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Rule #10: Team commitment is essential

Clint

"Spaghetti alla carbonara," Clint said.

"This is just a pizza," Natasha explained.

They sat on Clint's bed and ate bad pizza leaning over the paper box.

They ordered it because Clint loved trash food and Natasha had always been used to a strict diet, so anything greasy and containing too much melted cheese was a thrilling concept for her.

"No. I mean we should make spaghetti alla carbonara."

Natasha looked at him funnily. "You want to cook? Together?"

"Yeah. Why not?"

"You can cook?"

Clint shrugged. "I get the general idea."

Natasha smiled.

"And it is not that difficult," Clint argued suddenly feeling at unease. "It's pasta after all."

Natasha was in her panties and a tank top, he wore his underwear only. Still, cooking together suddenly seemed too intimate, something they might not be ready for.

Which was a joke really, because two months passed since they had got back from Budapest. They had a steady and very satisfying sexual relationship and a reliable professional one.

Cooking together sounded like a nice activity: it was cosy, friendly and they would get food out of it.

On the other hand it was a date. Whether or not they acknowledged it, that was what it was.

And what really bothered Clint was the fact that he wanted that date.

"Well, making good pasta is not as easy as you make it sound," Natasha said.

"And you know that because...?"

"Well, glad you ask, darling," Natasha smirked. "As it is, I am the biggest pasta expert you can find in this ridiculously large city of yours."

"New York is not my city," Clint remarked.

"Is that so? What is your city then?"

"Waverly, Iowa."

Natasha looked at him for so long without another word that Clint put his half-eaten pizza slice down.

"So you're like... a farm boy?"

Clint chuckled. "Yes, I'm exactly that. Does it make me less attractive?"

"On the contrary."

"And what about you? Who taught you to cook pasta? Mother Russia?"

This was the most lighthearted Natasha could ever get and Clint was still worried. Talking about her past and her country of origin was always a sensitive topic.

He wondered if he ruined the whole night with the comment, but after a beat of silence she chuckled and it was the most heartwarming sound he had heard in a while. Thank God.

"Uncle Sam," she responded with a wink. "I had a mission here back then with the KGB. Had to work at a kitchen of an Italian restaurant for cover. The owner's grandmother taught me some good tricks."

"Wow. I kind of thought you were just bluffing."

Natasha grinned. "Don't draw conclusions so soon, Barton. Wait until you get to taste the infamous Romanoff-pasta."

Natasha

Chantal Davids was a new recruit for STRIKE Team Foxtrot and she had the longest legs Natasha had ever seen. She was also kind, chatty and funny, or so she heard from the guys during training, and Natasha hated her.

It wasn't because she was an attractive woman. Natasha barely cared about the gaze of men on her body anymore.

It wasn't because she talked too much and made a point of throwing her hair behind her shoulder with a swift motion that made it look like she was straight from Baywatch.

It wasn't because Natasha saw her on the training mat and it was clear her best trick was being a woman and Natasha would never be able to respect someone who charms her way out of a training this way.

She could get over any of that.

What she could not get over however, was the fact that Chantal decided she wanted Clint.

When Natasha noticed it first, she wondered if she was overreacting.

It was innocent enough after all. All Chantal did was walk up to Clint in the gym and ask him to help with her gloves before heading to the punching bag.

That was all and still, Natasha had to take a deep breath before Clint turned back to her.

"You alright?" He smiled.

Natasha loved that smile. So she smiled back. "Yeah. Let's do it," she said pointing at the mat.

But it turned out soon enough that her reaction was perfectly justified, along with the heavy feeling in her gut.

Chantal wanted Clint. Natasha was sure of that.

She just didn't know what she wanted him for. A night? Close friend with extras? A lifetime?

Well, it didn't truly matter after all. Because Natasha wanted Clint too. And she was so ready to protect her territory.

"I didn't think you would take this so serious," Natasha remarked as she walked into the kitchen.

"It's food. It has to be taken seriously," Clint explained.

"Is that right?" Natasha teased. Clint had packed the kitchen counter with the ingredients not only for the pasta but for something that looked like a future pie.

"Are we baking too?"

"Yeah. It makes no sense to start preparing dinner without dessert."

"How is it that you eat like this and still look like this?" Natasha asked taking a look at the muscular arms that were visible in the old t-shirt he wore.

Clint grinned before winking at her. "I'm a witch," he whispered.

"What's your power?" Natasha asked as she started boiling the water.

"Seduction. Is it working?" Clint smirked.

"It has been. You got me in your bed after all."

"And I am so fucking proud of that," Clint nodded solemnly which made warmth pool in Natasha's stomach.

"It's a good story to tell the guys in a smoky bar, huh?" she finally said. "Tapped the Black Widow and lives to tell the tale."

"Oh no, not that," Clint chuckled. "I am actually proud of getting Natasha Romanoff to trust me. Now that's something."

Natasha's face probably didn't work as she couldn't hide her surprise.

Clint looked up at her and smiled. "What is it?" He asked. "Many men slept with the Widow. How many slept with Natasha?"

Natasha turned back to the stove so she could contain the sudden urge of emotions. "Not many," she finally replied. The answer was only you, but she didn't want to say that to him. He was smug enough already.

Suddenly she felt two arms around her waist and Clint pressed a kiss on her nape. "Everything alright?"

She smiled as she turned around giving him a kiss on the lips. "Definitely. I'm just worried about your pie crust making abilities."

Clint laughed softly. "Remember that time I drove up to bloody Canada to get your ass back here?"

"Yeah."

"You trusted me with your life then."

"Yeah, so?"

"But when it comes to pie crust, you have doubts?"

"It's food. It has to be taken seriously," Natasha repeated his words with a smile.

"It's done," Natasha claimed as she finished sprinkling Parmesan on two portions of pasta.

"Pie's in the oven," Clint said.

Natasha smiled as they sat down by the table. "So is it your fist pie?"

Clint looked down on his clothes that had flour and fruit juice and butter all over. "That obvious?"

Natasha leaned forward and swiped her thumb over a patch of mashed raspberry on Clint's neck. Then she put her thumb in her mouth and licked the fruit off.

"Kind of," she responded making Clint laugh.

The pasta was great and so was sitting there eating homemade food together.

So Natasha was understandably upset when she heard a familiar voice.

"Oh my god, it smells so good in here!"

Clint turned away to smile at the intruder. "Hey Chantal. Are you here for the post-workout snack?"

The post-workout snack was a well known concept among the agents. Everyone had favourite snacks and they were always available in the common kitchens. Natasha was sure it was Fury's doing but she didn't think their relationship was secure enough to confront him about her suspicion just yet.

"Yeah," Chantal nodded. "I'm starving." But instead of just grabbing her damned snack and leaving, Chantal kept smiling at Clint, who kept smiling back at her for some reason.

"Did you microwave this?" she asked Clint, clearly teasing.

To Natasha's horror, Clint chuckled.

"We thought it would be nice to have a homemade dinner once," he responded.

Natasha desperately tried to find a way to let Chantal know that she was trespassing. She wanted to sit in Clint's lap, to start making out with him furiously, to talk to Chantal about how great her sex life has been recently (and Clint's too, she might add; she knew that first hand). Whatever needed to be done to clear that smile off her perfectly glossed lips. Wasn't she coming from training, anyway? She seemed way too relaxed for that. And not sweaty enough.

Chantal obviously didn't realise that she was not welcome.

"My my, aren't you just starving?" she asked. "What's in there?" she pointed at the oven.

"That's the Barton-pie," Clint said.

"Really now? Are you a pie expert?"

Okay, this was most definitely flirting. That woman had the audacity to come in here and start openly flirting with the man that clearly was there to spend time with Natasha. The entitlement made Natasha's stomach turn.

"We are here to find out," Clint responded.

"Are we?" Chantal asked and something inside Natasha snapped by the way she so obviously hijacked what Clint meant by we. What a cheap trick.

She stood up and grabbed her empty plate, then shoved it in the sink.

"Nat…?" Clint called as she headed to the exit.

"I'm full," Natasha said barely glancing in his direction.

"But the pie is—"

"I'll have some later, Barton. If you don't devour it all."

As Chantal glared at her, she was sure she had plans about devouring all she could.

Clint

Natasha's behaviour was weird, honestly.

Clint and Chantal tasted the pie which was great. And Natasha liked pie as she like desserts and sweets in general.

So it was only natural Clint headed to her room with a slice of the Barton-pie.

What was not natural was that she didn't respond to his knocking. It couldn't be that she didn't hear it because for one, she had exceptionally good hearing and she was overly sensitive to any kind of noise, and also because Clint kept knocking for at least a minute.

"Romanoff?" He finally called. "Will you open it? I got pie."

"Not hungry," Natasha called back.

"Come on. It is my pie. My first pie. And you love pie."

Natasha was clearly grumbling as she opened the door. "Is it good?"

He raised his eyebrow. "It is the Barton-pie. It has to be. And Chantal liked it too, so—"

Natasha didn't let him finish. She grabbed the plate from his hand. "I'll try it later," she said curtly and all but shut the door into his face. Something she had never ever done before.

Clint was sure something was not right and he knew how to get it out of Natasha.

So he made his way to the gym at 7am two days later.

Natasha liked to train early in the morning when the gym was relatively empty. When she was upset, she would go back in the evening as well. When she was in a particularly bad mood, she spent there half a day and he needed to stack up on chocolate bars to get her back to her room.

She was already there when he arrived. She stood in front of a punching bag and repeatedly tried something that looked like a lethal chest kick.

"I think the bag wants to tap you out," Clint said from behind her.

She turned around sharply.

"The bag takes it well," she replied.

"You want to try it on someone more responsive?" Clint asked as he rolled his shoulders and stood on the mat.

Natasha smirked. "You couldn't handle me, Barton."

Clint was about to retort, but as he looked into her eyes, it was clear she was not joking around or teasing. She was dead serious.

So he decided to go with the plan and see if he would come out alive in the end.

"I can handle you alright, Romanoff. Come on, give me all you got."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh yes. Give me the Widow, baby."

In hindsight, Clint mused as Natasha's kick made him fall on his back and in the next moment her thighs closed around his neck, it was probably a bad idea to ask for the Widow.

He tapped her out and coughed before sitting up and tilting his head to the side to assess her.

"What is it with you, Nat?" He asked.

Natasha was still panting as she lay back and stared at the ceiling.

"What do you mean?"

"You're clearly mad at me."

"Am not," she said.

"Well, you're doing a damn good job to pretend you are then," Clint pointed out. He sighed and lay down next to Natasha. "Nat, please. Talk to me. Was it…" he trailed off and took a deep breath before going on. "Was it the cooking?"

Natasha turned her head to face him and Clint couldn't decide what her eyes held. Was it anger? Irritation? Disappointment?

But Clint had been thinking about it for days now and it seemed the only logical conclusion. It was too early, too much, too intimate, too unprofessional… whatever. Something changed during the pasta dinner and Clint was desperate to find out what so he could solve it and go back to what it was like between them before.

So he continued. "I'm sorry if it made you feel uncomfortable or something. I realise we have a professional relationship first and foremost, and we are partners and I value that you are always there to have my back. Or my broken finger," he added as he remembered Budapest. "I didn't want to—" But before he could continue, he was cut off by Natasha rolling over him again, but this time it was not the Black Widow. It was Nat, his Nat who kissed him feverishly and so sweetly that it made him moan.

Natasha giggled as she pulled back to breathe.

"It was not the cooking. I loved it."

Clint smiled. "Did you? You didn't stay for the pie."

And that was it. Natasha's face started to shut down. When she talked next, she was cold and measured.

"Davids was there to keep you company though."

Clint frowned. "What are you… oh. Oh!"

He sat up and tried to wipe the stupid grin off his face.

"What?" Natasha all but barked. It sounded rather defensive.

"You're jealous, sweetheart, aren't you?" Clint asked with a chuckle.

Natasha's face turned pale and she stood up. "I am definitely not jealous of that…" she paused to find the right word and then shrugged. "Of that bitch," she finally said thrusting her chin upwards.

And before Clint could say anything she turned around and left the gym in such a hurry she left behind her shoes that she had discarded before fighting him.

Natasha

Clint arrived that night at 11:38pm with her training shoes in his hands.

Natasha briefly entertained the thought of refusing to let him in after the embarrassing episode in the gym. But she would have to work together with him in the end. And it was hard to admit, but she had grown to like Clint. These days without him were hard and she wanted to sort things out between them.

"Thanks," she murmured and took the shoes to drop them by the door.

Clint just waved dismissively and made himself comfortable on her bed.

"Listen, I am sorry about that scene today," Natasha said turning back to him and stepping closer to the bed. "Whatever you want to do with whoever is not my business, really. Davids is a beautiful girl, or so I hear from the boys."

Clint raised his eyebrow and pulled his legs under himself. "Have you ever heard it from me?" He asked.

"No."

"And why is that?" He pressed. When Natasha shrugged, he went on. "I don't have eyes for other women here, Nat. I thought you were supposed to be a spy. You could have found out by now that I'm pretty invested in you."

Natasha frowned. "I am a spy. A damn good one." A good spy who knew how to play a woman but had forgotten that she was one herself.

Clint seemed to understand it all as he leaned over and reached for her hand. "Romanoff. I… what we have, right now. I like it. I think it's great. And I want to spend as much time with you as I can, on and off missions. That's what I said to Chantal too."

Natasha bit her lip. She felt such a relief that she would have been disgusted by it back in her KGB days. Emotions were for children, she repeated in her head. But as she looked into Clint's beautiful honest eyes, she was tempted to believe that maybe some emotions were suitable for adults as well.

She took his hand and was snapped out of her thoughts as she looked down. He wore a bracelet on his left wrist. She saw black leather stripes that held a red hourglass.

The Black Widow symbol.

She had to swallow before she would do something embarrassing again. Like choking on her own tears.

"Interesting fashion choice," she said as she kneeled on the bed.

He kept puling her until she was sitting squarely on his lap with one leg on each side of him and he leaned his back against the bedpost. "It's more like a fashion statement," he said.

She smiled and kissed him. "I like your statement," she replied simply.

Yes, she decided. Some emotions are for adults.

Clint didn't say anything when he saw the little arrow on the necklace five days later. He didn't say anything but he made love to her differently that night, with more passion and less reservation. He didn't mention the necklace afterwards either but he held her the whole night. It felt different too. But it felt so right that Natasha decided she would never take the necklace off again.