Fic: In love and war (The Avengers)
Title: In love and war
Fandom: The Avengers (2012)
Pairing/rating: Clint/Natasha, M (explicit)
Genre: drama, angst, smut; pre-movie fic
Beta: the wonderful and awesome cybermathwitch who gets all the cookies.
Disclaimer: I don't own them - if I did, they would kiss at least. ;) No money to find here. Just fun.
A/N: I saw the prompt, After Clint decides to bring Natasha into SHIELD, she tries to sleep with him as some kind of debt payment. Most of these fics have him declining - but I want to see one where he does sleep with her. But later, when they've become friends properly, and Clint's started to have real feelings for her, Natasha still feels guilty about it. and instantly fell in love with it. I have so many thoughts about Natasha, the way she feels about Clint, the way she starts feeling things for him, her debt and all things Avengers, and and and ! I did this. Hopefully it's fitting and emotionally satisfying, that's what I was aiming for. Enjoy!
*
They say everything is allowed in love and war. Except love is for children and war is for fools.
*
Natasha isn't sure she likes the list of rules that SHIELD has, but at the same time, their disciplinary procedures usually don't involve killing their operatives. She is still not trusted enough to be sent on a mission on her own. She is being trained, observed, briefed, and everything she does, every intel she gives is being checked and double checked. She knew, of course, that this would happen and she agreed to it, but it doesn't make the process go any faster, and she doesn't feel any easier. She likes to spend her time sparring, but most other agents don't enjoy sparring with her.
Then there's agent Barton. Hawkeye. Clint. That guy who was sent to put an arrow through her, and he could have, but he didn't. Instead he offered her a cigarette and told her that he really didn't want to spill her blood. She looked at him and she knew that he could do it, that his decision wasn't caused by some kind of a weakness but a conscious choice. She thinks about it - the way the rain poured over the street, wide and empty as he waited for her, his cigarette a single spot of light in the long sea of darkness. Clint is like that light, small, just a spot, but it's there and you can't miss it. It's an unnerving thought, too large to fit, and it's pricking her mind. She owes him. The notion is constantly there, even when it's silent.
She feels indebted.
He doesn't share the sentiment. He doesn't believe in debts. He doesn't believe in the past, it seems, even though he has scars just as deep as hers. (She suspects. He didn't tell her directly, but there are things, hints, and she knows how to read people.) He's there, and he keeps his eye on her. She likes him, because when he looks at her he doesn't see Black Widow everyone is still afraid of.
*
He's hurt. Badly. He's unconscious for two days and she sits by his bedside while she's not on duty. She observes him and sometimes it takes hours, like she's attempting to decipher the mystery; and in the meantime he's healing behind closed eyelids. Natasha observes, just as he does, but answers don't come.
His mission went wrong. The rest of the team, three junior agents, didn't make it. They were his: his trainees, his work, his people. Clint puts his effort into people, he challenges them and stands up for them. He is one of those guys whose minds are on their tongues, and their hearts are on their minds, and that's how she knows that to him she is one of them. She doesn't want to contemplate what that means, she understands how that works, rationally, just like she knows how guns and bombs work. She doesn't understand why. One gives a loan to receive something in return, and she doesn't like not knowing what she owes.
On the third day she's passing the infirmary early in the morning and she stops by the glass door. He is awake, and her heart falters slightly. But then she sees his expression, lines on his face, shadows around his eyes that add him years he doesn't posses and a thought at the back of her mind awakens. It has an unpleasant bitter taste of unknown, and it burns down her throat, and then deep inside her.
*
She knows why she's there when he opens the door. Bags of groceries are just an excuse.
“'m not a good company right now,” he says instead of a greeting.
“Which is why you need company,” she says and walks in past him, with more confidence in her step than she actually feels. Clint doesn't make her nervous, it's not that simple. He makes her react, in ways she doesn't expect to, and sometimes in ways she'd rather not allow.
By the time she's done putting groceries and coffee away, Clint is back in his bed. She follows him. She observes him, like a mark on a mission and decides that he probably cannot move much, which she doesn't mind. There is a tactical problem, though; this isn't a mission, and there isn't a scenario for this.
The thing is, she knows how to seduce men, but Clint is not them. Given enough time she could could figure out how to seduce him; but that's not why she's there. She knows where he's soft, she knows the amount of strength and speed needed to bring him to the floor. But he is there already, if not deeper, and she doesn't want that Clint. She wants the man who gives his best, one who doesn't pull his punches because he knows she doesn't want that him to, the guy who doesn't mull over thing's she's been through, or people she pretended to be.
Sex is something universally pleasing, it's something she can give him, but at the same time she feels she needs to be in control. She tries to calculate, but it's difficult when the currency of her debt is unknown, and right now, there isn't much more she can give him. He looks at her and she wonders what he sees. She is too stubborn to be his work, an effect of his effort, even as she accepts his suggestions about books or movies or food.
“Natasha,” he says, uncharacteristically clipped and impatient. Tired. It sounds like he wants her to go.
“You've been hiding in here for five days,” she says, approaching the bed. She observes him - his face, his body, his arms, the sights she's familiar with. He isn't handsome but he is attractive, not very tall, but strong and agile. Powerful. She likes that. She doesn't want him to hide, doesn't want him to drown. “That's not good.”
“I'm not hiding,” he says.
“Right,” she tones down her voice, and it quivers just slightly.
Yes, she can conquer this man, like she can conquer any man, but this is not about that. She's not here to end his life, she wants the opposite for him, for both of them, and it's a new sentiment in her frame of mind. She wants, needs him to react. But she doesn't tell him this.
Natasha knows about debts, and she knows it's important not to carry them around. Clint's eyes are tired when her lips meet his and he doesn't react at first - she looks at him and he looks at her, unblinking - his lips don't even move. He doesn't tell her no though, his expression doesn't close off, and she inches a bit closer, sitting next to him as she kisses him again. His sadness is quiet, and it feels like it's dripping into her. Natasha refuses to be pinned down by its weight, so her lips tug at his and then she moves away. Her fingers slide over the buttons of her blouse, fabric leaving way for skin. He looks at what she has to offer, but doesn't move. She begins to reveal herself, and that's the moment when his eyes flicker with interest. Her hands slow down and her eyes lock with his. She almost expects him to say no, expects him to be the nice guy, but then his hand reaches out for her, and she breathes in relief. Nice guys don't last long. She straddles him and he swallows when her fingers reach the waistband of his sweatpants.
There's no innocence here, they both know what's on the table. She offers her living, breathing body to him, a proof that he's still alive, that there are things to fight for, and he reaches for it. Her hands tug and pull the fabric down, he lifts his hips to help her along. When she slides down his body and takes him into her mouth, his hand reaches for the long strands of red hiding her face like a curtain.
He tastes clean and warm, and she can feel his body react to her lips and her mouth; she feels him jerk and twitch and hears his moan. She looks at his face, the way his mouth parts, the way his eyes darken as lust fills them and she grins. She licks and sucks and moves one hand down, between her legs to touch herself.
“Tash,” he manages, low and husky; and she stops. “Come here,” he says then, and she does, shedding her unbuttoned blouse and dropping it onto the floor. The touch of his hand is steady, his fingers feel powerful against the skin of her back, and he holds her with enough space between them for her to retreat if she wants to. No, she thinks, it's too late for that, even if he's giving her the choice. She doesn't have choices, and she doesn't want him, just like he doesn't want her; because this is about paying a debt. It's about not thinking of three people, dead, cold, and buried in the rain. It's not about his lips on hers, his tongue in her mouth, or his mouth dragging slowly up her throat, his fingers releasing her from her bra. He looks at her breasts, touches them, pulls one nipple into his mouth, and then another, and she closes her eyes, tugs on the fabric of his shirt. Suddenly she wants skin, warm and soft against hers, and he lets her undress him.
She hasn't had sex in months, she didn't want to have sex for longer than she can remember and now she wants to crawl out of her skin and climb into his. There's something about human connection (but not just any human connection), about palms and lips and noises; and she's only half aware that she's storing them all for later - the way his eyes roll back when she bites down on his shoulder, the way he groans when her hand wraps around him and he tells her to stop. Times of winter and cold, they'll come later. This is now, and this is Clint, and he kisses and touches her in the same way he fights. He's here, and she's here and he isn't afraid to take. She moves her fingers across his chest and he shivers, all muscles and strength and darkness in his eyes. It's so, so warm in here and Natasha feels like she's been cold for decades.
Clint is kissing her, and undressing her, and it's okay. Men don't undress her, she doesn't let them, ever, but Clint isn't some other man. He pushes her panties aside and slides his fingers against her, he groans and slips one finger inside. Natasha closes her eyes, breath stuck in her throat; this is how she wants him, purposeful and aiming for a goal. His hands are confident, finding their way around her, and soon she wears nothing but her skin. He is naked and she is naked too, and she looks. There's something about the way eyes connect, something about being lost in someone's pleasure. Clint pushes her flat on the bed and she spreads her legs as he supports himself on his good hand. Things pass between them, thoughts and words between their eyes, unspoken but still real.
Then he's there, his face between her thighs, his mouth on her; and suddenly she needs something under her hands. Her right hand fists the sheet, her left grabs his hair and pulls, but he doesn’t move. He's not gentle, but not rough either, and he just takes; her control, her body, then he moves above her and slides inside. He pushes into her, and pushes his name up through her throat, her hands on his shoulders as they move, sweat and skin and pain. Then she rolls them around, to spare his injured arm, and he runs his palms up and down her sides, touches everywhere he can reach as she rides him.
She lets him touch her, fuck her, because there's rain outside, and air in her lungs; there's life in her veins, and it's because of him. It's because he looked at her and saw something alive, and how can she ever repay that? Still, he holds onto her hips, lips pressed together in concentration, and then he says, “Come on, Tash,” and reaches between her legs to touch her and send her over.
No, she thinks, and grinds herself against him and he gasps. No, this isn't about her. “No, Tasha,” he says and pulls her down, close enough to reach her breasts with his mouth again. He holds her hips steady and almost, almost stops moving. Natasha closes her eyes, tries to close her mind, but it doesn't work, there are flashes and pieces, there's his mouth, his hands, his voice, and the way her body feels, the demand to keep going, grinding, touching him, until there's nothing there - until everything shatters.
After that, the sound of his breathing melts with hers, and she doesn't want to move away from his hands on her sweaty back, even though she should.
*
It's not gone. The taste of debt is still there, the tingle, and even though it feels lesser, it's still there. She makes coffee and he comes out of the bedroom, into the kitchen and waits until she is done pouring the hot brown liquid into two cups. He kisses her cheek and she lets out a slow breath. Then they sit at the kitchen table, both mostly naked, but it feels like skin, and not the lack of something.
*
There's a certain way he smiles, a specific way his face changes when it's for her. She knows what this is, she knows that children can love freely, because they don't have debts. Children don't have sins, they don't have their years - years and years of solitude and unspeakable things.
But then his eyes find her and she is the only person in the world, strong and solid and beautiful. She is that person in his eyes, and it's a lie, but for a moment she lets herself believe.
He is the one making coffee now and his chest is still shiny with sweat. She can see her marks; she can see other marks, years of history on him.
“Here you go,” he gives her a coffee cup and she pulls his shirt down o cover more of her thighs. She is shorter than him when she's flat on her feet. His kiss tastes like coffee and Clint, with her debt lingering in the back of her throat.
He kisses her knowingly, because he does know her.
“I'm sorry,” she says when their lips part.
“For what?” he asks, her cheeks gently held in his palms. She looks at him and remembers, three years ago and a rainy day. She was telling herself she was there to give him something, instead she feels like she'd been taking.
She sets the cup aside and steps even closer, her hands against his chest. Suddenly she feels small inside his arms, almost like a child, and the world around them feels too wide. He is just a man, just a living, breathing body made of flesh and blood and muscle and bones. She knows the ways to make him hurt, she knows what one ought to cut or crush to take his life, and all that he is, all that he is to her would be gone in an instant.
“Are you sorry?” he asks, and she shakes her head, breathes him into her lungs. She wasn't sorry even then, she felt guilty, but not sorry.
“We didn't sleep together for the first time,” she replies. It's not the answer, nothing is the answer.
“No, we didn't,” his eyes are soft, probing, and she knows he knows. “I liked the first time too,” he says and kisses her forehead. “It was good.”
“I didn't do it for you, you know,” she says. Finally. That thing in the back of her throat starts to loosen as he looks at her, plays with her curls and smiles.
“I think I can live with that,” he says and kisses her again.
Fandom: The Avengers (2012)
Pairing/rating: Clint/Natasha, M (explicit)
Genre: drama, angst, smut; pre-movie fic
Beta: the wonderful and awesome cybermathwitch who gets all the cookies.
Disclaimer: I don't own them - if I did, they would kiss at least. ;) No money to find here. Just fun.
A/N: I saw the prompt, After Clint decides to bring Natasha into SHIELD, she tries to sleep with him as some kind of debt payment. Most of these fics have him declining - but I want to see one where he does sleep with her. But later, when they've become friends properly, and Clint's started to have real feelings for her, Natasha still feels guilty about it. and instantly fell in love with it. I have so many thoughts about Natasha, the way she feels about Clint, the way she starts feeling things for him, her debt and all things Avengers, and and and ! I did this. Hopefully it's fitting and emotionally satisfying, that's what I was aiming for. Enjoy!
*
They say everything is allowed in love and war. Except love is for children and war is for fools.
*
Natasha isn't sure she likes the list of rules that SHIELD has, but at the same time, their disciplinary procedures usually don't involve killing their operatives. She is still not trusted enough to be sent on a mission on her own. She is being trained, observed, briefed, and everything she does, every intel she gives is being checked and double checked. She knew, of course, that this would happen and she agreed to it, but it doesn't make the process go any faster, and she doesn't feel any easier. She likes to spend her time sparring, but most other agents don't enjoy sparring with her.
Then there's agent Barton. Hawkeye. Clint. That guy who was sent to put an arrow through her, and he could have, but he didn't. Instead he offered her a cigarette and told her that he really didn't want to spill her blood. She looked at him and she knew that he could do it, that his decision wasn't caused by some kind of a weakness but a conscious choice. She thinks about it - the way the rain poured over the street, wide and empty as he waited for her, his cigarette a single spot of light in the long sea of darkness. Clint is like that light, small, just a spot, but it's there and you can't miss it. It's an unnerving thought, too large to fit, and it's pricking her mind. She owes him. The notion is constantly there, even when it's silent.
She feels indebted.
He doesn't share the sentiment. He doesn't believe in debts. He doesn't believe in the past, it seems, even though he has scars just as deep as hers. (She suspects. He didn't tell her directly, but there are things, hints, and she knows how to read people.) He's there, and he keeps his eye on her. She likes him, because when he looks at her he doesn't see Black Widow everyone is still afraid of.
*
He's hurt. Badly. He's unconscious for two days and she sits by his bedside while she's not on duty. She observes him and sometimes it takes hours, like she's attempting to decipher the mystery; and in the meantime he's healing behind closed eyelids. Natasha observes, just as he does, but answers don't come.
His mission went wrong. The rest of the team, three junior agents, didn't make it. They were his: his trainees, his work, his people. Clint puts his effort into people, he challenges them and stands up for them. He is one of those guys whose minds are on their tongues, and their hearts are on their minds, and that's how she knows that to him she is one of them. She doesn't want to contemplate what that means, she understands how that works, rationally, just like she knows how guns and bombs work. She doesn't understand why. One gives a loan to receive something in return, and she doesn't like not knowing what she owes.
On the third day she's passing the infirmary early in the morning and she stops by the glass door. He is awake, and her heart falters slightly. But then she sees his expression, lines on his face, shadows around his eyes that add him years he doesn't posses and a thought at the back of her mind awakens. It has an unpleasant bitter taste of unknown, and it burns down her throat, and then deep inside her.
*
She knows why she's there when he opens the door. Bags of groceries are just an excuse.
“'m not a good company right now,” he says instead of a greeting.
“Which is why you need company,” she says and walks in past him, with more confidence in her step than she actually feels. Clint doesn't make her nervous, it's not that simple. He makes her react, in ways she doesn't expect to, and sometimes in ways she'd rather not allow.
By the time she's done putting groceries and coffee away, Clint is back in his bed. She follows him. She observes him, like a mark on a mission and decides that he probably cannot move much, which she doesn't mind. There is a tactical problem, though; this isn't a mission, and there isn't a scenario for this.
The thing is, she knows how to seduce men, but Clint is not them. Given enough time she could could figure out how to seduce him; but that's not why she's there. She knows where he's soft, she knows the amount of strength and speed needed to bring him to the floor. But he is there already, if not deeper, and she doesn't want that Clint. She wants the man who gives his best, one who doesn't pull his punches because he knows she doesn't want that him to, the guy who doesn't mull over thing's she's been through, or people she pretended to be.
Sex is something universally pleasing, it's something she can give him, but at the same time she feels she needs to be in control. She tries to calculate, but it's difficult when the currency of her debt is unknown, and right now, there isn't much more she can give him. He looks at her and she wonders what he sees. She is too stubborn to be his work, an effect of his effort, even as she accepts his suggestions about books or movies or food.
“Natasha,” he says, uncharacteristically clipped and impatient. Tired. It sounds like he wants her to go.
“You've been hiding in here for five days,” she says, approaching the bed. She observes him - his face, his body, his arms, the sights she's familiar with. He isn't handsome but he is attractive, not very tall, but strong and agile. Powerful. She likes that. She doesn't want him to hide, doesn't want him to drown. “That's not good.”
“I'm not hiding,” he says.
“Right,” she tones down her voice, and it quivers just slightly.
Yes, she can conquer this man, like she can conquer any man, but this is not about that. She's not here to end his life, she wants the opposite for him, for both of them, and it's a new sentiment in her frame of mind. She wants, needs him to react. But she doesn't tell him this.
Natasha knows about debts, and she knows it's important not to carry them around. Clint's eyes are tired when her lips meet his and he doesn't react at first - she looks at him and he looks at her, unblinking - his lips don't even move. He doesn't tell her no though, his expression doesn't close off, and she inches a bit closer, sitting next to him as she kisses him again. His sadness is quiet, and it feels like it's dripping into her. Natasha refuses to be pinned down by its weight, so her lips tug at his and then she moves away. Her fingers slide over the buttons of her blouse, fabric leaving way for skin. He looks at what she has to offer, but doesn't move. She begins to reveal herself, and that's the moment when his eyes flicker with interest. Her hands slow down and her eyes lock with his. She almost expects him to say no, expects him to be the nice guy, but then his hand reaches out for her, and she breathes in relief. Nice guys don't last long. She straddles him and he swallows when her fingers reach the waistband of his sweatpants.
There's no innocence here, they both know what's on the table. She offers her living, breathing body to him, a proof that he's still alive, that there are things to fight for, and he reaches for it. Her hands tug and pull the fabric down, he lifts his hips to help her along. When she slides down his body and takes him into her mouth, his hand reaches for the long strands of red hiding her face like a curtain.
He tastes clean and warm, and she can feel his body react to her lips and her mouth; she feels him jerk and twitch and hears his moan. She looks at his face, the way his mouth parts, the way his eyes darken as lust fills them and she grins. She licks and sucks and moves one hand down, between her legs to touch herself.
“Tash,” he manages, low and husky; and she stops. “Come here,” he says then, and she does, shedding her unbuttoned blouse and dropping it onto the floor. The touch of his hand is steady, his fingers feel powerful against the skin of her back, and he holds her with enough space between them for her to retreat if she wants to. No, she thinks, it's too late for that, even if he's giving her the choice. She doesn't have choices, and she doesn't want him, just like he doesn't want her; because this is about paying a debt. It's about not thinking of three people, dead, cold, and buried in the rain. It's not about his lips on hers, his tongue in her mouth, or his mouth dragging slowly up her throat, his fingers releasing her from her bra. He looks at her breasts, touches them, pulls one nipple into his mouth, and then another, and she closes her eyes, tugs on the fabric of his shirt. Suddenly she wants skin, warm and soft against hers, and he lets her undress him.
She hasn't had sex in months, she didn't want to have sex for longer than she can remember and now she wants to crawl out of her skin and climb into his. There's something about human connection (but not just any human connection), about palms and lips and noises; and she's only half aware that she's storing them all for later - the way his eyes roll back when she bites down on his shoulder, the way he groans when her hand wraps around him and he tells her to stop. Times of winter and cold, they'll come later. This is now, and this is Clint, and he kisses and touches her in the same way he fights. He's here, and she's here and he isn't afraid to take. She moves her fingers across his chest and he shivers, all muscles and strength and darkness in his eyes. It's so, so warm in here and Natasha feels like she's been cold for decades.
Clint is kissing her, and undressing her, and it's okay. Men don't undress her, she doesn't let them, ever, but Clint isn't some other man. He pushes her panties aside and slides his fingers against her, he groans and slips one finger inside. Natasha closes her eyes, breath stuck in her throat; this is how she wants him, purposeful and aiming for a goal. His hands are confident, finding their way around her, and soon she wears nothing but her skin. He is naked and she is naked too, and she looks. There's something about the way eyes connect, something about being lost in someone's pleasure. Clint pushes her flat on the bed and she spreads her legs as he supports himself on his good hand. Things pass between them, thoughts and words between their eyes, unspoken but still real.
Then he's there, his face between her thighs, his mouth on her; and suddenly she needs something under her hands. Her right hand fists the sheet, her left grabs his hair and pulls, but he doesn’t move. He's not gentle, but not rough either, and he just takes; her control, her body, then he moves above her and slides inside. He pushes into her, and pushes his name up through her throat, her hands on his shoulders as they move, sweat and skin and pain. Then she rolls them around, to spare his injured arm, and he runs his palms up and down her sides, touches everywhere he can reach as she rides him.
She lets him touch her, fuck her, because there's rain outside, and air in her lungs; there's life in her veins, and it's because of him. It's because he looked at her and saw something alive, and how can she ever repay that? Still, he holds onto her hips, lips pressed together in concentration, and then he says, “Come on, Tash,” and reaches between her legs to touch her and send her over.
No, she thinks, and grinds herself against him and he gasps. No, this isn't about her. “No, Tasha,” he says and pulls her down, close enough to reach her breasts with his mouth again. He holds her hips steady and almost, almost stops moving. Natasha closes her eyes, tries to close her mind, but it doesn't work, there are flashes and pieces, there's his mouth, his hands, his voice, and the way her body feels, the demand to keep going, grinding, touching him, until there's nothing there - until everything shatters.
After that, the sound of his breathing melts with hers, and she doesn't want to move away from his hands on her sweaty back, even though she should.
*
It's not gone. The taste of debt is still there, the tingle, and even though it feels lesser, it's still there. She makes coffee and he comes out of the bedroom, into the kitchen and waits until she is done pouring the hot brown liquid into two cups. He kisses her cheek and she lets out a slow breath. Then they sit at the kitchen table, both mostly naked, but it feels like skin, and not the lack of something.
*
There's a certain way he smiles, a specific way his face changes when it's for her. She knows what this is, she knows that children can love freely, because they don't have debts. Children don't have sins, they don't have their years - years and years of solitude and unspeakable things.
But then his eyes find her and she is the only person in the world, strong and solid and beautiful. She is that person in his eyes, and it's a lie, but for a moment she lets herself believe.
He is the one making coffee now and his chest is still shiny with sweat. She can see her marks; she can see other marks, years of history on him.
“Here you go,” he gives her a coffee cup and she pulls his shirt down o cover more of her thighs. She is shorter than him when she's flat on her feet. His kiss tastes like coffee and Clint, with her debt lingering in the back of her throat.
He kisses her knowingly, because he does know her.
“I'm sorry,” she says when their lips part.
“For what?” he asks, her cheeks gently held in his palms. She looks at him and remembers, three years ago and a rainy day. She was telling herself she was there to give him something, instead she feels like she'd been taking.
She sets the cup aside and steps even closer, her hands against his chest. Suddenly she feels small inside his arms, almost like a child, and the world around them feels too wide. He is just a man, just a living, breathing body made of flesh and blood and muscle and bones. She knows the ways to make him hurt, she knows what one ought to cut or crush to take his life, and all that he is, all that he is to her would be gone in an instant.
“Are you sorry?” he asks, and she shakes her head, breathes him into her lungs. She wasn't sorry even then, she felt guilty, but not sorry.
“We didn't sleep together for the first time,” she replies. It's not the answer, nothing is the answer.
“No, we didn't,” his eyes are soft, probing, and she knows he knows. “I liked the first time too,” he says and kisses her forehead. “It was good.”
“I didn't do it for you, you know,” she says. Finally. That thing in the back of her throat starts to loosen as he looks at her, plays with her curls and smiles.
“I think I can live with that,” he says and kisses her again.