness.

"Do it," Natasha dared him. "It'll be nice to hear your explanation of how you acquired two broken hands along with your explanation of your little concert performance."

Clint sighed and pouted, looking far too adorable for Natasha to bear.

"I'll delete it," she told him. "Under one condition."

"What? Yeah. I'll do anything," he readily agreed.

"You do a private encore. Right here, right now. Just for me."

And impish smirk graced her face, and her eyes twinkled. Clint bit his lip and grinned.

"Anything for you, Tasha."