Clint’s woken by the tilting of his mattress and it takes a little while before he remembers why there’s someone else in his room. Then he remembers the bar, and the beer, and –

“Honestly,” comes a voice, loud enough for him to hear, “why can’t you just tidy up after yourself?”

Ah yes. Her.

There’s the whump of fabric being piled up – again, loud enough for him to hear – and Clint groans and rolls over, pressing his face into his pillow. It smells of her. He takes a deep breath before reminding himself that she’s awful and he’s not into this at all.

“Leave me alone,” he grumbles, pulling the covers over his head.

“You live in a pigsty,” comes the muffled reply. She pokes him in the shoulder. “It’s disgusting. Do you ever do laundry?”

What the fuck. Clint pulls down the covers roughly to glare at where Always A Bad Idea Natasha is standing at the foot of his bed, arms full of his lovingly curated floordrobe.

Clint grabs at his hearing aids, roughly fitting them to his ears. “You are not,” Clint says with a glare once they’re in, “doing my laundry.”

“Well, someone has to.”

Clint gapes at her. “Fuck you,” he exclaims. “Just ‘cause they’re on the floor doesn’t mean they’re dirty.”

“One,” Natasha replies, “you already did, and two, there is dog hair everywhere so yes, it does.”

Clint colours, finally allowing himself to acknowledge the fact that Natasha is wearing his t-shirt from last night and nothing else. It’s a good look on her, unfortunately. Everything about Natasha is unfortunate, really. The fact that she’s gorgeous; the fact that she’s fantastic in bed; the fact that every time she opens her mouth it’s apparently to insult him. God, Clint wishes he had some fucking self-control.

Clint glares at her. It does absolutely nothing other than make Natasha roll her eyes.

“You’re making me breakfast, by the way,” she says as she turns and leaves his room.

Clint splutters. “No, I am not!” he calls at her back, but Natasha doesn’t reply, simply disappearing from view with an armful of his clothes.

Shit.

Clint groans and climbs out of his bed, searching the floor for his underwear before sighing in defeat. They seem to be one of the many things Natasha has stolen to wash, along with his jeans and most of the t-shirts he’s been wearing for the past few days because there is nothing wrong with them. He did laundry last week!

God, why does he keep sleeping with this woman?

Because that’s the kicker really; he knew this would happen. He knew when he saw her from across the bar and he knew when he bought her a drink and he knew when he invited her back to his place. Because Clint is like a dog that never learns, always coming back despite the bad experiences because Natasha is hot as sin and the sex is fucking transcendent. He can deal with her criticising his life choices, he always reasons three beers in. It’s not that annoying.

It really is that annoying.

The first time they slept together she complained about his sheets and after they’d had sex she’d stripped the bed and forced him to wash them. That’s why she knows where the washer is. And, okay, there was a bit of a coffee stain on them, but in his defence he hadn’t been intending anyone to see it.

The second time she’d complained about the state of his bathroom; the third time, the state of his fridge. He’s not sure what number they’re up to now, but she’s still complaining. He should really just say no. Honestly he’s not even sure why she keep’s turning up, he clearly doesn’t reach her exacting standards.

Apart from, when he finally makes it to the kitchen – after digging out some fancy purple briefs he’d forgotten he owned, Natasha has started up the coffee machine, one cup already in her hands and another, much bigger one, waiting for him on the counter. The morning light makes her red hair glow and her legs look pale and endless as they cross demurely underneath the island counter. She’s still only wearing his t-shirt. Apparently it wasn’t dirty enough to warrant washing.

Weird that.

Clint gives his t-shirt a significant look – which Natasha, of course, blithely ignores – before mumbling a thanks for the coffee and leaning against the counter.

The ensuing silence is companionable. Clint could get used to –

No, wait, he couldn’t. Natasha is supremely annoying, good sex notwithstanding, and he has no desire to have someone around who spends quite so much time haranguing him about his laundry habits. No matter how pretty they look in the early morning sunshine.

“Aren’t you going to make me breakfast?” Natasha asks after a while.

“No,” Clint says shortly, but he moves towards the cupboards regardless, getting down flour and eggs and cinnamon before moving to the fridge and bringing out the mixed fruit pots he definitely didn’t buy with Natasha in mind. “Aren’t you going to get dressed?”

“Can’t,” Natasha replies.

Clint pauses in his mixing of pancake batter to shoot her a sceptical look. “Why not?”

Natasha looks distinctly shifty and answers with clear reluctance, “My dress is in your washer. Someone spilled their drink on it.”

Clint stops whisking the pancake batter, gently putting the whisk down in the bowl before turning to face Natasha fully. His chest feels tight, but he doesn’t really want to think about why.

“Really,” he says flatly.

No one spilled any drinks on Natasha's dress and they both know it. Clint clocked Natasha as soon as she walked in the door and they sat sniping at each other for two hours before leaving for Clint’s place. No one else approached them; no one else even came close.

Natasha opens her mouth to answer, clearly realises this fact, and close it again.

He shouldn’t be happy about this. He shouldn’t.

He crosses his arms. Natasha eyes flicker down to his biceps before cutting away and Clint wants to preen. “You know I don’t have a dryer, right?”

“I… didn’t know this, no.” Natasha's lie is unconvincing.

“So,” Clint continues, “your dress won’t be dry until tomorrow.”

Natasha doesn’t say anything to that but she’s turning the most delightful shade of pink. Clint stares at her, trying to clamp down on the smile that’s threatening to creep over his face.

“I thought I was a slob,” he says after a long silence.

“You are.”

“And I live in a pigsty.”

“You do,” Natasha insists.

Clint grins at her, rolling his eyes. God, she’s so annoying. He shouldn’t be into this.

He turns back to the pancake batter.

“Uh huh,” he says. “Pancakes will be ready in ten minutes.”