A/N: Double post today, just cause I'm feeling generous! And I'm about to start work on a new story; details to come! I haven't forgotten about the Nightmare Series, no worries, I just can't seem to get into Cap's headspace just yet…
Warning – Two mild curse words.
.0.o.0.o.0.
The only reason Nat didn't notice the smell at first was because she was lying face down in Clint's couch, letting her aches and wounds rest. But when she did notice, she pushed straight up off the cushions, nose in the air. Her upset over the mission that had gone sideways two days ago vanished as she stood up and followed the glorious smells into the kitchen. Clint was stirring a couple of pots on the stove as he shuffled something around in a pan. He looked up as Natasha walked in.
"Good, I was just about to wake you up. I need another pair of hands. Could you slice the bread and butter it while I finish these meatballs?"
"One of these days I'm going to find out exactly what you put in those things and you'll have to get Agent Morse to make your damn garlic bread."
Clint laughed. "You wish. You haven't even figured out my sauce yet. Set your sights a little lower at first, Romanoff."
An aggravated sigh with what sounded like a Russian curse was his only reply.
"You haven't gotten my burger recipe either, come to think of it."
"If you ever write it down, anywhere, on any surface, I will find it, Barton. You can count on it."
"I know. That's why I keep it in my brain. You haven't been able to crack that so far."
"'Cause I haven't really tried. I like you cooking for me; I ever decide I don't, you better watch out."
Clint laughed again. They fell into an easy silence as the food cooked.
It wasn't often that the partners got a chance to just relax together. Even with enforced downtime after a mission, they rarely had the same days free, and when they did, they were more than likely on different continents (or Clint was off with Bobbi Morse… but Nat didn't like to think about that.) But every so often, the stars aligned (or Coulson pulled some strings) and they were together. That's when Clint would cook. Simple, easy recipes, but all from scratch.
Natasha loved it. They'd both rarely had home cooked meals when they were young, so Clint indulged her with youth favorites. Grilled cheese, hamburgers, and one time lasagna. But her absolute favorite was his spaghetti and meatballs.
The mission in Budapest had gone all to hell in 48 hours. They'd barely gotten out with their lives. He'd been dueling another sniper while Nat had been on the ground fighting for her life and the lives of some innocent civilians.
A lot of those lives had been lost.
Coulson had pulled his strings. So now here he was, standing in his kitchen, covered in bruises, cooking spaghetti.
Natasha's knives, knives that 30 hours ago had been arcing through the air, covered in blood, delicately sliced through the loaf of Italian bread he'd picked up while she'd been passed out on his couch. He saw her wince as she reached into his fridge to grab his homemade garlic butter.
"Shoulder?"
"Side."
"Pulled it?"
"Laceration."
"I'll stitch it up later."
"You'd better."
Clint's own shoulders protested as he lifted the boiling pot of pasta and dumped it into the strainer. Natasha lightly rinsed it as he slid the bread into the oven and added the meatballs to the sauce. Nat opened a bottle of Merlot and used the counter to pop the top off one of Clint's favorite beers. She pulled out two mismatched plates and forks, he grabbed a rag and opened up the oven. Nat tonged spaghetti onto both plates; Clint ladled sauce and meatballs on top.
The partners were moving in ragged unison, a milder version of their usual macabre ballet. Their patterns and senses were worn down after four days of being on point. They sat down at Clint's scarred and scuffed table and let the food and alcohol wipe all the weariness away.
They'd patch each other up later. For now, it was about simple food and simple pleasures.
"Clint, one of these days I'm going to figure out these spices and then no meatball will be safe."
"Whatever you say, Tasha."
And it was for damn good meatballs.
.0.o.0.o.0.
A/N: So as much as I love all the faves and follows, I haven't had a single review on this piece. It's not that I don't love you all, but reviews are my lifeblood, they make me feel like I'm doing something right as a writer. When I don't see them, it hurts. You don't have to review if you don't want to; this isn't a guilt trip, I just had to put it out there that it sucks to have so many follows and not a single review. That is all.