Clint: They can’t keep being so damn reckless, Nat. If they do, everything we built— Natasha: Everything you built. Clint: Stop— Natasha: No, listen to me, Barton— you keep carrying all this on your shoulders, and it’s gonna screw up your posture. You did it, okay? After Chicago, I thought this was over, but you found this spot, you brought us here. You make it work, and run, every day. Whatever hope these people have, however safe they feel, any normalcy they’re able to carve out— you did that, so maybe stop worrying about your issues with millenials, or water filtration systems, and take a second to let yourself feel good about it, yeah? Clint: So— you’re saying all that stuff about saving lives— Natasha: It’s a vaguely attractive quality in a man, sure. Idiot. Now— close your eyes.
So, this happened.
From Secret Empire #1 by Nick Spencer and Steve McNiven.
Laura made a noise of glee and darted up the porch steps before Clint had even locked the car, moving faster than she had since Nathaniel’d been born.
“Eliot Spencer, are you making me pierniki?”
“Anything for you, duchess, you know that.” The slow drawling voice was clear through the open kitchen window; Clint stepped over the asters and columbine and hauled himself up on the water butt, placed there for easy escapes. (There were fourteen separate routes out of the house for him and Laura and the kids, and seven more where he was an acceptable loss.)
”You flirting with my wife again, Spencer?”
“Pretty girl like that, can you blame me?” Eliot looked at home in their kitchen in a way Clint wasn’t sure he’d ever quite manage, leaning back against the table with his ankles crossed, blue plaid shirt sleeves folded up to the elbow and forearms covered in flour. His mouth was turned up in the soft smile that it’d taken Clint a couple years of working together to see, that had come out a hell of a lot more often once Clint had introduced the guy to his kids.