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'You are wearing pink sunglasses,' Miss Potts says a moment after Clint sneaks soundlessly into Nat's apartment, hoping to get something to drink and a quiet time of her heavenly sofa.
The words are slightly slurred, Potts is barefoot and holding an empty martini glass, and Clint sighs as he realizes that he's just entered a two-lady party.
'They are rose-tinted glasses,' he murmurs pointlessly, turning around and starting to wonder how to fall asleep back at home with the headache building up at the back of his head. Somehow it's easier at Nat's, he feels safer and the small background noises of her doing her everyday things help him relax.
'Hey, Agent Barton, wait,' he hears Potts' voice, a tone quieter. She walks up to him, the glass gone, frowning slightly. 'We run out of olives. Natasha went to the deli to get some. You don't have to go.'
'It's not –' he tries, but she's already taken his hand and drags him, albeit delicately, to his favorite sofa. When he's sitting down, she disappears for a long moment and comes back with a glass of blissfully cold water.
'I live with a genius who doesn't sleep,' she explains, sitting at the edge of the tea table, crossing her long legs at the angles. 'I know a headache when I see one, even when I'm tipsy – especially when I'm tipsy. Someone thinks getting us drinks is a good diversion technique.'
'I can imagine,' Clint says after he swallows a sip of the water, and lets himself lean against the soft fabric. That does sound like the Stark Natasha ranted about during her time as his PA.
'He's so stressing,' Potts adds, picking up a stray toothpick from the table and turning it around quickly between her fingers. Clint can just imagine her doing the same with a pen during long business meetings. 'Everything is so stressing. I needed to unwind.'
'No need to explain yourself, I know this deadly assassin that loves wearing her baby blue yoga pants at home.'
The words leave his mouth before he can filter them and for a moment he expects Nat to come out from a dark corner and smack him good-naturedly, commenting on his lax reflexes, but nothing happens and Clint realizes she really isn't around. Yet.
'Yoga pants are a blessing,' Potts declares solemnly, ignoring Clint's unsure face. 'Especially when you get to wear a tight skirt and tights all the time –'
'Or a leather outfit,' Clint finds himself agreeing easily, making Potts' frown deepen a bit before it turns into a smile.
'You're a sweet thing,' she says, looking behind Clint, what means Natasha is entering the flat soundlessly, as always.
'He is,' Nat says across the room, kicking off her shoes. Clint knows that sound so well, she always does that, leaving the shoes in the middle of the hallway, and Clint picks them up and puts them in a perfect line. Judging by a quick grimace on Potts' face, she'd like to do the same. 'He's a softie. Can't even hold his –' she trails off, stopping two steps from the sofa, and places the olives in a jar and a bag of frozen shrimp of the table. 'Do you want to go to bedroom?'
'Nah, I'm fine here,' he assures her, shrugging a little. Moving makes his head pound a bit more, so he decides he won't do it again soon. Natasha disappears and Potts opens the jar and puts olives in the two glasses standing on the nearby bookshelf, moving in a blurry line in front of Clint.
Natasha comes back with more water and SHIELD-developed muscle relaxant, an agent's best friend. Clint accepts them gratefully and lowers himself down in the sofa to half-laying position when the dull ache lessens a bit. Then he falls asleep to two hushed voices talking gossip and exchanging random news and tips, it feels familiar and homey and Clint, before he dozes off, realizes he'd like to join in.
When Clint wakes up, the apartment is completely quiet and still, filled with morning light, his glasses are missing and he's covered with a blanket. The headache is gone, so that's a good thing, and maybe now he'll be able to sit through a debrief with Hill; she might be a skilled commander, but they get on each other's nerves.
He sits up, stretches his limbs, and heads for the fridge. Headaches and food don't mix well, so he's pretty hungry – well, hungry enough to try eating something from Nat's kitchen. Usually it's futile because she doesn't cook, it doesn't even appear that she eats anything, given the state of her kitchen, but there is a pleasant surprise waiting for Clint at the kitchen table.
There is a plate of cold waffles, dusted with powdered sugar, and a handwritten note saying Hope headache is gone. Maybe the next time we meet will be under better circumstances. P.S. Natasha says if you don't cook her paella tonight, you will regret it.
'Sounds like Nat,' Clint murmurs to himself, sitting cross-legged on the table, with the food-filled plate in front of him, and grabs the first waffle. It's crunchy and has a nice lemony note to it, underneath the sugar, and Clint grins appreciatively. There're few better things than a good breakfast and this certainly falls under than category. 'Wait, next time? What does next time mean?' he mumbles, the words hardly recognizable as he's chewing on the waffle. 'Huh. I guess if we do this Avengers gig, Stark might be around, so she will, too.'
He nods to himself, content with the explanation, and continues to eat in silence. When he's done, he jumps off the table with ease, stretches again, popping his back pleasantly, and puts the plate into the dishwasher.
On his way out, he sorts Natasha's shoes and finds one high-heeled pair that has to be Potts' and hums approvingly, deciding that they're going to get along very well.
A/N: Thank you for reading, I hope you liked this chapter :) This will be Clint & Pepper friendship story, chapters about 1k. I'll try to update a few times a week. Let me know what you think!