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"How is it that you can save the world but you cannot make a fire?" Natasha asked, hands on her hips.
Clint sat back with a groan and winced. (They had probably needed an extraction.) "I didn't join Boy Scouts."
Natasha rolled her eyes and crouched by the flint and gathered sticks, muttering Russian imprecations. "Watch. It is simple."
"You're not contracting," Clint pointed out, narrowing his gaze at her. It was one of her deliberate affectations when she was being particularly condescending. But he watched as she struck the flint and lit the fire. "Show off."
"Idiot," she said fondly and shot him a smile over the sparks.