"Alas, poor Liz," Natasha agreed. "Thank God for Uncle Clint, his girlfriend, and their mini muffins." She wiggled one eyebrow, adding nothing more about it, because after all, they'd promised no salacious jokes in this very child-centric environment. But she'd promised nothing about an eyebrow wiggle. Honestly, she was the worst, miracle he even liked her at all.
She smiled at the thought, though, we've got time for those other things, and she stretched a hand across the table, tapping her fingers to his wrist once for just - an added gesture, even if his ankle was comfortably tucked against hers. She didn't know how to explain it, the...context of this. What it meant that they were both a little nervous, that he'd tried to fancy up his outfit, the way she felt absurdly pleased by him telling her she was pretty.
He was right; Natasha did know she was beautiful. She was aware of the effect she could have, particularly when it was something she orchestrated and highlighted and intended to use. It had been one of the earliest lessons of her life, and by now, it was nothing she was vain about, it was only a fact. But it was different to hear it like this, different when she hadn't tried to highlight it, different to be called pretty. Different to hear it from Clint. Maybe for the same reason he'd gone pink when she'd told him the same.
When the waitress swung by - she'd clearly been briefed on their situation by the hostess, if the way she was looking at Clint as though he was a living saint walking the earth was any indication - Natasha smiled a brave, trembling little smile. "Two of all the desserts, please. And if we could get a pot of coffee instead of tea, maybe? What do you think, hon?" Looking around at all the miniature cinnamon buns and tiny cookies, honestly, Natasha felt like they should probably get four of everything to make it count.