She laughs at his fedora. Every time they go on a job he always has to have the loudest, Hawai'an-style shirts and goofiest hats. Fedoras aren't goofy by definition. Some men seem to pull them off well.

Clint, in true Clint Barton form, has chosen one far too small for his head. Any hat would be too big for his head, she thinks as she purses her lips at him. It sits awkwardly askew. He's also not wearing socks with his trainers and his linen pants are too short, in her opinion.

"It's rakish," he argues, dodging out of the way of her hands. He swats her hands away half-heartedly. Natasha tries to adjust it — he looks like a tourist but she supposes that's the point. When killing people in tourist traps, they have to play the role the same as anywhere else.

"It looks ridiculous. You'll spend more time keeping it on your head than paying attention to our mark." She crosses her arms. Anyone walking by might think they are having a lover's spat by the exasperated expression on her face.

"I'm focused, Tasha. Don't look at me like that." Crossing his eyes he pulls the side of his mouth up into a crooked grin.

Natasha responds with a simple lift of one red brow. "Just be quiet. Or I'll make you quiet."

This earns a look from him that is nothing but trouble. It's almost a challenge, but she knows he knows better.

They sit at a wire table in matching wire chairs across the street from the location. Clint can't seem to go on a job without food or drink in his hand, so he's brought seared ahi tacos. How he can drink hot coffee in this weather, she may never know. One foot props up on the chair where she's sitting. It's a casual gesture, one she hardly notices anymore.

"There he is," he tells her, taking half the taco in a single bite. A slight tilt of his head gives her the direction she needs to look, and she rests her face on her loosely-curled fist without really putting weight against it. He crunches away and watches while she pours on more Tapatio. "Cholua goes better with these. Really. Try the pineapple salsa." He holds out the little dish of salsa to dump onto her food.

His attention is grabbed by something outside her field of vision. She can't see it without turning around.

Clint coughs and sputters, nearly choking, and drops the plastic dish into her lap.

"Clint. For crying out loud." She tries to keep her voice low and her face casual. Dry cleaning might not be able to get the stain out of her sundress. "What's gotten into you?"

Curiosity winning over, she follows his line of sight to their mark. The blonde woman who's just joined the middle-aged man they've followed since Rome has that particular walk. Natasha has to look twice to make sure she's right. It can't be …

Clint gets up out of his chair too fast. It falls over and rattles as the back hits the ground and bounces.

"Clint, no," she says through a convincing smile and clenched teeth. "Are you all right, dear?" she asks, her voice raised just slightly.

"I'll be right back."

Gripping his arm tightly, she turns her head up towards his. "No." She's smiling again. Her eyes flick around to make sure no one is watching them too closely. Only a little girl, pigtails crooked and hair mussed turns when the chair hit the pavement. "You'll spook the pigeons."

"I have to see." He pulls his arm, but her grip has always been firm.

"She's gone, Clint. You know that."

He pauses as if he's going to take another step. There's conflict on his face, but after a few heartbeats, it melts into anguish then smoothly into a smile.

"I think they gave you decaf instead, babe. I'll just go inside and get that set right." Nodding, he closes his eyes for just a moment, then snatches up the coffee he goes inside.

Her eyes follow him through the plate of the windows. There is no pity on her face. It's a useless emotion, and he has even less use for it. Clint has his pride, and she lets him have it when possible. Her peripheral vision catches him as he dumps the cup in the trash and heads for the washroom.

Natasha turns back to her food, giving him just a moment. He only needs one. Even she knows time doesn't heal all wounds.