[fic] The Perils of Bedshare
Title: The Perils of Bedshare
Fandom: Avengers
Rating: PG
Warnings: None, implied past violence
Pairings: Natasha/Clint
Characters: Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff
Word Count: 660
Summary: People have a lot of questions. Clint has answers. They’re just not necessarily true.
Author’s Notes: This was originally posted for the Fluff-fest at be-compromised so if you’ve seen it, that’s why.
The first time somebody asks, he says she kicks in her sleep.
They look at him in shock that he would actually answer that question; Clint shrugs. “What?” he asks. “She does. She kicks in her sleep.”
There’s a long pause, so Clint sighs and hikes up the leg of his sweatpants to show the rather impressive bruise purpling up what feels like the entire bottom half of his shin. None of the trainees are actually squeamish enough to look grossed out, but there is definitely more respect lurking in their eyes. Clint rolls the pants leg back down and orders them to run a few more laps or something productive so that SHIELD won’t fire him as an instructor or whatever.
The next group to ask is Accounting. They fear her, but in a different way than the trainees do.
“It’s not easy. She’s always armed and she’s twitchy,” Clint says, and shows them an scar low on his ribcage. “Fast, too. I talked in my sleep once, she gave me this with her favorite knife. I learned to shut up pretty quick.”
Now it’s not respect on his audience’s faces, but horror.
Time passes. People get used to it-it being somehow both a miracle that threatens to blow him away a little more every day and yet feels completely right-but questions still come up. Sometimes he keeps it mundane: she keeps the room like an icebox and needs four different blankets. Other times he drops hint about leather and riding crops, or shows off fresh and old wounds alike. By the time six months of cohabitation have gone by, there are so many stories floating around SHIELD that Clint doesn’t bother to keep them straight. It catches up to him the night he comes in from a mission and starts stripping in the dark.
Natasha rolls over and he can feel her eyes on him, even if his vision hasn’t adjusted well enough for him to see her yet.
“So I stabbed you, huh?” she asks.
Clint pauses with his shirt halfway over his head. “For talking in my sleep. See?” He taps his ribcage.
“You got that in Calcutta, you dork.” Amusement leaks into her voice as she moves over to let him have his side of the bed. She always sleeps there when he’s away. Luckily his mission tonight was quick: in, arrow some bad guy in the throat, out before the late night shows start.
He climbs into bed and she turns onto her side so that they’re face to face. By now, his eyes have adjusted and he can see that she’s smirking, which makes him smile. “How’d you find out?”
“Sally, in Accounting.”
“That rat.”
“The IT department seems to think I can’t sleep without choking you a little bit.”
“Your hugs are a little on the strangle-y side.” Clint nudges her nose with his, which always makes her laugh. “But it’s strange how fixated everybody around this place is about you and sleeping. So what’s a few white lies to keep their lives interesting?”
“You’re kind of a terrible person sometimes,” Natasha says, her tone thoughtful. “Sleeping next to me is amazing.”
He grins. Modesty has never been a problem for her. “You kick in your sleep.”
“You snore when you sleep on your stomach.”
“You’re a covers hog.”
“You’re a bed hog. And you like to cuddle.”
He gives her a wounded look. “Well, yeah, I’m a cuddly guy.”
This makes her laugh again as she tugs him toward her. When she kisses him, her lips are curved up in a smile. These moments, he thinks as his fingers find the hem of the shirt she’s been sleeping in and tug, are why he won’t ever really tell the truth when somebody asks what it’s like to share a bed with the Black Widow. Because really, sleeping next to Natasha isn’t always restful or even wonderful. But he still likes it.
Fandom: Avengers
Rating: PG
Warnings: None, implied past violence
Pairings: Natasha/Clint
Characters: Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff
Word Count: 660
Summary: People have a lot of questions. Clint has answers. They’re just not necessarily true.
Author’s Notes: This was originally posted for the Fluff-fest at be-compromised so if you’ve seen it, that’s why.
The first time somebody asks, he says she kicks in her sleep.
They look at him in shock that he would actually answer that question; Clint shrugs. “What?” he asks. “She does. She kicks in her sleep.”
There’s a long pause, so Clint sighs and hikes up the leg of his sweatpants to show the rather impressive bruise purpling up what feels like the entire bottom half of his shin. None of the trainees are actually squeamish enough to look grossed out, but there is definitely more respect lurking in their eyes. Clint rolls the pants leg back down and orders them to run a few more laps or something productive so that SHIELD won’t fire him as an instructor or whatever.
The next group to ask is Accounting. They fear her, but in a different way than the trainees do.
“It’s not easy. She’s always armed and she’s twitchy,” Clint says, and shows them an scar low on his ribcage. “Fast, too. I talked in my sleep once, she gave me this with her favorite knife. I learned to shut up pretty quick.”
Now it’s not respect on his audience’s faces, but horror.
Time passes. People get used to it-it being somehow both a miracle that threatens to blow him away a little more every day and yet feels completely right-but questions still come up. Sometimes he keeps it mundane: she keeps the room like an icebox and needs four different blankets. Other times he drops hint about leather and riding crops, or shows off fresh and old wounds alike. By the time six months of cohabitation have gone by, there are so many stories floating around SHIELD that Clint doesn’t bother to keep them straight. It catches up to him the night he comes in from a mission and starts stripping in the dark.
Natasha rolls over and he can feel her eyes on him, even if his vision hasn’t adjusted well enough for him to see her yet.
“So I stabbed you, huh?” she asks.
Clint pauses with his shirt halfway over his head. “For talking in my sleep. See?” He taps his ribcage.
“You got that in Calcutta, you dork.” Amusement leaks into her voice as she moves over to let him have his side of the bed. She always sleeps there when he’s away. Luckily his mission tonight was quick: in, arrow some bad guy in the throat, out before the late night shows start.
He climbs into bed and she turns onto her side so that they’re face to face. By now, his eyes have adjusted and he can see that she’s smirking, which makes him smile. “How’d you find out?”
“Sally, in Accounting.”
“That rat.”
“The IT department seems to think I can’t sleep without choking you a little bit.”
“Your hugs are a little on the strangle-y side.” Clint nudges her nose with his, which always makes her laugh. “But it’s strange how fixated everybody around this place is about you and sleeping. So what’s a few white lies to keep their lives interesting?”
“You’re kind of a terrible person sometimes,” Natasha says, her tone thoughtful. “Sleeping next to me is amazing.”
He grins. Modesty has never been a problem for her. “You kick in your sleep.”
“You snore when you sleep on your stomach.”
“You’re a covers hog.”
“You’re a bed hog. And you like to cuddle.”
He gives her a wounded look. “Well, yeah, I’m a cuddly guy.”
This makes her laugh again as she tugs him toward her. When she kisses him, her lips are curved up in a smile. These moments, he thinks as his fingers find the hem of the shirt she’s been sleeping in and tug, are why he won’t ever really tell the truth when somebody asks what it’s like to share a bed with the Black Widow. Because really, sleeping next to Natasha isn’t always restful or even wonderful. But he still likes it.