Work Text:
Clint hears water running in the shower as he surfaces drowsily from an uncharacteristically pleasant dream. The blanket barely comes up to his waist and is thrown back where Natasha slipped out of bed before him. Rain drips against the window pane from an overhanging shelf he likes to climb up to the roof by, and the air smells faintly of body heat, popcorn from their movie night, and Natasha's shampoo.
It takes him a moment to notice it. He sits up and doesn't smell peppermint and chamomile, doesn't see her doorstopper hardback moved from its spot on the stand on her side of the bed, and doesn't see the telltale signs of her puttering around the room: both of their discarded clothes are still scattered across furniture and floor.
Clint groans and forces himself up out of the bed. He realized a long time ago that self-preservation means taking stock of whether she's had her tea yet or not. She hasn't and she's in the shower, which means he has only a brief window to rescue himself from a Black Widow in a bad mood.
He pulls on his jeans from the night before and heads into the kitchen where there's only one clean coffeepot. He can go without. He rinses it out, fills it with water, and sets it on the stove to heat then rummages around in the pantry until he finds the bags she keeps of various teas and herbs. Personally, Clint prefers bottled, readymade, and hard to get wrong, but this isn't about him—unless you count the part that means he doesn't get a knife by his ear for a snarky comment or a ream of complaints about his shower and cleanliness habits.
"Your alarm clock was too noisy this morning," Natasha's voice startles him.
She managed to sneak right up next to him and has her eyebrow raised knowingly.
He pours the water over her teaball and hands over her favorite cup. He'll have to reassemble the clock later.
"Morning," he says neutrally, not adding an adjective and its potential to fall on the wrong side of her opinion.
The other eyebrow comes up, but she takes the cup and sniffs appreciatively. "Thank you." She goes and sits down at the dining room table, tucking her foot up beneath her, book under her hand while Clint sighs internally with relief.
He washes out another coffeepot and makes his own beverage of choice, keeping a close eye on how quickly she goes through her cup. At halfway through, she flips open her book and her expression softens into something almost contented.
Clint downs his mug and considers it safe to go take a shower. "Be right back."
"You'd better," she calls after him, but he doesn't hear a threat in her voice—he thinks.