thy ministers have done it
hear it not, heaven
rating: pg
characters: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff
warnings: none
author's note: For crazy4orcas, who prompted "Natasha realizes she likes to cuddle," and did not get (quite) it. Title and summary from Loreena McKennitt's Lullaby.
summary: Anchor (n): a person or thing that can be relied on for support, stability, or security; mainstay. (She will make herself a place for him to stand.)
Hold onto me, she whispers in the night, her fingers curled around his slack hand. A lifeline to follow, a light at the end of the tunnel, a reminder that he has something to come home to.
Hold onto me, she murmurs silently as she curves her arms around her shaking partner. He presses his head against her shoulder, the hot brush of tears sinking against her skin; she closes her own eyes, holding him close, and hums Russian lullabies that fall on newly deaf ears.
Hold onto me, she breathes unevenly, lips shaping the words even as she guides his hands to her waist, presses them there until his thumbs find the arch of her hip bones and she finds an anchor in his grip.
Hold onto me, she thinks with hesitance, shifting to tuck herself against his back. The bed they have shared for weeks sinks strangely under her weight; the rhythm of his breathing tells her it wakes him, and she bends her head and pulls her knees up to barely, barely brush his skin.
Hold me, she signs when he shuts the door behind her, rainwater and soot running off her slumped shoulders onto the carpet. Exhaustion leaves her empty, leaves her hollow, and the absence of his touch for the past sixteen days has made it worse in ways she could never have expected. He pauses in his sweats and worn t-shirt, in his surprise at her early return and his concern about the reek of fire that lingers around her, in his world of silence without the hearing aids put in. She doesn’t have the strength to ask again, the ability to ask again, only wonders dully whether she has enough of either to move if he doesn’t respond. To walk to the shower, to try and cleanse herself of this mission, to pull on clothes that don’t have burns and blood on them and walk back out the door.
Hold me, she wishes, the cold seeping into her bones.
He studies her quietly, the boundaries she set long ago hanging in the air between them - and takes the two steps that separate them.
Natasha closes her eyes, leaning into the warmth that radiates from Clint and the arms wrapped around her, and knows that she is home.
rating: pg
characters: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff
warnings: none
author's note: For crazy4orcas, who prompted "Natasha realizes she likes to cuddle," and did not get (quite) it. Title and summary from Loreena McKennitt's Lullaby.
summary: Anchor (n): a person or thing that can be relied on for support, stability, or security; mainstay. (She will make herself a place for him to stand.)
Hold onto me, she whispers in the night, her fingers curled around his slack hand. A lifeline to follow, a light at the end of the tunnel, a reminder that he has something to come home to.
Hold onto me, she murmurs silently as she curves her arms around her shaking partner. He presses his head against her shoulder, the hot brush of tears sinking against her skin; she closes her own eyes, holding him close, and hums Russian lullabies that fall on newly deaf ears.
Hold onto me, she breathes unevenly, lips shaping the words even as she guides his hands to her waist, presses them there until his thumbs find the arch of her hip bones and she finds an anchor in his grip.
Hold onto me, she thinks with hesitance, shifting to tuck herself against his back. The bed they have shared for weeks sinks strangely under her weight; the rhythm of his breathing tells her it wakes him, and she bends her head and pulls her knees up to barely, barely brush his skin.
Hold me, she signs when he shuts the door behind her, rainwater and soot running off her slumped shoulders onto the carpet. Exhaustion leaves her empty, leaves her hollow, and the absence of his touch for the past sixteen days has made it worse in ways she could never have expected. He pauses in his sweats and worn t-shirt, in his surprise at her early return and his concern about the reek of fire that lingers around her, in his world of silence without the hearing aids put in. She doesn’t have the strength to ask again, the ability to ask again, only wonders dully whether she has enough of either to move if he doesn’t respond. To walk to the shower, to try and cleanse herself of this mission, to pull on clothes that don’t have burns and blood on them and walk back out the door.
Hold me, she wishes, the cold seeping into her bones.
He studies her quietly, the boundaries she set long ago hanging in the air between them - and takes the two steps that separate them.
Natasha closes her eyes, leaning into the warmth that radiates from Clint and the arms wrapped around her, and knows that she is home.