"I didn't ask. No one heard me ask. I finished asking questions about this thing around the same time as you and Carol baited me into taking one obscene photo with it," Natasha pointed out, even smiling a little as she said it. "Let it never be said that Natasha Romanoff does not know when to shut up and let the people eat cake. Even if the photographic evidence of my shame is now mounted to a wall that's apparently integral to the entire structure of the Pancho's building."
She took her hand away from James's and stood up, giving Clint a gentle, affectionate swat on the back of his head when he stole the fork to scrape up that frosting. "Give that back to him, I'll get you another," she said. It was a pretty big piece they'd brought, anyway; supersoldier portion-sized, yes, but James didn't seem like he had an aggressive appetite right now. Still, he needed to eat something, and maybe it'd be able to happen at least by rote if he saw Clint nibbling at it, too. It was easier sometimes, to fall into a pattern if someone else kicked it off.
"Was the silverware - nope, here it is," she said, answering her own question as she found a second fork. She passed it over to Clint, then decided to keep standing, see if she could scare up some water glasses. If he hadn't been eating a lot, he would probably be a little dehydrated, too, it stood to reason. "It wasn't a bad party, even if Clint ends up in space hell for flashing an old alien lady, I'm just assuming that's where this story ends. Though it made me mildly grateful I've never had a birthday, one that involved erotic cake or otherwise. James - glasses? This cabinet here?"