"You gonna make it?" Clint asks.
"This sucks," Nat snarls from across the cabin.
He snorts a laugh and dumps the can of Chicken & Stars into the pot on the stove.
"Recon sucks," she continues. "Your stupid lumberjack shirt sucks. Coulson sucks. Oregon sucks."
He doesn't comment on the fact that she's currently wearing the red flannel lumberjack shirt, so she can't hate it as much as she claims.
He stirs the soup and sneaks little glances at Nat when she's not looking. She's layered his flannel under one of his hoodies, she's wearing the big fleece blanket from the bed like a cape, and she's got so much wood piled in the fireplace it's probably a hazard. The undignified, hunched silhouette of his partner makes his lips curve into an affectionate smile.
The damp and cold always make her crave the opposite. He teases, but he also remembers the stories she's told of years spent in cold rooms in a colder landscape.
He dumps the soup in a thermos (Tasha likes to drink her soup, she's weird), then drags the comforter off the bed and joins her on the floor in front of the hearth.
She growls at the soup but accepts, and leans into his shoulder so he can wrap them both in the comforter.
"We could always raid the base tomorrow," he suggests. "Forget the recon. Be home in time to grab dinner from that Thai place you like."
It has the desired effect: Tasha relaxes against him and hums her agreement, a happy noise, a complete contrast to the sounds she's been making for the past two days.
And okay, they don't know the layout of the building, or how many guards, or even if the stolen missiles they're looking for are there. The entire mission will probably go straight to shit. But….
"Let's watch something," Tasha says, and unfolds herself from beneath the blankets to move to the couch. She smiles at him, the first one he's seen from her since the Quinjet touched down.
The clusterfuck mission tomorrow will suck, more than Oregon or recon or his lumberjack shirt, but it's worth it.