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69°F = 20.5°C (roughly)
Assassins were never made for the domestic life. Natasha knows this; it would never work out. They just aren't made for that life. Their recent exploits in Clint's Brooklyn safe house were proof enough.
()
Their air conditioning would always be set on 69°F. Partially because Clint's an asshat, partially because he's always warm. Natasha can't help but wonder if it's just a ploy to get her to snuggle with him, when she gets cold.
"So do you keep the thermostat on 69°F to be an ass, or is it because you're actually hot?" Natasha asked her partner, laying next to him on the couch.
"I'm always hot," Clint sassed, looking at her over his book.
"Ass." Natasha answers her own question. But she scoots a bit closer to him regardless. For the warmth, of course.
()
They would probably kill each other over who had to take out the garbage.
"Nat, your turn to make out the garbage," Clint yelled from the kitchen.
"Like hell it is, Barton," she retorted from her chair in the living room. She's all curled up nicely in her chair, reading a book; no way she's moving.
"I'll fight you for it," Clint offered, giving her a taunting look. He waggled his fingers, beckoning for her to attack.
Natasha just gave him a dangerous glare over the top of her book.
()
The house would be a mess; they clean bullet wounds, not houses. And maids couldn't be trusted.
"Nat, there's an inch of dust on the TV. I can't see anything," Clint whined, sprawled out next to her on the couch.
"Use a wet towel to clean it," Natasha didn't bother to look up from her book.
"Isn't there a special dusting rag?" Clint questions, getting up to search under the kitchen sink for cleaning supplies.
There's the telltale noise of plastic bottles clanging again each other, then a sigh. "We need a maid," Clint states.
"I don't think maids know how to clean AK-47's," Natasha points out, calming turning the page.
There's a grumble of agreement from under the kitchen sink.
()
They couldn't have nice furniture. If the two assassins didn't break it themselves, their friends would.
"Thank you, Hawk-man," Thor bellowed, accepting a beer from Clint.
He turned around the living room where they had gathered, searching for a place to sit.
"No!" Both assassins yelled as Thor sat on a cushioned chair.
Sure enough, the demigod went straight through the seat to the floor in a heap of chair-rubble.
"You two should really stop dragging in old furniture off the street," Tony injected. "Structural issues..."
()
Grocery store shopping would probably consist of pancake batter, microwave meals, tea, and alcohol.
"Do we need this?" Clint asked, holding up a box of tea bags.
Natasha shrugged. Why not, they went through tea quickly.
"Do we need that much vodka?" Clint raised his eyebrows at the three bottles in the cart.
"Not all of us are lightweights," Natasha answered, walking away to the frozen meal section.
" 'm not a lightweight," Clint grumbled to himself. Damn Russians.
()
There would be a couple issues with doing the dishes.
"Nat, killing knives don't go in the dishwasher. Steak and butter knives only."
()
Alarm clocks wouldn't last long. Clint was not a morning person.
Beep, beep, beep.
"Clint..." Natasha mumbled into her pillow.
"Huh?" Clint's head rose inches off the bed, eyes only half open.
"Alarm."
Beep, beep, bee -
There was a telltale smash as Clint hit the snooze button a bit too hard.
"Alarm's broke," he mumbled, snuggling back into the bed.
"There's more in the cabinet."
()
Superhero suits in the closets.
"Nat, my suit deserves its own closet," Clint claimed.
"Too bad," Natasha quipped, hanging her catsuit up next to the archer's.
"But ... Tasha!"
()
Medical supplies were commonplace. And plentiful.
"You have a whole room of medical supplies?" Steve questioned, looking incredulously around the guest bedroom. "Back in my day we just used the bathroom cabinets."
"Injuries are common," Natasha responded.
Steve nodded in understanding, glancing from the bed piled high with med kits, to the gun locker against the wall.
"The couch is all yours, Cap," Natasha offered, as said guest bedroom was currently occupied.
()
Houseplants.
"Nat, that's the third houseplant in two days," Clint pointed out, throwing the dead plant into the trash can.
"We should just stop trying to keep the plants alive," Natasha lamented, plucking a yellowed petal off the counter.
"But it's a spider cactus," Clint ranted, "How the fuck did we manage to kill a cactus?!"
()
They would have to lock the doors when they shipped out to long missions.
"Clint, you locked the door right?" Natasha asked, loading her Glock.
"No, you were s'posed to," Clint looked up from his bow across the Quinjet hanger.
"No. Shit," Natasha cussed, setting her head back against the metal wall.
Clint just shrugged and tilted his head. Even if they got robbed, it's an excuse to break in some new furniture.
()
There would be holes in the wall.
"What are these?" Pepper gaped at the two bullet holes in the kitchen wall.
"Someone didn't want to take out the trash," Natasha stated.
"The knife too?" Pepper's stunned look shifted to the handle protruding from a picture on the wall.
"That one wasn't me."
()
Weapons would be hidden everywhere.
"I..." Bruce mumbled, walking slowly out of the guest bathroom. There was a survival knife in one hand and a roll of toilet paper in the other. "I ... don't know what happened. I was just trying to replace the toilet paper."
"It's okay, Doc," Natasha eased. "We hid some of our weapons."
Clint grinned over his beer. He had been in charge of hiding the knives.
()
The fridge would be only stocked with leftover take-out and breakfast food. The two only knew how to make breakfast food; by lunch and dinner they were out ... killing things.
"You want week-old baked ziti or pancakes?" Clint yelled with his head in the fridge.
"We've had pancakes the past four days," Natasha pointed out, leaning against the counter.
"I never thought I'd miss S.H.I.E.L.D. food," Clint lamented.
Natasha could only nod in agreement.
()
Pillow talk was neither's forte.
" 'night" Clint mumbled into the pillow.
"Goodnight," Natasha responded, wrapping the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Clint's back is to her's and he's hogging most of the covers.
She would never tell him, but he knew. It felt so much better to have someone else in the bed.
It made both of them feel less alone.
()
No, it would never work out.
Yet, in the darkness of Clint's S.H.I.E.L.D. barrack, the two assassins share a beer in silence after a particularly rough mission. Broken, bruised and bloodied, but together.
For once, Natasha doesn't mind her life at all.