A/N: Written for trope bingo, 'curtainfic'. Movie spoilers. All my knowledge of pirozhki comes from the internet.

What I Mean to Say Is

Natasha frowns a lot when Phil comes back from the dead.

Not that he actually died. Okay, technically, he did, for a while, they had to restart his heart, but that's not the point. When the Avengers find out that the rumors of Phil's death were greatly exaggerated, Natasha frowns a lot.

Clint goes unnervingly silent, like he doesn't know how to deal with it, but Phil knows eventually he'll settle on pissed. Hopefully with a side order of 'happy you're not dead, sir'. Tony is angry and yells; the language he uses in regards to Director Fury is quite inventive. Steve is quietly irate, like he can't believe Fury would actually lie to them like that. Thor is cheerful and affectionate in spite of the fact that the history of their acquaintance contains such incidents as Phil confiscating Thor's girlfriend's research and locking him up. Bruce thankfully continues to maintain an admirable level of calm, again delaying Phil encountering Bruce's other half.

But Natasha, she doesn't say anything at all. She stays in the background and frowns.

He doesn't like to admit it, but Phil's kind of hurt. He knows Natasha and emotions don't get along too well, but he'd thought she liked him, a little bit, enough to be glad of his current state of not being dead. He was expecting to get maybe one of her tiny, rare smiles, or at least a flash of her dry and frequently morbid sense of humor.

Instead he gets frowns.

Phil sighs. He never thought this would be easy. He never would have said all that crap about needing something to avenge if he'd known he wasn't actually going to die.

When Phil realizes there's someone in his apartment he keeps his eyes focused straight ahead at the blaring TV while he reaches for his gun. He waits until he hears the footsteps settle and then he spins around, gun raised, to find himself faced with possibly the last person he had expected.

"Natasha?" Phil lowers his gun.

She lifts one shoulder in a tiny shrug. "You know if I hadn't wanted you to know I was here you wouldn't have, right?"

Phil is forced to concede that. He's good, but Natasha's better. "I realize that, yes."

Natasha walks past him, heading in the direction of Phil's kitchen. Phil follows her, wondering if he should ask what the hell she's doing there.

"Did you want-" he starts but cuts off when Natasha starts opening his pantry and all of his cabinets.

She moves through the kitchen and opens everything, one by one, opening one door, looking inside, closing it, and moving to the next. She frowns the entire time. Her frown deepens when she eventually makes it to the refrigerator, lingering there for some time.

"This is unacceptable," Natasha says, closing the fridge and turning around to face Phil.

"What is?"

"A person cannot subsist on what little food is left here."

Phil feels his jaw slacken but he clenches his mouth closed. He waits a moment and then says, "Attempting to stop an alien threat, nearly dying, and being forced to remain on the sidelines while your acquaintances are led to believe you're literally dead doesn't leave you with much time for grocery shopping."

Natasha folds her arms across her chest. Phil is reminded of his mother telling him when he was a boy that if he kept making faces, his face would freeze like that. He doesn't think he's ever seen Natasha show this much expression when she wasn't playing a part.

"I order takeout?" Phil tries.

The only response that garners is Natasha brushing past him, saying, "Come on."

"What?" Phil goes after her anyway, even though he hasn't a clue what she's doing, because Natasha is just one of those people.

"We're going grocery shopping," Natasha explains slowly, like he's an idiot.

Actually, she's using the same tone of voice she does when she's talking to Clint. Phil's more than a little offended.

"I can do that myself." He was going to, honestly, he'd just had some things on his mind.

Natasha stops and gives him a look.

Phil admits defeat.

"You need more colors in that cart," Natasha says, eyeing the contents critically. She tears a bunch of plastic bags off one of the rolls and proceeds to fill them with things like apples, oranges, peppers, carrots, and tomatoes. She inspects each item carefully before selecting it.

Phil holds up some sort of leafy green and says, "I don't even know what this is."

"It's kale, it's good for you," Natasha says as she adds a melon and a bunch of bananas to the cart and then pushes it through the store, heading for the dairy section. "Go put some of these cans back, you shouldn't have that much sodium."

"I think you're putting too much stock in my ability to cook, not to mention my amount of free time." But Phil complies anyway, leaving her mulling over the cheese. At least she hasn't said anything about the frozen pizzas yet.

After a quick stop at the meat counter, they add a few boxes of cereal, pasta, and two loaves of bread to the cart before Natasha is finally satisfied. As Phil waits to pay, he arrives at the conclusion that Natasha shopped with the dietary guidelines firmly in mind.

It's not like Phil doesn't want to eat healthy, it's just that his position in SHIELD doesn't give him much of an opportunity to do so. Plus, he really is kind of a miserable cook. It doesn't seem to matter how meticulously he follows a recipe, somehow it always ends up not quite right.

And sometimes things end up on fire, but he prefers not to think about that.

"I'll make you dinner tonight," Natasha informs him as they start loading bags into the trunk of Phil's car. "Cooking doesn't have to be difficult, nor does it need to be a chore."

Phil is too surprised to argue. He can't say he ever expected to go food shopping with the Black Widow, let alone have her in his kitchen, making him dinner. When he'd stood next to Captain America, working on a plan to stop Loki, he'd thought his life couldn't get any more surreal. Apparently it could.

The sly light in Natasha's eyes indicates that she probably knows exactly what Phil's thinking. "One more stop," she says, and there's that rare, genuine smile that Phil had wanted to see.

"Okay," Phil agrees and returns the cart while Natasha gets in the car.

The shop Natasha directs him to is little more than a hole in the wall and she greets the cashier in Russian when they walk in. The shelves are filled with items labeled in the Cyrillic alphabet, things Phil has never even heard of.

Natasha ignores all of it and leads him to the alcohol aisle. She takes a bottle off the shelf and says, "This is literally the best vodka you can buy in America. I thought you might need it."

Phil suddenly realizes what this is about, this whole night. This is Natasha caring. This is Natasha being happy that he isn't actually dead, this is Natasha trying the best way she knows how.

He's frankly rather touched, but he avoids mentioning it because it would only be embarrassing for them both.

"Me, need a drink?" Phil says, deadpan. "Have you forgotten what I do for a living?"

Natasha smiles again and says, "Well, we'll get it just in case. I swear Barton's gotten worse now he's an Avenger."

"Heaven help me," Phil says. He grabs another bottle of the vodka off the shelf. "Just in case."

"Let's make pirozhki," Natasha says when they arrive back at Phil's apartment, unpacking the groceries efficiently.

"Sounds difficult," Phil says. He's eaten them before, they're like buns stuffed with things like meat, potatoes, or vegetables. Tasty, but probably way beyond his skill level.

"When I said 'let's', I mostly meant me."

"All right then," Phil says, letting his amusement show on his face. "Have at it."

Natasha rolls her eyes but starts on the dough. Phil doesn't even remember her getting the yeast and he sure as hell knows he didn't have any in his apartment. Natasha moves with the same quickness and surety she does in the field, like she's done this hundreds of times before. Maybe she has. Maybe she hasn't - Natasha is, above all else, competent, but she also possesses that confidence that lets her fake her way through anything she actually doesn't know.

When she puts the dough aside to rise, Natasha gathers up everything else they'll need. Ground beef, potatoes, onions, cabbage. "I suppose you don't have any hard-boiled eggs?"

Phil shakes his head. "Not unless you feel like making some."

Natasha sighs. "Too bad. Still, we can get by. I thought we could make several varieties, see what you like best."

"Sounds good to me."

"How do you feel about chopping cabbage?"

"I am pretty good with a knife," Phil says, grabbing one from the block and getting started.

"I know," Natasha says, and she isn't looking at him but Phil can see the slight curving of her mouth.

They're just standing at the counter, Natasha sautéing onions and ground beef while she waits for the potatoes to boil, Phil proving that if nothing else, he can chop a vegetable, and he realizes that he hasn't felt this normal in… Well, so long he can't even quantify it. It should feel weird, cooking an actual meal with Natasha of all people, but it doesn't.

Maybe it should feel weird that he recently came back from the dead after getting stabbed by a Norse god and yet he thinks making dinner with a work acquaintance (friend?) is the unbelievable part.

"When I return from my next mission," Natasha says, "I will teach you how to make borscht. Try not to be tied up, okay?" The light in her eyes tells Phil she means that literally, and okay, it's a fair possibility.

"I won't get caught if you don't."

Natasha makes a dismissive noise, her red hair curling over her cheek. "You know better than that, Coulson."

Yeah, Phil decides. He could get used to this.

End