The Budapest Objective

One

Clint Barton walked into the cafeteria, looking for his partner. He was an agent of the Strategic Homeland Interventions, Enforcement and Logistics Division, or SHIELD, as it was more commonly known. He spotted her right away, eating a late lunch. Her red hair gave her away instantly.

“Hey, Romanoff, has Fury told you about the debriefing tonight?” Barton asked his partner, sitting down next to her.

“No, I haven't heard anything about it,” Natasha Romanoff replied. “What wild goose-chase has Fury got us on this time?”

“It's no wild goose-chase. Well, not this time, anyway. Some idiot's held up in Budapest, Hungary, making some kind of weaponized army.”

“Sounds fun, but why isn't he sending in more SHIELD agents? It sounds like it could get pretty messy.”

Clint smirked. “Well, Fury knows a winning team when he sees one.”

Natasha shot him a look. Her storm grey eyes relayed a clear warning. “And what's that supposed to mean, Agent Barton?”

“Only that we hardly ever fail a mission,” he said, shrugging.

“What time's the debrief?”

“Seven,” Barton replied, grabbing a slice of apple off her plate.

Natasha grabbed his wrist and twisted it, causing him to let the apple slice fall to the floor. “There's food over there, Barton,” she said, coolly.

Natasha hated people messing with her food. Too many failed attempts on her life. It was lucky she had built up an immunity to so many different poisons.

Clint held up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright.”

Some of the most fun he had was teasing Natasha. It was never clear to him if she liked it or not, but it was still fun. Especially when he got her to tease him back.

“You know,” he said, getting up and walking over to the food. “They say an apple a day keeps the doctor away.”

“An apple a day will keep anyone away,” Natasha commented. “If thrown hard enough.”

Clint smirked. He grabbed an apple and chucked it behind him. He heard the soft thump as it hit Natasha’s back.

She turned on him like a panther. “Did you just throw that at me?”

“Throw what at you?” Clint asked, a little too innocently.

Natasha’s eyes narrowed. “I don't think you want an injury before we go out on the field, Barton.”

“Why would you hurt me? I didn't do anything.”

Natasha frowned. She picked up the apple that had hit her, and after a momentary lapse of reason, she threw it at him. It hit him on the back of the head.

“Ouch!” he exclaimed. He turned to look at her. “Did you just chuck that apple at me?”

“Chuck what apple at you?” she asked, with the same level of innocence that he'd been using on her.

He picked the apple up off the ground. “This apple.”

“Well, if I did, you deserved it.” Natasha turned back to her plate. She stabbed a baked sweet potato with her fork and brought it half way to her mouth. She stiffened as what felt like mashed potatoes hit her in the back of the neck.

Natasha turned her eyes back to Clint, who was trying hard to suppress a smile. Her eyes gleamed with anger. Before she really thought about it, she grabbed a handful of macaroni and threw it at him. It hit him in the face with a satisfying splat.