Author's Note: A day off means a lazy day in bed, and multiple courses of breakfast and coffee. The slates aren't really clean, not by a long shot, but the Black Widow and Hawkeye feel like they're off to a good start.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

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Chapter 2: Breakfast of Champions Equal Naked Omelettes

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Natasha eased out from under Clint's arm, immediately missing the familiar warm weight and not liking the cold wood floor under her toes. His apartment at the S.H.I.E.L.D. base was tasteful and classy, but not for the first time on a cold morning did she wish he'd slummed it and gone for shag carpet instead of cherry hardwood floors. Wood was nice to look at it, but damn it was cold in the morning. Besides, carpet made it easier to sneak up on people. She gritted her teeth, told herself to suck it up, and padded out of the room to the kitchen.

Cool morning light slanted in through the tall windows, casting geometric patterns on the floor. Out of habit she cased the room for possible exit points, even though she knew his apartment almost as well as her own.

Yawning, she made her way to the fridge. Clint's shiny stainless steel Kenmore was completely barren save for the groceries that they'd lugged home the other night. She pulled out the eggs and began cracking them into a mixing bowl, and pushed start on the coffee maker. Natasha didn't kid herself, she was more of a 'survive on roots and Bambi's forest friends while scoping out enemy territory' type of girl than Rachel Ray. She was no chef. All the same though, it was kind of hard to screw up an omelette.

Five eggs went into the bowl. Natasha supposed it would be healthier to take out most of the yolks, but then she'd just work it off later the next time the Avengers needed her to kill someone.

Her heart involuntarily gave that familiar little lurch when she remembered just how many lives she had taken over the course of her career. She dropped her fork and the metal clattered against the rim of the bowl. Her palm was clean and unblemished, but her mind superimposed the years and years of blood that stained her soul. She clenched her fist. So much blood, such a debt. Would she ever be able to repay it? In contrast, the whipped eggs in the bowl looked frothy and golden yellow. A clean bright color that was directly opposite her mood.

She shook her head, and reached for a block of Gouda, stripping off the cellophane wrapper. How long would it be before the Avengers were called on again? These moments of silence and peace where she and Clint had time to just be were very few and far between. It was like their apartments were a dream, a peaceful sleep that they would have to eventually wake up from.

She shredded the cheese into the whipped eggs. It may be just a dream that would end, but that didn't mean that it couldn't go on for a bit.

Two sun browned arms slid around her waist and Natasha had to squash the urge to maim their owner on pure reflex. Clint chuckled, as though he knew exactly what she was trying to keep from doing, and kissed her cheek.

"Good morning," he said, morning voice low and pleasantly scratchy.

Natasha snorted and turned back to the crumbly white Gouda. "You almost lost both arms a second ago. You sure it's a good morning?"

He pressed another kiss to her shoulder and turned to the refrigerator. "I think I could take you."

"Sure sweetie, and I didn't knock you in the head hard enough a few days ago to dislodge the evil Norse villain's mind control, either."

Clint set the carton of mushrooms, the clove of garlic, an onion, and a cutting board that he'd been juggling and folded his arms around her. "Thank you," he whispered into her hair, "Again, for not giving up on me."

"I think you thanked me enough last night," she said, wriggling away, "Besides. You'd have done the same for me."

"I would have done the same for you," he agreed.

Natasha set aside the bowl of whipped eggs and cheese and reached for the skillet, turning on the stove with her free hand. A ring of blue flame flared under the grate as the gas made a clicking noise. The flame caught and settled into a steady blue glow. The skillet clattered as it settled on to the stove, and the pat of butter she dumped in skated around the black metal, sizzling madly, and leaving a shiny butter trail in its wake.

Clint reached around her to toss in the freshly chopped garlic and she grinned when he didn't just slid around her, but instead pressed himself up against her, molding his chest to her back. She swallowed a laugh.

In dreams people often said and did things that they would never consider doing in real life. Normally Natasha didn't have any respect for that lovey dovey crap normal people seemed so fond of. Love just made you an easier target. Normal people usually didn't spend their time getting shot at by megalomaniacs with daddy issues.

But here, in his apartment, it was a dream, a world apart from the rest of the world. If he had slipped up and tried to kiss her anywhere but either one of their refuges, she would have probably punched him in the kidney or kicked him in the head.

But it wasn't the real world; not here, not now.

So she twisted in his arms and planted a kiss right on his full, firm mouth. He chuckled, the sound warming her right down to her toes, and backed her into the refrigerator. She wound her arms around his neck. A muscle worked in his jaw and his clear eyes kept flicking down to glance at her mouth.

He was looking entirely too predatory, and she was hungry. Time to redirect the speeding train.

Natasha prided herself in getting out of tough situations, and Clint Barton's wooing attempts were no different. She poked him on the nose, her poke punctuated by the growling of her stomach. He looked a little sheepish.

"Sorry," he said, laughing, "Got carried away."

She swatted him on the butt when he turned back to the stove to shove the garlic around, making sure it was browning.

"I wasn't complaining," she murmured, adding in the chopped mushrooms, "But I am going to need fuel if we're going to stay holed up here in your love nest."

"It is not a love nest!" he protested, vehemently prodding the skillet contents with a spatula.

"It kind of is," she said.

"It is not! No self respecting superhero will admit to having a love nest."

Natasha retrieved a plastic container of spinach from the refrigerator and dumped the dark green leaves in. "Well, duh, but that doesn't mean it isn't true."

"Not a love nest," he muttered, "That makes me feel like some old weird creeper."

"Well you are older than me," she pointed out, "And we did skulk back here the moment Fury was done debriefing."

"Whatever. Hand me the eggs, woman."

Natasha balled up a fist and punched him in the kidney, hard. "Try again sweetie."

He batted his eyes at her, while holding a hand to his bruising side. "Would you please deign to hand me the eggs, oh lovely one, so that I might finish the omelettes and feed the insatiable beast in your stomach?"

Natasha considered his rebuttal, then handed him her egg and cheese mixture. "I'll allow that. Here you go."

He poured in the eggs and she reclined against the counter to watch him. This was her favorite part: watching him stand in his kitchen wearing nothing but a stupid 'kiss the cook apron' and his tanned skin while he rotated the pan, making sure the omelettes came out fluffy and even. She preferred to pull on a nightie at least; one never knew when one might have to beat something to death, but Clint had no such qualms.

The tendons in his arms and hands flexed subtly as he rolled the skillet, and she had no problem oogling him while he did it. Clint Barton was a good looking bastard, and she knew it.

He turned, caught her staring, and grinned at her. "Spatula?"

She worked the spatula under the massive omelettes, expertly flipping them in half and onto plates. He turned the stove off and stripped off the apron, tossing it onto the floor. He grabbed both plates and she followed him back to the bedroom with coffee. They'd clean up later.

A minute later, they were both tangled up in the sheets, scarfing down hot spinach and mushroom omelette and arguing over the ketchup bottle.

Natasha felt like she didn't deserve a lot in this world, she had done a lot of bad things to a lot of good people. She didn't deserve mercy, especially not from a good man like Clint. For all he argued against it, he was a good man. Before she had met him, she was drowning and didn't even know it. She fought the urge to run her fingers over the rough pink scar on her chest. An inch closer to her heart, and the bolt would have killed her. Instead, he saved her, in more ways than one.

She was grateful that the Universe had allowed her to meet and keep him, and as long as they were together, they would handle whatever life threw at him.

His eyes met hers, and he smiled. He knew exactly what she was thinking, and he didn't need to say anything to show that he agreed.

He just leaned forward, gently tugged the remains of her omelette out of her hand and set their plates aside, and kissed her.

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To be continued...