Avengers (2012): "Heavy in Your Arms (8/15)" (Clint/Natasha)
Title: Heavy in Your Arms (8/15)
Author/Artist: Koren M. (cybermathwitch)
Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were, there'd already be a Black Widow/Hawkeye movie.
Pairing: Clint/Natasha, Coulson/The Cellist, Nick Fury/OFC, Bobbi/Maria
Rating: Adult 17+
Warnings: language, violence, SEXUAL CONTENT, dub-con if you feel that mystical/destiny sorts of compulsions qualify as dubious consent (Natasha might agree with you), REFERENCES TO CHILDHOOD TRAUMA (FIRE, BEING TRAPPED, AND VIOLENCE) AND VAGUE REFERENCES TO CHILD ABUSE
Spoilers: None
Type: WIP
Word Count: 4,891
Summary: Connection
Author's Notes: See Chapter 1 for more notes.
Please note the changes/addendums to the warnings.
Oh my god. I'm not sure how it ended up being a month. (I'm lying to you, I know exactly how, it's called NaNoWriMo, and remind me never to do both that and an active WIP AT THE SAME TIME EVER AGAIN plskthnx.) But I am so, so sorry it took so long.
Thank you as always to anuna_81 and kadollan for looking this over, and to sunny_serenity for general cheerleading and thoughts and music! And thank you to everyone who's left such awesome feedback. I really <3 the discussions and meta and I always love to hear what you think about it. :D
Big things are happening for everyone here. You've been warned. And we're about to earn that adult rating, so children, avert your eyes. (Oh c'mon, like you didn't know this was going to be "the" chapter? You're not fooling me. That also might be one of the reasons it took so long... talk about performance anxiety. Ahem.)
Chapter 7
Interlude 3: Honor and Loyalty
She'd had people treat her wounds before. Much more serious wounds, ones that had required surgery or sutures, but usually things this small she took care of alone. It had always been just a part of the routine, debrief, clean up, get your next assignment. This was entirely different.
Had there ever been anyone to take care of her? Had there ever been anyone with a brief touch for comfort or a kiss against her hair? She certainly couldn't remember anything like that as a child. She could remember overtures from various targets she was stringing along, but the care hadn't been for her, just for a construct she had stepped into. And even in those instances, they weren't usually the type of people willing to put themselves between her and a potential threat, and certainly weren't the type of people willing or able to meet the full reality of her world head on.
Despite their earlier decision, once he'd finished with the first aid kit he'd washed his hands and gone back to trying to put food together while she'd showered and dug out a clean sweater. Breakfast had been hours before and adrenaline had left a gaping hole in it's wake. With a glance down at her hands she realized there was a fine tremor to them.
When she looked up, he was watching her.
"Here, start with this," he said, and tossed her one of the energy bars he'd found. "I'm not much of a cook, but pasta and canned sauce is hard to fuck up so it should be edible. It'll still be a few minutes though."
"Thank you," she murmured, and she wasn't sure if she was thanking him for the bandages, the food, or something more abstract. It ought to feel wrong, she thought, to have someone else here, taking over and doing such domestic things in this space that was hers, but it didn't.
While practical, she suspected the cooking was at least partially a stalling tactic. That was fair. She was nervous about it too - emulating magic was a far cry from participating in the real thing, after all. Beyond that, it was a step that would change... everything. For both of them. She couldn't actually conceptualize that, what it would mean and how things would change, she just knew in her gut that they would. He didn't want her to pretend, but she wasn't sure she knew how not to. The tension was spinning tighter between them as every touch, every minute spent so close together added fuel to the fire, somehow both better and worse now that she knew it was going to end soon.
They ate mechanically, silently, and when they were both done she cleared away the dishes. By the time she was finished, he'd relocated to the study and was looking at the bookshelves, the ones she'd meticulously stocked with books in a variety of languages, mostly fiction and plays and a small handful of poetry.
"Have you read all these?"
She smiled. "Not yet. I want to someday."
"Is that the plan when you leave? Just hole up here and read?"
He could've said it in any number of different ways, but his tone held only curiosity, not scorn, so she considered the question.
"If I want to, yes." Three days of habit had her standing several feet away from him, just outside of arm's reach to prevent any accidental touches. Which was no longer necessary, she realized. He was two steps away and she made herself take them so that she was close enough to feel his body heat.
There was no physical indication that he'd noticed, but his voice sounded slightly strained. "What do you want, Natasha?" He was still staring at the bookcase, rather than at her.
She set her hand on the small of his back and felt the muscles tighten. "We weren't allowed... we didn't want things. We couldn't. If you wanted something, they would find out, and that was one more thing they could use against you. If you want things you become your own worst enemy."
"They're not here right now."
There was so much power held within him just under her hand, and she could feel how hard he was holding onto his control.
"Do you want this?"
She didn't have to ask what "this" referred to, and knew what he really wanted to know was do you want me? And she had no idea how to answer that - she had years of shouting herself down and reminding herself of her plan, of her haven and her dream. Alone alone alone - it was a mantra she'd been chanting in her head and her heart, her only constant despite how the rest of her memories and experiences shifted and changed on her handler's whims. Her fingers found the space between the hem of his shirt and the edge of his jeans and rubbed along a line of bare skin.
He braced his hands on the bookcase in front of him and she could see that his knuckles were white with tension.
She dropped her hand and took several steps across the room. He didn't turn around and didn't see her run her fingers through her hair in frustration.
Their eyes met over his shoulder when he finally looked back at her.
"Do you want me?" She had asked that question so many times in so many different ways of so many different people, but here there was no artifice, no attempt at seduction. He turned without breaking eye contact, followed her across the room until he was standing in front of her.
"Yes."
"Then what are you waiting for?"
He reached out and touched her face, ran his thumb over the arch of her cheek before his hand settled warm and solid on her jaw.
“Nothing.”
******
She tasted like fire, warm and sharp and sweet and he didn't think he would ever be able to get enough of her. He felt more than heard her whimper against his mouth and held her face in his hands.
No more resisting, no more fighting with themselves or one another. It should've turned wild, should have been spiraling faster and faster out of their control, but he didn't want it to be that way. He traced the curve of her lips with his mouth, brushed his thumb down across her pulse point and felt how hard it fluttered against his skin. There was weight and pressure that made it hard to breathe and she kept pulling away, just a little, just enough to try and drag in more air.
She wasn't touching him, and he could feel how tense she was holding herself. She'd locked up, and he wondered if she felt that same sense of being about to fall.
"Relax," he whispered against her skin as he brushed a kiss against her temple, mirroring the one he'd given her the night before. His fingers slid through her hair and cradled her head and he rested his forehead against hers while he let his free hand slide down her arm until he reached her hand, clenched tightly into a fist. "It's ok. You can let go." He brought her fist up and kissed her knuckles, then turned her hand over and nudged at her fingers until he could press a kiss against her palm.
"Feel this?" he asked as he placed her now open hand against his chest, just over his heart. He knew it was pounding, racing out of control. "I'm scared, too."
With a small, desperate sound he felt her grip his shirt and she kissed him, reaching up for the back of his neck and pulling him roughly to her.
******
She couldn't remember how they got to the bed, but she felt the quilt and sheets under her bare shoulders, could vaguely remember having to break away from him long enough to tug her sweater over her head. He came down on top of her and she arched against the feel of his bare chest against her stomach, but her bra and their jeans were still in the way.
Clint braced himself on one arm and used his free hand to trace a line down her neck, her collar bone, between her breasts and right over her heart and she felt it stutter against his touch as he briefly let his palm rest there and looked down at her, maintaining eye contact. Slowly, so slowly, he lowered his head until he could kiss her, frantic energy once again turning into the deep intensity he seemed so determined to cultivate between them.
It made her skittish, it felt like too much and too heavy, like there was a weight pressing down on her far more meaningful than just the weight of his body over hers. Fast and frantic would be safe, would be understandable, could be discarded under any number of rationalizations later, but this...
It was too much.
It wasn't enough.
She fumbled with the button and zip of his jeans, things she'd had long practice with felt suddenly beyond her, but she managed. She was able to slide her hands underneath the denim and cotton, palms against the warm skin of his stomach and he shook hard above her and his arm threatened to give way. His eyes still held hers and they widened at the feel of her touch even as he was shifting to help her push his pants down and away. She wondered if her eyes were as dark as his.
Looking away wasn't an option anymore. Clint shifted so that he was sitting up on his knees over her and she felt more than saw him dealing with her clothes in return. She arched her hips up so he could slide the offending fabric down over her ass and they both hissed out sounds when the juncture of her thighs met his. His sound was unintelligible, but hers was an awful lot like a "please" and he grinned.
She kicked her pants off the rest of the way, which only served to bring her back into closer contact with him, wet against hard and rubbing more firmly against him until he said her name in a warning tone. She arched up enough that he was able to reach behind her and unfasten her bra, then he tugged it off and tossed it aside. She stilled as he looked at her, and his hands which had just been pulling roughly at her clothes gentled and traced softly over her curves. She felt like she was suspended in the tension of the moment, poised on a point where she couldn't move. He leaned down and kissed her, hot and breathless and needy, then he was shifting, rolling onto his back and pulling her with him, over him and she was the one with more control. She needed it, she realized, still gasping into his mouth, and that was followed by the understanding that he'd figured that out and was willingly giving it up. From this angle there were all kinds of practiced moves she could make, all sorts of things she could do to him, for him. She could make him cry out, make him beg, anything. No pretending, she reminded herself sharply. No tricks.
She watched his eyes, his face, and simply braced her hands on his shoulders and lowered herself down onto him.
*****
His hands started out at her hips, anchoring her to him once he was fully sheathed inside of her, but neither of them moved. It felt like the moment before a storm breaks, before the first shot is fired in a firefight, when it's already inevitable and all you can do is wait for time to catch up. Her first moves were almost tentative, a subtle shifting that caused his grip on her to tighten and his own hips to buck up against hers in response, but the pace increased quickly as the need, the demand grew insistent.
She tightened above him and only his grip in her hair kept her from throwing her head back, kept her from looking away as it wound tighter and they both got closer, looking at one another and watching the arousal build on each other's faces.
And then...
connection
"Holy shit," he breathed, had to force himself to breathe through it, to lock onto her eyes and hold himself together. Time stretched out, slowed to a crawl but over in an instant. "Natasha," he whispered. "What the hell did they do to you?"
His other hand moved to cradle her face and it was wet with tears. But she wasn't crying for herself, he realized abruptly. Just like he'd gotten hit with the enormity and weight of her past, she'd seen his.
It wasn't memories. It wasn't even thoughts. He still had no idea exactly what she'd done when she was five, twelve, seventeen, or twenty, but he could feel - now knew intimately - the shape her life had given her. He knew the desperation she'd felt, her loss, her loneliness, as well as her strength, her determination, her fierceness. She knew his patience, his calm, his sense of justice, as well as his anger, his confusion, his despair.
Suddenly, he could see where her masks - so carefully, elaborately crafted and worn closer than a second skin - he could see where they ended and where she began. It ought to disturb him, because he knew she could see him just as clearly, but if it felt like anything, it felt like relief.
Never alone.
Never again.
It was some seriously heady stuff.
He moved beneath her, still hard, and flipped them over, driving more fully inside of her. Her fingers tightened on his shoulders as she arched at the sensation. Her head tipped back just slightly but her eyes stayed steady on his - neither one of them could look away. He could drown here, within her.
All of the rough edges they had that caught on others and torn at them, making them not right, suddenly clicked into place, fitting perfectly. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he moved above her and he could feel that she was close to the edge again but almost frantic, resistant to going over again while this emotionally open and raw.
“C’mon, baby. It’s safe,” he whispered. “Come for me.”
His name was a strangled cry in the back of her throat and she shattered, breaking apart beneath him as she came. He fought his own long enough to watch her, entranced by what it did to her, then he was falling too, falling, exploding, shattering - they were both turned into so many pieces and he didn’t think they’d ever be able to sort them all out again.
*****
The room was dark, and cold, but he was choking on the smoke.
That wasn't right.
He knew this nightmare, he hadn't had it in years, but he could remember all the nights he'd woken up, even as a fully grown man, with the taste of burning wood and cloth stuck in the back of his throat and sweating from the heat he could swear he still felt on his skin. He'd been ten when the big top had caught on fire, perched in the crow's nest because he was hiding out from Trickshot again, because he knew when he finally came down there would be hell to pay for talking back and then taking off before they could beat him. He'd known better but he couldn't help it, couldn't resist running off at the mouth, just like always. So he'd hidden, hoped they'd all get drunk and go to bed and he'd be able to sneak back down and they'd have forgotten in the morning.
No one knew what had started the fire, but the tent had caught and then the beams and the ropes and he'd been trapped up high as the smoke rose to choke him. The fire department in the nearby town had gotten it put out, gotten him down (and yes, there had certainly been hell to pay, later) but it was the fear and the heat and the smoke that had stuck with him into adulthood.
Why was it cold?
That same room, those same screams, and the gunfire and the cold tile against her cheek, but she could smell smoke and she was choking on it.
Wrong, wrong, wrong. There was never smoke in the facility, except for cigarette or cigar smoke when the army officers visited them. Never wood smoke, she hadn't learned that smell until much later, on a mission in Kuybyshev.
There was cold beneath her skin, but the air in her throat and nose were too hot and she was coughing instead of screaming and that was wrong.
It was too dark and he couldn't see, but he could feel something wet and sticky and warm against his hands, interrupting the cold tile floor and through the smoke he could smell blood.
He forced himself to open his eyes, and she saw him staring back at her.
*****
Clint jolted awake and he was gripping her arm hard enough to bruise. She had an equally tight hold on his shoulder. Breathing was his first priority, speaking was a secondary consideration and he didn't even try.
Her other hand was against his face, a gentle contrast to her fingers where they still dug into his muscles. He forced himself to relax, to let go of her and instead he stroked along the line of her body in what he hoped was a calming motion. His own heart was still racing, he knew hers had to be as well.
"That was your nightmare," he finally managed to get out. "The cold room, and the blood."
"You were in a fire," she whispered. "You nearly died."
"There was someone screaming, someone being shot."
"You couldn't breathe, couldn't get down."
He pressed his forehead against hers, shutting his eyes against all of it. His memories, her memories, knowing that she'd been there and seen that, felt that, but also realizing that he'd seen and felt her. He pulled her to him more fully, felt her wrap herself around him like the last solid thing in the world and it was easy from this angle to just rock together. It wasn't even sexual, but was extremely intimate; it was the feel of their hearts beating in time and their breathing together and the feel of skin against skin which was a need too often denied that went well beyond hormones and sweat-tangled bodies.
Eventually, it did shift tone, and they became aware of how hard and soft and curve and angle fit together. It was almost familiar now, and their mouths met, and their tongues tangled, and their bodies weren't far behind. Side by side they faced each other and took and gave, pushing dark memories out with better ones. She came with a sigh and he followed on a moan and then they lay there in a long silent moment and waited to come down.
He was idly stroking her hair and tracing patterns against her hip when she pulled away from him. She got up out of the bed and crossed to the window and for a long time, she just stared out at the night sky.
"I don't know what to do with this," she finally admitted, holding out her hands and looking down at them, as if they were alien to her. Where before he would've had to guess at her meaning, now he knew she was talking about the softer things that were happening between them.
"You... there wasn't anyone, not really, that cared about you, was there?" He knew now, of course, that there hadn't been. It was like he could tell the True things about her from the half-shadows she pulled around herself to pretend to be someone else. If he wondered about something, if he thought about it for just a minute, he could tell if it was right or wrong, even if he couldn't always explain why.
"I don't even know what that is. That's not true." She backtracked slightly, considered. "I know how to pretend to care. I know the actions, the forms. It's not the same thing," she finished, and her voice trailed off, a little lost.
He got up after her and stepped in close behind her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and pulling her back against his bare chest. He rested his cheek against her hair.
"No. It's not."
He hadn't had much growing up, but he could remember his mother, just a little bit, and there'd been Barney for awhile, until they'd gotten older.
She turned in his arms and looked up at him, and it was stark terror written across her face.
"As long as I can remember, I've only wanted one thing. One. I've wanted to be alone. Free."
His heart hurt - literally hurt. "And now, you can't be."
"Not... entirely. I can feel it, that I won't be alone anymore." For most people, that was the draw, the attraction. For her it was anathema.
"You can still go away," he found himself saying, even though a part of him screamed no. "If that's what you want, I won't hold you here or follow you. Not unless you ask me to."
"Then you would be alone, too."
"Yeah. But it would be worth it, to know you're happy."
The laugh that escaped from her was bitter and raw. "That's something else I don't know anything about, Clint. What does "happy" even mean?" She turned in his arms then, and he was looking at her like she was something beautiful and precious and the moment of fear turned into one of confusion and pain.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she whispered roughly.
“How?”
“Like I’m something good. Precious. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not.”
So quickly she couldn’t track the movement he grabbed her face in his hands, holding her still so that she couldn't look anywhere but at him.
“The hell you aren't," he said viciously. "You are precious to me."
"You don't know-"
He cut her off. "I know exactly who you are now. I see you, Natasha. And you are good, and you are beautiful."
It was too much and she had to look away. Because she knew that he meant it and no matter where she looked inside herself, she couldn't find an answer to all the questions he wasn't asking her, but that she could tell were on the tip of his tongue.
*****
Eventually he pulled her back to the bed, and she drifted off as she lay across his chest. Even after he knew she'd fallen asleep he kept up the rhythmic motions of his fingers combing through her hair. He would never say it out loud, didn't know how to keep it from sounding corny or trite, but looking down at her, he knew it was this. It was her. A deep contentment settled in his chest and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that she was what his life had been leading up to. All his aimless wandering, all of his mistakes and successes had brought him here to her and the realization was as frightening as it was humbling. He'd never honestly considered the possibility of some kind of larger hand in the design of things, he hadn't ever concerned himself with universal mechanics one way or another, but now he thought maybe he understood better those who did.
She shifted slightly in her sleep and her arms tightened around him, able to do in her sleep what she couldn't do while waking.
Just like he knew that he was where he was supposed to be, he also knew, now, that she was going to leave. That she had to leave if for no other reason than to prove to herself that she could. The future was uncertain in a new and daunting way; assuming, of course, that they even survived long enough for it to come to pass.
*****
On any given day, the hangar deck of the carrier was a hive of activity, with busy people running back and forth trying to do their jobs, but when Maria arrived at 0740, it was a mad house.
She saw Coulson moving along just behind what was obviously a strike team - did they even have any ops in progress that required a strike team? What the hell had been going on while she'd been in D.C. that she hadn't been informed about? - and she flagged him down.
"Agent, a moment." She waited until they'd gotten just offside and out of direct earshot and line of sight. "Do we have something in progress? What's with the Strike Team? That's Alpha team, isn't it?"
"Yes," Coulson agreed, and the look on his face was darker than she could ever remember seeing it. That, more than anything else, set her on edge and put her inner alarms to jangling. "We've gotten some new intel on Barton's probable location, and Director Fury has ordered strike team Alpha to go and follow up on it."
"I'm sorry, did you say 'Barton's' location? Who's taken Barton?"
"It's more complicated than that."
"Coulson, don't make me order you to tell me," Maria warned, because she hated pulling rank on him, and the whole situation, or rather the way he seemed to be reacting to the situation had every alarm bell she possessed going crazy. Something was wrong her instincts were trying to tell her, and further, they were telling her Coulson knew what it was.
"Barton brought in Romanov instead of completing the hit. She came willingly into custody, they didn't even exchange shots. Fury ordered him to kill her to prove his loyalty, so Barton broke her out and they escaped."
Maria waited a beat for the punchline, or for the world to completely spin out from under her feet. Something, because this was obviously some kind of screwed up dream. Surreptitiously, she pinched herself.
It hurt.
"Barton disobeyed direct orders?"
Coulson nodded, then glanced at the quinjet where the team leader was waiting for him. "It's more... that's not everything. But it's all I can say for now. Watch the surveillance footage and look at the mission reports."
It took her another four hours before she could do that, because there was more about the day to day ship and checking back in that had to be addressed from her absence. She gave Fury her report from the Department of Defense meetings face to face, and found herself watching his body language closely, but nothing seemed particularly out of the ordinary.
Until.
"Agent Hill." She'd been almost out the door, he'd already sat down behind his desk.
"Sir?" she turned slowly, professionally she thought, back around to face him.
"I imagine you've heard about the recent situation with Agent Barton?"
"Yes, sir. I ran into Agent Coulson this morning on the hangar deck when I arrived and he briefed me."
"Did he, now? And what exactly did he say?" There was a dangerous edge to Fury's tone that she didn't think she liked very much at all.
The last thing she wanted to do was point that edge in anyone else's direction. "Just that Barton had gone rogue sir. Specifically that he had chosen to escape with a Russian operative we had in custody rather than following orders and terminating her, and that we had some new intel on his position that Coulson and Alpha team were following up on."
Fury gave her a long, measured look before inclining his head in a slight nod. "There was a shoot out in Germany, just outside Dusseldorf, that involved some mid-level drug runners with connections to the Russian Mafia. Preliminary ballistics show that one of the guns used was Barton's and another was from one of the guards he disabled while making his escape. We're closing in on them. I have Coulson leading the retrieval."
Something in his tone of voice chilled her and she did her best to keep her face neutral and her tone of voice even. "Very good, sir. Is there anything else?" Calm. Rational. Unconcerned. As if it was every day that one of their top agents ran off with enemy assets and as if it was standard SHIELD policy to send someone's teammate and personal friend out to retrieve them. If they were going by the book, Coulson shouldn't be anywhere near this mission - at best he'd have been benched for a conflict of interest, and at worst he'd have been under suspicion himself for possible collusion.
She'd never been quite so relieved to feel the doors slide shut behind her. She'd always had a healthy respect for Fury, of course she had, but this was the first time she'd ever felt anything like fear around him.
Chapter 9
Author/Artist: Koren M. (cybermathwitch)
Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were, there'd already be a Black Widow/Hawkeye movie.
Pairing: Clint/Natasha, Coulson/The Cellist, Nick Fury/OFC, Bobbi/Maria
Rating: Adult 17+
Warnings: language, violence, SEXUAL CONTENT, dub-con if you feel that mystical/destiny sorts of compulsions qualify as dubious consent (Natasha might agree with you), REFERENCES TO CHILDHOOD TRAUMA (FIRE, BEING TRAPPED, AND VIOLENCE) AND VAGUE REFERENCES TO CHILD ABUSE
Spoilers: None
Type: WIP
Word Count: 4,891
Summary: Connection
Author's Notes: See Chapter 1 for more notes.
Please note the changes/addendums to the warnings.
Oh my god. I'm not sure how it ended up being a month. (I'm lying to you, I know exactly how, it's called NaNoWriMo, and remind me never to do both that and an active WIP AT THE SAME TIME EVER AGAIN plskthnx.) But I am so, so sorry it took so long.
Thank you as always to anuna_81 and kadollan for looking this over, and to sunny_serenity for general cheerleading and thoughts and music! And thank you to everyone who's left such awesome feedback. I really <3 the discussions and meta and I always love to hear what you think about it. :D
Big things are happening for everyone here. You've been warned. And we're about to earn that adult rating, so children, avert your eyes. (Oh c'mon, like you didn't know this was going to be "the" chapter? You're not fooling me. That also might be one of the reasons it took so long... talk about performance anxiety. Ahem.)
Chapter 7
Interlude 3: Honor and Loyalty
She'd had people treat her wounds before. Much more serious wounds, ones that had required surgery or sutures, but usually things this small she took care of alone. It had always been just a part of the routine, debrief, clean up, get your next assignment. This was entirely different.
Had there ever been anyone to take care of her? Had there ever been anyone with a brief touch for comfort or a kiss against her hair? She certainly couldn't remember anything like that as a child. She could remember overtures from various targets she was stringing along, but the care hadn't been for her, just for a construct she had stepped into. And even in those instances, they weren't usually the type of people willing to put themselves between her and a potential threat, and certainly weren't the type of people willing or able to meet the full reality of her world head on.
Despite their earlier decision, once he'd finished with the first aid kit he'd washed his hands and gone back to trying to put food together while she'd showered and dug out a clean sweater. Breakfast had been hours before and adrenaline had left a gaping hole in it's wake. With a glance down at her hands she realized there was a fine tremor to them.
When she looked up, he was watching her.
"Here, start with this," he said, and tossed her one of the energy bars he'd found. "I'm not much of a cook, but pasta and canned sauce is hard to fuck up so it should be edible. It'll still be a few minutes though."
"Thank you," she murmured, and she wasn't sure if she was thanking him for the bandages, the food, or something more abstract. It ought to feel wrong, she thought, to have someone else here, taking over and doing such domestic things in this space that was hers, but it didn't.
While practical, she suspected the cooking was at least partially a stalling tactic. That was fair. She was nervous about it too - emulating magic was a far cry from participating in the real thing, after all. Beyond that, it was a step that would change... everything. For both of them. She couldn't actually conceptualize that, what it would mean and how things would change, she just knew in her gut that they would. He didn't want her to pretend, but she wasn't sure she knew how not to. The tension was spinning tighter between them as every touch, every minute spent so close together added fuel to the fire, somehow both better and worse now that she knew it was going to end soon.
They ate mechanically, silently, and when they were both done she cleared away the dishes. By the time she was finished, he'd relocated to the study and was looking at the bookshelves, the ones she'd meticulously stocked with books in a variety of languages, mostly fiction and plays and a small handful of poetry.
"Have you read all these?"
She smiled. "Not yet. I want to someday."
"Is that the plan when you leave? Just hole up here and read?"
He could've said it in any number of different ways, but his tone held only curiosity, not scorn, so she considered the question.
"If I want to, yes." Three days of habit had her standing several feet away from him, just outside of arm's reach to prevent any accidental touches. Which was no longer necessary, she realized. He was two steps away and she made herself take them so that she was close enough to feel his body heat.
There was no physical indication that he'd noticed, but his voice sounded slightly strained. "What do you want, Natasha?" He was still staring at the bookcase, rather than at her.
She set her hand on the small of his back and felt the muscles tighten. "We weren't allowed... we didn't want things. We couldn't. If you wanted something, they would find out, and that was one more thing they could use against you. If you want things you become your own worst enemy."
"They're not here right now."
There was so much power held within him just under her hand, and she could feel how hard he was holding onto his control.
"Do you want this?"
She didn't have to ask what "this" referred to, and knew what he really wanted to know was do you want me? And she had no idea how to answer that - she had years of shouting herself down and reminding herself of her plan, of her haven and her dream. Alone alone alone - it was a mantra she'd been chanting in her head and her heart, her only constant despite how the rest of her memories and experiences shifted and changed on her handler's whims. Her fingers found the space between the hem of his shirt and the edge of his jeans and rubbed along a line of bare skin.
He braced his hands on the bookcase in front of him and she could see that his knuckles were white with tension.
She dropped her hand and took several steps across the room. He didn't turn around and didn't see her run her fingers through her hair in frustration.
Their eyes met over his shoulder when he finally looked back at her.
"Do you want me?" She had asked that question so many times in so many different ways of so many different people, but here there was no artifice, no attempt at seduction. He turned without breaking eye contact, followed her across the room until he was standing in front of her.
"Yes."
"Then what are you waiting for?"
He reached out and touched her face, ran his thumb over the arch of her cheek before his hand settled warm and solid on her jaw.
“Nothing.”
******
She tasted like fire, warm and sharp and sweet and he didn't think he would ever be able to get enough of her. He felt more than heard her whimper against his mouth and held her face in his hands.
No more resisting, no more fighting with themselves or one another. It should've turned wild, should have been spiraling faster and faster out of their control, but he didn't want it to be that way. He traced the curve of her lips with his mouth, brushed his thumb down across her pulse point and felt how hard it fluttered against his skin. There was weight and pressure that made it hard to breathe and she kept pulling away, just a little, just enough to try and drag in more air.
She wasn't touching him, and he could feel how tense she was holding herself. She'd locked up, and he wondered if she felt that same sense of being about to fall.
"Relax," he whispered against her skin as he brushed a kiss against her temple, mirroring the one he'd given her the night before. His fingers slid through her hair and cradled her head and he rested his forehead against hers while he let his free hand slide down her arm until he reached her hand, clenched tightly into a fist. "It's ok. You can let go." He brought her fist up and kissed her knuckles, then turned her hand over and nudged at her fingers until he could press a kiss against her palm.
"Feel this?" he asked as he placed her now open hand against his chest, just over his heart. He knew it was pounding, racing out of control. "I'm scared, too."
With a small, desperate sound he felt her grip his shirt and she kissed him, reaching up for the back of his neck and pulling him roughly to her.
******
She couldn't remember how they got to the bed, but she felt the quilt and sheets under her bare shoulders, could vaguely remember having to break away from him long enough to tug her sweater over her head. He came down on top of her and she arched against the feel of his bare chest against her stomach, but her bra and their jeans were still in the way.
Clint braced himself on one arm and used his free hand to trace a line down her neck, her collar bone, between her breasts and right over her heart and she felt it stutter against his touch as he briefly let his palm rest there and looked down at her, maintaining eye contact. Slowly, so slowly, he lowered his head until he could kiss her, frantic energy once again turning into the deep intensity he seemed so determined to cultivate between them.
It made her skittish, it felt like too much and too heavy, like there was a weight pressing down on her far more meaningful than just the weight of his body over hers. Fast and frantic would be safe, would be understandable, could be discarded under any number of rationalizations later, but this...
It was too much.
It wasn't enough.
She fumbled with the button and zip of his jeans, things she'd had long practice with felt suddenly beyond her, but she managed. She was able to slide her hands underneath the denim and cotton, palms against the warm skin of his stomach and he shook hard above her and his arm threatened to give way. His eyes still held hers and they widened at the feel of her touch even as he was shifting to help her push his pants down and away. She wondered if her eyes were as dark as his.
Looking away wasn't an option anymore. Clint shifted so that he was sitting up on his knees over her and she felt more than saw him dealing with her clothes in return. She arched her hips up so he could slide the offending fabric down over her ass and they both hissed out sounds when the juncture of her thighs met his. His sound was unintelligible, but hers was an awful lot like a "please" and he grinned.
She kicked her pants off the rest of the way, which only served to bring her back into closer contact with him, wet against hard and rubbing more firmly against him until he said her name in a warning tone. She arched up enough that he was able to reach behind her and unfasten her bra, then he tugged it off and tossed it aside. She stilled as he looked at her, and his hands which had just been pulling roughly at her clothes gentled and traced softly over her curves. She felt like she was suspended in the tension of the moment, poised on a point where she couldn't move. He leaned down and kissed her, hot and breathless and needy, then he was shifting, rolling onto his back and pulling her with him, over him and she was the one with more control. She needed it, she realized, still gasping into his mouth, and that was followed by the understanding that he'd figured that out and was willingly giving it up. From this angle there were all kinds of practiced moves she could make, all sorts of things she could do to him, for him. She could make him cry out, make him beg, anything. No pretending, she reminded herself sharply. No tricks.
She watched his eyes, his face, and simply braced her hands on his shoulders and lowered herself down onto him.
*****
His hands started out at her hips, anchoring her to him once he was fully sheathed inside of her, but neither of them moved. It felt like the moment before a storm breaks, before the first shot is fired in a firefight, when it's already inevitable and all you can do is wait for time to catch up. Her first moves were almost tentative, a subtle shifting that caused his grip on her to tighten and his own hips to buck up against hers in response, but the pace increased quickly as the need, the demand grew insistent.
She tightened above him and only his grip in her hair kept her from throwing her head back, kept her from looking away as it wound tighter and they both got closer, looking at one another and watching the arousal build on each other's faces.
And then...
connection
"Holy shit," he breathed, had to force himself to breathe through it, to lock onto her eyes and hold himself together. Time stretched out, slowed to a crawl but over in an instant. "Natasha," he whispered. "What the hell did they do to you?"
His other hand moved to cradle her face and it was wet with tears. But she wasn't crying for herself, he realized abruptly. Just like he'd gotten hit with the enormity and weight of her past, she'd seen his.
It wasn't memories. It wasn't even thoughts. He still had no idea exactly what she'd done when she was five, twelve, seventeen, or twenty, but he could feel - now knew intimately - the shape her life had given her. He knew the desperation she'd felt, her loss, her loneliness, as well as her strength, her determination, her fierceness. She knew his patience, his calm, his sense of justice, as well as his anger, his confusion, his despair.
Suddenly, he could see where her masks - so carefully, elaborately crafted and worn closer than a second skin - he could see where they ended and where she began. It ought to disturb him, because he knew she could see him just as clearly, but if it felt like anything, it felt like relief.
Never alone.
Never again.
It was some seriously heady stuff.
He moved beneath her, still hard, and flipped them over, driving more fully inside of her. Her fingers tightened on his shoulders as she arched at the sensation. Her head tipped back just slightly but her eyes stayed steady on his - neither one of them could look away. He could drown here, within her.
All of the rough edges they had that caught on others and torn at them, making them not right, suddenly clicked into place, fitting perfectly. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he moved above her and he could feel that she was close to the edge again but almost frantic, resistant to going over again while this emotionally open and raw.
“C’mon, baby. It’s safe,” he whispered. “Come for me.”
His name was a strangled cry in the back of her throat and she shattered, breaking apart beneath him as she came. He fought his own long enough to watch her, entranced by what it did to her, then he was falling too, falling, exploding, shattering - they were both turned into so many pieces and he didn’t think they’d ever be able to sort them all out again.
*****
The room was dark, and cold, but he was choking on the smoke.
That wasn't right.
He knew this nightmare, he hadn't had it in years, but he could remember all the nights he'd woken up, even as a fully grown man, with the taste of burning wood and cloth stuck in the back of his throat and sweating from the heat he could swear he still felt on his skin. He'd been ten when the big top had caught on fire, perched in the crow's nest because he was hiding out from Trickshot again, because he knew when he finally came down there would be hell to pay for talking back and then taking off before they could beat him. He'd known better but he couldn't help it, couldn't resist running off at the mouth, just like always. So he'd hidden, hoped they'd all get drunk and go to bed and he'd be able to sneak back down and they'd have forgotten in the morning.
No one knew what had started the fire, but the tent had caught and then the beams and the ropes and he'd been trapped up high as the smoke rose to choke him. The fire department in the nearby town had gotten it put out, gotten him down (and yes, there had certainly been hell to pay, later) but it was the fear and the heat and the smoke that had stuck with him into adulthood.
Why was it cold?
That same room, those same screams, and the gunfire and the cold tile against her cheek, but she could smell smoke and she was choking on it.
Wrong, wrong, wrong. There was never smoke in the facility, except for cigarette or cigar smoke when the army officers visited them. Never wood smoke, she hadn't learned that smell until much later, on a mission in Kuybyshev.
There was cold beneath her skin, but the air in her throat and nose were too hot and she was coughing instead of screaming and that was wrong.
It was too dark and he couldn't see, but he could feel something wet and sticky and warm against his hands, interrupting the cold tile floor and through the smoke he could smell blood.
He forced himself to open his eyes, and she saw him staring back at her.
*****
Clint jolted awake and he was gripping her arm hard enough to bruise. She had an equally tight hold on his shoulder. Breathing was his first priority, speaking was a secondary consideration and he didn't even try.
Her other hand was against his face, a gentle contrast to her fingers where they still dug into his muscles. He forced himself to relax, to let go of her and instead he stroked along the line of her body in what he hoped was a calming motion. His own heart was still racing, he knew hers had to be as well.
"That was your nightmare," he finally managed to get out. "The cold room, and the blood."
"You were in a fire," she whispered. "You nearly died."
"There was someone screaming, someone being shot."
"You couldn't breathe, couldn't get down."
He pressed his forehead against hers, shutting his eyes against all of it. His memories, her memories, knowing that she'd been there and seen that, felt that, but also realizing that he'd seen and felt her. He pulled her to him more fully, felt her wrap herself around him like the last solid thing in the world and it was easy from this angle to just rock together. It wasn't even sexual, but was extremely intimate; it was the feel of their hearts beating in time and their breathing together and the feel of skin against skin which was a need too often denied that went well beyond hormones and sweat-tangled bodies.
Eventually, it did shift tone, and they became aware of how hard and soft and curve and angle fit together. It was almost familiar now, and their mouths met, and their tongues tangled, and their bodies weren't far behind. Side by side they faced each other and took and gave, pushing dark memories out with better ones. She came with a sigh and he followed on a moan and then they lay there in a long silent moment and waited to come down.
He was idly stroking her hair and tracing patterns against her hip when she pulled away from him. She got up out of the bed and crossed to the window and for a long time, she just stared out at the night sky.
"I don't know what to do with this," she finally admitted, holding out her hands and looking down at them, as if they were alien to her. Where before he would've had to guess at her meaning, now he knew she was talking about the softer things that were happening between them.
"You... there wasn't anyone, not really, that cared about you, was there?" He knew now, of course, that there hadn't been. It was like he could tell the True things about her from the half-shadows she pulled around herself to pretend to be someone else. If he wondered about something, if he thought about it for just a minute, he could tell if it was right or wrong, even if he couldn't always explain why.
"I don't even know what that is. That's not true." She backtracked slightly, considered. "I know how to pretend to care. I know the actions, the forms. It's not the same thing," she finished, and her voice trailed off, a little lost.
He got up after her and stepped in close behind her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and pulling her back against his bare chest. He rested his cheek against her hair.
"No. It's not."
He hadn't had much growing up, but he could remember his mother, just a little bit, and there'd been Barney for awhile, until they'd gotten older.
She turned in his arms and looked up at him, and it was stark terror written across her face.
"As long as I can remember, I've only wanted one thing. One. I've wanted to be alone. Free."
His heart hurt - literally hurt. "And now, you can't be."
"Not... entirely. I can feel it, that I won't be alone anymore." For most people, that was the draw, the attraction. For her it was anathema.
"You can still go away," he found himself saying, even though a part of him screamed no. "If that's what you want, I won't hold you here or follow you. Not unless you ask me to."
"Then you would be alone, too."
"Yeah. But it would be worth it, to know you're happy."
The laugh that escaped from her was bitter and raw. "That's something else I don't know anything about, Clint. What does "happy" even mean?" She turned in his arms then, and he was looking at her like she was something beautiful and precious and the moment of fear turned into one of confusion and pain.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she whispered roughly.
“How?”
“Like I’m something good. Precious. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not.”
So quickly she couldn’t track the movement he grabbed her face in his hands, holding her still so that she couldn't look anywhere but at him.
“The hell you aren't," he said viciously. "You are precious to me."
"You don't know-"
He cut her off. "I know exactly who you are now. I see you, Natasha. And you are good, and you are beautiful."
It was too much and she had to look away. Because she knew that he meant it and no matter where she looked inside herself, she couldn't find an answer to all the questions he wasn't asking her, but that she could tell were on the tip of his tongue.
*****
Eventually he pulled her back to the bed, and she drifted off as she lay across his chest. Even after he knew she'd fallen asleep he kept up the rhythmic motions of his fingers combing through her hair. He would never say it out loud, didn't know how to keep it from sounding corny or trite, but looking down at her, he knew it was this. It was her. A deep contentment settled in his chest and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that she was what his life had been leading up to. All his aimless wandering, all of his mistakes and successes had brought him here to her and the realization was as frightening as it was humbling. He'd never honestly considered the possibility of some kind of larger hand in the design of things, he hadn't ever concerned himself with universal mechanics one way or another, but now he thought maybe he understood better those who did.
She shifted slightly in her sleep and her arms tightened around him, able to do in her sleep what she couldn't do while waking.
Just like he knew that he was where he was supposed to be, he also knew, now, that she was going to leave. That she had to leave if for no other reason than to prove to herself that she could. The future was uncertain in a new and daunting way; assuming, of course, that they even survived long enough for it to come to pass.
*****
On any given day, the hangar deck of the carrier was a hive of activity, with busy people running back and forth trying to do their jobs, but when Maria arrived at 0740, it was a mad house.
She saw Coulson moving along just behind what was obviously a strike team - did they even have any ops in progress that required a strike team? What the hell had been going on while she'd been in D.C. that she hadn't been informed about? - and she flagged him down.
"Agent, a moment." She waited until they'd gotten just offside and out of direct earshot and line of sight. "Do we have something in progress? What's with the Strike Team? That's Alpha team, isn't it?"
"Yes," Coulson agreed, and the look on his face was darker than she could ever remember seeing it. That, more than anything else, set her on edge and put her inner alarms to jangling. "We've gotten some new intel on Barton's probable location, and Director Fury has ordered strike team Alpha to go and follow up on it."
"I'm sorry, did you say 'Barton's' location? Who's taken Barton?"
"It's more complicated than that."
"Coulson, don't make me order you to tell me," Maria warned, because she hated pulling rank on him, and the whole situation, or rather the way he seemed to be reacting to the situation had every alarm bell she possessed going crazy. Something was wrong her instincts were trying to tell her, and further, they were telling her Coulson knew what it was.
"Barton brought in Romanov instead of completing the hit. She came willingly into custody, they didn't even exchange shots. Fury ordered him to kill her to prove his loyalty, so Barton broke her out and they escaped."
Maria waited a beat for the punchline, or for the world to completely spin out from under her feet. Something, because this was obviously some kind of screwed up dream. Surreptitiously, she pinched herself.
It hurt.
"Barton disobeyed direct orders?"
Coulson nodded, then glanced at the quinjet where the team leader was waiting for him. "It's more... that's not everything. But it's all I can say for now. Watch the surveillance footage and look at the mission reports."
It took her another four hours before she could do that, because there was more about the day to day ship and checking back in that had to be addressed from her absence. She gave Fury her report from the Department of Defense meetings face to face, and found herself watching his body language closely, but nothing seemed particularly out of the ordinary.
Until.
"Agent Hill." She'd been almost out the door, he'd already sat down behind his desk.
"Sir?" she turned slowly, professionally she thought, back around to face him.
"I imagine you've heard about the recent situation with Agent Barton?"
"Yes, sir. I ran into Agent Coulson this morning on the hangar deck when I arrived and he briefed me."
"Did he, now? And what exactly did he say?" There was a dangerous edge to Fury's tone that she didn't think she liked very much at all.
The last thing she wanted to do was point that edge in anyone else's direction. "Just that Barton had gone rogue sir. Specifically that he had chosen to escape with a Russian operative we had in custody rather than following orders and terminating her, and that we had some new intel on his position that Coulson and Alpha team were following up on."
Fury gave her a long, measured look before inclining his head in a slight nod. "There was a shoot out in Germany, just outside Dusseldorf, that involved some mid-level drug runners with connections to the Russian Mafia. Preliminary ballistics show that one of the guns used was Barton's and another was from one of the guards he disabled while making his escape. We're closing in on them. I have Coulson leading the retrieval."
Something in his tone of voice chilled her and she did her best to keep her face neutral and her tone of voice even. "Very good, sir. Is there anything else?" Calm. Rational. Unconcerned. As if it was every day that one of their top agents ran off with enemy assets and as if it was standard SHIELD policy to send someone's teammate and personal friend out to retrieve them. If they were going by the book, Coulson shouldn't be anywhere near this mission - at best he'd have been benched for a conflict of interest, and at worst he'd have been under suspicion himself for possible collusion.
She'd never been quite so relieved to feel the doors slide shut behind her. She'd always had a healthy respect for Fury, of course she had, but this was the first time she'd ever felt anything like fear around him.
Chapter 9