Author's Note: Merry Christmas to The Urban Spaceman! We'd had a discussion about the shenanigans Natasha probably got into, and that she's a "try anything once" type of person whom we could both see as having a food competition with Hawkeye. So... here they are, about to take on one of earth's strangest foods. I apologize if I offend anyone. I'm not a seafood eater. Also while not Icelandic by descent I have been twice and absolutely adore it, so no disrespect meant :)

Widow Vs. Food

The Unspoken Rule was "no witnesses", and it came above and beyond all else. It dictated who survived and whose death was a sad case of "wrong place, wrong time." It dictated operating procedures, communication, landing zones, rendezvous points, and extraction points. Most of all, it dictated the agent's behavior, which more often than not was geared toward either being completely unseen or hiding in plain sight, and no one was more adept at both of those things than Natasha.

Though Clint figured he came in at a close second. While he preferred to be the eyes up high, watching and waiting for the perfect shot, he could still disappear into a crowd if he really wanted to, up to and including eating local cuisine without batting an eye. That was how it had started: just friendly banter, as so many of their off-the-clock escapades started. Clint had recently been to Asia, where he'd eaten crispy fried tarantula; he mentioned it off the cuff and got a chuckle at Maria's grimace. But Natasha just shrugged; she'd eaten tarantula before, as well as any number of arthropod varieties. And from there the boasts of culinary courage had escalated until Maria suggested they take a Quinjet the next day and put all bets to rest.

Maria glanced over at Natasha. "This looks safe enough," she said, pointing at a picture on the menu.

Natasha looked it over. "It is," she said. "I'll get that for you. You ready, Barton?" she asked, turning to Clint with a grin.

"When am I not?" His eyes narrowed. "You swear you've never had this before."

"If I knew who my grandmother was I would swear on her grave," Natasha said, voice even and gaze intent as she met his eyes. "I've never had reason to eat this. Even the locals don't eat it very often."

"Probably because they know exactly what it is," Clint muttered. Natasha only grinned and headed up to the counter.

She returned with three shot glasses balanced in her hands. "To chase it down," she explained. "The guy behind the bar suggested it." She set the glasses down and headed back to the counter. She looked casual, but Clint detected the subtle stiffness in her back and shoulders. He couldn't blame her, not with what they were about to ingest.

Maria sniffed her shot. "I'm not even in on the food challenge," she said. "I'm just here to make sure you both complete it."

"I don't think one shot is going to impair your piloting skills," Clint told her. He sniffed his as well. It was crystal clear, but smelled like rye. Interesting. A type of vodka, maybe? Or a schnapps, perhaps. Herbal schnapps were popular in Nordic countries, after all. He resisted the urge to swig it down, since Natasha was still up at the counter. It wouldn't be fair for him to have all the fun. "What did you get, anyway?"

Maria squinted back at her menu. "Kjötsúpa?" She stumbled slightly over the word. "Since I was flying I didn't get much time to do the research, but I think it's a traditional favorite, and Natasha says it's safe to eat."

"And you trust Natasha?" Clint asked with a raised eyebrow, arms folded over his chest.

"No reason not to, as far as food goes," Maria told him. She sipped at the beer she'd ordered before they'd sat down. "Then again we also made a deal that I'm just along for the ride. You both are going to need me to fly you back if that stuff makes you sick."

Clint grinned. "I'm sure it'll be fine. With the things Nat and I have had to eat, just to blend in? How bad can this be?"

"Barton. The fresh flesh of the animal is toxic. You think the fermented version is going to be much better?" Maria met his eyes and did not look away.

"Hey, it could be chilled monkey brains. Like in the second Indiana Jones movie." Not that Clint wanted to add that to his list of strange foods eaten. In fact, he hadn't ever really had a list, and it hadn't ever really been an issue until Natasha one-upped him. Ever since Budapest she'd insisted on making everything a competition. He didn't mind; he understood a lot of the mindset came from her Widow training, where only the very best made it. Besides, it definitely kept things interesting in their off time.

Natasha returned, holding a plate out at arm's length. She kept a straight face, but once again Clint could see the subtle tells fluttering across her visage. She was holding her breath, letting it out very, very slowly through her slightly flared nostrils. Her brow was furrowed just a little- just enough for Clint to know she was concentrating. He'd watched her slog through a sewer without flinching this much.

She set down Maria's soup and then gingerly rested the plate on the table. She stood back for a moment and took a deep breath. She blinked and cleared her throat. "Dinner's served, Barton," she said at last, but she looked… queasy?

Clint grinned but then the stench hit him. It was like being in a restroom someone had cleaned with a mix of industrial-grade bathroom cleaner and fish guts. His throat closed up and his eyes watered. "This… this is it?" he asked and Natasha nodded as she took a seat across from him.

Even though Maria's soup was a far safer food choice she'd pushed it aside and held her napkin to her mouth and nose. "I should have listened to Fury when he warned me about letting the both of you get going," she said, shaking her head.

Natasha eyed the plate warily, as if sizing up an enemy.

"You at least ordered it," Maria continued, voice muffled by her makeshift gas mask. "You could leave it at that and call it a draw. Hell, I'm ready to call it a draw for you just so we can get out of here."

For a moment it actually looked like Natasha might be considering Maria's offer. "I didn't come this far not to see this through," Clint said, leaning forward even though it put him closer to the plate. "We faced down an alien invasion. We fought a Norse god. I think we can handle a plate of fermented shark."

Now that the words were out, he realized just how ridiculous it sounded: fermented shark. The semi-gelatinous cubes looked innocuous enough, if a bit sallow in color. If he blocked his nose, Clint could pretend that it was tofu that had sat out a couple days; not hákarl. When he and Natasha had decided on the Icelandic national dish, he hadn't thought it would be that bad. Sure, the fact that it was Greenland shark meat that had been buried for at least six months before being deemed edible had made him skeptical. But he'd been all over the world on missions for SHIELD, and that usually involved eating whatever local cultural delicacies were available. And those were usually strange. How bad could this have been?

The answer was very, very bad. He swallowed. The smell of fish guts and industrial-grade Lysol lodged in the back of his throat. Maria looked like she was about to be ill right there at the table. Natasha looked like she was in her zone: the state of mind she entered when on a difficult, high-priority mission and nothing else mattered. She was hyperfocused on the plate of fermented shark meat cubes.

Suddenly the bet of who could eat the most hákarl seemed like a terrible idea. It was an idiotic boast and a fool's errand. Clint would gladly go back for another round of toasted tarantula. He'd eat raw octopus again. He'd even be game for trying chocolate covered locusts again (he wasn't a fan of how the legs caught in his teeth). But he'd just told Natasha that he wasn't walking away.

Clint met Natasha's eyes. He reached for a cube of meat. She glared at him and reached as well. They each nodded once to the other and popped it their mouths. Clint had thought to just swallow it whole, but the cube was just a bit too big for that and he was forced to chew it. He tried to hold his breath but couldn't, and when he inhaled, even just slightly to get a little bit of air into his lungs the taste reminded him of possibly eating chicken that had been marinated in ammonia.

Next to him Maria was gagging. Across from him Natasha was chewing very purposefully, her eyes blank and her face expressionless, though her skin was a bit pale and maybe a little grayish.

He swallowed and felt that lump of fish going all the way to his stomach.

He tried not to breathe, and when he finally had to give in he smelled the pungent odor singeing off his nose hairs and lingering at the back of his throat. He just ate rotten shark meat. He let it sink into his mind and grabbed for his shot glass. He downed the schnapps, which burned up what was left of his nose hairs and peeled the skin off his throat. His eyes watered and it was a real struggle to force his stomach to remain where it belonged.

Natasha's face definitely looked greenish-gray, and her pale eyes were absolutely defiant. She stared him in the eye as she reached for another cube of rotten shark.

Clint still had the taste in his mouth. The shot of schnapps hadn't really done much to cover, or at least neutralize the flavor. It was all still there in his mouth, bitter and foul. It sat in his stomach and he even kind of still had the sensation of it sliding down his throat. And then there was still the smell.

But Natasha was reaching for more, and he had to at least keep up with her. He glanced over at Maria. She gulped and struggled to get a good breath, but the reek was winning out. Clint made himself meet Natasa's glare. He grabbed another cube of meat. He popped it in his mouth and tried to chew it as fast as he could. The scent was overpowering, and the gelatinous, fouly flavored taste in his mouth was more than he could handle. He wondered if they served chilled monkey brains here.

Probably not.

He reached for a napkin and spit the chunk out of his mouth. He reached for Maria's shot glass and downed it without asking her, and it didn't really help.

Meanwhile, Natasha calmly chewed and swallowed. And then for good measure, ate one more piece. "What's the matter, Barton?" she asked, smiling, but her face was pale, her eyes glassy, and her voice a little hoarse. "Lost your appetite?"

He shook his head. "You win. Though I don't know if that's something to be proud of."

"We are not taking the leftovers back with us," Maria said, wiping her eyes and sliding out of her seat. She'd left her soup untouched.

Natasha dabbed her mouth with her napkin. "While it was edible, I don't want to repeat it anytime soon. So no worries. Coming, Barton?"

"Only if we can stop and get a burger somewhere. I'd even eat shawarma again after that."

He followed Maria and Natasha, who turned as they reached the door of the small pub. "Takk," she called with a smile to the bartender, before flipping her hair over her shoulder and heading out the door.

Clint nodded once in acknowledgement to the two men behind the bar. One man was grinning and the other was fishing in his pocket. Only when he pulled out his wallet did Clint realize that they'd been betting on them. He sighed and then winced at the aftertaste of rotten shark while silently cursing Natasha. The guys behind the bar, he couldn't blame; but all these years and he still hadn't learned never to underestimate Natasha.

Not even if it involved fermented shark.