Phil/Clint, shipwrecked on a tropical island
"How did we even get here?" Clint shouts, as if that will change their situation.
"A Hydra taskforce attacked us," Phil says calmly. "We were lucky to escape."
"But weren't we supposed to be somewhere colder?!"
"Where we were going is classified." Phil watches as Clint unceremoniously sheds his jacket and shirt and drops them onto the ground at their feet. "I wouldn't advise removing your trousers unless you happen to have seen shelter from the sun. I can't imagine that getting sunburned would be particularly comfortable."
"Yeah, well, in case you hadn't noticed, we're kind of soaked in seawater. I'm going to get a rash that would be even more uncomfortable than a sunburn would be." Clint turns to face Phil, unbuttoning his trousers. "I can't imagine you're too comfortable, in your damp regulation-issue suit."
"I'll dry." He does take off his jacket, though, and rolls up his sleeves.
"So, you think there are people around here?"
"I rather doubt it. We should find somewhere to wait to be picked up."
Clint gives him an odd look. "How are they going to know to pick us up? We don't exactly have—oh, you're all prepared for everything with your phone in a dry bag, aren't you?"
"We were on a boat, Clint. Of course I packed a dry bag."
He stops with the buttons on his trousers and pulls at Phil's tie instead. "You always think of everything."
"I strive to be prepared for any situation."
"In that case, you think you could wait a little while before you call for our rescue?"
"I think that can be arranged."
When they finally get picked up several hours later, Agent Hill gives them dry scrubs and the courtesy of not mentioning Phil's ruined suit or the unusual bruises they've picked up since that morning.