"I was thinking Kiev," Natasha commented, watching as Clint frowned and scribbled down a grocery list in his chicken-scratch handwriting.
"Nah. Vilnius," Clint said, glancing up at her before frowning back down at his list.
Natasha wrinkled her nose. "First or second time?"
"First time, of course. Why would I care about the second time? That was Sitwell," he pointed out. "First time was Phil."
She sighed. "I know you miss him, but..."
"...I'm only hurting myself by dwelling, blah blah blah, yeah, I know, my therapist points that out regularly. I don't care. Vilnius. First time."
She smiled fondly at him. "All right. But only if you promise to use a nice cut of lamb."
He looked up at her again, flashing her an amused grin, looking his old self again for a moment. "What, like I could find overly well-aged mutton in New York?"
"You probably could, knowing you," she said, one corner of her lips twitching upward slightly.
"I probably could," he agreed, lowering his head again. "But since we're not stuck in a safehouse in a foreign country over the holidays with both local law enforcement and a hostile intelligence organization trying to find us, and I'm making this for friends, I'll use lamb. And vegetables that aren't either canned or dried. Will you make the salad?" he asked, looking questioningly at her.
"I'll make the salad," she agreed, thinking fondly of that Christmas, years before, when the then newly-formed Delta Force found themselves having to make do with what was on hand in a rarely-used safehouse to put together a festive meal for themselves. It had turned out surprisingly delicious. Clint had managed to turn out a reasonably tasty stew made of the last of some overly elderly mutton that was the only meat left in the freezer. Natasha had sprouted some beans, combining them with walnuts and dried cherries to make an acceptable salad. And Phil... he'd made bread, despite their lack of yeast, by mixing together flour and water and leaving it out on the counter overnight to catch some wild yeast and foam into a sponge.
"Are you putting sourdough bread on the list?" she asked.
Clint shook his head. "No," he said shortly, and then shrugged. "It wouldn't be the same."
"Neither will the stew or salad."
"I know that," he snapped, then set down his list and dragged both hands down his face. "I know," he repeated quietly. "Nothing will ever be the same. He's dead. I know that. But of all the Christmases I've ever had, that one was probably the best one."
Natasha smiled sadly. "For me, too," she agreed, and got up to give him a hug before picking up and scanning over his list. "Walnuts," she said, handing it back to him.
"Walnuts," he agreed, and added it to the list. "So... you inviting anyone to the party?"
She wrinkled her nose. "I don't have many people I'd consider friends, and pretty much all of them are already on the guest list. You?"
"I'm thinking of inviting Bobbi. She dropped off the radar for a while around the time SHIELD fell, but I got an 'I'm still alive' contact from her a couple weeks ago through one of our email drops. And I'm at least 90% certain she isn't HYDRA. Well, maybe 80%."
Natasha's eyebrows rose slightly, and she smiled just the tiniest bit. "I always liked Bobbi. Never understood what she saw in you though."
Clint scowled at her. "Shut up."
She grinned, then tilted her head to one side, looking thoughtful. "Huh. I just thought of someone I could invite. I don't think he'd come, but I might see if I can get word to him anyway."
Clint gave her a questioning look. "Anyone I know?"
"Yes. But I can't tell you who."
"Or then you'd have to kill me?"
"Or then I'd have to kill you," she agreed.
He frowned in thought for a moment. "Is he a lying liar who lies and only has one eye?"
She grinned. "Might be. Could be. I can neither confirm nor deny."
Clint snorted and grinned back. "I'd love both to see his face when he gets the invitation, and to see Stark's face if he actually accepts and shows up."
"Why else do you think I'm planning on inviting him?" she asked archly.
