Just a quick little one-shot I scribbled down

WARNING: Naughty language and mild sexual content.

Bright sunlight shone through curtains partially drawn over expansive windows. Their white fabric glowed with the powerful light they kept from fully entering the room. They couldn't keep everything out though. Some beams slipped through, landing upon the occupant of the rather large bed placed to the right side of the room. He was curled up in his blankets, wisps of his tussled blond hair peeking out from between the folds of his blue comforter. A look of serenity, matching the peaceful room, rested on his sleeping face.

"Agent Barton!"

His eyes flew open and he sprung from the bed. His feet, not quite in tune with his startled mind, failed to support his body. He landed on the hardwood floor, sprawled out on his side. A chorus of loud buzzers and sirens rang around him, confusing his already sleep addled mind. Startled, he searched for the voice that had called out to him.

"Agent Barton, there is an emergency in the kitchen" the voice called again, from the ceiling. It had a British accent, but didn't sound completely human.

Slowly, Clint made sense of his situation.

"JARIVS?" he asked tentatively, rubbing the rheum from his eyes.

"Glad to see you are awake sir."

"Yeah-huh."

The sirens stopped blaring. Clint pushed himself into a seated position. He looked to the clock, noting it was half past eleven in the afternoon. He had been asleep for over nine hours. If he hadn't been too groggy to feel emotions, he would have been happy. Sleeping for longer than three or four hours was a rare occasion for him.

Standing, he walked to his closet. He flung the doors open and grabbed the first shirt he saw.

"What was that you said about an emergency?" he asked.

"If I am correct sir," the AI of Stark Tower declared "there is a Code 17 in progress in the 20th floor kitchen."

"Aww shit!" Clint swore, displeased with both the situation and the fact he had put his head through the armhole of his t-shirt.

He finagled within the fabric until he had it on right, then checked to see which shirt he had grabbed. It was one in a series of shirts Stark had custom ordered for the Avengers and select members of SHIELD. This one happened to feature Bruce leaning over a lab counter, hard at work on one of his experiments. "The Incredible Booty" was written above in bright green letters. The other shirts were similarly themed, but with other members of the team.

Clint laughed, as he always did, and decided to keep it on.

"Sir, I urge you to remember the gravity of Code 17."

"I remember," Clint called, slipping into a pair of jeans.

He jogged out of his room still barefoot, and rode the private elevator five floors down to the 20th level of the Tower. The acrid smell of burning meat overwhelmed his senses before he was even near the kitchen. When he finally rounded the corner into the room, he was blinded by the steam and smoke wafting about the air.

Waving his hands in front of him, he navigated to the large marble topped island centered in the floor. It was covered in what he could only assume was a breakfast massacre. Cracked eggshells – some empty, some resting in the yolks they had once contained – lay about the surface. Flour, sugar, and various other baking materials were scattered amongst half thawed meats and bread loaves.

"What the shit!" he exclaimed. "JARIVS I thought you called me down for a 17."

"Oh Clint," someone called from amidst the smoke. "You're not supposed to be up yet."

He would recognize that voice anywhere, whether it was singing, speaking in another language, or shouting over the machine gun like sizzle of oil. Clint stepped towards where he thought she was, smile instinctively on his face. It quickly dropped once the smoke cleared and he saw her standing in front of the six-burner stove, Thor's apron around her waist with a spatula in hand.

"Nat, why are you cooking?"

He practically jumped across the room to get to the stove. With a flick of his wrist, he shut off the burner beneath her frying pan. She jumped back in protest.

"I had everything under control," she responded snappishly.

"Did you?"

Clint poked the charred mess stuck to the bottom of the pan he assumed was bacon. It crumbled like ash beneath his fingertips. He scoffed in amusement before picking up the pan and then throwing it in the sink.

"You know you suck at cooking." She glared at him and moved to the breakfast nook. Here she pretended to ignore him from behind a magazine. "Don't you huff at me. You said so yourself the last time you tried and nearly burnt down our apartment."

"I know," she sighed.

He walked to his partner, unplugging the ominous smelling waffle iron as he did so. Her shoulders were tense, more so than usual. Something was wrong.

"Hey," he cooed, gently massaging her back "what's up?"

She leaned into his embrace, instantly less tense than before.

"I was hoping I could figure out how to cook, just for today. I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed."

Clint was stuck by the tenderness of the thought. He knew Natasha, the real Natasha not the façade she put on for others, had a gentler side, but he didn't think breakfast in bed was her style. She had really put some thought into this.

"That's nice Tash, but I'm really good at making my own breakfast. Which is why I make yours... and everyone else's most days."

She tensed under his hands. Before he had time to react she spun around, and grabbed him by the wrists. Holding on to his arms, she looked him in the eye.

"You forgot again, didn't you?"

She phrased her sentence as a question, but Clint knew it was more of a statement.

"To brush my hair," he said questioningly, "probably."

"No you idiot." She pinched the bridge of her nose as she shook her head. "Your birthday."

"Oh," he drew out the word as if it had seven vowels instead of one. "Yes, yes I did."

She rolled her eyes in what Clint recognized to be an amused expression.

"You're hopeless, you know that?" she mumbled without any real animosity.

Her hands slid off his wrists and found their way to his waist. Gently, she pulled him into a hug. Clint hummed as she laid her head against his shoulder in her usual manner.

"That's why I've got you," he said, nestling his chin into the crook of her shoulder.

"Happy birthday Clint."

As if to punctuate her congratulations, the toaster on the opposite counter sprung. Two pieces of toast shout out and landed on the plate beside the machine. Tony had programmed it to do so after one too many burns. The man had a serious problem with toasters.

Clint could not actually see the toast. He was facing the wrong direction and completely unwilling to move from his current position. He could smell it though, and it didn't smell like nicely toasted toast.

"That's burnt too, isn't it?"

"Yes," Natasha breathed dejectedly.

Clint suddenly found himself overtaken with laughter. It rolled forth from within him, culminating in a loud crescendo until it was abruptly cut off by a swift punch to his kidney.

"Fu-Nat!"

The punch wasn't anything brutal, or at least not as painful as it could have been, but he still found himself wincing. Natasha picked up her magazine as if nothing had ever happened.

"Phil is coming over later to take you out for a late lunch, or maybe breakfast now."

"Phil!" Clint shouted in glee. "He always gets me the best presents!"

He instantly forgot the pain in his lower abdomen and ran to the disastrous island. With uncharacteristic speed he began cleaning the mess Natasha had made. Clint knew all too well that Coulson would withhold gifts until their chores were complete. It was a juvenile system, but the only one that induced certain lazy residents to take care of their shit.

Eggshells were swept into the dustbin and dishes were thrown in the sink, left for the poor soul who was on dish duty today. Clint had just started wiping down the counter when a thought struck him.

"If I go out for breakfast," Clint spoke, shooting a glance to the redhead "I'm not going to come back to find some sort of surprise party am I?"

Natasha didn't answer. Clint stared at her, tapping his fingers on the counter until she finally looked up. Her expression said something to the effect of "act surprised when you get home or Steve and Thor might cry."

"You're right, that's a silly idea" Clint mumbled, a small smile on his face. "Do you know what would be great to come home to?"

"What?" Natasha answered.

Clint set the rag in his hand down on the island. He skirted around the structure, coming to stand before the row of counters Natasha was sitting behind. Lifting himself with his arms, he sat on the top and rotated himself until he could lay lengthwise. His ribs brushed against Natasha's forearms, which extended above his abdomen, magazine still in hand.

"There's this woman I know. She's singlehandedly the most devastatingly beautiful woman I've ever met, probably in the world. Her eyes are like… like grass right after it rains, when the air is still moist and everything green looks stunningly vibrant. And her hair, it just makes you want to run your hands through it."

Clint could just see Natasha's eyebrow rise over the brim of her magazine.

"Now if I were to come home and find her lounging across my bed, skin gleaming in the light from the candles she lit –maybe wearing that lace ensemble I know she bought last week – that would be…" he exhaled dramatically "- well heaven on earth actually."

There was a quiet rustle as Natasha set her magazine down. Clint looked into her eyes, beaming with self-satisfaction. Deep within their emerald depths was a glint of excitement. Lazily she trailed her fingers across his chest.

"That could be arranged," was her response.

Her tone, deep and husky, drove Clint wild. He fidgeted in anticipation when her fingers took a turn, moving down over his abs. They came to an abrupt stop, pausing just before the image of Bruce's buttocks.

"But not in this shirt," she continued. "I can't take you seriously with this on."

"I will fricken burn the shirt Nat if that's what you want."

Clint reached for the bottom hem, fully prepared to rip it off his body and fling it to the opposite side of the room. He stopped though when a sputtering sort of gag caught his attention. His gaze followed the noise, turning to the left.

Through an open archway he could see the dining room connected to the kitchen. The moderate space - filled mostly by a long table - was too small for large formal diner parties and thus went unused save for Steve's mandatory "Family" diners. At the moment however, one enraged Tony Stark was seated at the head table. Or tied their rather.

He continued to sputter, working the gag tied around him lose. After a moments work it fell, coming to rest on his collar bone.

"If you two have sex on my counter right in front of me I swear-" Tony shouted "- I will… I don't know what I will do but it will be awful!"

"Well…" Clint paused, not knowing what to say to livid billionaire covered in his own spit. "This is unusual."

"Not really." Stark's brows furrowed. "JARVIS called you down here for a Code 17 aka I'm being held hostage come and fucking save me!"

Clint rolled his eyes as he sat up on the counter. Tony continued to grumble.

"How the hell could you forget that? I understand pausing to turn the stove off before Romanoff set my building on fire, but foreplay? Aren't you immune to her wily ways by now?" Tony scoffed. "She punched you in the kidney how is that even a turn on?"

"Nat?" Clint asked, completely ignoring Tony. "Why is Stark tied to a chair?"

"He tried to stop me from cooking," she said as if the offence warranted capture. "The better question is - why were you called for a Code 17?"

"Well I'm on call for a few codes actually." Clint responded.

He swung his legs over the side of the counter and hopped down. Bending over, he lifted Natasha's left pant leg and retrieved the small knife he knew she kept sheathed there. Clint walked to Tony with long strides. The sooner he freed the man, the faster he would shut up.

"Concerning Code 17 in particular," he continued, cutting through Tony's bonds "I am the best option. Thor is always between worlds, thus unreliable. Steve would lecture Tony for ten minutes before freeing him and Bruce… well we assumed that Tony being held hostage meant his liberator would have to fight off bad guys of some sort, and giant gamma fingers cannot untie small knots."

The knife slid through the last chord with a snap, releasing Tony's wrists. Clint tossed the weapon back to Natasha, who caught it by the handle and slid it back into its sheath.

"What about me?" she asked.

Her brow was quirked again. Natasha had always had a bemused interest in the Tower's alert system. Clint didn't think they were anything special, most of the Codes were for ridiculous emergencies, like Steve discovering he loves women's underwear or Thor buying a tiger for a pet. Clint couldn't really remember the night he and Tony had thought them up, which led him to believe they had been far from sober.

"I think he's afraid you would leave him tied up," Clint stated with a hint of a laugh.

"Or be the one tying me up!"

The billionaire rubbed his slightly chafed wrists before standing. He strode across the room, index finger pointed in the direction of Natasha.

"I am not fond of you," he whispered vehemently. "Or you for that matter!"

He rounded on Clint, now with both indexes raised.

"Normally I would string together some snide comments about bros before hoes and all that," slowly Tony began to walk from the room backwards. "But today is your birthday and Red would kill me if I said she was a hoe, so I'll leave you to wait for Agent."

The brunette shot Clint a lopsided grin before ducking out the door. He stuck his head back in a few seconds later, this time sporting a grimace.

"Seriously though, if you fuck on my counters I will fuck with your lives." He pointed an accusing finger at the pair. "Use the damn beds I bought you, people eat here."

Then he was gone, for good this time.

Clint looked to Natasha.

"So… I guess now I just wait for Coulson."

She nodded her head, and picked up the magazine once more. Clint wandered aimlessly around the kitchen, fiddling with various items as he went. Eventually he ended up near Natasha. He clicked his tongue a few times out of boredom. Natasha looked up from her magazine, a blank look on her face.

"Sex on the counters just to piss Stark off?" she asked. Her tone was completely neutral, but her eyes gleamed again.

"Oh yes please!"

Clint nearly ripped his shirt trying to get it off fast enough.

Ten minutes later, Bruce regretted his decision to go to the kitchen and make toast.

Thank you for reading that ridiculous story! I hope you had as much reading it as I did writing it.