Clint woke up with a bad headache and a sore everything. The left side of the bed was empty, which meant one of two things, a) Natasha had gotten up early and left for work, or b) He’d slept until 2pm again. He tilted his head towards the clock on the side dresser to confirm his nagging suspicion, 2:45, the bright red numbers blinked at Clint. A new record he thought cynically, he slowly rose off the bed cracking his neck. He sat to the edge, feet touching the cool wooden floor and stretched each part of his back, trying to relieve the pain. Clint yawned and trudged out the bedroom door.
The 32 inch flat-screen was on CNN, the main headline a blur to him, as his main focus was the large brown swayed couch directly in front him. Clint slung himself over the back of the couch before lightly dropping, and nesting his face in the undemanding cushions. He slowly turned on his back, and sniffed the air, shocked he slugged himself over the arm of the chair and peered into the kitchen. Nat was buzzing around like a mad woman (which she might have been),her bright red hair in a ponytail, and an apron protecting her favourite black shirt. Curiosity (along with the fact CNN sucked) lead Clint toward the kitchen, he nearly tripped over the coffee table in his hurry, before he stopped in front the bar and asked “What are you doing in there Nat?”.
“It’s three am Clint, I’m cooking lunch. You know, like what normal people do.” She responded quiet bitterly. “Since when are we normal people?” Clint rebutted as he entered the kitchen, he didn’t dare move too close to the island Nat was circling. She shrugged in response, before chopping away at a carrot with excellent precision. “You were really tired last night, hard day at work?” she probed now focusing on the celery under her vicious knife. Clint shrugged, work wasn’t something he really wanted to talk about. “What are you making?” he asked wanting desperately to get off that subject, she gestured with her knife toward the recipe card on the table, before putting a lid on a pot of water. He picked up the small card off the table and smiled. “Italian? Huh, a Russian cooking an Italian meal. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.” He teased putting the card back on the table. Natasha sighed before she started cutting the tomatoes, “You know I used to make pasta all the time” he commented fondly. Clint didn’t talk about his past much, and Nat didn’t pry. To be honest neither of them spoke about their past, they both understood that there were just some things a person didn’t need to be reminded of. “When did you learn to cook Italian?”
“You’d be surprised at what I learn, living alone for twelve years.” He muttered and Nat dismissed him.
“You should never follow the recipe, it’s always boring.” He continued causing Natasha to stop dicing “Look, either you quit your yapping and help me, or get the hell out of the kitchen.” She asserted, getting very annoyed with him. He shrugged and put on his ‘Kiss the cook’ apron over his t-shirt before washing his hands.
“Okay see, we really don’t need all those vegies Nat.” Clint pointed out looking over the recipe for Penne all'Arrabbiata. Natasha was obviously furious, her face looked as red as her hair, “Listen here Barton, I spent a good twenty minutes on those vegetables, so you better find use for them.” She countered before turning her attention to the boiling water. Clint sighed and shook his head before directing her to put the greens to steam above the boiling water, while they tenderized the chicken. “The recipe doesn’t call for chicken.” Nat pestered, “It doesn’t call for celery either, and yet.” He retorted pointing at the pot on the stove. Natasha clenched her jaw, and began to hammer away at the meat (most likely envisioning Clint’s head)
By the time Clint started to make the marinade for the meat, the vegies were finished steaming, “Get the honey would you babe?” he requested, earning him a judging look, “Honey makes everything sweeter dear.” He tittered in a mock British accent. Nat opened the fridge and looked for the honey, she picked up the bottle, but something else caught her eye. She took out the half empty bottle of Grey Goose and brought it over to the table. She tipped a satisfactory amount of honey into the marinade, and then added a hearty helping of vodka to it, before shrugging and taking a swing at the bottle. “Is Russian water like, 95% vodka or something?” Clint asked mesmerized at Nat’s ability to find space for alcohol in everything they did. Clint grabbed a bowl and poured flour into it, he took individual pieces of the marinated chicken breast and covered them in flour, and then gently placed it into the hot, oiled pan. The sizzling sound accompanied by the scent made their stomachs ache with hunger.
Clint wasn’t done bossy Nat around just yet, as he watched the chicken cook, he told her to make a cream-cheese sauce. “Why is that necessary?” she asked, angered at the fact she had to keep the apron on longer, “What else are we going to dress your vegetables with?” he replied smugly and turned over the chicken in the pan. Nat reluctantly got the cheese and milk out the fridge and added them to a small bowl. She whisked it in an annoyed rhythm that got on Clint’s nerves a bit, “Oh god NAT, whisk it don’t beat it!” he blurted. She looked him dead in the eyes and raised an eyebrow in the way she did when she was challenging you, Nat continued to beat the mixture, torturing Clint. This was her game, and she was winning, he gave in and walked over to take the bowl form her. She clutched it with her iron grip and shook her head, “Relax Barton.” But Clint would let up, they played tug of war with the bowl until Nat let go too soon, spilling the clumpy contents all over Clint. “Oh shit.” She chuckled, hands over her face, “You are awful, just horrible.” He replied. “Okay come here.” He said inching closer to her, signalling he was coming in for a hug, “Oh no, get the hell away from me.” She blurted backing into the fridge.
Clint cornered her, and wrapped his big heavy arms around her shoulders defying her protests. He brought their faces closer, “Come here.” He grinned, and planted messy and cheesey kisses all over Nat’s face. “Stop it, you’ll let the chicken burn.” She laughed trying to free herself.
The food was finally done, the chicken cooked properly (mostly) the steamed vegetables fresh and firm, the penne nice and Al Dente (though Nat said it was too hard) and the cream cheese all fluffy and waiting in the bowl (that is, what had actually made it into the bowl). A cleaned up Clint got out two plates from the cupboards and placed them on either side of the bar counter, Nat (also cleaned) got the glasses, and a bottle of cheap wine. Clint served the pasta on each plate, then Nat placed the chicken on top. “Vegies my lady?” Clint asked bowing slightly with the pot of vegetables in his hand, she smiled and gave him a peck on the check before taking the pot. Finally Clint ceremoniously poured the cream cheese dressing over the veggies, “Bon Appetite!” he uttered before taking his seat in front of Natasha. “Italian Clint.” She affirmed, and took a bite. Clint saw the way her face changed when she took a bite of the food, she’d never admit to completely loving the food, but her face as she ate was enough for him. It was nice to have a normal meal for once, and he’d cherish each moment.