Clint tilted his head forward dramatically over the playful smack, full on pout presenting itself because there was no way he wasn't going to take it to extremes. "This counts as domestic abuse," he said, even though he ended up relinquishing his fork.
Only to be told, mind, that he could have kept on keeping on. And even shared. Which -- warmed Clint quite a lot. He offered Bucky a smile that was nothing but honestly pleased. "Next time," he promised, and couldn't say whether that meant next time they ate stuff at the same time or the next time they had left underside balls cake.
He let Natasha do her thing, wandering around the kitchen and getting this and that -- probably just letting seconds go by because time mattered for things like these. Even if Clint wasn't exactly sure what these things were.
He stole some more frosting, chin leaned on the palm of his free hand. "That happens sometimes," he said, even though Bucky was talking to Nat. But he got it, the concept of sitting there and losing time to nothing, because nothing mattered. "But forward is good. I shoulda brought Lucky. Should I go get lucky? Maybe we all can." That way no one would be alone, and then they'd be at Clint's which was certainly not as furniture filled as Bucky's, but it did have blankets and said dog.