What Happens in Vegas
When Natasha opened her eyes, she was met by a screaming migraine and the sound of Clint vomiting in the bathroom. Chto yebut… she thought, rubbing her temples. The last time she felt this hungover was nearly sixty years ago when one of her classmates in the Red Room had smuggled vodka into the barracks. It had been her first experience with heavy drinking, and she hated life the whole next day. The mixture of painful memories and throbbing behind her eyes made for one hell of an agonizing cocktail. Jesus Christ, was I doing keg-stands last night?
“Clint,” Nat groaned, pushing herself up from between the crusty motel sheets. “What the fuck did we get into last night?”
They were supposed to be undercover as an engaged couple celebrating their pending nuptials with a night out on the Strip so to better investigate a kingpin with weapons connections to Hydra. It was a grocery run mission compared to what they used to do before the fall of SHIELD, but hey, had to start somewhere. Besides, it gave them an excuse for some one-on-one time that was becoming less and less common with the reassembling of the Avengers. Being on a team was great, but every once in a while it was nice to do a mission with just her partner. No matter how close she became with any of the other guys, Clint remained her most compatible field support and dearest friend. The last thing she remembered was walking into the casino on his arm; him suited up to the nines and her dressed to kill. It was just like old times, playing their roles with ease while scoping out the entire floor layout. If only she could remember what happened after that…
Natasha moved to brush a handful of loose hair out of her face, only to find her hand meeting a long strip of tulle. Mind still muddled, she impatiently ripped the fabric off her head and flung it onto the floor to get a better look. It took a few moments of irksome analysis before she realized what the thing really was: a wedding veil.
“Clint?!” she screamed, grabbing the veil and kicking in the door to the bathroom. “What. The. Fuck. Is this?!”
She found her archer hunched on the floor in a classic position of prayer to the porcelain god. His suit jacket and bowtie were tossed aside into the shower and his shoes had somehow found their ways into the sink. His face might have been green, as it usually was the mornings after he drank too much, but she couldn’t get a good look through the matching veil that was perched on the crown of his head.
“Nat…” he moaned. “Please shoot me…”
Natasha rolled her eyes and grabbed Clint by the back collar of his dress shirt, hauling him to his feet despite his adamant whines of protest. She threw him up against the bathroom wall, knowing full well he was probably still too shitfaced to stand on his own, and stepped aside in case there was anything left in his stomach. Good god, he looked even worse than she felt. Clint had always been a lightweight, but this was just pathetic. The frilly white headdress would have been a comical touch if she had even the slightest piece of context. She turned on the faucet and used her spare hand to splash some cold water on his face, pulling another pitiful moan from his off-colored lips.
“Focus, Clint! Why the hell did we wake up in a trashy Vegas motel in wedding veils?”
“I don’t know…” he grumbled. “Did we get married or something?”
“Shit, Clint, did we? Because I sure as hell don’t know?”
She was about to go off on him even more when both their phones “dinged” at the same time. Sighing heavily, Nat let Clint go to rummage through the sheets in search of her cell, finding it in a nest of pantyhose and slips. Three new text messages from Tony Stark. Odd. What the hell could he possibly want?
‘Cap and I stopped by to check on you two last night. Congrats!’ It was followed by two slightly blurry cellphone camera photos: the first of her and Clint kissing in front of a man dressed in a horribly cheesy Elvis Presley costume, the second of Natasha throwing a bouquet of plastic flowers into a crowd of what looked like drunk frat boys.
Natasha felt her entire face drain of blood. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no!
“CLINT, I WANT A DIVORCE!”