(no subject)
with gratitude
rating: g
characters: Clint Barton/Laura Barton/Natasha Romanoff
warnings: none
summary: You've got to keep your energy up when you're healing - and when you're taking care of the Avenger who seems to be in a constant state of injury. Or: Clint attempts to make breakfast for the two women in his life.
author's note: For crazy4orcas, who prompted "Clint making breakfast in bed." for Polyshipping Day.
Clint is a good cook. He’s mastered the five French mother sauces, done his time in a greasy spoon diner, perfected how to get steaks to a delicious medium-rare over snowy campfires. He’s made meals that have put four-star restaurants to shame.
He’s not doing so well today.
Okay, it’s possible that the meds swimming through his system have something to do with it. So what if the stairs are a little swirly at the moment? He’s a trained SHIELD agent. He’s got this. Or, if he doesn’t have the best sense of balance, at least he’s got a wooden spoon. An awesome wooden spoon.
The toast is burned. Half of the orange juice has sloshed out of the glasses. What he put in the eggs smells suspiciously like rosemary instead of black pepper. And yet, Clint tells himself triumphantly, he makes it to the top of the stairs and opens the door to the spare room without falling over. At this point it's a feat worthy of an Avenger.
The creaking hinges rouse Natasha enough that she stirs on the cover of the guest bed, stretching an arm even as she rubs her eyes. The haze of the painkillers means he misses her initial expression, shuffling into the guest room as he is. Her narrowed eyes are unmistakable, though, even as Laura uncurls from where she’s likewise settled on top of the covers and pressed against Natasha’s side. Clint beams at them.
“Breakfast!” He says simply, because other words aren’t coming to mind.
“What- did he do what I think he did?” Laura asks Natasha, unmistakable panic flitting through her eyes before she gives him a once-over with surprise.
“It would seem so.” There’s something about his partner's flat tone that should worry him, Clint thinks, but he can’t put a finger on it; all of them are busy holding the slightly wobbling tray.
“I can't believe he’s able to stand on those meds.”
“I’m just surprised the house hasn’t burned down.” Natasha rises to take the tray from him, her mouth set with lines of irritation. “You’re supposed to still be in bed, Barton. Pulling out stitches is going to hurt even if you’re as high as kite.”
“Hawk,” he corrects her happily, letting her guide him with her free hand to the corner of the bed. Laura is already shifting and reaching out to help him plunk down with no sign whatsoever of grace.
“Yes, you are,” his partner says, amusement winning out over the worry. He’s proud all over again for not waking her up when he crept downstairs earlier this morning. They put him in the master bed to recuperate last night, left him to his own devices in the early dawn when he woke; uncharacteristic for the two amazing women who have patched him up more often than SHIELD Medical. But it's because he knows them so well that he realized they left his side only so Laura could cry herself sleep without waking him, Natasha comforting her.
He worries them more than he should, and yet they love him anyway. That's the single thought that's rung clearly through the fuzzy embrace of his medications. And really, it’s the only one that needs to.
“Thank you.” Laura brushes a kiss over his cheek, any hint of tears gone from her eyes. Clint lets his arms flop onto the duvet and leans into her touch. “But just so you know, I’m going to yell at you for this when you’re not strung out on painkillers.”
He grins. “Welcome.”
“Is that rosemary on your shirt? Do I even want to know what you got into?”
“The bread, the eggs, the juice… and from the sticky substance all over the silverware and a wooden spoon - really, Clint? - the jelly too.” Natasha lets out an exasperated breath and shakes her head minutely. “I should go make sure he didn’t leave the stove on.”
“I’ll get him to rest.”
“Thanks,” Clint manages even as the exhaustion he's been fighting makes his eyelids too heavy to keep open anymore. For a moment there’s no answer; then, just as he settles onto his back on the bed - ow, right, there’s a reason for the meds - he hears one or both of them answer.
“Always.”
Clint drifts into sleep with a smile and a dull throbbing in his side that's a small price to pay for the meal. He's a good cook even if he is a mess. And he'd do it again in a heartbeat, too, just to give back a little of what they've given to him. They love him.
He'll make it worth it, somehow.