Chapter Text
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Clint Barton would hardly call himself stoic; no matter that he can be, it’s rarely his intention to keep his emotions in check when he doesn’t have to. This afternoon, however, the only thing keeping them from erupting is a desire not to trash his boyfriend’s kitchen because, otherwise, he would already have thrown the entirety of this monstrous endeavour – shortcake, toppings, pans, forks! – every damn bit slammed straight into the wall. He might have failed at this, but, even at his worst, Clint knows he’d have no trouble hitting those marks. Just like he knows that crying over the ruin that is his boyfriend’s birthday cake isn’t going to do anything to address the situation.
Instead, Clint cuts away the last burnt chunk from the edge of the mangled cake, doing his best to keep the whole thing as roundish as he can. Sitting on the footed cake plate he honestly can’t remember digging out of Matt’s cupboard, it looks more like a mounded collection of crumbs than the lovely little cake he’d hope to end up with. Clint can take comfort in knowing that – from a few tentative nibbles at the least burnt of the bits he’s removed – it does in fact taste like cake, even if it is fuck-ugly. For now. Surely, he can do some sort of last-minute dessert triage; it’s only sixteen-seventy-five, so-
That- That’s zero-four-seven-five.
That’s not a time.
That’s a temperature.
The clock on the oven is at the back of the range, and it’s eighteen-oh-six. Which means Clint has negative minutes to fix anything because Matthew Murdock should have been walking through that door twenty minutes ago; so, either his boyfriend is doing something for his night job on his birthday, or… Clint sighs into his hand, “You don’t have to wait in the hallway, Matty.”
For a blissful few seconds, Clint can hope that he’s wrong, but then the latch and deadbolt turn, and the door swings open. Matt sets his briefcase by the umbrella bucket as he locks the door behind him, draping his blazer over the arm of the sofa as he steps closer. “You sounded upset, and nothing smelled too burnt, so…”
His boyfriend smiles up at him with a shrug, somehow managing to make the failure sting that much more. “So you’ve been sitting on the stairs for half an hour?”
“They’re not uncomfortable.” Matt’s in the kitchen and resting a hand on the counter before Clint can stop him. Clint watches him grimace as he snatches it back; Matt ends up wiping a streak of flour right down the leg of his charcoal slacks as he speaks, “It smells good.”
“Great, ‘cause it looks like shit.”
“Because I’m judging on looks.” Huffing, Matt tilts his head with a little shake. “Someone went to the trouble of making me a cherry cake for my birthday; I’m not going to complain, no matter how fugly it is.”
“Trust me; calling it fugly is a kindness.” Clint wipes his palms on an un-dirtied spot of apron, giving the cake plate a little turn “I’m also pretty sure there’s no way to serve it, not layered up like a real shortcake.”
“May I?”
With a nod, Clint pushes the plate further down the counter, so that Matt only has to turn a bit to reach it. He watches long-fingered hands pick their way across the absolute disaster that was – in theory – supposed to be a nice birthday surprise.
Matt nods slowly, popping a chunk of cake into his mouth before turning back to Clint with a sheepish smile. “It’s, um… a unique presentation.”
“It’s garbage, Matt.”
“The taste is fine, though. Texture is a little unusual, but hang on.” Matt’s peck against his cheek lands just above the syrup-sticky smear at the edge of Clint’s jaw. His boyfriend bends, reaching into one of the lower cabinets, far enough that Clint gets distracted by view, gone fleetingly as Matt stands, footed glass bowl in hand. “Here. Is there whipped cream, too?”
“Yeah, uh…” Clint scoots around him to the refrigerator, retrieving the compote and whipped cream, then returning to stand at Matt’s side. “Got ‘em both.”
“Great. Grab some spoons and give me a second?” Matt steps away just long enough to wash his hands, then rejoins Clint at the counter. As he watches, Matt reaches a hand into the middle of the shortcake lump, grabbing a chunk and crumbling it between his hands over the glass bowl. “Help me break up the cake? More, I mean.”
The cake is already a crumbling mess, and Clint internally winces at having to destroy it further, but Matt seems to know what he’s doing – certainly seems more confident in his actions than Clint’s felt all damn day – so why not try it? He does as he asked – crumbling the cake, passing Matt the whipped cream and cherries in turn, breaking up more tiny pieces of cake – watching as Matt layers them all within that oddly deep glass container.
Matt spoons the last of the cream onto the top, the back of the spoon leaving disgustingly perfect stiff peaks behind. Clint feels himself grinding his teeth by the time his boyfriend steps back, voice triumphant as he announces, “There!”
“It’s pretty, but it’s still not really a cake, Matty.”
“Exactly; now it’s a trifle.”
His boyfriend’s just turned Clint’s disaster of a cake into a trifle, and – even if he assumes that must be the name for a dessert like this – Clint can’t help how right he is; all of that work turned into something small, wasteful and unimportant. “Oh, like me.”
“Don’t.” Matt rounds on him, jaw set, but Clint’s not having anyone apologizing for him today.
"I fucked up so badly that you had to make your own birthday cake-” Matt straightens to his full height, mouth open to interrupt him. “- for the second year in a row.”
His boyfriend deflates into a tiny shrug as he sidles closer. “I don’t mind.”
“I do.”
“You tried.” Matt nudges Clint’s side with his elbow, leaning in once he lifts his arm.
“Yeah, and failed.” Catastrophically, and the only reason Matt isn’t losing his shit is because he’s him; Clint has to believe anyone else would have laid into him the minute they saw the wreck he’d made of their kitchen.
As it is, Matt’s snuggling closer, arm looping behind Clint’s back. “It’s sweet.”
“That’s the sugar.”
“Fuck, Clint, I mean the gesture and- You. You are sweet.” Head tilted onto his shoulder, Matt offers a soft smile, one that quickly slides toward teasing. “And not just from the sugar, but maybe I could help with that, too.”
“Matty.” First the cake, now the mess; Clint can’t kick himself enough for fouling things up so badly, can’t help feeling terrible that Matt seems so nonchalant about fixing all of it. “You shouldn’t have to-”
“It’s my birthday.” A firm kiss is planted on his cheek. “Maybe I want to?”
“Clean the kitchen?”
“Oh, no; you get to clean the kitchen.” The hand that isn’t at Clint’s waist lifts, his boyfriend’s fingers tracing up his neck to grasp his chin; holding Clint still as he tips his own face upwards. “I get to clean you."
“Umm…”
“I managed to salvage that shortcake.” Matt’s tongue drags along the smear of compote on his jaw, continuing on to flick at the edge of Clint’s ear as he breathes, “I’m sure I could get you a little more… presentable.”
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