Natasha Romanoff did not hate many things. She disliked a nice array of things, but she'd hardly venture to say she hated all but an express few. Among those were your stereotypical chick flicks, being wrong, being treated like a princess- but there was one thing, and one thing only, that she despised. Cooking. There were many aspects of it that she couldn't stand. There was the fact that it was generally viewed as a women's job, or perhaps her hate blossomed because it was so complicated and everything had to be just right and perfectly timed- or that there were recipes. Ah, recipes. The only one worth Tasha's time was a recipe for disaster. Cooking was never experimentation, there were hardly any risks. 'Just follow these rules and nothing bad will happen!'
On the topic of her opinions, there were also very few things that Natasha loved wholeheartedly. Only one she could name off the top of her head. And that, obviously, was Clint. The archer may very well have been the only thing- or, person, rather- that had nothing but her full truth and loyalty. He was the only person who knew everything about her. She was the only person who knew everything about him. And one thing about Clint was that he could cook. Amazingly. He didn't use exact recipes, he worked from only memory and his own judgement. But everything he cooked- be it as simple as eggs with toast, or as extravagant as a souffle- was perfect; every bite a piece of heaven itself. Natasha was, without fail, impressed by everything he served, and she knew this morning would be no different.
"Tasha," Clint called from the kitchen, "waffles or french toast?"
The assassin considered this thoughtfully for a moment, before replying, "waffles. But, um, Clint, do you want help?" If you had asked her, Natasha wouldn't have been able to explain what had possessed her to suggest such a thing. Did he look like he needed help? Ever? No. Did she want to help him? No. Was she even remotely good at cooking? No.
"Um, not really, I don't think," Clint answered after a moment. "Why do you ask?"
"I really don't know," she admitted, "I just thought I should offer..."
"Tasha. It's okay, but if you really want to help, you can come in here and I'll find something for you to do."
Well, she'd really done it this time. She had finally dug herself into a hole so deep she couldn't climb out. At least he wouldn't have her doing anything TOO hard... right? The redhead stood semi-reluctantly and walked into the kitchen, where Clint was pulling out bowls and spoons, eggs and flour, bacon and milk- what seemed like everything in the entire kitchen.
"Alright, Tasha, so just go ahead and put in some flour, dump in a bit of milk, a couple eggs- not the shells, mind you- a bit of sugar, and stir it up. I'm going to get started on the bacon." With that, Clint unwrapped the plastic on the bacon container, plopping the strips of meat into a pan to watch them sizzle. And to leave Natasha to fend for herself. Great friend. She followed his instructions to the best of her ability, but- 'did he say milk or flour?' 'How many eggs?'
"Clint! Am I doing this right?" She questioned.
"Yep; perfect," he replied, hardly glancing at her over his shoulder, as he'd decided to scramble some eggs and cut up some fruit, on top of frying the bacon. "There should be a waffle maker in that cabinet-" which he proceeds to open with his foot- "so just go ahead and pour the batter in there and turn it on. Oh, and, yeah, obviously, plug it in first."
Natasha did, once again, as she was told, only questioning herself slightly. If Clint said it was right, then it probably was- "Clint? Is it supposed to be smoking?"
Chaos ensued. The smoke alarms went off, Clint wet a dish rag to fan away the smoke, Natasha hurriedly unplugged the machine. They couldn't figure out why the smoke alarm wouldn't stop until Clint turned around and saw that, while the waffle machine was no longer smoking, the eggs and bacon were. It was Natasha's turn to use the wet rag as Clint shut off the stove, before getting a second rag. When the smoke finally disappeared and the annoying screeching of the fire alarm died down with it, the pair looked around to assess the damage.
Waffle batter: everywhere but the machine. Waffle maker: completely ruined. Eggs: burnt. Bacon: charred beyond belief. Fruit: Spilled on the floor at one point or another.
"On the other hand, Tasha, we could always eat out."
Rather that an answer, Natasha's lips delivered a kiss. Maybe cooking wasn't that bad after all.