A weekend with nothing to do. And by nothing, that meant there were no super villains to defeat, no overelaborate doomsday machines to destroy, no incredibly dangerous and covert assignments for Fury to send them on.

For once.

Clint Barton was looking for Natasha Romanoff, but he couldn't find her. She was the only person on the planet who could hide from him and he never found her in the same place twice. It was a nice day; he figured maybe they could do something normal for a change instead of hang around the Tower all damn day. He had no vacations anymore. Hadn't taken one in years. Clint had a love of the beach and sunshine and it was hell dragging him away from it.

Nat always rolled her eyes whenever he told her about one of his vacations. She was always work, work, work. Now that they had a day off, he wanted to know what she was up to. He was sure half of the agents at SHIELD wanted to know what they were both up to: a lot of them had a bet going that they were going to sleep with each other before the end of the year. Too bad, because Clint knew that money could've been used for something more constructive. He wished people weren't so goddamn dense. He and Nat were friends, partners. He wanted nothing more from her than that.

Wait, that was a lie. He wanted to know what she did for fun.

She wasn't working out, she wasn't in the rafters (secretly spying on Stark because it was hilarious, the shit he said when talked to himself), and she wasn't at the firing range. Clint was at a loss for where she could be. He was all dressed up with nowhere to go (his definition of dressing up was jeans and a sweater), and he was beginning to hate her for not randomly appearing. She did that sometimes.

He headed for her personal quarters, his hands in his pockets. He rarely went to visit her there because if she wanted to talk to him, she would do so in the sparring room or between sessions at the firing range. Plus it made people talk behind their backs. The idiots.

So Clint was surprised to hear music coming from behind the door of her little apartment. He strained his ears and almost laughed. Nat was listening to Adele. Nothing wrong with that, but he had to grin to himself at the thought of her belting out "Rolling in the Deep" in front of a mirror or something. He knocked.

"Who is it?" She sounded surprised. It was subtle in her voice, but he could hear it.

"It's me," Clint said. "I'm bored, you wanna hang out or something?"

He heard shuffling through the door. She turned the music off. Clint frowned as something metallic clanged inside the room; she cursed under her breath, something in Russian he couldn't make out.

"C'mon, Nat. I'm dying, here—this place is lousy with suits and I need some fresh air."

"Clint, I'm a little busy."

Her voice was at little too harsh, like a mother who was trying to keep her kids out of the kitchen. He had to laugh. He tried the door and the knob twisted in his hand. He smelled a waft of cinnamon—wait. Cinnamon? What in the hell was that about? Clint opened the door and stepped inside.

"Natasha, seriously, I just—"

His words died instantly on his tongue. From where he stood, he could see into her kitchen. A neat line of homemade pies lined the counter next to the sink. They each steamed and glistened with various fillings: dull purple blueberry, cardinal red cherry. Clint smelled apple pie—his favorite—and stared as Natasha turned from the stove with the freshly baked culprit in her hands. She wore a black and white polka-dotted sundress.

And a pearl necklace.

Clint lost it. He laughed so hard he slumped against the wall, his voice so loud her expression dropped into the familiar deadly scowl that looked completely out of place at the moment. She put down the pie, slammed the door closed behind him, and seized him by the collar. She still wore an oven mitt on one hand, but in no way softened her grip.

"Shut up," she said. "Shut your mouth, Clint."

He kept on laughing. Tears streaked his cheeks. She set her jaw and stuffed the oven mitt in his open mouth. He finally regained his composure after a few minutes. His stomach hurt from the spasms of laughter. Natasha glared at him. Clint spat out the oven mitt and wiped at his eyes. He coughed a few times and giggled. He staggered to his feet and leaned against the jamb of the kitchen. Natasha glared at him as she walked past. Her high heels clicked against the linoleum.

"Oh shit," Clint said with a grin. "Lucy, you got some 'splainin to do."

He didn't have time to brace himself against the impact of a blueberry pie into his face.