Foxtrot
This mission was doomed. Clint didn’t mind going undercover with Natasha. They tended to have more fun than necessary when working alone together, but this would not be one of those times.
Why, why, why, why had the bad guy (whoever it was this time) decided to hide out in a dance competition of all places? Maybe Clint should just shoot himself in the foot and save himself the humiliation of having to foxtrot a drug lord to death. At least Tony wasn’t around to laugh at him, the billionaire taking an extended vacation in the Caribbean with Pepper. In fact, all of the Avengers were conspicuously missing at the moment. Probably a good guess that it had something to do with Natasha being about as good of a ballroom dancer as him and a proclivity to shoot the offending men who dared poke fun at her.
At least that was what he hoped was going on. That hope died the moment they stepped onto the dance floor in Seattle and spotted every single Avenger and their dates watching from a table just off the main floor.
Three steps into the routine Fury had beaten into their heads (and wasn’t that a surprise. Who knew Fury could dance?) Clint couldn’t take the snickering any longer. Natasha seemed just as ready to blow. Catching her eye and shrugging, they both turned in unison, pulling out their weapons (no one would ever be able to tell where exactly they’d been stashing them in the tux and teeny tiny dress) and firing at the man sitting at the back with a dozen or so body guards.
Screaming civilians began to scatter.
The Avengers finished their dessert.