Fic: I've had my run (baby, I'm done)
Title: I've had my run (baby I'm done)
Fandom: The Avengers (2012)
Pairing: Clint/Natasha
Rating, mild M (for language, nudity, sexual references)
Characters: Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Darcy Lewis, Phil Coulson, Tony Stark, Bruce Banner, Steve Rogers, Thor Odinson, Loki (Odinson as well in this fic), Pepper Potts.
Genre: actors!AU/crack/romance/fluff-ish with tiny bit of angst.
Warnings: mentions of physical injuries
Summary: when world is a stage, one eventually gets tired of the stage lights. Clint and Natasha did.
Author's notes: written as a continuation of It's not the years honey (it's the mileage). It's set directly after first fic, so I recommend reading the first one (it's not long) to get familiar with this universe. Everything started with the prompt left by inkvoices, who requested Clint and Natasha as actors. Also, since aforementioned lady recently had a birthday, this is a sliiightly belated birthday present - happy birthday darling, and I hope you'll enjoy this!
A huge thank you to ashen_key who discussed this with me back and forth and helped me with her suggestions. Also, a big thank you to my super helpful, awesome beta shenshen77 who kept her eye on this thing every step of the way. *huge hugs*
Slightly inspired by Michael Buble's "Home". I tried to capture the sentiment of the song, also, that's where the title comes from. :)
*
May be surrounded by
A million people I
Still feel all alone
I just wanna go home
Oh, I miss you, you know
*
Clint groaned as he got out of the car. Slowly. Very, very slowly. In fact, Coulson had to help him get out.
“Shit,” he muttered.
“A thank you would be nice, Barton,” Coulson smirked. “There you go. Home sweet home,” he added.
Clint felt like he was finally starting to wake up after spending four days in the hospital, his mind dulled with painkillers. “Sweet indeed,” he said as he carefully tested his ability to move. Stretching was out of the question and slow and careful rotations to left and right were risky at best. However the sight in front of him was good. No, it was Very Good.
His little farmhouse in the middle-of-nowhere Iowa, his yard, his field of corn (which he leased to neighbors), his incredibly competent - albeit annoying - assistant -
And his girlfriend.
He grinned. He'd still need to get used to this, because.
His girlfriend.
He could call her that now, even if it was just for her and him. He was pretty sure his grin turned ridiculous, but he didn't care - until he made a wrong move and winced.
Natasha didn't grin back, she frowned and looked mostly concerned when he started walking toward the house. However, he could translate that frown of hers, she didn't like seeing people she cared about hurt. He was pretty certain he was near the top of that list, and the thought had his chest tightening in a good way.
“Hello gorgeous,” he said when he reached her and she hugged him very carefully around the neck. Clint felt like he could collapse, and even though he’d slept on the plane and in the car, he was tired. Everything still hurt. However she was here, soft and smiling against his shoulder.
“Hey, you,” her voice was more affectionate than her expression and he was pretty certain she wanted to get inside. He wanted to get inside and make himself comfortable, as soon as possible. Coulson got his bags out of the trunk and closed it with a resolute sound. Then he looked at Darcy.
“You ready?” Coulson asked.
“Oh yes,” she said. She was in and out of the house with her bag before Clint could ask what was going on.
“Sent the material to the press,” she begun to recite. “It should shut them up for a while, in the meantime you keep a low profile and take your vitamins,” Darcy was saying to Clint like she was his boss. “Don't forget to have fun and I'll see you in two weeks!”
Clint tried to turn around sharply. That didn't work out very well.
“When did I give you two weeks off?” he was arguing, fully aware that he'd be losing the argument. He had to put up token resistance at least, besides he caught up on their plan just fine. (He had absolutely no problem staying alone with Natasha. Natasha, who spent two days in the hospital with him, and he’d felt pampered and just wanted to get out of there and get her alone. So thank you Darcy, you bossy little thing, he thought and planned to give her a raise.)
“Who says I'll have any time off? This is strictly for your benefit. Do you know how many quasi reporters are after you? Do you know what kind of stunt I had to pull to make them believe you'll be going to France to recover?” she said and got into the car. “Get some rest while you can and we'll try to postpone the rest of the shoot as much as we can,” she added. Yes, the shoot and the additional scenes. He would think about that later.
“Um -” Clint said.
“Um, nothing. You're in good hands,” Darcy said through the car window before Coulson started the engine. She waved at him and Nat and then they were merrily gone.
“You're such an authority figure,” Natasha said when they were out of sight.
“I know, sweetheart,” he sighed heavily and looked at her. “I know.”
She grinned back at him. “Alone at last,” she said significantly.
“Except for Mrs. Johnson,” he winked at her, “but she won't bother us too much.”
“Ah, your lovely neighbor,” Natasha grinned. “The one with amazing cooking skills.”
“Yes, that one.”
“She was here yesterday and asked about you,” Nat was carefully winding her hands around his waist, her front against his. She was gorgeous, in her blue jeans, black shirt and yellow jacket, and Clint felt like an old man with his bruises and almost-broken ribs and everything that hurt him. He would have liked to pick her up and take her straight to bed, but the only bed activity he felt fit for was sleeping. “She also brought pie.”
“Did she?” he asked.
Nat smiled and nodded. “We'll go over and say hi later,” she said affectionately and he was drowning in the sight. She was affectionate, yes, but in a different way. This was all new, and at the same it wasn't. “Let's get you settled first,” she said and lead the way. Clint followed, feeling rarely content.
She carried his bags and helped him upstairs and to the master bedroom. The weather was chilly, but inside the house was nicely warm, and he wanted nothing more but to get truly comfortable and sleep. Thankfully, Coulson had brought him a button down shirt to wear home from the hospital (getting his hands into sleeves was painful, he could only imagine what getting a t shirt on would feel like); and thus Clint started to unbutton it, bottom towards top. Every following button was more of a challenge. Before he passed the middle of his chest Nat was there.
“Let me,” she said tenderly. Her face was close to his and he leaned forward. It was simple and it was okay. So okay.
“Can't wait to get me out of my clothes, doll?” he teased, mostly for his pride's sake. And because he was nervous and his heartbeat was picking up. That was probably okay, because he could see her fingers trembling just slightly and he wanted nothing more than to melt into her.
“Obviously, hotsauce,” she said, undoing the rest of his buttons. It wasn't like she hadn't seen him shirtless before (in fact she'd seen most of him); but he was badly bruised now. “Oh, Clint,” she said when she carefully opened his shirt.
“I'll live,” he assured her and smirked and she did too, but her eyes were a bit watery. She still looked shaken up, just as she did when she first arrived at the hospital. The interview, the way she found out, it did something to her. Clint swallowed tightly and she slid the shirt off his shoulders and her hands lingered gently on his bare arms.
“Let's,” she took a breath, trying not to stare at the bruises on his chest. “Let's get you out of the rest of this,” and there she was unbuttoning and unzipping his pants. He had to hold his breath - just how many times had he tried not to think of this? But he was reacting and she noticed and grinned up at him as she helped him out of his pants, shoes and socks. “Hi, there,” she said teasingly and pressed a warm kiss to his right knee. If there was heaven, it had to feel exactly like this.
“I'm just happy to see you,” he gulped slightly when she held the back of his left knee with one and stroked up his thigh with her other hand. His dick was happy, yes, but he was well aware sex would have to wait until he was further healed.
That would be a damn long wait, he thought.
“Bed?” she asked, rising from her position.
“Sounds awesome,” he lowered himself carefully onto his bed and winced when the bruises on his right side came to life. “How about you?”
She was standing in front of him, smiling fondly when she lowered her eyes a bit.
“Actually I was hoping you wouldn't mind some company,” she said. He looked a bit stunned when she smoothly took off her shirt and dropped it to the floor. How could he ever say no to this?
“Certainly not,” he said, eyes fixed on her hands. She opened and lowered her jeans, toed off her ballerinas and crawled in next to him, wearing her underwear and lots of skin. Skin which he could freely touch.
“Aren't you handsy,” she teased as she covered them with a blanket and then curled against his left side.
“You're welcome to retaliate,” he said.
“I just might,” she wound her hand around him, gently, and he did his best to hold her close until they both fell asleep.
*
Three hours and one long shower later, Natasha was done with preparing dinner. Bolognese pasta sauce could be warmed, and she could cook pasta whenever Clint woke up. Currently she was sitting in his kitchen, reading her new book on economy during World War II (Clint got her this one. He indulged her quirks, smiling fondly at them, and often found historical books and kitchen utensils for her.)
Natasha closed the book and propped her chin on it, thinking of him sleeping upstairs. There was nobody to intrude, nobody to pretend for.
She felt ordinary here, like reclaiming her own skin. Nobody owned her here. (Clint was there at the very beginning of that journey, when she cut her ties to Shostakov; Clint was a friend then. He was the one who offered to watch old movies again and just laugh at the same bits he always did, when everyone else wanted to know details of her breakups, every way her former manager mistreated her and made decisions for her. Clint discussed ice cream flavors at those times and left her the keys to his house and offered her all the time she wanted to spend there all alone.)
Clint's house wasn't big, just enough for two people and their family to feel comfortable in. Fancy hotels were great, Natasha thought, but this was better. People here looked at her and called her by name, and to some she might have looked like that girl from those movies, but most of them had greater worries. Nobody cared if she broke off with someone, especially if corn crops weren't growing well. (She’d inquired about said crops with Mrs. Johnson earlier, apparently this was a good year for corn. Natasha was happy about that.)
She looked up from the book she was holding, there seemed to be noise upstairs.
“Clint?” she called, and heard him walking around overhead, before his footsteps sounded on the stairs.
“Hey,” he showed up in the doorway, with messed up hair and a sleepy expression on his face.
“Hey,” she smiled and bit her lip. “Had a good nap?”
He smiled in return. “Pretty good,” he said.
“Hungry?” she asked. “I cooked,” she added and he grinned.
“Yeah, but -”
“What?”
“Well, I kind of wanted -” he paused. “I wanted to take a shower but -”
“What's wrong?”
“I can't bend very well,” he said, just slightly blushing. “Um, at all. And I wondered if you could.... help me a bit?”
Natasha held her breath. There was something about the way he asked, something that made her feel fiercely protective.
And then all she wanted was to take him upstairs and go under that shower with him. She didn't have to resist those wishes any more.
“Care for some company?” she asked.
His mouth dropped a little. She felt nervous, just as he looked. “Ah, that would be -” he swallowed. She smiled and came closer, until she was right there next to him.
“Care for a back scrub?” she asked, her hands winding around his neck and playing with the hair at the back of his head. “A very gentle back scrub?”
“That would be wonderful,” he said, giving in and rubbing his nose against hers. Then he was kissing her with single minded enthusiasm, and she wondered how long they had both been stuck wanting each other.
“Save some of that for later,” she realized that she sounded breathless. “We have to survive that shower first.”
“Not sure if that's possible, doll,” he said as she started to drag him upstairs and into the bathroom.
“We'll do our best,” she led him into the bathroom and gave him a peck on the nose. “You already saw me naked after all,” she reminded. (He had. Because their profession was weird like that.)
“Yes, but,” he paused. She was looking at him, looking at her. “That was different,” he insisted and swallowed when she took off her tunic and then bared her breasts. “This is - oh God,” his eyes got stuck at the sight of her and she bit her lip, seeing his blatant appreciation.
“I know,” she said and stepped closer. All these years, she thought. He lifted his left hand to touch her and winced.
“God, this is no fun,” he hissed, but he caressed her and she closed her eyes.
“I'm so sorry you're in pain,” she whispered, her face close to his. How was it possible to feel like this? Heart racing and beating so loudly, after ten years? “I can kiss it better again, if you want me to.”
He gave her a wide, silly smile and she just wanted to drown in it.
“Hey you,” he said. “Look at us.”
“This is us,” she breathed, her fingers light on his chest. “Me and you. Not -”
“Yeah,” his face was against hers again as she unbuttoned her jeans and pushed them down. “Whoa.”
He lowered his hand, so he could hold her hips and pull her close. She grinned and looked at him then pushed his boxers down.
Natasha closed her eyes at the feel of his skin against hers, and his warm palms low on her back. Bruised as he was, he was still gorgeous, and at this moment, he was hers.
“I know. I know,” she said, smiling. Oh God. “Shower,” she added with more determination, and he kept his smile playful and light. “Before this gets out of hand.”
He chuckled and kissed her before he carefully entered the shower. Then he leaned against the tiles and she started the water.
“Let's get you cleaned now,” she said and kissed the middle of his chest.
*
It was late and he was tired, and he suspected that she was too.
“Should we finish this tomorrow?” he asked, propped up on pillows in his bed. Natasha was curled into his unharmed side. She stifled a yawn but didn't move, and that was so like her - stubborn and focused, and determined to see something through 'till the end. “We watched this film already,” he argued, lightly kissing her hair.
“Mhmmm,” she said and stretched like a cat. Then she looked at him with half lidded eyes. “Can I stay here?”
Clint stopped the film and closed his laptop. He liked watching films with her like this. It started ten years ago, on the set, in his trailer, with no room for an actual TV screen. He wasn't a big star and whoever ran the place back then didn't think he needed anything more than strictly basic accommodations. It seemed that she needed to get away from the space that was only formally hers. Too many bad feelings, he guessed, but he didn't ask. Instead she challenged his ability to find yet another cheesy action movie and he tested her skill at performing flawless poker faces. She was twenty-two back then, only twenty-two, but she sometimes seemed older and more tired than he felt. Clint didn't try to figure her out back then. She was a filming buddy; he treated her like one.
“What kind of question is that?” he might have been hurt and in pain, but he would suffer a bit to see that smile on her face when he tickled her. He’d spent years smiling for her and helped her smile along.
“Careful,” she said, even if he did his best not to show that he was in pain. “Lay back,” she instructed and so he did. She placed the laptop on the nightstand and curled into him again, covering them both. “How are you feeling?” she asked.
He moved his arm carefully, finding a way to hold her and not be in pain. Her fingers were trailing across his chest and he sighed and relaxed. He closed his eyes and smiled, thinking back to the shower and what her hands did to him. How it felt; how this seemed so familiar even htough they never slept together like this.
“Awesome. Except the pain,” he said, looking contentedly at her. It was still a bit incredible, and at the same time he felt like she'd been with him for ages. In a way, she was. “But it's still awesome.”
She tucked herself against his side and her head under his chin.
“Clint?”
“Yeah, baby?” he asked gently. She was quiet; the thoughtful and sad kind of quiet he'd often seen on her.
“I meant it,” she said, and her voice melted with the darkness around them. “That time when we talked, remember? That I've got nothing to hide.”
“What do you mean, sweetheart?” he loved saying it, all the endearments she would allow him. She snuggled closer and he held her a bit tighter.
“Just before the Odinson show, remember? I told you I've got nothing to hide from him,” she said, like she was defending herself, and he could feel a shift in her breathing and change in her tone. How she turned serious, and how her hand stilled above his heart. “I don't want to hide you,” she propped her face on his arm. “I'm.... so tired of it, Clint.”
He couldn't see her. She sounded defeated and sad, and he didn't want her to be sad. He pulled her close and stroked her arm. A weary feeling settled over him, worn and old. He hated the constant struggle, the publicity, the fight to keep some of his life to himself, but she had it worse, ever since she started working in this world.
“I may be done with all of it,” she said, face pressed against him. “The secret keeping, wondering how bad and damaging the gossip might be -”
“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay.”
“I want to... hold your hand in the street and not give a damn,” she said. He smiled and moved so he could pull her to be face to face with him, and kiss her softly.
“Tasha,” he started.
“No, Clint,” she pressed two fingers to his lips, cutting him off. “I know what you're going to say. That we won't have a moment of peace and everyone will be after us. I know. And, if you don't want it, then okay, I won't make you -” she kissed him slowly. “But I don't want to do it for my own sake. I'm just so tired of it all.”
“Sweetheart,” he stroked her hair and ignored the pain flaring up along his right side. “I'd never refuse to hold your hand. Anywhere, and ever.”
She sighed.
“I don't want to care any more,” she said.
“I know what you mean. And … while you can’t stop caring completely, you can care a whole lot less,” he said. She exhaled and he could sense a smile in that sound.
“Are we going to do this?” she asked then. Clint's heart was beating solidly and quickly and he knew she could feel it. Still she remained with him just like she was.
“Do you want it, Tash?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said quietly and then repeated it with more determination. “We only live once,” she said after that and pressed a kiss against his chest. “I want to. Anyone who wants can quote me on that. I don't care who takes pictures of me kissing you.”
“Good,” he said and kissed the top of her head when she moved closer. “I'm with you on it, doll.”
Her hand formed a fist on his chest. “I still want to punch that bastard for telling me you were hurt like that.”
Clint chuckled and held her. There would always be people like Lloyd (Loki, as he liked to call himself) Odinson, and the words were halfway through his mouth when he thought of something.
“Hey, Tash?” he said lightly. “How about we do punch him in the face?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, and he could feel the smile in her voice.
Clint grinned as an idea formed in his head. “We could give him a taste of his own medicine. Listen -”
*
“Finally,” Clint could hear Tony complaining just as he exited the car. “He could have simply said, hey just head over to the middle of nowhere”.
“He did say it, Stark,” Bruce Banner replied mildly.
“Signs would have been nice,” Tony muttered.
“Spoiled little brat,” Steve teased.
“I'll just pretend I didn't hear that,” Tony said, turning to Clint. “Seriously?” he asked when he looked around the yard.
“What did you expect, Stark?” he asked.
“I didn't know you and Romanoff do vacation like commonfolk.”
“We like feeling like ordinary people from time to time,” Clint smirked.
“We,” Tony pointed out.
“Mm-hmmm,” Clint crossed his arms. A week of time did wonders (time, yes, and spending it doing nothing while Nat took care of him) and things hurt less, but they still hurt.
“It's very picket-fences, Barton. Didn't know you were the type,” Tony said, arching his eyebrow, and Clint didn't really like how Tony did all of it; how he stripped the paint off the walls, leaving them bare and looking so unimpressive and plain. “Tell me, is Romanoff making lunch?”
Clint wasn't an insecure man, just a realistic one, who knew this was s short leeway. He also knew what lay beyond. His bones ached and it reminded him that he wasn't very young anymore. He knew how the world around him worked. There would be no time to play house and make lunches for friends. Sometimes there wasn't time to even sleep, let alone talk to people he cared for.
“She is, in fact,” Clint said. So yes, she was making lunch for all of them and she did it because she enjoyed it. She had a right to that, as anyone should have. It didn't matter if it was picket-fences; if she wanted it, he was fine with it.
“Nice place, Barton,” Steve said then, walking around the yard.
“Yeah,” Bruce agreed and side-eyed Tony. “Thanks for letting us come here.”
“Don't mention it,” he said. “As it is, you won't get five star accommodations,” he looked at Tony. “You'll be okay with that, Stark?”
“I'll live,” Tony said, looking a bit sheepish. Not that he would openly admit that he’d stepped over a line.
“Come on, show us around,” Steve grinned easily and clapped Clint on the back, then apologized when he saw how Clint winced. The tension dissipated when they started to needle each other, and by the time they sat down to have lunch they were exchanging easy jokes.
Later in the evening Bruce and Steve were talking to Natasha, Clint was standing alone on the porch and Tony was on the phone, or that was what Clint thought. The man in question ventured outside at one point. He looked at Clint and Clint looked back, and that was it for awhile. There was a sound of laughter coming from inside the house, Natasha's voice carrying over Bruce's and Steve's.
“Tell me, Barton,” Tony suddenly began talking, “would you really do it if you could? Be nobody in a place like this?”
Clint rolled his shoulder and glanced at Tony. He seemed tense, well, more tense than he usually was.
“I grew up in a place like this, actually,” Clint said. “It wasn't bad.”
“So, it's a yes?”
“It's a very solid maybe,” Clint stuffed his hands in his pockets. “A very solid one.”
“Why not a 'yes'?” Tony asked. Clint looked at him.
“Why are you interested, Stark? Didn't you figure it out just fine?” Clint's mouth quirked up, but not to smile.
“Maybe,” Stark mimicked Clint's stance and shoved his hands into the pockets of his fine pants. “This place is... quiet. That's probably not bad,” he ventured.
“No, not at all,” Clint agreed. Quiet was good and in his (and Natasha's) world, it was fucking sacred.
“But can you be a nobody, Barton?” Tony pressed. Clint looked at him this time, really looked at him.
Clint shrugged and sighed. He was well aware that they weren't discussing philosophy, and while he had little tolerance for some of the things Tony did, he always thought Tony's skin probably wasn't a comfortable one to wear. Growing up with a famous, media exposed father could do a number on any kid. “Everyone is somebody, Stark,” Clint said and when Tony gave him an incredulous look, Clint raised his eyebrows.
“You're an interesting person, Barton,” it was just mildly sarcastic and quite bitter. The latter, Clint suspected, wasn't directed at him.
“I've been called worse,” Clint chuckled. “I think we'd all like to go back to things we remember as, you know. Good.”
Tony huffed. His expression was distant and hard to read, but there was pain around the edges. How was it that everyone was trying to run away from themselves, no matter who they were?
“I think you can,” Tony said suddenly. “You know, be a nobody. And be content about it,” he shrugged. It felt like another part of that line was missing. “Ask friends over for dinners,” Tony shrugged, but Clint sensed Tony wanted to be that friend who was invited to dinner.
“I like attention just as much as the next guy,” Clint countered lightly. If he would have been afraid of that, he would have become a carpenter or a mechanic. There were other things he was good at, and he still loved working with his hands.
“Oh, no you don't,” Tony's chuckle was filled with self irony. “You're a guy who can do picket fences and three unbearable, red-headed little brats. You'd love that and be perfectly happy without flashing lights and all that shit...”
“We're all different,” Clint said calmly. “That's just how life is. I don't think I'm... better for what I'm like.”
Tony snorted. He was a smart enough man to pick up on what Clint was trying to say.
“No, I guess I'm just not good at being nobody,” he observed with self irony.
“You?” Clint smirked. “God forbid, Stark. You're born to be a diva,” Clint gave him a look that could have been described as fond, and Tony seemed to get the message. “And that's perfectly fine.”
Tony laughed at that. A short but honest laugh and Clint laughed too. The silence settled back between them, only less strained now. Tony sighed.
“Do you think she can do it?”
Clint didn't need him to elaborate any further. He knew what waited for him and Natasha the moment they went public, but he was tired of pretending that he cared less than he did. He was so goddamn tired of separate shootings at different places of the globe, being in different time zones and looking for excuses to call her.
Or not calling her at all, so he imagined the sound of her voice instead.
He was pretty sure she was tired of it too.
“I think life is too short to bother with what people think,” Clint answered.
“That sounds a bit dramatic, coming from you,” Tony said bemusedly.
“That interview was dramatic as well,” Clint replied. “It's a thing one could do without.”
“I'd agree on that,” Tony smirked. “Rumor has it you're planning retaliation?”
Clint grinned. He sounded just the right kind of interested.
*
“You know, after all these years I was hoping you'd learn how to get a bigger bag, Tasha,” Clint teased from the doorway.
She faked a frown, but it was still an impressive frown.
“I didn't hear you complain about everything I packed in here,” she said. “Like that red thing -”
He raised an eyebrow at her.
“Not sure what you mean, doll,” he pretended not to recall. Natasha remembered quite well how he looked at her when she appeared wearing a red lace top that barely reached her thighs.
That, and nothing more.
It had been an interesting night, to say the least.
“Hm, maybe you prefer this color, then?” she straightened and started to unbutton her blouse. Slowly. She revealed a transparent bra, something she discovered Clint had a huge thing for. She let her blouse hang open and watched how his breathing changed when he caught the sight of her barely hidden breasts.
“Nice,” he said.
“Glad you approve,” she turned to resume her packing, and that was when he came to her and pulled her by her hands.
“I really hate that bag, doll,” he said, pulling her close to him. “And the fact you have to go,” his voice dropped low and his thumb caressed her lower lip.
Oh God, she hated to leave him as well.
“Missing me already, hotsauce?” she said lightly, and wrapped her hands around him, testing carefully how much pressure his ribs could take. He was feeling better, yes, and she wished she could have stayed longer. However, they’d bought him a week more to recover, during which she was going to re-shoot some of her scenes. And miss him. Oh God, how she would miss him.
“Maybe just a bit,” he said, caressing her sides. “How about you get that job of yours done as quickly as possible and then we meet up?”
“Mmmmm,” she hummed, closing her eyes against the feel of his hands on her. She could have his hands touch her all the time. “What are you offering in exchange?”
He nuzzled her face and brushed her lips with his.
“Hmmm, let's see. Sex?” he shrugged, keeping his face deliberately neutral. “I was told I'm pretty good at that.”
“Well, considering your current predicament, it's something I still have to try out with you,” she bit her lip and pressed herself against him.
“Oh, trust me. You'll want to try it out more than once,” he said and gave her a long, long kiss.
“Okay, cowboy,” she grinned after he released her lower lip from between his teeth. “You've got me intrigued. Get better soon,” she said.
*
“Or, you can just serve him to me, and I'll deal with him,” Darcy was saying as she paced around the dressing room while Clint was getting ready for the interview. The entire cast of “Avenging Angels” facing Odinson, his brother included, and they had a Plan. “Sure you wanna wear that?” Darcy asked.
“I like this shirt, Darcy” he said. It was an ordinary shirt. There was a poetic message in that.
“Yeah, you're all about showing what you feel and being honest and all that jazz,” Darcy sighed. “It's gonna be messy for some time, you know that?”
He nodded and smiled at her expression in the mirror.
“Sweetheart -”
“Yes, yes, I know,” she rolled her eyes fondly. “You're an old shark in this pond.”
“Thanks for the old,” Clint teased. “But honestly, Darcy, I know how it works.”
“Glad you do. Was just checking,” she said, eying her phone. It felt like an extension of her persona by now. Sometimes Clint felt sorry about everything she had to do on this crazy ride, but then, he also knew she wouldn't appreciate that kind of attitude from him. She could manage his schedule, the press, the paparazzi, heck, sometimes he thought she could do anything.
Clint folded his arms - he could do that now, after three weeks of soreness and careful movements - and raised an eyebrow at her.
“Okay, say it,” he said. Because there was something on her mind (something except her plan to start some kind of public Twitter account and place info about him before the tabloids could).
“What?” she asked.
“Whatever is on your mind ever since - whenever,” he replied, gesturing vaguely in her direction. “I know that look.”
“Okay, fine,” she sighed, pointing at him with her phone. “Do you know why people dig you? No, not you, but the two of you. You and Natasha,” she made a dramatic pause. Perhaps she would do quite fine as an actress, he thought absently. “Do you get it? Because if you think of it, this might go just a bit more smoothly -”
He smiled a tired little smile.
“I'm sure you'll tell me,” he said.
Darcy folded her arms in the same manner he did.
“It's the second chances sort of thing, Barton. Or third, even. It's.... seeing two people who were friends and committed to each other through years in the best possible way,” she said, suddenly turning uncharacteristically serious. “Surely, there will be ugly gossip because that's fucking human nature. But... what people want to know about? Is ten years of you and her being at each others side no-matter-fucking-what. It's the two of you making something out of nothing, after getting rid of that creep Shostakov? Being practically owned by your manager, since you were twelve, after your parents got killed in a car accident? And the things you've been through? And still, you both made it, and that's what people find inspiring. That's the stuff people want to believe in... nowdays more than ever before I think,” she said and sighed. “There you go, in a cynical world, love and friendship and …. healthy respect develop into something meaningful. Sticking with that someone no matter what, you know? People like to read about divorces, but they love to believe in true love.”
“Darcy,” he said, torn between laughing and his mouth dropping open.
“Don't Darcy me, Barton,” she answered. “I watched from the front seats. Yes, don't give me that look. Whenever she had a problem you found a way to be there and help out. That's fucking romantic. If you ask me, that's what you should tell to people. That, because that's the stuff that makes people dream.”
“I should make people dream?” he asked, amused. She shook her head like he didn't get anything.
“Barton,” she sighed like an exasperated teacher. “Think of this. You can do something awesome like that. You don't have to confess your every thought, you know. But the bottom line is, you can do something awesome. So why not do it?”
*
He really didn't get anything, Darcy thought as she settled in her seat. Front row, right next to Pepper Potts. She switched on her phone, smiling obnoxiously to herself. They were told to turn them off, yes, but she was steadily holding a grudge against the show's host. She wasn't below doing some things out of pure spite, no matter how small.
It was a few minutes before the show's start. Darcy found the picture of Clint in front of the dressing room mirror; he looked boyish and handsome in that damn shirt he bought God-knows-where. She tweeted the picture along with the text saying “Bossman getting ready to face The Shark” and grinned. Pepper gave her an amused look, probably wondering what Darcy was up to.
“Bringing the art of PR to another level,” she said and showed the twitter account to Pepper.
“What are you planning?”
“Oh, just to add to the awesomeness that will undoubtedly arise after this,” Darcy said. “If we, say, let some sort of information out there, we'll beat tabloids and paparazzi and decide where all of this is headed.”
Pepper smirked. “I like your thinking.”
“I had the best teacher,” Darcy said smugly. “Besides, Twitter is free and it can only help them be more popular, if things are handled well.”
“Very true,” Pepper agreed.
And that was when the show started. The douchebag Odinson really liked the color green on him, didn't he? That suit he wore had a green-ish hue, and seriously, what was it with the hair? Darcy guessed he would look better with his hair cut than sleeked back, like he usually wore it these days. It made him look even more sleezy than he ought to - okay, she had to admit, he was the sleeziest TV person she could think of. Like, among everyone. There was nothing that would make him look less sleezy. It was impossible.
However, he was entertaining and he always drew an audience. The people in the studio clapped enthusiastically, and cheered after he announced his guests for the evening. It all happened very quickly. Darcy was biting her thumb as Odinson announced Steve, Tony and Bruce. They occupied the first three-person couch. Then came Clint, looking cool and confident as ever. The cheer of the audience seemed just a bit louder, as if they anticipated the fireworks to come.
Oh, and then Natasha Romanoff. In that incredibly flattering burgundy dress. Darcy sighed, her boss just couldn't be any more obvious. Well, after spending two weeks with her and a week without her, honestly, who could blame him? Natasha sat next to him, close; close enough for their legs to touch and neither even tired to move away. Smooth, Darcy thought, but at the same time it was sweet. She'd seen a ton of people in this business, she'd seen how some tried to cover up that they simply couldn't stand someone else. Seeing this? It was fucking amazing.
Finally, the other Odinson showed up and took a seat next to Natasha, but not nearly as close as she sat next to Clint. They were so blindingly obvious (like this entire time, actually). Darcy leaned back, it was time to enjoy.
The show started out lightly. Typical, she thought, so typical. Banter and laughs and just a bit of snark here and there, until unsuspecting victims got lulled into a false safety. There was talk about the usual movie stuff, and the six of them were funny, sometimes taking over the entire talk and tossing questions and inside jokes back and forth and retelling funny things from the shoot. Darcy couldn't be sure, but Odinson seemed a bit twitchy, because other people were leading his interview. But there was another thing. Barton and Natasha were two mean, sneaky people. Odinson sure didn't miss how she leaned against him, just a bit, every now and then. When something funny was said, he'd look at her. She put her hand onto his knee and patted him very affectionately, after which he took her hand - and all the time they were listening to someone else talk. At one point she turned to him and brushed invisible dust from his hair, after he told a story how he ended up covered in dirt during the shoot. They were freakin' adorable, and you could light a match on the heat they were producing.
Of course Odinson took the bait.
“So, Mister Barton and Miss Romanoff,” he started sweetly. “As I understand, you've been friends for quite awhile?”
They shared a look.
“Friends?” he asked.
“Hmmm, I'd say so,” she said.
“Ya think, babe? I think it's more epic than just friends -”
“You think so, handsome?”
“I definitely think so.”
“Um, but friends, that's the basis. For everything,” Natasha patted Clint's knee and turned to their host who looked rather carefully at what they were doing. “We're friends, first and foremost,” she said and he nodded.
“I'd say you two care quite a lot about each other,” Odinson ventured, still smiling sweetly.
“Oh, definitely,” she said and Clint nodded in agreement.
“Definitely,” he was still holding her hand, he even lifted it and squeezed. Darcy could practically hear little wheels spinning in Odinson's head.
“That is interesting,” Odinson said. “One could easily get an impression, seeing the two of you, that you love each other.”
“Oh, but I do love her,” Clint didn't bat an eye. “I do,” he said seriously. “Deeply.”
“And I love him,” she added. She glanced at him and smiled. Darcy felt like clapping her hands and jumping in her chair.
“You.. do?”
“Of course,” Clint said. “You don't think friends should love each other?”
There was no reply. Steve was grinning rather smugly. Tony's expression was downright evil, and Bruce and Thor? (Darcy had no clue why he liked that nickname, but he did. However, his nickname for his brother was suiting. Wasn't Loki kind of a douchebag in Norse mythology?) Anyway, Bruce and Thor were having a ball.
“Of course,” Natasha said. “When you told me he was injured... well, I suppose you could see yourself how concerned I was.”
“She came to visit me straight after the show, in fact,” Clint said. They were both nodding and he was still holding her hand. An applause followed, and Darcy heard oh that is so sweet somewhere behind her back.
“Yes,” she affirmed.
“Wait a second,” Odinson said, and ha! There was a crack in his armor, but he tried to remain calm and smug. “Are you two together?”
They shared a look. There was an oooooh coming from the audience.
“Are we?” she pressed her lips together, giving Clint an inquiring look. Everyone was absofreakinlutely quiet.
“I think we are,” he scratched his head. “You know, sort of -”
“Mhmmm,” she nodded. “I mean, the vacation last year when you -”
“Yeah, and you asked me to that party-thing - ,” he continued. “Yeah, we spend a lot of time together,” Clint nodded. “Heck, I spend more time with you than with my family.”
They just kept on trolling the interview, raising more questions than giving answers. If Darcy was right, the show host was ready to explode.
“So, Natasha,” Odinson cut their bantering. “Is he a good kisser?”
She frowned a bit, comically, almost like she didn't expect it. Except she did.
“Oh, he is. But he improved, you know,” she freed her hand and was patting his knee again. “After five movies, you know -”
“Just movies?” Odinson asked.
“Oh, no, really. I kissed him many times. I didn't count, though,” she said. There was applause, there were ooooohs and aaaahs and laughter. “Honestly, I don't remember,” she added like it was no big deal.
“You don't remember?” Clint asked. More laughter. “How can you not remember?”
“You do?” she asked, sounding honestly surprised.
“Of course I do,” he was exaggerating. Then he turned to Odinson. “She's a mean kisser, you know.”
“How so, Mister Barton?”
“She bites,” he accused. The audience laughed. The rest of the boys laughed. Everyone except Odinson was laughing.
“Bites?”
“I don't bite,” Natasha protested.
“Yes, you do,” Clint insisted. Darcy took out her phone and snapped a picture. Boss-man complaining he got bitten by Black Widow she tweeted, along with the picture of them sitting close with fake frowns and pouts on their faces.
Darcy observed how her tweet exploded as her employer and his girlfriend proceeded to make a joke out of Loki Odinson.
*
Clint pushed the hotel-room door closed and Natasha allowed him to press her right against it as he attacked her neck like a man starved.
“Finally,” he groaned against her skin, hands bunching up the material of her dress.
“Careful. That's vintage,” she giggled. It was okay to giggle. Oh God, she wanted to giggle all the time.
“That,” he groped behind her back and found her zipper, then tugged deftly, “is getting in the way.”
Natasha pushed against him to make room for herself. She shrugged the dress away and stepped out of it, then toed her heels off.
“Your turn,” she said. “Get naked.”
“Don't you wanna get me naked yourself, sweetheart?” he teased.
She came to him and pulled at his shirt first. He could raise his arms just fine, but there was still a slight wince. The bruises on him had mostly faded, but she still ran her hands across them, lowered to kiss him where she could still see faint blue and tickled his side with her lips.
“Ah, no no, not fair,” he said when she closed her lips around his nipple. “My turn,” he was unhooking her bra, then he bent enough to do what she did to him, and oh God. She grabbed the back of his head and arched into him.
“Bed,” she said.
And to bed they went, or more precisely stumbled as they tried to get rid of his clothes. Clint was still sore, but there were things he could do to her now - bending over her and kissing down her body, spreading her legs and making her forget about everything except him and what his mouth was doing to her. Those things were amazing. She saw stars and climbed on top of him afterward, returning the favor as he held onto her hips, staring at her with glazed eyes.
After, they were skin to skin, breathing slowly together in the quiet of her hotel room. She couldn’t suppress a smile.
“What?” he asked as he played with a lock of her red hair and smiled back at her.
“Nothing, It's just …,” she paused, looking at his relaxed face, feeling his heartbeat under her hand.
“What?” he smiled wider, it was one of the rare genuine ones, so peaceful and relaxed, and he looked years younger like this.
“Just feels good,” she said. There was something new in his expression, subtle and delicate, like hope when she said it, and she wanted to hold him and never let go.
His face was content and when he pulled her closer; close enough to kiss her slowly, Natasha thought it felt like home in a world where she often felt like she didn't belong anywhere.
Or maybe she did, all this time. After one more kiss she huddled closer, her hand skimming across the familiar plane of his chest.
She was home.
Fandom: The Avengers (2012)
Pairing: Clint/Natasha
Rating, mild M (for language, nudity, sexual references)
Characters: Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Darcy Lewis, Phil Coulson, Tony Stark, Bruce Banner, Steve Rogers, Thor Odinson, Loki (Odinson as well in this fic), Pepper Potts.
Genre: actors!AU/crack/romance/fluff-ish with tiny bit of angst.
Warnings: mentions of physical injuries
Summary: when world is a stage, one eventually gets tired of the stage lights. Clint and Natasha did.
Author's notes: written as a continuation of It's not the years honey (it's the mileage). It's set directly after first fic, so I recommend reading the first one (it's not long) to get familiar with this universe. Everything started with the prompt left by inkvoices, who requested Clint and Natasha as actors. Also, since aforementioned lady recently had a birthday, this is a sliiightly belated birthday present - happy birthday darling, and I hope you'll enjoy this!
A huge thank you to ashen_key who discussed this with me back and forth and helped me with her suggestions. Also, a big thank you to my super helpful, awesome beta shenshen77 who kept her eye on this thing every step of the way. *huge hugs*
Slightly inspired by Michael Buble's "Home". I tried to capture the sentiment of the song, also, that's where the title comes from. :)
*
May be surrounded by
A million people I
Still feel all alone
I just wanna go home
Oh, I miss you, you know
*
Clint groaned as he got out of the car. Slowly. Very, very slowly. In fact, Coulson had to help him get out.
“Shit,” he muttered.
“A thank you would be nice, Barton,” Coulson smirked. “There you go. Home sweet home,” he added.
Clint felt like he was finally starting to wake up after spending four days in the hospital, his mind dulled with painkillers. “Sweet indeed,” he said as he carefully tested his ability to move. Stretching was out of the question and slow and careful rotations to left and right were risky at best. However the sight in front of him was good. No, it was Very Good.
His little farmhouse in the middle-of-nowhere Iowa, his yard, his field of corn (which he leased to neighbors), his incredibly competent - albeit annoying - assistant -
And his girlfriend.
He grinned. He'd still need to get used to this, because.
His girlfriend.
He could call her that now, even if it was just for her and him. He was pretty sure his grin turned ridiculous, but he didn't care - until he made a wrong move and winced.
Natasha didn't grin back, she frowned and looked mostly concerned when he started walking toward the house. However, he could translate that frown of hers, she didn't like seeing people she cared about hurt. He was pretty certain he was near the top of that list, and the thought had his chest tightening in a good way.
“Hello gorgeous,” he said when he reached her and she hugged him very carefully around the neck. Clint felt like he could collapse, and even though he’d slept on the plane and in the car, he was tired. Everything still hurt. However she was here, soft and smiling against his shoulder.
“Hey, you,” her voice was more affectionate than her expression and he was pretty certain she wanted to get inside. He wanted to get inside and make himself comfortable, as soon as possible. Coulson got his bags out of the trunk and closed it with a resolute sound. Then he looked at Darcy.
“You ready?” Coulson asked.
“Oh yes,” she said. She was in and out of the house with her bag before Clint could ask what was going on.
“Sent the material to the press,” she begun to recite. “It should shut them up for a while, in the meantime you keep a low profile and take your vitamins,” Darcy was saying to Clint like she was his boss. “Don't forget to have fun and I'll see you in two weeks!”
Clint tried to turn around sharply. That didn't work out very well.
“When did I give you two weeks off?” he was arguing, fully aware that he'd be losing the argument. He had to put up token resistance at least, besides he caught up on their plan just fine. (He had absolutely no problem staying alone with Natasha. Natasha, who spent two days in the hospital with him, and he’d felt pampered and just wanted to get out of there and get her alone. So thank you Darcy, you bossy little thing, he thought and planned to give her a raise.)
“Who says I'll have any time off? This is strictly for your benefit. Do you know how many quasi reporters are after you? Do you know what kind of stunt I had to pull to make them believe you'll be going to France to recover?” she said and got into the car. “Get some rest while you can and we'll try to postpone the rest of the shoot as much as we can,” she added. Yes, the shoot and the additional scenes. He would think about that later.
“Um -” Clint said.
“Um, nothing. You're in good hands,” Darcy said through the car window before Coulson started the engine. She waved at him and Nat and then they were merrily gone.
“You're such an authority figure,” Natasha said when they were out of sight.
“I know, sweetheart,” he sighed heavily and looked at her. “I know.”
She grinned back at him. “Alone at last,” she said significantly.
“Except for Mrs. Johnson,” he winked at her, “but she won't bother us too much.”
“Ah, your lovely neighbor,” Natasha grinned. “The one with amazing cooking skills.”
“Yes, that one.”
“She was here yesterday and asked about you,” Nat was carefully winding her hands around his waist, her front against his. She was gorgeous, in her blue jeans, black shirt and yellow jacket, and Clint felt like an old man with his bruises and almost-broken ribs and everything that hurt him. He would have liked to pick her up and take her straight to bed, but the only bed activity he felt fit for was sleeping. “She also brought pie.”
“Did she?” he asked.
Nat smiled and nodded. “We'll go over and say hi later,” she said affectionately and he was drowning in the sight. She was affectionate, yes, but in a different way. This was all new, and at the same it wasn't. “Let's get you settled first,” she said and lead the way. Clint followed, feeling rarely content.
She carried his bags and helped him upstairs and to the master bedroom. The weather was chilly, but inside the house was nicely warm, and he wanted nothing more but to get truly comfortable and sleep. Thankfully, Coulson had brought him a button down shirt to wear home from the hospital (getting his hands into sleeves was painful, he could only imagine what getting a t shirt on would feel like); and thus Clint started to unbutton it, bottom towards top. Every following button was more of a challenge. Before he passed the middle of his chest Nat was there.
“Let me,” she said tenderly. Her face was close to his and he leaned forward. It was simple and it was okay. So okay.
“Can't wait to get me out of my clothes, doll?” he teased, mostly for his pride's sake. And because he was nervous and his heartbeat was picking up. That was probably okay, because he could see her fingers trembling just slightly and he wanted nothing more than to melt into her.
“Obviously, hotsauce,” she said, undoing the rest of his buttons. It wasn't like she hadn't seen him shirtless before (in fact she'd seen most of him); but he was badly bruised now. “Oh, Clint,” she said when she carefully opened his shirt.
“I'll live,” he assured her and smirked and she did too, but her eyes were a bit watery. She still looked shaken up, just as she did when she first arrived at the hospital. The interview, the way she found out, it did something to her. Clint swallowed tightly and she slid the shirt off his shoulders and her hands lingered gently on his bare arms.
“Let's,” she took a breath, trying not to stare at the bruises on his chest. “Let's get you out of the rest of this,” and there she was unbuttoning and unzipping his pants. He had to hold his breath - just how many times had he tried not to think of this? But he was reacting and she noticed and grinned up at him as she helped him out of his pants, shoes and socks. “Hi, there,” she said teasingly and pressed a warm kiss to his right knee. If there was heaven, it had to feel exactly like this.
“I'm just happy to see you,” he gulped slightly when she held the back of his left knee with one and stroked up his thigh with her other hand. His dick was happy, yes, but he was well aware sex would have to wait until he was further healed.
That would be a damn long wait, he thought.
“Bed?” she asked, rising from her position.
“Sounds awesome,” he lowered himself carefully onto his bed and winced when the bruises on his right side came to life. “How about you?”
She was standing in front of him, smiling fondly when she lowered her eyes a bit.
“Actually I was hoping you wouldn't mind some company,” she said. He looked a bit stunned when she smoothly took off her shirt and dropped it to the floor. How could he ever say no to this?
“Certainly not,” he said, eyes fixed on her hands. She opened and lowered her jeans, toed off her ballerinas and crawled in next to him, wearing her underwear and lots of skin. Skin which he could freely touch.
“Aren't you handsy,” she teased as she covered them with a blanket and then curled against his left side.
“You're welcome to retaliate,” he said.
“I just might,” she wound her hand around him, gently, and he did his best to hold her close until they both fell asleep.
*
Three hours and one long shower later, Natasha was done with preparing dinner. Bolognese pasta sauce could be warmed, and she could cook pasta whenever Clint woke up. Currently she was sitting in his kitchen, reading her new book on economy during World War II (Clint got her this one. He indulged her quirks, smiling fondly at them, and often found historical books and kitchen utensils for her.)
Natasha closed the book and propped her chin on it, thinking of him sleeping upstairs. There was nobody to intrude, nobody to pretend for.
She felt ordinary here, like reclaiming her own skin. Nobody owned her here. (Clint was there at the very beginning of that journey, when she cut her ties to Shostakov; Clint was a friend then. He was the one who offered to watch old movies again and just laugh at the same bits he always did, when everyone else wanted to know details of her breakups, every way her former manager mistreated her and made decisions for her. Clint discussed ice cream flavors at those times and left her the keys to his house and offered her all the time she wanted to spend there all alone.)
Clint's house wasn't big, just enough for two people and their family to feel comfortable in. Fancy hotels were great, Natasha thought, but this was better. People here looked at her and called her by name, and to some she might have looked like that girl from those movies, but most of them had greater worries. Nobody cared if she broke off with someone, especially if corn crops weren't growing well. (She’d inquired about said crops with Mrs. Johnson earlier, apparently this was a good year for corn. Natasha was happy about that.)
She looked up from the book she was holding, there seemed to be noise upstairs.
“Clint?” she called, and heard him walking around overhead, before his footsteps sounded on the stairs.
“Hey,” he showed up in the doorway, with messed up hair and a sleepy expression on his face.
“Hey,” she smiled and bit her lip. “Had a good nap?”
He smiled in return. “Pretty good,” he said.
“Hungry?” she asked. “I cooked,” she added and he grinned.
“Yeah, but -”
“What?”
“Well, I kind of wanted -” he paused. “I wanted to take a shower but -”
“What's wrong?”
“I can't bend very well,” he said, just slightly blushing. “Um, at all. And I wondered if you could.... help me a bit?”
Natasha held her breath. There was something about the way he asked, something that made her feel fiercely protective.
And then all she wanted was to take him upstairs and go under that shower with him. She didn't have to resist those wishes any more.
“Care for some company?” she asked.
His mouth dropped a little. She felt nervous, just as he looked. “Ah, that would be -” he swallowed. She smiled and came closer, until she was right there next to him.
“Care for a back scrub?” she asked, her hands winding around his neck and playing with the hair at the back of his head. “A very gentle back scrub?”
“That would be wonderful,” he said, giving in and rubbing his nose against hers. Then he was kissing her with single minded enthusiasm, and she wondered how long they had both been stuck wanting each other.
“Save some of that for later,” she realized that she sounded breathless. “We have to survive that shower first.”
“Not sure if that's possible, doll,” he said as she started to drag him upstairs and into the bathroom.
“We'll do our best,” she led him into the bathroom and gave him a peck on the nose. “You already saw me naked after all,” she reminded. (He had. Because their profession was weird like that.)
“Yes, but,” he paused. She was looking at him, looking at her. “That was different,” he insisted and swallowed when she took off her tunic and then bared her breasts. “This is - oh God,” his eyes got stuck at the sight of her and she bit her lip, seeing his blatant appreciation.
“I know,” she said and stepped closer. All these years, she thought. He lifted his left hand to touch her and winced.
“God, this is no fun,” he hissed, but he caressed her and she closed her eyes.
“I'm so sorry you're in pain,” she whispered, her face close to his. How was it possible to feel like this? Heart racing and beating so loudly, after ten years? “I can kiss it better again, if you want me to.”
He gave her a wide, silly smile and she just wanted to drown in it.
“Hey you,” he said. “Look at us.”
“This is us,” she breathed, her fingers light on his chest. “Me and you. Not -”
“Yeah,” his face was against hers again as she unbuttoned her jeans and pushed them down. “Whoa.”
He lowered his hand, so he could hold her hips and pull her close. She grinned and looked at him then pushed his boxers down.
Natasha closed her eyes at the feel of his skin against hers, and his warm palms low on her back. Bruised as he was, he was still gorgeous, and at this moment, he was hers.
“I know. I know,” she said, smiling. Oh God. “Shower,” she added with more determination, and he kept his smile playful and light. “Before this gets out of hand.”
He chuckled and kissed her before he carefully entered the shower. Then he leaned against the tiles and she started the water.
“Let's get you cleaned now,” she said and kissed the middle of his chest.
*
It was late and he was tired, and he suspected that she was too.
“Should we finish this tomorrow?” he asked, propped up on pillows in his bed. Natasha was curled into his unharmed side. She stifled a yawn but didn't move, and that was so like her - stubborn and focused, and determined to see something through 'till the end. “We watched this film already,” he argued, lightly kissing her hair.
“Mhmmm,” she said and stretched like a cat. Then she looked at him with half lidded eyes. “Can I stay here?”
Clint stopped the film and closed his laptop. He liked watching films with her like this. It started ten years ago, on the set, in his trailer, with no room for an actual TV screen. He wasn't a big star and whoever ran the place back then didn't think he needed anything more than strictly basic accommodations. It seemed that she needed to get away from the space that was only formally hers. Too many bad feelings, he guessed, but he didn't ask. Instead she challenged his ability to find yet another cheesy action movie and he tested her skill at performing flawless poker faces. She was twenty-two back then, only twenty-two, but she sometimes seemed older and more tired than he felt. Clint didn't try to figure her out back then. She was a filming buddy; he treated her like one.
“What kind of question is that?” he might have been hurt and in pain, but he would suffer a bit to see that smile on her face when he tickled her. He’d spent years smiling for her and helped her smile along.
“Careful,” she said, even if he did his best not to show that he was in pain. “Lay back,” she instructed and so he did. She placed the laptop on the nightstand and curled into him again, covering them both. “How are you feeling?” she asked.
He moved his arm carefully, finding a way to hold her and not be in pain. Her fingers were trailing across his chest and he sighed and relaxed. He closed his eyes and smiled, thinking back to the shower and what her hands did to him. How it felt; how this seemed so familiar even htough they never slept together like this.
“Awesome. Except the pain,” he said, looking contentedly at her. It was still a bit incredible, and at the same time he felt like she'd been with him for ages. In a way, she was. “But it's still awesome.”
She tucked herself against his side and her head under his chin.
“Clint?”
“Yeah, baby?” he asked gently. She was quiet; the thoughtful and sad kind of quiet he'd often seen on her.
“I meant it,” she said, and her voice melted with the darkness around them. “That time when we talked, remember? That I've got nothing to hide.”
“What do you mean, sweetheart?” he loved saying it, all the endearments she would allow him. She snuggled closer and he held her a bit tighter.
“Just before the Odinson show, remember? I told you I've got nothing to hide from him,” she said, like she was defending herself, and he could feel a shift in her breathing and change in her tone. How she turned serious, and how her hand stilled above his heart. “I don't want to hide you,” she propped her face on his arm. “I'm.... so tired of it, Clint.”
He couldn't see her. She sounded defeated and sad, and he didn't want her to be sad. He pulled her close and stroked her arm. A weary feeling settled over him, worn and old. He hated the constant struggle, the publicity, the fight to keep some of his life to himself, but she had it worse, ever since she started working in this world.
“I may be done with all of it,” she said, face pressed against him. “The secret keeping, wondering how bad and damaging the gossip might be -”
“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay.”
“I want to... hold your hand in the street and not give a damn,” she said. He smiled and moved so he could pull her to be face to face with him, and kiss her softly.
“Tasha,” he started.
“No, Clint,” she pressed two fingers to his lips, cutting him off. “I know what you're going to say. That we won't have a moment of peace and everyone will be after us. I know. And, if you don't want it, then okay, I won't make you -” she kissed him slowly. “But I don't want to do it for my own sake. I'm just so tired of it all.”
“Sweetheart,” he stroked her hair and ignored the pain flaring up along his right side. “I'd never refuse to hold your hand. Anywhere, and ever.”
She sighed.
“I don't want to care any more,” she said.
“I know what you mean. And … while you can’t stop caring completely, you can care a whole lot less,” he said. She exhaled and he could sense a smile in that sound.
“Are we going to do this?” she asked then. Clint's heart was beating solidly and quickly and he knew she could feel it. Still she remained with him just like she was.
“Do you want it, Tash?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said quietly and then repeated it with more determination. “We only live once,” she said after that and pressed a kiss against his chest. “I want to. Anyone who wants can quote me on that. I don't care who takes pictures of me kissing you.”
“Good,” he said and kissed the top of her head when she moved closer. “I'm with you on it, doll.”
Her hand formed a fist on his chest. “I still want to punch that bastard for telling me you were hurt like that.”
Clint chuckled and held her. There would always be people like Lloyd (Loki, as he liked to call himself) Odinson, and the words were halfway through his mouth when he thought of something.
“Hey, Tash?” he said lightly. “How about we do punch him in the face?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, and he could feel the smile in her voice.
Clint grinned as an idea formed in his head. “We could give him a taste of his own medicine. Listen -”
*
“Finally,” Clint could hear Tony complaining just as he exited the car. “He could have simply said, hey just head over to the middle of nowhere”.
“He did say it, Stark,” Bruce Banner replied mildly.
“Signs would have been nice,” Tony muttered.
“Spoiled little brat,” Steve teased.
“I'll just pretend I didn't hear that,” Tony said, turning to Clint. “Seriously?” he asked when he looked around the yard.
“What did you expect, Stark?” he asked.
“I didn't know you and Romanoff do vacation like commonfolk.”
“We like feeling like ordinary people from time to time,” Clint smirked.
“We,” Tony pointed out.
“Mm-hmmm,” Clint crossed his arms. A week of time did wonders (time, yes, and spending it doing nothing while Nat took care of him) and things hurt less, but they still hurt.
“It's very picket-fences, Barton. Didn't know you were the type,” Tony said, arching his eyebrow, and Clint didn't really like how Tony did all of it; how he stripped the paint off the walls, leaving them bare and looking so unimpressive and plain. “Tell me, is Romanoff making lunch?”
Clint wasn't an insecure man, just a realistic one, who knew this was s short leeway. He also knew what lay beyond. His bones ached and it reminded him that he wasn't very young anymore. He knew how the world around him worked. There would be no time to play house and make lunches for friends. Sometimes there wasn't time to even sleep, let alone talk to people he cared for.
“She is, in fact,” Clint said. So yes, she was making lunch for all of them and she did it because she enjoyed it. She had a right to that, as anyone should have. It didn't matter if it was picket-fences; if she wanted it, he was fine with it.
“Nice place, Barton,” Steve said then, walking around the yard.
“Yeah,” Bruce agreed and side-eyed Tony. “Thanks for letting us come here.”
“Don't mention it,” he said. “As it is, you won't get five star accommodations,” he looked at Tony. “You'll be okay with that, Stark?”
“I'll live,” Tony said, looking a bit sheepish. Not that he would openly admit that he’d stepped over a line.
“Come on, show us around,” Steve grinned easily and clapped Clint on the back, then apologized when he saw how Clint winced. The tension dissipated when they started to needle each other, and by the time they sat down to have lunch they were exchanging easy jokes.
Later in the evening Bruce and Steve were talking to Natasha, Clint was standing alone on the porch and Tony was on the phone, or that was what Clint thought. The man in question ventured outside at one point. He looked at Clint and Clint looked back, and that was it for awhile. There was a sound of laughter coming from inside the house, Natasha's voice carrying over Bruce's and Steve's.
“Tell me, Barton,” Tony suddenly began talking, “would you really do it if you could? Be nobody in a place like this?”
Clint rolled his shoulder and glanced at Tony. He seemed tense, well, more tense than he usually was.
“I grew up in a place like this, actually,” Clint said. “It wasn't bad.”
“So, it's a yes?”
“It's a very solid maybe,” Clint stuffed his hands in his pockets. “A very solid one.”
“Why not a 'yes'?” Tony asked. Clint looked at him.
“Why are you interested, Stark? Didn't you figure it out just fine?” Clint's mouth quirked up, but not to smile.
“Maybe,” Stark mimicked Clint's stance and shoved his hands into the pockets of his fine pants. “This place is... quiet. That's probably not bad,” he ventured.
“No, not at all,” Clint agreed. Quiet was good and in his (and Natasha's) world, it was fucking sacred.
“But can you be a nobody, Barton?” Tony pressed. Clint looked at him this time, really looked at him.
Clint shrugged and sighed. He was well aware that they weren't discussing philosophy, and while he had little tolerance for some of the things Tony did, he always thought Tony's skin probably wasn't a comfortable one to wear. Growing up with a famous, media exposed father could do a number on any kid. “Everyone is somebody, Stark,” Clint said and when Tony gave him an incredulous look, Clint raised his eyebrows.
“You're an interesting person, Barton,” it was just mildly sarcastic and quite bitter. The latter, Clint suspected, wasn't directed at him.
“I've been called worse,” Clint chuckled. “I think we'd all like to go back to things we remember as, you know. Good.”
Tony huffed. His expression was distant and hard to read, but there was pain around the edges. How was it that everyone was trying to run away from themselves, no matter who they were?
“I think you can,” Tony said suddenly. “You know, be a nobody. And be content about it,” he shrugged. It felt like another part of that line was missing. “Ask friends over for dinners,” Tony shrugged, but Clint sensed Tony wanted to be that friend who was invited to dinner.
“I like attention just as much as the next guy,” Clint countered lightly. If he would have been afraid of that, he would have become a carpenter or a mechanic. There were other things he was good at, and he still loved working with his hands.
“Oh, no you don't,” Tony's chuckle was filled with self irony. “You're a guy who can do picket fences and three unbearable, red-headed little brats. You'd love that and be perfectly happy without flashing lights and all that shit...”
“We're all different,” Clint said calmly. “That's just how life is. I don't think I'm... better for what I'm like.”
Tony snorted. He was a smart enough man to pick up on what Clint was trying to say.
“No, I guess I'm just not good at being nobody,” he observed with self irony.
“You?” Clint smirked. “God forbid, Stark. You're born to be a diva,” Clint gave him a look that could have been described as fond, and Tony seemed to get the message. “And that's perfectly fine.”
Tony laughed at that. A short but honest laugh and Clint laughed too. The silence settled back between them, only less strained now. Tony sighed.
“Do you think she can do it?”
Clint didn't need him to elaborate any further. He knew what waited for him and Natasha the moment they went public, but he was tired of pretending that he cared less than he did. He was so goddamn tired of separate shootings at different places of the globe, being in different time zones and looking for excuses to call her.
Or not calling her at all, so he imagined the sound of her voice instead.
He was pretty sure she was tired of it too.
“I think life is too short to bother with what people think,” Clint answered.
“That sounds a bit dramatic, coming from you,” Tony said bemusedly.
“That interview was dramatic as well,” Clint replied. “It's a thing one could do without.”
“I'd agree on that,” Tony smirked. “Rumor has it you're planning retaliation?”
Clint grinned. He sounded just the right kind of interested.
*
“You know, after all these years I was hoping you'd learn how to get a bigger bag, Tasha,” Clint teased from the doorway.
She faked a frown, but it was still an impressive frown.
“I didn't hear you complain about everything I packed in here,” she said. “Like that red thing -”
He raised an eyebrow at her.
“Not sure what you mean, doll,” he pretended not to recall. Natasha remembered quite well how he looked at her when she appeared wearing a red lace top that barely reached her thighs.
That, and nothing more.
It had been an interesting night, to say the least.
“Hm, maybe you prefer this color, then?” she straightened and started to unbutton her blouse. Slowly. She revealed a transparent bra, something she discovered Clint had a huge thing for. She let her blouse hang open and watched how his breathing changed when he caught the sight of her barely hidden breasts.
“Nice,” he said.
“Glad you approve,” she turned to resume her packing, and that was when he came to her and pulled her by her hands.
“I really hate that bag, doll,” he said, pulling her close to him. “And the fact you have to go,” his voice dropped low and his thumb caressed her lower lip.
Oh God, she hated to leave him as well.
“Missing me already, hotsauce?” she said lightly, and wrapped her hands around him, testing carefully how much pressure his ribs could take. He was feeling better, yes, and she wished she could have stayed longer. However, they’d bought him a week more to recover, during which she was going to re-shoot some of her scenes. And miss him. Oh God, how she would miss him.
“Maybe just a bit,” he said, caressing her sides. “How about you get that job of yours done as quickly as possible and then we meet up?”
“Mmmmm,” she hummed, closing her eyes against the feel of his hands on her. She could have his hands touch her all the time. “What are you offering in exchange?”
He nuzzled her face and brushed her lips with his.
“Hmmm, let's see. Sex?” he shrugged, keeping his face deliberately neutral. “I was told I'm pretty good at that.”
“Well, considering your current predicament, it's something I still have to try out with you,” she bit her lip and pressed herself against him.
“Oh, trust me. You'll want to try it out more than once,” he said and gave her a long, long kiss.
“Okay, cowboy,” she grinned after he released her lower lip from between his teeth. “You've got me intrigued. Get better soon,” she said.
*
“Or, you can just serve him to me, and I'll deal with him,” Darcy was saying as she paced around the dressing room while Clint was getting ready for the interview. The entire cast of “Avenging Angels” facing Odinson, his brother included, and they had a Plan. “Sure you wanna wear that?” Darcy asked.
“I like this shirt, Darcy” he said. It was an ordinary shirt. There was a poetic message in that.
“Yeah, you're all about showing what you feel and being honest and all that jazz,” Darcy sighed. “It's gonna be messy for some time, you know that?”
He nodded and smiled at her expression in the mirror.
“Sweetheart -”
“Yes, yes, I know,” she rolled her eyes fondly. “You're an old shark in this pond.”
“Thanks for the old,” Clint teased. “But honestly, Darcy, I know how it works.”
“Glad you do. Was just checking,” she said, eying her phone. It felt like an extension of her persona by now. Sometimes Clint felt sorry about everything she had to do on this crazy ride, but then, he also knew she wouldn't appreciate that kind of attitude from him. She could manage his schedule, the press, the paparazzi, heck, sometimes he thought she could do anything.
Clint folded his arms - he could do that now, after three weeks of soreness and careful movements - and raised an eyebrow at her.
“Okay, say it,” he said. Because there was something on her mind (something except her plan to start some kind of public Twitter account and place info about him before the tabloids could).
“What?” she asked.
“Whatever is on your mind ever since - whenever,” he replied, gesturing vaguely in her direction. “I know that look.”
“Okay, fine,” she sighed, pointing at him with her phone. “Do you know why people dig you? No, not you, but the two of you. You and Natasha,” she made a dramatic pause. Perhaps she would do quite fine as an actress, he thought absently. “Do you get it? Because if you think of it, this might go just a bit more smoothly -”
He smiled a tired little smile.
“I'm sure you'll tell me,” he said.
Darcy folded her arms in the same manner he did.
“It's the second chances sort of thing, Barton. Or third, even. It's.... seeing two people who were friends and committed to each other through years in the best possible way,” she said, suddenly turning uncharacteristically serious. “Surely, there will be ugly gossip because that's fucking human nature. But... what people want to know about? Is ten years of you and her being at each others side no-matter-fucking-what. It's the two of you making something out of nothing, after getting rid of that creep Shostakov? Being practically owned by your manager, since you were twelve, after your parents got killed in a car accident? And the things you've been through? And still, you both made it, and that's what people find inspiring. That's the stuff people want to believe in... nowdays more than ever before I think,” she said and sighed. “There you go, in a cynical world, love and friendship and …. healthy respect develop into something meaningful. Sticking with that someone no matter what, you know? People like to read about divorces, but they love to believe in true love.”
“Darcy,” he said, torn between laughing and his mouth dropping open.
“Don't Darcy me, Barton,” she answered. “I watched from the front seats. Yes, don't give me that look. Whenever she had a problem you found a way to be there and help out. That's fucking romantic. If you ask me, that's what you should tell to people. That, because that's the stuff that makes people dream.”
“I should make people dream?” he asked, amused. She shook her head like he didn't get anything.
“Barton,” she sighed like an exasperated teacher. “Think of this. You can do something awesome like that. You don't have to confess your every thought, you know. But the bottom line is, you can do something awesome. So why not do it?”
*
He really didn't get anything, Darcy thought as she settled in her seat. Front row, right next to Pepper Potts. She switched on her phone, smiling obnoxiously to herself. They were told to turn them off, yes, but she was steadily holding a grudge against the show's host. She wasn't below doing some things out of pure spite, no matter how small.
It was a few minutes before the show's start. Darcy found the picture of Clint in front of the dressing room mirror; he looked boyish and handsome in that damn shirt he bought God-knows-where. She tweeted the picture along with the text saying “Bossman getting ready to face The Shark” and grinned. Pepper gave her an amused look, probably wondering what Darcy was up to.
“Bringing the art of PR to another level,” she said and showed the twitter account to Pepper.
“What are you planning?”
“Oh, just to add to the awesomeness that will undoubtedly arise after this,” Darcy said. “If we, say, let some sort of information out there, we'll beat tabloids and paparazzi and decide where all of this is headed.”
Pepper smirked. “I like your thinking.”
“I had the best teacher,” Darcy said smugly. “Besides, Twitter is free and it can only help them be more popular, if things are handled well.”
“Very true,” Pepper agreed.
And that was when the show started. The douchebag Odinson really liked the color green on him, didn't he? That suit he wore had a green-ish hue, and seriously, what was it with the hair? Darcy guessed he would look better with his hair cut than sleeked back, like he usually wore it these days. It made him look even more sleezy than he ought to - okay, she had to admit, he was the sleeziest TV person she could think of. Like, among everyone. There was nothing that would make him look less sleezy. It was impossible.
However, he was entertaining and he always drew an audience. The people in the studio clapped enthusiastically, and cheered after he announced his guests for the evening. It all happened very quickly. Darcy was biting her thumb as Odinson announced Steve, Tony and Bruce. They occupied the first three-person couch. Then came Clint, looking cool and confident as ever. The cheer of the audience seemed just a bit louder, as if they anticipated the fireworks to come.
Oh, and then Natasha Romanoff. In that incredibly flattering burgundy dress. Darcy sighed, her boss just couldn't be any more obvious. Well, after spending two weeks with her and a week without her, honestly, who could blame him? Natasha sat next to him, close; close enough for their legs to touch and neither even tired to move away. Smooth, Darcy thought, but at the same time it was sweet. She'd seen a ton of people in this business, she'd seen how some tried to cover up that they simply couldn't stand someone else. Seeing this? It was fucking amazing.
Finally, the other Odinson showed up and took a seat next to Natasha, but not nearly as close as she sat next to Clint. They were so blindingly obvious (like this entire time, actually). Darcy leaned back, it was time to enjoy.
The show started out lightly. Typical, she thought, so typical. Banter and laughs and just a bit of snark here and there, until unsuspecting victims got lulled into a false safety. There was talk about the usual movie stuff, and the six of them were funny, sometimes taking over the entire talk and tossing questions and inside jokes back and forth and retelling funny things from the shoot. Darcy couldn't be sure, but Odinson seemed a bit twitchy, because other people were leading his interview. But there was another thing. Barton and Natasha were two mean, sneaky people. Odinson sure didn't miss how she leaned against him, just a bit, every now and then. When something funny was said, he'd look at her. She put her hand onto his knee and patted him very affectionately, after which he took her hand - and all the time they were listening to someone else talk. At one point she turned to him and brushed invisible dust from his hair, after he told a story how he ended up covered in dirt during the shoot. They were freakin' adorable, and you could light a match on the heat they were producing.
Of course Odinson took the bait.
“So, Mister Barton and Miss Romanoff,” he started sweetly. “As I understand, you've been friends for quite awhile?”
They shared a look.
“Friends?” he asked.
“Hmmm, I'd say so,” she said.
“Ya think, babe? I think it's more epic than just friends -”
“You think so, handsome?”
“I definitely think so.”
“Um, but friends, that's the basis. For everything,” Natasha patted Clint's knee and turned to their host who looked rather carefully at what they were doing. “We're friends, first and foremost,” she said and he nodded.
“I'd say you two care quite a lot about each other,” Odinson ventured, still smiling sweetly.
“Oh, definitely,” she said and Clint nodded in agreement.
“Definitely,” he was still holding her hand, he even lifted it and squeezed. Darcy could practically hear little wheels spinning in Odinson's head.
“That is interesting,” Odinson said. “One could easily get an impression, seeing the two of you, that you love each other.”
“Oh, but I do love her,” Clint didn't bat an eye. “I do,” he said seriously. “Deeply.”
“And I love him,” she added. She glanced at him and smiled. Darcy felt like clapping her hands and jumping in her chair.
“You.. do?”
“Of course,” Clint said. “You don't think friends should love each other?”
There was no reply. Steve was grinning rather smugly. Tony's expression was downright evil, and Bruce and Thor? (Darcy had no clue why he liked that nickname, but he did. However, his nickname for his brother was suiting. Wasn't Loki kind of a douchebag in Norse mythology?) Anyway, Bruce and Thor were having a ball.
“Of course,” Natasha said. “When you told me he was injured... well, I suppose you could see yourself how concerned I was.”
“She came to visit me straight after the show, in fact,” Clint said. They were both nodding and he was still holding her hand. An applause followed, and Darcy heard oh that is so sweet somewhere behind her back.
“Yes,” she affirmed.
“Wait a second,” Odinson said, and ha! There was a crack in his armor, but he tried to remain calm and smug. “Are you two together?”
They shared a look. There was an oooooh coming from the audience.
“Are we?” she pressed her lips together, giving Clint an inquiring look. Everyone was absofreakinlutely quiet.
“I think we are,” he scratched his head. “You know, sort of -”
“Mhmmm,” she nodded. “I mean, the vacation last year when you -”
“Yeah, and you asked me to that party-thing - ,” he continued. “Yeah, we spend a lot of time together,” Clint nodded. “Heck, I spend more time with you than with my family.”
They just kept on trolling the interview, raising more questions than giving answers. If Darcy was right, the show host was ready to explode.
“So, Natasha,” Odinson cut their bantering. “Is he a good kisser?”
She frowned a bit, comically, almost like she didn't expect it. Except she did.
“Oh, he is. But he improved, you know,” she freed her hand and was patting his knee again. “After five movies, you know -”
“Just movies?” Odinson asked.
“Oh, no, really. I kissed him many times. I didn't count, though,” she said. There was applause, there were ooooohs and aaaahs and laughter. “Honestly, I don't remember,” she added like it was no big deal.
“You don't remember?” Clint asked. More laughter. “How can you not remember?”
“You do?” she asked, sounding honestly surprised.
“Of course I do,” he was exaggerating. Then he turned to Odinson. “She's a mean kisser, you know.”
“How so, Mister Barton?”
“She bites,” he accused. The audience laughed. The rest of the boys laughed. Everyone except Odinson was laughing.
“Bites?”
“I don't bite,” Natasha protested.
“Yes, you do,” Clint insisted. Darcy took out her phone and snapped a picture. Boss-man complaining he got bitten by Black Widow she tweeted, along with the picture of them sitting close with fake frowns and pouts on their faces.
Darcy observed how her tweet exploded as her employer and his girlfriend proceeded to make a joke out of Loki Odinson.
*
Clint pushed the hotel-room door closed and Natasha allowed him to press her right against it as he attacked her neck like a man starved.
“Finally,” he groaned against her skin, hands bunching up the material of her dress.
“Careful. That's vintage,” she giggled. It was okay to giggle. Oh God, she wanted to giggle all the time.
“That,” he groped behind her back and found her zipper, then tugged deftly, “is getting in the way.”
Natasha pushed against him to make room for herself. She shrugged the dress away and stepped out of it, then toed her heels off.
“Your turn,” she said. “Get naked.”
“Don't you wanna get me naked yourself, sweetheart?” he teased.
She came to him and pulled at his shirt first. He could raise his arms just fine, but there was still a slight wince. The bruises on him had mostly faded, but she still ran her hands across them, lowered to kiss him where she could still see faint blue and tickled his side with her lips.
“Ah, no no, not fair,” he said when she closed her lips around his nipple. “My turn,” he was unhooking her bra, then he bent enough to do what she did to him, and oh God. She grabbed the back of his head and arched into him.
“Bed,” she said.
And to bed they went, or more precisely stumbled as they tried to get rid of his clothes. Clint was still sore, but there were things he could do to her now - bending over her and kissing down her body, spreading her legs and making her forget about everything except him and what his mouth was doing to her. Those things were amazing. She saw stars and climbed on top of him afterward, returning the favor as he held onto her hips, staring at her with glazed eyes.
After, they were skin to skin, breathing slowly together in the quiet of her hotel room. She couldn’t suppress a smile.
“What?” he asked as he played with a lock of her red hair and smiled back at her.
“Nothing, It's just …,” she paused, looking at his relaxed face, feeling his heartbeat under her hand.
“What?” he smiled wider, it was one of the rare genuine ones, so peaceful and relaxed, and he looked years younger like this.
“Just feels good,” she said. There was something new in his expression, subtle and delicate, like hope when she said it, and she wanted to hold him and never let go.
His face was content and when he pulled her closer; close enough to kiss her slowly, Natasha thought it felt like home in a world where she often felt like she didn't belong anywhere.
Or maybe she did, all this time. After one more kiss she huddled closer, her hand skimming across the familiar plane of his chest.
She was home.