Edinburgh, UK (06/05/2006)
“One more song lyric out of you and I will castrate you with one finger, birdbrain,” Natasha seethed, her knuckles white around the steering wheel. “I put the radio on to listen to the news, not to listen to you screeching ‘Never gonna give you up’ at the top of your lungs.”
Clint laughed, the sound overly loud in the small car, and Natasha shook her head. “I don’t know what Coulson expected. He should have let me bring my gun,” she griped, slamming her head against the headrest in frustration. “Then at least I could shoot you.”
“Come on, Natty, we both know Coulson loves me too much to let you shoot me.” He flashed her a sweet smile, one arm hanging out of the car, the crisp Scottish air making his hair more of a mess than it usually was. “Plus, it’s just a song. I think it’s the traffic making you antsy.”
Natasha huffed, knowing that Clint was probably right.
“I just don’t see why Coulson needed to send us here. It’s barely a mission. Surely they could send someone else?”
Clint’s snicker annoyed her more than his singing had, and she punched him lightly.
“Okay, okay!” He shifted, the coffee cup in his hand spilling a little. “Aw, coffee. Nat, look what you made me do.” He huffed and shook his head, his little smile betraying him. “Look, Coulson sent us here to set up a safehouse. If it’s us doing it, then it’s only us that know about it. Coulson said, pick a spot in Edinburgh. We picked the house, we bought it, and now we’re going to IKEA to get furniture for it, because someone decided they wanted to do it themselves-!” Natasha slung her arm around his neck, grabbing him in a headlock, and they were silent for a few moments before they both started snickering.
“I’ve never been to IKEA, Clint. I've never bought a house or furniture or set up. I’ve lived in safehouses, but never my own, never one I’ve put together myself, designed the traps, the safety measures, the cameras.” Natasha’s face was turned away, and she watched the traffic with a feigned intensity. Clint sighed, and turned, wrapping his arm around Natasha.
She flinched, at first; Clint squeezed a little and she relaxed into his hold. “I have to keep my eyes on the road,” she protested weakly, but he waved a hand flippantly, rolling up his window and hugging her.
“We’ve been stuck here for fifteen minutes, it’s not going to start moving as soon as you hug me.” Clint rested his head on Natasha’s shoulder, pleased when she did the same to him. “This is for us. Even Coulson doesn’t know exactly where it is. It’s for the two of us, and if we ever get another teammate, for them too.”
They stayed like that for a few seconds before the car in front of them started to move, and the car behind let out a long blast on the horn. Both assassins jumped, and the car shook. Clint picked up his coffee as Natasha hit the gas, pressing both of them back in their seats. The coffee spilt over Clint’s hand, and he hissed as he transferred the cup to his other hand so he could frantically shake his poor, burnt hand. “Aw, coffee, no,” he whined, while Natasha snickered behind him.
--
Stood in the lobby of IKEA, Natasha looked up at the escalator rising to the second floor, eyes wide.
“Clint, is this how people buy furniture? It won’t fit in the car! How-” She was cut off by Clint’s undignified snorting.
“Don’t worry, itsy bitsy, we buy flatpacks. This-” he punctuated his sentence with a wave towards the sofas and coffee tables visible - “is just the showroom.”
After picking up their preliminary supplies, Clint and Natasha walked into the showroom, decked out with sunglasses, pencils behind their ears, order sheets tucked in their pockets and paper tape measures looped around their necks. Natasha really got into it, scribbling down the name and number of every item she liked, pushing the trolley like it was a pram - Clint took a more laissez-faire attitude, relying on her notes and jumping around the shop, pointing out things that would look nice.
“Okay, we have some lovely bay windows in the bedroom that we’ve got specially tinted, so no-one is going to be looking in, but we do have a lovely view - I’m thinking we could try this coffee table with this set of chairs? It’s in a lovely mahogany-” Natasha was cut off by Clint’s excited squeal.
“This would be perfect for a target stand!” Clint’s excited face was not enough to save him from Natasha’s one-fingered salute.
After turning away from her excitable but also completely idiotic partner, Natasha walked purposefully towards the curtains, her lips twitching into a smile as she heard Clint huffing behind her. Assessing the curtain length, she deliberately chose a set of curtains that were a pink and yellow argyle pattern, knowing that she was the only one on Delta that appreciated argyle. Clint and Coulson were vehemently against it, and Clint’s decision that he loved purple did not mean he liked pink in any capacity.
By the time they finally reached the Self Serve Furniture Area, as Clint insisted on calling it in a mock English accent, Natasha knew precisely what she was going to get, and Clint mostly just wanted a target stand.
Flatpack furniture was an effective way of stacking the endless pieces they needed to get to furnish their new safehouse, but they had two trolleys each by the time they got to the checkout, and Natasha was a little sheepish at the sheer amount of things they were buying. Clint’s target stand - actually an easel he’d decided he was going to appropriate - joined the much smaller pile of items they were taking home with them rather than having delivered, at his insistence.
“Clint, I cannot believe you.”