The tower was too quiet these days.

It used to buzz, rattle, sing—Dad's suits, Friday's voice, random explosions, Steve yelling about safety. Thor occasionally breaking a ceiling tile. Now? Silence. Not even the comforting hum of the lab. Just… echoes.

But today, the silence is broken.

Clint’s voice carries from the kitchen, where he’s sprawled in one of the barstools like he’s waiting for an apocalypse to pass by.

"You're putting too much flour," He says, squinting at the counter like that alone will somehow change Natasha’s measurements.

Natasha rolls her eyes without even looking at him. “It’s not too much flour. It’s enough to make sure they’re not pancakes.”

“You say that, but I’ve had your cookies before.”

“You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

You sit nearby, legs tucked under you on the couch, flipping through an old tablet Dad left behind. Most of it’s locked. Of course it is. Classic Tony Stark. He probably thought it would explode if anyone but him tried to access it. Still, the glowing screen gives your face something to focus on besides the way the sunlight doesn’t quite reach the same way it used to.

But the smell coming from the kitchen? That’s different.

It’s not sweet, not exactly. More like warm vanilla with a hint of whatever spice Natasha keeps in that unlabeled black jar. She’s doing something weird with the dough—kneading it like it wronged her. Her sleeves are rolled up, and she’s got flour on her cheek.

Clint, on the other hand, looks like he helped by breathing in the general direction of the ingredients.

"You're gonna bake those, right?" He asks, like he isn’t terrified she might actually serve them raw just to spite him.

Natasha turns her head slightly, not breaking her rhythm. “Eventually.”

Eventually turns out to be never. She slaps the dough into the last rounded lump and drops the spatula with the finality of someone finishing a mission. Then she wipes her hands and speaks over her shoulder.

“Those are poisonous, so no one eat them.”

You blink.

“…What?”

“I said,” She repeats, more loudly, as she starts walking to the sink. “they’re poisonous. Do not eat them.”

Clint shrugs like this is totally normal. “She means it. Last time I ignored that warning I couldn’t see straight for two days.”

Natasha tosses a dish towel at him. “You hallucinated a raccoon playing the saxophone.”

You eye the dough again. It looks fine. Soft, golden, little bits of dark chocolate shining in the light. It looks exactly like cookie dough is supposed to. And she’s probably bluffing. Right? Why would she bake poisonous cookies? She’s just being dramatic.

So, when they’re both distracted by Clint trying to balance a spoon on his nose, you casually walk past, stretch like you’re bored—and scoop a fingerful from the edge of the dough pile.

It melts on your tongue—salty-sweet and rich. Kind of bitter, like 90% chocolate. But not...bad. You keep walking like nothing happened, back toward the tablet on the couch.

Then:

“Wait,” Natasha says suddenly, turning toward the counter. “Did you—?”

You freeze.

Clint looks over too, narrowing his eyes. “You didn’t, did you?”

“I didn’t eat anything,” You say immediately.

“That was way too quick,” Clint mutters.

You try again. “I didn’t eat any! Why would I eat raw dough that you literally said was poisonous?”

“You tell me,” Natasha says, already walking toward you like a bloodhound that caught the scent of guilt.

“I just walked by—!”

“Go throw up,” She says calmly.

“I didn’t—”

“Go throw up,” Clint echoes, pointing dramatically toward the bathroom like it’s some sacred quest.

“I didn’t eat anything!”

Natasha crosses her arms. “Then go pretend to throw up. Just in case.”

You stare at both of them like they’ve completely lost it. Which, to be fair, is not out of the question.

“You two are insane.”

Clint nods solemnly. “That’s what the raccoon said.”