[fic] A Feast for Queens
Oct. 27th, 2012 10:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
frea_oTitle: A Feast for Queens
Prompt: We All Survived
Rating: PG-13 (sexual innuendo)
Fandom: Avengers
Pairings: Clint/Natasha
Summary: Thor cooks. Everyone despairs.
Length: 1031 words
Clint arrived back at the Tower a little sore but mostly tired. The op in Malaysia had been theoretically considered a success, but half his team had come down with food poisoning from some suspect noodle dish Clint hadn’t even been able to pronounce, so he’d run watch for the entire team rather than just his shift. He was looking forward to a hot shower, a beer, and if Natasha was in a good mood, maybe a massage before he hit the mattress and stayed there, facedown, until reality stopped blurring at the edges.
Every single one of those plans fell through when he strolled into the kitchen for the beer and saw the God of Thunder wearing a frilly pink apron. “Oh, God,” he said before he could stop himself.
“Yes, Friend Barton?” Thor asked, turning in place with a giant smile. “You have returned! Well met, my friend! You are just in time.”
“Oh, God,” Clint said again, as the smell, if it could be called that and not the most foul odor Clint had smelled in the past six months, and that included taking care of six projectile-vomiting teammates, hit him.
Thor’s smile abruptly began to fade. “I have decided to create a feast worthy of an Asgardian festival for my most esteemed comrades and warriors in arms. It is the Annual Name Day of my most beloved mother.”
Clint forced a smile. “Happy birthday to your mother, Thor. I’m just going to…” He gestured at the fridge before he nipped one of his beers out of it, and beat a hasty retreat like the avenging superhero that he was.
He found the others gathered in the dining room already, all looking grim. “We tried,” Tony said right away. “We tried to stop him. I offered to bring in Mario Batali, but he insisted.”
Natasha, who’d been perched on the table rather than in one of the many available seats, rose to her feet smoothly, eyeing Clint up and down for injuries. He spread his hands a little; she stole his beer and took a sip. “All good?” she asked him.
He smiled tiredly as she handed the beer back. “All good.”
Once Steve and Bruce had said their welcomes, asking politely about the op, Tony launched right back into his diatribe. “Pepper tried to get Giada, too, but Thor was insistent. And what could we do?”
“It’s his mom’s birthday,” Bruce said. “It’s just one meal. We can endure it for the guy’s mom, Tony.”
“I think it’s sweet,” Steve said.
“Tamales are not supposed to be sweet. Or even that crunchy.” Tony glowered.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
“Lady Natasha.” Thor appeared in the doorway. “This spice you call cinnamon, it is like the Asgardian spice kathrill, yes? Like your Midgardian salt rock?”
Bruce and Tony frantically shook their heads at Natasha, who tilted her own head for a second before replying, “Yes. Precisely, Thor. Make sure you use a lot of it.”
“My greatest thanks, Madam Spider!” Thor disappeared back into the kitchen.
Immediately, all three of the others turned to look at her, betrayal evident on their faces. Clint just took a sip of his beer and sat in the seat by Natasha’s perch on the table. They never really did understand just how big of a troll Natasha could be.
“What?” she asked. “I like cinnamon.”
“Cinnamon and trout really shouldn’t mix,” Steve said, moaning.
“He’s cooking trout?” Clint asked.
“Why does he keep asking Mata Hari for cooking advice? This is a sexist thing. Just because she’s a woman doesn’t mean she knows how to cook.” Tony sulked. “Besides, everybody knows black widows eat their prey. This is not a woman we want making culinary decisions.”
“Clint should probably watch out,” Natasha said, not at all affected by the billionaire. “He’s the only one here I’ve bitten.”
Bruce coughed. “That was probably more than I wanted to know, Nat.”
Clint held up his forearm, where the faint scar of teeth marks still remained. “Loki,” he said by way of explanation. “But you know, Tasha, you’re welcome to eat me any time you like and—”
Bruce and Tony groaned. “New rule: no more inter-Avenger dating,” Tony said. He threw a balled up napkin at Clint. “I do not want to hear about what depraved things the two of you get up to in my Tower.”
Natasha looked amused. “Are you sure, Tony? Clint’s quite flexible, you really should—”
Steve’s blush could light the way for Santa’s sled. Thankfully, Thor saved him from actual spontaneous combustion by bursting through the door, clearly pleased with his creation, which looked a bit like some of the roadkill Clint had seen in Malaysia and smelled even worse. It was probably going to kill them all, Clint thought, but teamwork sometimes meant doing awful things in the name of friendship, so he dug in for a helping. They toasted to Frigga, Thor tucked in with gusto, Tony muttered about purchasing stock in an antacid company, and Clint prayed to the gastrointestinal gods of mercy—and took a bite.
It was even worse than he had ever imagined.
He took another bite and nearly died. By the third bite, he was rewriting his will—and this time leaving Tasha out of it because damn, that was a lot of cinnamon—and by the fourth, he considered quietly dying on the spot.
Somehow, though he had no earthly idea how, he made it to the end. His plate, he saw through blurry eyes, was empty. Finally.
“Friend Barton! You require sustenance to fire those mighty arrows! Here!”
A second helping appeared on his plate. Clint looked at the grinning, pleased face belonging to the space alien god seated next to him, and wanted very much to cry like a little girl. It took only one minor eyebrow flick from Natasha for him to sigh and pick up his fork.
Somehow, the Avengers survived. Somehow.
But, Clint thought, it was just his luck that this was the second team in a row he’d had to witness projectile vomiting in a week. Sometimes life just sucked.
Prompt: We All Survived
Rating: PG-13 (sexual innuendo)
Fandom: Avengers
Pairings: Clint/Natasha
Summary: Thor cooks. Everyone despairs.
Length: 1031 words
Clint arrived back at the Tower a little sore but mostly tired. The op in Malaysia had been theoretically considered a success, but half his team had come down with food poisoning from some suspect noodle dish Clint hadn’t even been able to pronounce, so he’d run watch for the entire team rather than just his shift. He was looking forward to a hot shower, a beer, and if Natasha was in a good mood, maybe a massage before he hit the mattress and stayed there, facedown, until reality stopped blurring at the edges.
Every single one of those plans fell through when he strolled into the kitchen for the beer and saw the God of Thunder wearing a frilly pink apron. “Oh, God,” he said before he could stop himself.
“Yes, Friend Barton?” Thor asked, turning in place with a giant smile. “You have returned! Well met, my friend! You are just in time.”
“Oh, God,” Clint said again, as the smell, if it could be called that and not the most foul odor Clint had smelled in the past six months, and that included taking care of six projectile-vomiting teammates, hit him.
Thor’s smile abruptly began to fade. “I have decided to create a feast worthy of an Asgardian festival for my most esteemed comrades and warriors in arms. It is the Annual Name Day of my most beloved mother.”
Clint forced a smile. “Happy birthday to your mother, Thor. I’m just going to…” He gestured at the fridge before he nipped one of his beers out of it, and beat a hasty retreat like the avenging superhero that he was.
He found the others gathered in the dining room already, all looking grim. “We tried,” Tony said right away. “We tried to stop him. I offered to bring in Mario Batali, but he insisted.”
Natasha, who’d been perched on the table rather than in one of the many available seats, rose to her feet smoothly, eyeing Clint up and down for injuries. He spread his hands a little; she stole his beer and took a sip. “All good?” she asked him.
He smiled tiredly as she handed the beer back. “All good.”
Once Steve and Bruce had said their welcomes, asking politely about the op, Tony launched right back into his diatribe. “Pepper tried to get Giada, too, but Thor was insistent. And what could we do?”
“It’s his mom’s birthday,” Bruce said. “It’s just one meal. We can endure it for the guy’s mom, Tony.”
“I think it’s sweet,” Steve said.
“Tamales are not supposed to be sweet. Or even that crunchy.” Tony glowered.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
“Lady Natasha.” Thor appeared in the doorway. “This spice you call cinnamon, it is like the Asgardian spice kathrill, yes? Like your Midgardian salt rock?”
Bruce and Tony frantically shook their heads at Natasha, who tilted her own head for a second before replying, “Yes. Precisely, Thor. Make sure you use a lot of it.”
“My greatest thanks, Madam Spider!” Thor disappeared back into the kitchen.
Immediately, all three of the others turned to look at her, betrayal evident on their faces. Clint just took a sip of his beer and sat in the seat by Natasha’s perch on the table. They never really did understand just how big of a troll Natasha could be.
“What?” she asked. “I like cinnamon.”
“Cinnamon and trout really shouldn’t mix,” Steve said, moaning.
“He’s cooking trout?” Clint asked.
“Why does he keep asking Mata Hari for cooking advice? This is a sexist thing. Just because she’s a woman doesn’t mean she knows how to cook.” Tony sulked. “Besides, everybody knows black widows eat their prey. This is not a woman we want making culinary decisions.”
“Clint should probably watch out,” Natasha said, not at all affected by the billionaire. “He’s the only one here I’ve bitten.”
Bruce coughed. “That was probably more than I wanted to know, Nat.”
Clint held up his forearm, where the faint scar of teeth marks still remained. “Loki,” he said by way of explanation. “But you know, Tasha, you’re welcome to eat me any time you like and—”
Bruce and Tony groaned. “New rule: no more inter-Avenger dating,” Tony said. He threw a balled up napkin at Clint. “I do not want to hear about what depraved things the two of you get up to in my Tower.”
Natasha looked amused. “Are you sure, Tony? Clint’s quite flexible, you really should—”
Steve’s blush could light the way for Santa’s sled. Thankfully, Thor saved him from actual spontaneous combustion by bursting through the door, clearly pleased with his creation, which looked a bit like some of the roadkill Clint had seen in Malaysia and smelled even worse. It was probably going to kill them all, Clint thought, but teamwork sometimes meant doing awful things in the name of friendship, so he dug in for a helping. They toasted to Frigga, Thor tucked in with gusto, Tony muttered about purchasing stock in an antacid company, and Clint prayed to the gastrointestinal gods of mercy—and took a bite.
It was even worse than he had ever imagined.
He took another bite and nearly died. By the third bite, he was rewriting his will—and this time leaving Tasha out of it because damn, that was a lot of cinnamon—and by the fourth, he considered quietly dying on the spot.
Somehow, though he had no earthly idea how, he made it to the end. His plate, he saw through blurry eyes, was empty. Finally.
“Friend Barton! You require sustenance to fire those mighty arrows! Here!”
A second helping appeared on his plate. Clint looked at the grinning, pleased face belonging to the space alien god seated next to him, and wanted very much to cry like a little girl. It took only one minor eyebrow flick from Natasha for him to sigh and pick up his fork.
Somehow, the Avengers survived. Somehow.
But, Clint thought, it was just his luck that this was the second team in a row he’d had to witness projectile vomiting in a week. Sometimes life just sucked.
