Clint isn't sure precisely what he expected when he woke up the day after getting back from Algiers, but it wasn't to walk out of his bedroom and see Natasha Romanoff standing in his kitchen, stirring what looks like cookie dough with a look of intense concentration on her face.
He freezes, staring.
She tastes the dough, makes a face, and throws the spoon in his sink as if it personally offended her. "Stop staring or come help me," Natasha orders him curtly.
"What are you doing in my kitchen?" he finally gets out. Clint has seen things people wouldn't believe, working for SHIELD, including real proof of alien lifeforms, but nothing he's encountered has ever been quite as surreal as staring at the Black Widow hovering over his oven like a mother hen—baking cookies.
She looks up, pure frustration on her face. "It's Maria's birthday tomorrow." She pokes at the bowl in front of her. "I should have knitted something," she says suddenly with surprising heat.
Knitting would be… positively disturbing.
Clint reels himself back to some sense of equilibrium, goes back in the bedroom to scrounge up a shirt, takes a deep breath, then heads back out. "Okay. This is Maria. The solution to all problems is add more chocolate."
Natasha shoots him a dubious look.
He grabs a spoonful of cookie dough and tastes it. "Scratch that. Double the batch and don't add any more sugar. Then we add more chocolate."
"If this doesn't work, it's your fault," she informs him.
He accepts blame and they get to work, moving around each other awkwardly until they find a rhythm as comfortable as the one they use in combat. She passes him taste tests and he passes her back ingredients. In between, he watches her sipping what smells like peppermint tea with chamomile and guzzles his own coffee straight from the pot.
"This?" she asks.
He tastes. Pure chocolately cookie dough. He grins at her. "Perfect."
FIC: Add More Chocolate (G, no warnings)
Clint isn't sure precisely what he expected when he woke up the day after getting back from Algiers, but it wasn't to walk out of his bedroom and see Natasha Romanoff standing in his kitchen, stirring what looks like cookie dough with a look of intense concentration on her face.
He freezes, staring.
She tastes the dough, makes a face, and throws the spoon in his sink as if it personally offended her. "Stop staring or come help me," Natasha orders him curtly.
"What are you doing in my kitchen?" he finally gets out. Clint has seen things people wouldn't believe, working for SHIELD, including real proof of alien lifeforms, but nothing he's encountered has ever been quite as surreal as staring at the Black Widow hovering over his oven like a mother hen—baking cookies.
She looks up, pure frustration on her face. "It's Maria's birthday tomorrow." She pokes at the bowl in front of her. "I should have knitted something," she says suddenly with surprising heat.
Knitting would be… positively disturbing.
Clint reels himself back to some sense of equilibrium, goes back in the bedroom to scrounge up a shirt, takes a deep breath, then heads back out. "Okay. This is Maria. The solution to all problems is add more chocolate."
Natasha shoots him a dubious look.
He grabs a spoonful of cookie dough and tastes it. "Scratch that. Double the batch and don't add any more sugar. Then we add more chocolate."
"If this doesn't work, it's your fault," she informs him.
He accepts blame and they get to work, moving around each other awkwardly until they find a rhythm as comfortable as the one they use in combat. She passes him taste tests and he passes her back ingredients. In between, he watches her sipping what smells like peppermint tea with chamomile and guzzles his own coffee straight from the pot.
"This?" she asks.
He tastes. Pure chocolately cookie dough. He grins at her. "Perfect."