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1: May, 2008
Clint wakes to the smell of something burning.
In the dark, he nearly falls off the bed in his haste, grabbing his hearing aids to stuff them in, gulping in lungfuls of air to try and suppress the panic, heading for the stairs that lead down the loft.
He shouldn’t have—God, he’s so fucking stupid, he trusted Romanoff when no one else would, took her in when even SHIELD refused to lend her quarters. Now this is how—he’s read about the hospital fire, and even if he knows that wasn’t her, not really—he has a dog down there, man—
“Romanoff!” He calls, halfway down the stairs, then, “Natasha?”
A faint light radiates from the microwave. Clint hits the light switch on the wall and it takes a second for both of them to adjust to the blinding white, but when he blinks back into focus, Romanoff is standing sheepishly at his kitchen island. In front of her, on a small plate, lies a pathetic brown pile of goo.
She seems to know it. “In my defense,” she starts, “I've never used an oven before?”
“Romanoff, that’s a microwave.” Clint pinches the bridge of his nose, trying not to show too much annoyance—she’s got a bad track record with that. “What the hell is this?”
“Well, I don’t know if you remember, but you saved my life,” says Romanoff, as if the answer to all of this is patently written in that sentence. “You said you didn’t want money, or sex, or my assassination services free of charge. Hence—” here, she flushes as her gaze drops to the plate and lifts back up to meet his eyes— “cupcake.”
“And you thought this would be a reasonable plan to execute in the dead of night? Dude, that looks like it tastes more like cup than cake.”
Romanoff’s face falls and something in Clint’s heart twinges, the same part of him that was in control when he lowered his bow only weeks ago, the part Romanoff calls a weakness.
He sighs. “Look, I’m sorry. That was mean. This is actually a pretty good try for a first…” he nods at nothing in particular, reluctantly coming to terms with the untruth he’s telling. “Cupcake. Did you want to share it? I’ll get the forks.”
When he returns from the utensil drawers, she’s seated on one of his stools, pulling a face. “It looks radioactive.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” Clint insists, taking a seat next to her and scooping a bit of the goo into his mouth—before immediately spitting it out.
Romanoff cuffs him on the shoulder, her look of feigned offence belied by the way the sides of her mouth tug upwards. “You’re an asshole. Be serious,” she scolds, then takes a bite herself.
She swallows it, then remains silent for an impressive two seconds before her poker face cracks.
It’s the first time they really laugh together, lights on at two in the morning, knees almost brushing.
2: December, 2009
She shoulders past him through the open door, sets a giant bag on the kitchen island, then strides around it to preheat the oven. Delighted at her return, Lucky follows right at her heels until Natasha gives him a brief head pat.
“Good afternoon, Clint,” Clint lists, closing the door. “How are you? Haven’t seen you in a while. Let me tell you about my mission.”
Natasha rolls her eyes. “I need to borrow your oven.”
“You’re already using it,” he points out.
“Thanks,” she says blithely, then reaches into the bag she brought to pull out ten gallons of flour.
“Um,” says Clint. “Are you thinking about decorating the loft for Christmas? Or—”
“It’s for cake,” says Natasha. “Duh.”
Unable to think of a proper response to that, Clint decides to sit back on the couch and watch her work. She’s improved noticeably since the cupcake incident last year, the first indicator being that she actually knows where the oven is for a change. She whisks eggs in a small bowl and fills measuring jugs he hasn’t touched since purchase with water, and before long, the mixture is safe on a tray inside the oven with minimal spills on Natasha’s part.
“Mission was okay,” she finally says, leaning against the counter as she waits for the oven to finish. “Kinda boring.”
“Taking down an entire drug cartel on your own was boring?” Clint raises an eyebrow, to which Natasha shrugs. “Hey, on the bright side—solo mission! Free from the trademark Barton smartass incessant ramblings, as you so kindly put it.”
“I don’t know, I kinda missed it,” says Natasha, surprising Clint. “Don’t let it go to your head,” she warns and all he can do is grin.
The cake is red velvet, which is how Clint knows she made it for herself, unlike the chocolate cupcake intended for him. Natasha cuts a slice out after setting the frosting and sits down in quiet satisfaction to eat.
Clint approaches slowly. “What’s the occasion?”
Natasha swallows a bite. “It’s my birthday.”
He sits down in surprise—he didn’t know she knew her own birthday; even the birth year on her SHIELD file is but a rough estimation. “Oh. Um…”
Over one and a half years of partnership, and sometimes he’s still unsure how to act around Natasha. What he does know is that she hates being treated differently because of things outside of her control.
She didn’t come to ask for any gifts just because she was born on this day twenty-something years ago. She came to share this little piece of herself with him, bundled up like a red ribbon tied around a cake box.
He figures it out. She wants to share. Just like that failure of a cupcake, but it hasn’t been about clearing debts for a long time.
“Can I have some of that?” he asks as casually as he can manage.
He knows he made the right guess when she pushes the cake towards him. He tries not to feel too smug about it.
3: July, 2010
“Don’t make a mess,” Natasha warns, eyes wide.
Clint turns on the electric mixer and does just that.
Natasha yelps, grabbing the mixer from his hand and turning it off hurriedly. “It’s gotta be perpendicular to the batter,” she scolds, high-pitched. “You can’t hold it diagonally.”
“Sorry, ma’am.” Clint flashes her the sheepish grin that can get almost every girl at SHIELD to cave, but it only bounces right off Natasha, who shakes her head in exasperation and takes over whisking the mixture.
“Uh, you got something—” Clint pauses.
Still a little miffed, Natasha turns to face him again. “What?”
He chuckles, reaching up to brush the cream on her nose away with his thumb. His hand brushes her face and she stiffens for a moment before turning away, clearing her throat. “Thanks.”
Clint watches as she whisks the batter perfectly, not landing a single drop outside of the bowl. She’s got technique, and her hands may be small but they’re firm, and her hair’s gotten curlier since the last time he saw her, and her face pinched in annoyance is—it’s—
Okay, here’s the thing. When Natasha was sent to Stark Industries, they didn’t tell him the mark was Iron Man himself, which meant she couldn’t tell him by extension because it was classified, so he didn’t know the infiltration would take as long as it would. They just missed each other when he was assigned to New Mexico, and when he got back she was already in Harlem. Those days felt like months without her bright laughter filling his loft, and he realised that he missed her, badly, perhaps more than he had the right to.
Which also means that it was his idea for them to bake something together to celebrate her return, their reunion, and generally surviving these few messy weeks. Which means he’s now stuck staring forlornly at Natasha’s hair, trying and failing to snap himself out of it. Which means, essentially, he’s screwed. Big time.
Natasha turns off the mixer, then pushes the bowl his way. “I don’t trust you with much, but it’s kind of impossible to fuck up a taste test, so…”
Jumping at the chance, Clint sticks a finger into the fluffy mixture, then into his mouth. He hums. “Tastes like sugar.”
“No shit,” says Natasha, “you insisted on adding, like, five cups,” and for a second Clint can swear her gaze lands on his mouth, tracking the movement of his finger. Then it’s over, she turns away, and he snaps himself out of the wishful delusion that Natasha would ever spare him a second glance.
(Still. He discreetly notes how later, when she thinks he can’t see her, she lets a smile slip while cleaning up, wiping the counter to get rid of the cream splatters.)
4: November, 2010
“They’re not cooking,” says Natasha anxiously, having been crouched in front of the oven door for the past five minutes. “Clint, they’re not cooking—”
“Relax,” he tells her, leaning over the kitchen island. “The recipe said at least fifteen minutes; it’s not the end of the world if they’re still a bit watery.”
Natasha is quiet for a good few seconds as she lowers herself to the floor and presses the heels of her palms against her eyes, and that’s when Clint’s heart starts to drop. “They’re not—”
Clint hurries around the island, dropping down right in front of her and crossing his legs atop the tiles. He sets his hands gently on her knees as he leans forward, patiently waiting on her next few words. Defusing Natasha’s head is a hard-earned art: if you’re lucky, she might just let you pick up the brush, guide her through each stroke.
“Do you know,” she finally says, voice quivering, “the number of people at SHIELD who insist on continuing to hate me?”
“Nat,” says Clint, floored. On some level, of course he’s known, but he didn’t think it was as bad as the first few months, when hordes of glares would stalk them down the hallways. “You didn’t… tell me.”
Even as he says it, he feels like an asshole: he should’ve known. As her partner, as her best friend—just because he’s stopped receiving accusations of bringing a traitor home doesn’t mean everybody is suddenly cool with Natasha.
She shouldn’t have needed to tell him.
“It wasn’t your problem,” she says.
“If you genuinely think that, I don’t know how our partnership has lasted this long.” He doesn’t mean it in a malicious way, and is relieved to see Natasha’s lips purse in guilt rather than dejection.
“I was assigned to do one thing, Clint,” she says. “Just this one thing.” She gestures helplessly at the oven, where the muffins lie flat in their moulds, refusing to rise. “And I can’t even get it right.”
“Hey now—”
“I’m going to ruin the party.” Of course, she’s catastrophising, but her voice is earnest in her belief. “And then they’re going to hate me even more.”
“Nat.” Clint removes her hands from her eyes, clasping them tight in his. “Breathe.”
She obeys, albeit shakily. “I’m not making sense, am I?”
“No,” he answers, “but neither does life?”
She rolls her eyes. “Deep.”
“Look, all I’m saying is… if anyone has the audacity to mess with Natasha Romanoff because of a couple of failed muffins, that’s on them. Fuck them; they don’t deserve good muffins.”
Natasha ducks her head to hide her blooming smile.
“And I know you’re tough, and you don’t need protecting,” he continues, “but if it gets to be too much—if anybody oversteps—you tell me, and we’ll figure something out together. Okay?”
She does look up then, glistening green eyes jolting him to his core as she searches for any trace of untruth. He knows she doesn’t find it when she lets her smile through tentatively.
Clint would never lie to Natasha.
“Will you help me figure out how to fix this?” She asks, nodding towards the oven.
Clint pulls her in by her shoulders to kiss her forehead. “I’ll tell you what: I’ll walk you to the bakery a few blocks over, and we can put in a mass order. We’ll replace the packaging so it looks homemade. No one will be able to tell.”
Natasha ponders. “You know, you’re smarter than most people make you out to be.”
Clint’s hands still haven’t lifted from her shoulders. He smiles back, the source of his adrenaline shifting from concern to the curve of her lips, the pink in her cheeks. “Oh, I know.”
5: June, 2011
The summer dusk air brushes crisply past his skin. With an up-close view of the skyline and the perfect volume of Brooklyn ambience whirling in the wind, the roof has always been, and will always be, his favourite place in the world. Clint leans forward on the parapet, watching the night’s first stars blink hello.
Behind him, the door to the roof opens. Recognising the slow set of footsteps, he doesn’t bother to turn.
“Everyone’s looking for you, you know,” Natasha tells him as she approaches.
“Can’t imagine why,” he says into the city air.
“Told them to leave their presents on your couch.” Natasha sets a cake with purple icing atop the parapet, a single candle flame wavering under the occasional breeze. “There is something I wanted to hand-deliver, though.”
“You made this?” Clint asks to hide his pleasure, already knowing the answer. He picks up one of the two forks, takes a bite. It’s chocolate flavoured.
By her, for him.
“This is, uh…” He feels his eyes sting and hopes Natasha won’t be able to tell in the dim light. “It’s good. You’ve gotten way better at this.”
Natasha smiles, unadulterated, pure, beautiful. “Happy birthday, Clint.”
He’s left with no choice but to pull her into his side, and she fits flawlessly in the crook of his elbow, as she always does. “Thank you,” he mumbles, kisses her hair, feels her hug him back tighter. “You’re my best friend.”
“You still have to blow out the candle,” Natasha says into his hoodie, and he releases her.
Clint turns to the sky, taking a deep breath, inhaling the world in all its beauty. In the end, he doesn’t even have to think about it. He blows the flame out decisively.
“Was it a good wish?” asks Natasha.
“Oh, the best.” He clears his throat. “Thanks for holding up the fort.”
“I have very obviously abandoned my post,” she smirks.
“I generously forgive you,” he says. “I like you better up here with me anyway.”
He turns back to the cake to hide his blush, and she picks up her fork. They start eating together in silence.
The next bite he takes, it isn’t just cake he swallows, but also something else stuck in the column of his throat, something important, something he can’t keep ignoring for much longer.
1: October, 2012
The Avengers Tower kitchen takes some getting used to, but having a cornucopia of state-of-the-art equipment within reach doesn’t exactly hurt—even if the only equipment they really need are a couple of bowls, the set of moulds, and an oven.
Of course, Tony had offered to extend JARVIS’ baking services, but Natasha assured him they didn’t volunteer because it'd be easy. When Tony cocked his head to the side, eternally too curious for his own good, Natasha just shrugged, said call it a little assassin tradition and winked in Clint’s direction, and honestly if he thinks too much about it he might just explode and then Natasha will have to clean the mess up, so he should probably focus on the task at hand. Baking. Halloween. Right.
Natasha snorts at the first cupcake he finishes decorating, the icing atop it already drooping. “What’s this supposed to be?”
Clint makes an undignified noise. “Like a ghost, or pumpkin, or something.”
She laughs, unfiltered. “Those aren’t even supposed to be comparable, what—”
“Ghost pumpkin,” declares Clint, “my newest invention.”
“You can’t invent a Halloween specialty—”
“Kids everywhere will be lining up for the costumes!”
“Why would they, when they could dress up as the Amazing Hawkeye,” Natasha counters, eyebrow raised.
Clint groans—the terrible Hawkeye costumes on the internet have served as the topic of their heated discussions for the past month. “Low blow, Nat.”
“It’s half the reason I even signed up for this,” Natasha continues, amusement apparent in her voice. “Hand candies and cupcakes out to kids! Take embarrassing pictures of your disgruntled partner!”
“You’re taking all the fun out of Halloween,” Clint complains, but he’s smiling, and soon enough Natasha turns her attention back to her own batch of cupcakes, expertly outlining a zombie, a cobwebbed Avengers logo, and on one occasion a passable hybrid of a ghost and pumpkin, which makes something in Clint’s chest ache.
“You know,” Natasha says after a quiet while, “we’ve never baked anything in autumn before.”
“Huh,” says Clint, ransacking his memories. “I didn’t really notice.”
“I’m glad we’re getting to do it now.” She’s paused her work, staring down at her hands on the piping bag. “It’s my favourite season.”
Clint sets his current cupcake down. “Why?”
It means something, that he can just ask now, that he’s allowed to expect an answer back. Offering her favourite season is a bit like offering her birthday. He just doesn’t have to tiptoe around the breadcrumbs she drops anymore.
Lately, he’s felt like he couldn’t ever know enough about Natasha.
She thinks for a moment. “The leaves, mostly. Makes my hair blend in better.” He doesn’t need to point out that a rather important job requirement of hers is to be able to blend in, whenever, wherever. “And, I don’t know, it’s just—that precious moment you get before the world falls into winter. Like… anything could happen.”
Clint steps closer—if she turns now, they’d be face to face; they’d be able to feel each other’s breaths. If she turns. It’s her call. “Anything, huh.”
She stays still for so long Clint thinks she’s never going to do anything at all, but unimaginably, miraculously, she drops the piping bag on the counter and reaches backward to entwine her hand with his.
And then she turns, her eyes ever undimmed, her beauty ever glorious. There’s a smidge of orange frosting on her forehead and Clint realises it’s always been her with him, redefining debts, birthdays, vulnerabilities, crafting something sweeter than syrup, more electric than the green of her irises.
He probably stares too long for Natasha’s liking, because she places her free hand on the side of his neck to guide him into a kiss, and this is new, this feels like a mixer whisking its way through his chest, the smell of a thousand honey cakes wafting through the air, the ding of an oven promising an exquisite future.
As they part, Natasha pulls her smile away from her face to feign a moue. “I taste chocolate—you’ve been stealing out of the batter, haven’t you?”
“It’s good,” he justifies. “I bet, instead of cupcakes, we could give out mini bowls of batter out to the kids, and they’d be just as satisfied.”
“Hey now, I put a lot of effort into these,” Natasha defends, and it sends Clint into a fit of laughter. “What?”
“Nothin’. Just thinking about that first cupcake. Two AM.”
Natasha breaks into a grin. “It was awful.”
“Hey, I’m not complaining,” Clint chuckles, his hands reaching out to enclose her waist. “It got us where we are.”
“Where we are ain’t so bad,” agrees Natasha, going in for another kiss.