one tsp allspice, g, no warningssweetwatersongOctober 28 2014, 03:17:32 UTC
They go apple-picking on a Tuesday, when the families are all in school and at work and the orchard is almost empty but for a handful of others. It's not a sunny day, perfect and blue and cloudless, but the gray skies never break for rain and the cool wind is soft on their faces, musical in the leaves.
She sets out the kitchen on the Sunday they get back from another Avengers mission, placing cutting board and knives and spices with precision. Clint watches the football game and sneaks slivers of Macintosh and Gala when she isn't looking, stuffing them in his cheeks and playing innocent for everything he's worth when she gives him a side-long look. After Natasha finally sends him back to the couch with a curt glance and several overly purposeful knife flips, he calls out the score and listens to the rhythm of the blade against board, swift and economical until the scent of cinnamon fills the air.
He complains about having to wait, a whole eight hours 'Tasha, why, couldn't they have made pie?, until she curls up with him on the couch and the autumn afternoon slides away in warmth and lazy hours, in the comfort of contact, of simply being.
The applesauce is sweet and spiced and still warm when the sun rises on Monday morning, a golden glow as Clint offers her a spoon standing barefoot in loose pajamas pants in her kitchen, their kitchen, and Natasha smiles.
Was it worth it? She asks, taking the spoon, and he knows she means more than just this, knows and smiles back.
Of course it was, he replies, and slides his arm around her.
Re: one tsp allspice, g, no warningsdesertportNovember 1 2014, 00:44:24 UTC
Mmm, love this! It has the feeling of fall and home and warm romance that will always be in a summer place, no matter how the seasons change. Thank you!
She sets out the kitchen on the Sunday they get back from another Avengers mission, placing cutting board and knives and spices with precision. Clint watches the football game and sneaks slivers of Macintosh and Gala when she isn't looking, stuffing them in his cheeks and playing innocent for everything he's worth when she gives him a side-long look. After Natasha finally sends him back to the couch with a curt glance and several overly purposeful knife flips, he calls out the score and listens to the rhythm of the blade against board, swift and economical until the scent of cinnamon fills the air.
He complains about having to wait, a whole eight hours 'Tasha, why, couldn't they have made pie?, until she curls up with him on the couch and the autumn afternoon slides away in warmth and lazy hours, in the comfort of contact, of simply being.
The applesauce is sweet and spiced and still warm when the sun rises on Monday morning, a golden glow as Clint offers her a spoon standing barefoot in loose pajamas pants in her kitchen, their kitchen, and Natasha smiles.
Was it worth it? She asks, taking the spoon, and he knows she means more than just this, knows and smiles back.
Of course it was, he replies, and slides his arm around her.
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