Work Text:
Clint was munching on a handful of chips, walking out of the elevator when he noticed the smell of tomato sauce wafting in from the kitchen. He followed it through the living room, stopping when he saw Tony slumped over on the couch table, his head in his hands.
“Hey. What’s up?”
“I’m gonna kill him,” Tony mumbled under his breath, and Clint looked over at the kitchen, putting the pieces together instantly.
“Are you doing the spaghetti thing?”
“The what?” Tony asked in a voice that threatened imminent violence.
“You are, aren’t you,” Clint said, not bothering to hide the disgust in his voice. “Fucking hell, how many times are you going to fight over this? Just let the man live.”
“It’s an insult to my heritage,” Tony said gravely, not raising his head. “And if you take his side, you can both go to hell.”
“They’re noodles, Tony,” Steve shouted from the kitchen. “They’ll end up in your stomach either way.”
“My ancestors are crying,” Tony lamented. “Poor Nonna is turning in her grave.”
Clint rolled his eyes. “Who cares if you break them or not?”
Tony whipped around, his face a mask of utter betrayal. “Blasphemy!”
“I’m sure the spaghetti gods will forgive me,” Clint said right as Steve came into the room, wiping his hands on a dish towel.
“Dinner will be ready in twenty,” he said, and Tony glared daggers at him.
“I’m not eating that.”
Steve sighed. “Tony, come on…”
“No. You’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”
Steve gave him an incredulous look. “Over noodles? Seriously?”
“Maybe then you’ll finally learn to respect spaghetti,” Tony said, and Clint snorted.
“Well, if you’re not supposed to break them, maybe they should make them shorter to begin with.”
Tony pointed at him, outraged. “You take that back, you uncultured swine.”
“Or what, you gonna make me sleep on the couch too?” Clint asked, clapping Steve on the shoulder. “Movie marathon at my place, I guess.”
“If you watch Zootopia without me again, I will never forgive you,” Tony hissed, right as Natasha came in, looking between the three of them.
“Is this another spaghetti thing?”
“There is no spaghetti thing!” Tony roared, and Natasha raised an eyebrow.
“So Steve looks like a kicked puppy for some other reason?”
“I’m sleeping on the couch tonight,” Steve explained, a note of sadness in his voice. Clint caught the way Tony’s eye twitched at the sound. “Because of noodles.”
“Maybe you should stop breaking them,” Natasha suggested, and Tony whirled around to gesture at her with both hands, staring at Steve and Clint with wide eyes like, See?
“But they’re so inconvenient to eat,” Steve said, earning himself another huff from Tony.
“Inconvenient. I’ll show you inconvenient when I shove my fist up your ass.”
The elevator dinged, and Bruce stuck his head in.
“I smell tomato sauce.” A pause. “Are they having the spaghetti fight?”
“Nobody asked you,” Tony grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. Clint didn’t miss the hopelessly fond look on Steve’s face when he looked at Tony. Christ, that boy was whipped. “I’ll order pizza instead.”
“That’s rude, Tony. Steve cooked for us,” Bruce said, and Tony gave him a betrayed look.
“Et tu, Brute?”
“We still have some uncooked spaghetti left,” Steve said, putting a hand on Tony’s shoulder. “I didn’t break them yet. Do you want those?”
Tony looked at Steve’s hand, then wrinkled his nose and met his eyes. “You’re still on thin ice tonight.”
“I’ll throw in a glass of wine and some parmigiano?”
Clint saw Tony’s mouth twitch with an unwilling smile at Steve’s horrible Italian pronunciation. Then he sighed, covering Steve’s hand with his own. “Fine. But I reserve the right to judge you on your choice of wine.”
“Deal.” Steve bent down to kiss Tony, and Clint rolled his eyes, stretching his arms over his head.
“Great. Now that that’s over, let’s eat. I’m starving.”
“Good idea.” Tony let Steve pull him to his feet, walking over to the kitchen – and stopping dead in his tracks. “Steve?”
“Hm?”
“Why is there ketchup on the counter?” Tony asked in a deceptively mild tone, and Clint sighed, dropping down on the couch as Steve started stammering excuses.
“Wake me up when they’re done,” Clint said, lying down with his arms crossed behind his head. “Should only take a couple hours.”