Avengers (2012): "Seeing Red" (Clint/Natasha)
Title: Seeing Red
Author/Artist: Koren M. (cybermathwitch)
Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were, there'd already be a Black Widow/Hawkeye movie.
Pairing: Clint/Natasha
Rating: Teen, 15+
Warnings: language, mild sexual content
Spoilers: None
Type:
Word Count: 1,181
Summary: He's never taken the phrase "seeing red" quite so literally before, but right now, red is the only thing he can see.
Author's Notes: Written for the Highly Problematic Post About Kissing at Be-Compromised for bob5fic who wanted angry kissing.
He's never taken the phrase "seeing red" quite so literally before, but right now, red is the only thing he can see.
Her hair.
Her dress.
The blood smeared on her face, her neck, her shoulder.
Head wounds always bleed like a son of a bitch.
She's standing in front of the mirror with her back to him, all curves and lines that look better suited to a ballroom or museum than a battlefield. He watches as her arms lift at improbable angles that she makes seem effortlessly graceful to reach the zipper of her dress. It's ruined, of course. Even if the blood had missed it the scorching along the side and rips in the skirt would've done the trick. She shrugs her shoulders slightly to dislodge the straps, one arm just beneath her breasts to hold it up for a moment longer until she can ease it off as if it could be salvaged.
This is supposed to be his job.
Normally, he'd be dragging his fingertips along her throat while his other hand freed her from whatever silk armor she'd wrapped herself in. He'd take her wrists and place her hands flat against the wall before teasing at the straps (if there were any) and exploring the contours of her back as he revealed them. He'd wait until he could feel her heart racing, until he could hear her breathing change despite her attempts to control it, and then (and only then) would he let her shift just enough, however much it took to release her dress to fall to the floor.
Tonight, he keeps his back pressed against the far wall, watching her from a distance with his arms crossed and his hands clenched. He doesn't trust himself to go any closer because tonight he wants to tear the fabric apart.
Goddamn bullets flying free, too much, too fast, too many people swarming out of the sidelines because it was a fucking set up - yelling into his comm for her to get the hell out of the way - having to watch as she disregarded her safety and common fucking sense to dive into the middle of the fray after the briefcase they'd been sent to retrieve.
Red.
Blood.
Natasha's blood.
Missions aren't worth her life, but he isn't always sure she believes that. He doesn't know what the hell she was thinking (he rarely does); it will be months, maybe years before he gets the image of the bullets and the blood and her crumpling to the ground out of his head.
She looks over her shoulder at him, irritation showing now that they're back at the safe house and the aspirin she grudgingly took is kicking in.
"I'm fine, Barton," she snaps. He knows she's got just as much adrenaline pumping through her system as he does, maybe more. "It was just a-"
"If you try and tell me it was just a fucking graze one more time, I swear to God Natasha-"
Her eyes widen slightly with surprise as the rage he's held in for the last two hours starts to bubble over. He sees her reaction and the detached part of his mind that lines up angles in a firefight wonders how she could have missed it before now.
"It was only a gra-"
He's across the room faster than either one of them thought possible and he grabs her, one hand around the back of her neck and the other on her upper arm. Only because it's him, only because they're in a safe place where she's started to relax; those are the only reasons he doesn't end up flat on the floor covered in blood of his own.
When his mouth closes over hers it's another shock, more teeth and force than lips and affection. He can't listen to her say it again, it was almost a litany on the ride back. He knows the bullet barely even got her skin, knows she didn't even need more than a few stitches but it could have been.
He wants to shake her until she understands, so he shakes instead in an effort to control the impulse. She's warm and soft and alive under his hands, her mouth is open and eager under his, and just like that one energy feeds another. The urge to break shifts into an urge to claim, or to be claimed.
Fabric slithers to the floor between them and she steps in closer, presses naked skin against heavy black fabric even as her hands move to push his tac vest off his shoulders. He moves his hands so they're craddling her face and he feels like he could drown in this moment. He wants to, so he doesn't have to think about losing her ever again.
The next time will come to soon, because she'll always go, and he'll never let her go alone. He will always be on that roof, watching her take those risks, guarding her as best he can in the best way he knows how.
"Why didn't you stop?" he manages when they separate to breathe for just a minute, foreheads pressed together and her hands mirroring his.
Her fingers trace the edges of his hair and her thumb rubs against his jaw, trying to relax his tension. "Because it's my job, and I knew I could get to it in time. It felt right, in my gut and I knew you had me covered."
The sound he wants to make dies in his throat. "I'm human, Tash. There's only so much I can protect you from. You're more important than the damn mission, and it was a stupid risk."
"Once they left with those codes, there wouldn't have been a second chance."
"I don't care."
She lifted her head and looked him in the eyes. "I do. I have to, now. The red has to be on me, not them. Not anymore. We've talked about this, Clint. I thought you understood."
He sucks in a deep breath and slips his fingers through the bloody tangles in her hair as best he can. "I do. That doesn't make it any easier to watch you die. I see it every time, how it could happen. How it sometimes does."
It's the closest they ever get to mentioning Berlin, and the longest day of his life when she died on the floor in front of him in a warehouse and he didn't know if CPR could keep her heart and lungs working long enough for SHIELD to arrive.
She shakes her head sadly. "No, I don't suppose it does." She brushes her lips lightly against his once, twice, three times. "Knowing you're there, that's the reason I can do this, most days. You know that, right?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I do. Don't worry. I can't - won't, let you go alone."
"Good." Natasha smiles, drops her hands to the edge of his shirt. "Now, Agent Barton, I believe you're over-dressed..."
Author/Artist: Koren M. (cybermathwitch)
Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were, there'd already be a Black Widow/Hawkeye movie.
Pairing: Clint/Natasha
Rating: Teen, 15+
Warnings: language, mild sexual content
Spoilers: None
Type:
Word Count: 1,181
Summary: He's never taken the phrase "seeing red" quite so literally before, but right now, red is the only thing he can see.
Author's Notes: Written for the Highly Problematic Post About Kissing at Be-Compromised for bob5fic who wanted angry kissing.
He's never taken the phrase "seeing red" quite so literally before, but right now, red is the only thing he can see.
Her hair.
Her dress.
The blood smeared on her face, her neck, her shoulder.
Head wounds always bleed like a son of a bitch.
She's standing in front of the mirror with her back to him, all curves and lines that look better suited to a ballroom or museum than a battlefield. He watches as her arms lift at improbable angles that she makes seem effortlessly graceful to reach the zipper of her dress. It's ruined, of course. Even if the blood had missed it the scorching along the side and rips in the skirt would've done the trick. She shrugs her shoulders slightly to dislodge the straps, one arm just beneath her breasts to hold it up for a moment longer until she can ease it off as if it could be salvaged.
This is supposed to be his job.
Normally, he'd be dragging his fingertips along her throat while his other hand freed her from whatever silk armor she'd wrapped herself in. He'd take her wrists and place her hands flat against the wall before teasing at the straps (if there were any) and exploring the contours of her back as he revealed them. He'd wait until he could feel her heart racing, until he could hear her breathing change despite her attempts to control it, and then (and only then) would he let her shift just enough, however much it took to release her dress to fall to the floor.
Tonight, he keeps his back pressed against the far wall, watching her from a distance with his arms crossed and his hands clenched. He doesn't trust himself to go any closer because tonight he wants to tear the fabric apart.
Goddamn bullets flying free, too much, too fast, too many people swarming out of the sidelines because it was a fucking set up - yelling into his comm for her to get the hell out of the way - having to watch as she disregarded her safety and common fucking sense to dive into the middle of the fray after the briefcase they'd been sent to retrieve.
Red.
Blood.
Natasha's blood.
Missions aren't worth her life, but he isn't always sure she believes that. He doesn't know what the hell she was thinking (he rarely does); it will be months, maybe years before he gets the image of the bullets and the blood and her crumpling to the ground out of his head.
She looks over her shoulder at him, irritation showing now that they're back at the safe house and the aspirin she grudgingly took is kicking in.
"I'm fine, Barton," she snaps. He knows she's got just as much adrenaline pumping through her system as he does, maybe more. "It was just a-"
"If you try and tell me it was just a fucking graze one more time, I swear to God Natasha-"
Her eyes widen slightly with surprise as the rage he's held in for the last two hours starts to bubble over. He sees her reaction and the detached part of his mind that lines up angles in a firefight wonders how she could have missed it before now.
"It was only a gra-"
He's across the room faster than either one of them thought possible and he grabs her, one hand around the back of her neck and the other on her upper arm. Only because it's him, only because they're in a safe place where she's started to relax; those are the only reasons he doesn't end up flat on the floor covered in blood of his own.
When his mouth closes over hers it's another shock, more teeth and force than lips and affection. He can't listen to her say it again, it was almost a litany on the ride back. He knows the bullet barely even got her skin, knows she didn't even need more than a few stitches but it could have been.
He wants to shake her until she understands, so he shakes instead in an effort to control the impulse. She's warm and soft and alive under his hands, her mouth is open and eager under his, and just like that one energy feeds another. The urge to break shifts into an urge to claim, or to be claimed.
Fabric slithers to the floor between them and she steps in closer, presses naked skin against heavy black fabric even as her hands move to push his tac vest off his shoulders. He moves his hands so they're craddling her face and he feels like he could drown in this moment. He wants to, so he doesn't have to think about losing her ever again.
The next time will come to soon, because she'll always go, and he'll never let her go alone. He will always be on that roof, watching her take those risks, guarding her as best he can in the best way he knows how.
"Why didn't you stop?" he manages when they separate to breathe for just a minute, foreheads pressed together and her hands mirroring his.
Her fingers trace the edges of his hair and her thumb rubs against his jaw, trying to relax his tension. "Because it's my job, and I knew I could get to it in time. It felt right, in my gut and I knew you had me covered."
The sound he wants to make dies in his throat. "I'm human, Tash. There's only so much I can protect you from. You're more important than the damn mission, and it was a stupid risk."
"Once they left with those codes, there wouldn't have been a second chance."
"I don't care."
She lifted her head and looked him in the eyes. "I do. I have to, now. The red has to be on me, not them. Not anymore. We've talked about this, Clint. I thought you understood."
He sucks in a deep breath and slips his fingers through the bloody tangles in her hair as best he can. "I do. That doesn't make it any easier to watch you die. I see it every time, how it could happen. How it sometimes does."
It's the closest they ever get to mentioning Berlin, and the longest day of his life when she died on the floor in front of him in a warehouse and he didn't know if CPR could keep her heart and lungs working long enough for SHIELD to arrive.
She shakes her head sadly. "No, I don't suppose it does." She brushes her lips lightly against his once, twice, three times. "Knowing you're there, that's the reason I can do this, most days. You know that, right?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I do. Don't worry. I can't - won't, let you go alone."
"Good." Natasha smiles, drops her hands to the edge of his shirt. "Now, Agent Barton, I believe you're over-dressed..."