155.
This one’s a little less direct than the others. He sidles up next to her at the bar, leans back against it with his elbows hitched up and his legs crossed at the ankle. Shitty center of gravity, that way, and she idly contemplates giving him a nudge just to see him fall.
“Not interested,” she says instead, dry, and a little bit of a lie; he’s got a beautiful jaw line, long dark hair, stormy eyes.
“Ditto,” he says, with a little smirk, and Natasha looks at him with renewed interest.
“Avoiding persistent wooing?” she asks, and he snorts at her phrasing.
“Kinda the opposite,” he says. “Blond guy?”
“Ah, Clint,” she says, and yeah, holy crap, he’s exactly Clint’s type.
“Clint,” he says, narrowing his eyes and tasting the name, visibly deciding it’s good. They stand there side by side, watching the dancers with matching contemplative looks, and she thinks he’s picking up nearly as much as she is.
Clint’s in the mass of bodies but Tasha can catch the occasional glimpse; every time she sees him he’s pressed close to another guy, and she can guarantee he hasn’t noticed a one of them’s interested. One of them gets a little handsy and Clint pushes away with a protesting laugh; abrupt tension next to her just as quickly eases.
Eventually the song switches and Clint forges his way out of the crowd, hair standing up in ridiculous tufts, someone’s drink a dark stain down his side, wide genuine smile on his face. He looks like a cheerful idiot and he’s already eyeing the guy at her side, unsubtle and already resigned to rejection, she can see it in his eyes.
“Hurt him -” she says, not looking at him.
“Death,” he says. “Sure.”
“Ask him about his dog,” she says, and pushes away from the bar, already moving to the rhythm of a good night.
