Avengers (2012): "Heavy in Your Arms (5/15)" (Clint/Natasha)
Title: Heavy in Your Arms (5/15)
Author/Artist: Koren M. (cybermathwitch)
Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were, there'd already be a Black Widow/Hawkeye movie.
Pairing: Clint/Natasha, Coulson/The Cellist
Rating: Adult 17+
Warnings: language, violence, eventually sexual content, dub-con if you feel that mystical/destiny sorts of compulsions qualify as dubious consent (Natasha might agree with you)
Spoilers: None
Type: WIP
Word Count: 1,800
Summary: He was grudgingly beginning to accept there might be something beyond them at work, something he had no grasp of and had never wanted to try to understand.
Author's Notes: See Chapter 1 for more notes.
HUGS and many thanks (and cookies) for: anuna_81, sweetwatersong, sugar_fey,lar_laughs, SidheRa, and kadollan.
Previous Chapter
He was turning to see what the problem was when she was suddenly at his side, taking his arm in a steel grip and guiding him briskly but calmly away from the storefront.
"Don't turn around, just keep walking," she hissed when he started to look back. Behind them he could hear a woman shouting and a man cursing roundly in a language he wasn't familiar with.
Clint fell into step beside her and she eased off their forward momentum but kept her hand on his arm. "What happened?"
"I almost ran into an old... acquaintance," she said, frowning. "I created a distraction. I don't think he recognized me, but-"
He heard the rapid footsteps behind them at the same time she did. He couldn't resist looking back and saw three men in dark coats roughly pushing their way through the crowd.
"Apparently he did," Clint finished and looked around. Up ahead was an intersection, the kind meant more for foot traffic than cars. It was surrounded by bars and cafes, several of which stood slightly off from one another with narrow alleyways in between.
"Here, in here," he said and pushed her down the nearest side street. It was a dead end and he cursed under his breath. He crowded her into the doorway, effectively hiding them from view of the street, thankful the jacket he'd chosen was black. The narrow space did odd things with the acoustics, but after a minute he heard people scuffling behind him and voices in that same unfamiliar language. He felt her tense against him and knew she recognized it.
He could feel her heart beating against his chest just below his own, could also feel how shallow her breathing was as they both waited, waited, waited.
Not yet, not yet, don't move yet echoed in each beat and reluctant breath.
Time stretched out forever, and it wasn't just the wait to see if they were about to be discovered, it was how close they were pressed, and how very insubstantial their clothing suddenly felt as a shield.
He forced himself to count backwards from two hundred before he finally pushed away from the wall and dared to look over his shoulder toward the street.
Nothing. No one.
Crisis averted, again. He felt like he could almost see the reserves of their luck dwindling down into oblivion.
Even though he'd made space between them, they were still brushing against one another with every inhalation and shifting movement. Her hands had come up against his chest when he'd entered her space but she hadn't attempted to push him away. His stayed braced against the door behind her so that she was still caged between him and the wall.
He looked down and met her eyes in the shadows, and the rest of the world fell away.
*****
Natasha's heart was racing. She'd seen Mikhail and Dominic before they'd seen her, but only by seconds - just enough time for her to "stumble" into a nearby shopper so that he collided with another woman and started a shouting match between the two, even as she was ducking around them towards Clint.
She'd been surprised when he'd drug her into the alley and crowded her into a doorway, but she hadn't protested. It was a new sensation, being sheltered and hidden. Knowing that he was putting himself between her and a possible threat - just one more thing to add to the list of experiences she was trying to understand. She could hear him mumbling numbers against her hair and let her awareness narrow down to just him. The way he felt, the way he smelled, the sounds of his voice and heart beat. His chest was hard and broad beneath her palms and she wanted to run her hands up until they were around his neck, fingers in his hair.
He started to move away and she caught her protest before it left her throat. She knew they were safe when she felt his shoulders shift and relax slightly. Then he looked back down at her and she locked her eyes to his.
Slowly, so slowly it was almost painful, he lowered his head until his lips barely brushed across hers. Just that, the briefest contact, but the sense of relief and want that flooded through her made her knees give way. He caught her before she could fall, and she found herself more thoroughly pinned against the door than she had been moments ago. The second kiss wasn't hesitant or tentative at all, and she felt more than heard him make a strangled sound against her mouth when she opened for him.
There was too much heat and not enough pressure and certainly not enough air, she was dizzy from the lack of it. Or dizzy because of him, she wasn't sure which. He tasted like coffee and darkness and that wasn't the kind of thing she ever thought about when she kissed someone. His hair was rough under her fingers where she cradled his head between her hands, and she didn't think about that kind of thing, either.
"God," he hissed, breaking away from the kiss for a second, and she realized she was trying to twine one of her legs around his to bring him closer. He was hard against the cradle of her hips and every movement either of them made was making them both shudder.
"Please..." she trailed off, unable to finish the thought because she had no idea what she was asking for. He buried his face against the side of her neck and she held him there, feeling his lips and his ragged breath against her skin while he tried to regain some control.
"Not the time or place," he finally said, and it was laced with regret.
"No," she agreed, and he pulled away, slowly, as if every movement hurt.
"I think they're gone."
"Probably. For now." He stepped away from her completely then, and she forced herself not to follow or attempt to keep in contact with him.
"Who were they?"
"Two of them were Mikhail Korsokov and Dominic Ivanov. I didn't recognize the third. They work for a mid-level drug operation in northern and eastern Europe."
"I take it you have some history there?"
"A bit. I killed their boss last year. They weren't too pleased about that, even if it was his son who ordered the hit." She watched his face carefully for some kind of reaction, disgust maybe, or disbelief. He gave her neither, just a nod of understanding.
"Did you get what you needed back there?"
His questions forced her to return to the present and their situation. "Yes," she pulled two cell phones out of her pocket and handed him one. "These should do for now. I'll call DeLuc about the papers and get the payment and pick up instructions. With any luck, we should be able to leave by this time tomorrow."
*****
Things were strained between them by the time they got back to the apartment. She was making sure not to touch him inadvertently, and wasn't making eye contact, either.
"Natasha," he started, but she turned away and slipped into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. He heard the sound of the lock, and resisted the urge to try the knob.
She'd looked even more unsettled after their kiss than he'd felt, if that was even possible. On the carrier, she'd told him she thought death was preferable to being bound to someone like this.
What did he think?
Clint sank down onto the floor with his back to her door and rested his elbows on his knees as he raked his fingers through his hair.
He'd had relationships before, and a couple of those times he'd thought he was in love. In high school, when it had been all about teenage hormones and a kind of hopeful longing, then many years later, right after he'd joined SHIELD. That had been a more grown-up kind of love that made a man contemplate changing his lifestyle and clearing out half his closet.
It was nothing like this.
Which didn't make any sense, and made him take a long, hard look now that he had a little bit of breathing space. The adrenaline had faded, they were locked in and had a plan, and while there were plenty of people out there who wanted to kill them, he had a reasonable certainty they weren't going to show up tonight. Given the look in her eyes, he doubted that Natasha was going to come back out (he briefly wondered if she would unlock the door at some point to give him access to the bathroom), so he had nothing to do but think.
He'd been fascinated with her file from the moment he opened it. Her record was impressive. Seeing her in person once he started surveillance on her proved even more impressive. When he'd seen her up close, he'd been able to appreciate that she was beautiful, but he'd seen plenty of beautiful women. It hadn't been until he'd touched her that everything had gotten turned inside out.
That wasn't quite right. There'd been that sense of knowing he shouldn't kill her. That had been odd. Not unheard of, he'd had it before, but still out of the ordinary. His gut knew she was going to be important to him, somehow.
He had a few options, a few ways to look at it. First, that this was some kind of shared fugue state. They were losing their minds, either by chance or by design. If it was by design, either she was manipulating him, or some other third party was manipulating them both. That had a wide open range of options to chose from.
But.
If it were her doing, if this thing between them was all some kind of elaborate con, then wouldn't she have touched him first? That's what she'd described after all. Not that she couldn't be lying, but he'd approached her, not the other way around. So that was unlikely.
On the entirely other hand, they might not be crazy at all. That option opened up ideas he wasn't sure he was comfortable with and he rubbed a hand over his eyes. He was grudgingly beginning to accept there might be something beyond them at work, something he had no grasp of and had never wanted to try to understand.
Clint stretched out on the floor and balled his coat up under his head to serve as a pillow. They were as safe as they were going to get for the time being, and he might as well take advantage of it and get some rest.
Interlude 2: Dutiful Daughter
Chapter 6
Author/Artist: Koren M. (cybermathwitch)
Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were, there'd already be a Black Widow/Hawkeye movie.
Pairing: Clint/Natasha, Coulson/The Cellist
Rating: Adult 17+
Warnings: language, violence, eventually sexual content, dub-con if you feel that mystical/destiny sorts of compulsions qualify as dubious consent (Natasha might agree with you)
Spoilers: None
Type: WIP
Word Count: 1,800
Summary: He was grudgingly beginning to accept there might be something beyond them at work, something he had no grasp of and had never wanted to try to understand.
Author's Notes: See Chapter 1 for more notes.
HUGS and many thanks (and cookies) for: anuna_81, sweetwatersong, sugar_fey,lar_laughs, SidheRa, and kadollan.
Previous Chapter
He was turning to see what the problem was when she was suddenly at his side, taking his arm in a steel grip and guiding him briskly but calmly away from the storefront.
"Don't turn around, just keep walking," she hissed when he started to look back. Behind them he could hear a woman shouting and a man cursing roundly in a language he wasn't familiar with.
Clint fell into step beside her and she eased off their forward momentum but kept her hand on his arm. "What happened?"
"I almost ran into an old... acquaintance," she said, frowning. "I created a distraction. I don't think he recognized me, but-"
He heard the rapid footsteps behind them at the same time she did. He couldn't resist looking back and saw three men in dark coats roughly pushing their way through the crowd.
"Apparently he did," Clint finished and looked around. Up ahead was an intersection, the kind meant more for foot traffic than cars. It was surrounded by bars and cafes, several of which stood slightly off from one another with narrow alleyways in between.
"Here, in here," he said and pushed her down the nearest side street. It was a dead end and he cursed under his breath. He crowded her into the doorway, effectively hiding them from view of the street, thankful the jacket he'd chosen was black. The narrow space did odd things with the acoustics, but after a minute he heard people scuffling behind him and voices in that same unfamiliar language. He felt her tense against him and knew she recognized it.
He could feel her heart beating against his chest just below his own, could also feel how shallow her breathing was as they both waited, waited, waited.
Not yet, not yet, don't move yet echoed in each beat and reluctant breath.
Time stretched out forever, and it wasn't just the wait to see if they were about to be discovered, it was how close they were pressed, and how very insubstantial their clothing suddenly felt as a shield.
He forced himself to count backwards from two hundred before he finally pushed away from the wall and dared to look over his shoulder toward the street.
Nothing. No one.
Crisis averted, again. He felt like he could almost see the reserves of their luck dwindling down into oblivion.
Even though he'd made space between them, they were still brushing against one another with every inhalation and shifting movement. Her hands had come up against his chest when he'd entered her space but she hadn't attempted to push him away. His stayed braced against the door behind her so that she was still caged between him and the wall.
He looked down and met her eyes in the shadows, and the rest of the world fell away.
*****
Natasha's heart was racing. She'd seen Mikhail and Dominic before they'd seen her, but only by seconds - just enough time for her to "stumble" into a nearby shopper so that he collided with another woman and started a shouting match between the two, even as she was ducking around them towards Clint.
She'd been surprised when he'd drug her into the alley and crowded her into a doorway, but she hadn't protested. It was a new sensation, being sheltered and hidden. Knowing that he was putting himself between her and a possible threat - just one more thing to add to the list of experiences she was trying to understand. She could hear him mumbling numbers against her hair and let her awareness narrow down to just him. The way he felt, the way he smelled, the sounds of his voice and heart beat. His chest was hard and broad beneath her palms and she wanted to run her hands up until they were around his neck, fingers in his hair.
He started to move away and she caught her protest before it left her throat. She knew they were safe when she felt his shoulders shift and relax slightly. Then he looked back down at her and she locked her eyes to his.
Slowly, so slowly it was almost painful, he lowered his head until his lips barely brushed across hers. Just that, the briefest contact, but the sense of relief and want that flooded through her made her knees give way. He caught her before she could fall, and she found herself more thoroughly pinned against the door than she had been moments ago. The second kiss wasn't hesitant or tentative at all, and she felt more than heard him make a strangled sound against her mouth when she opened for him.
There was too much heat and not enough pressure and certainly not enough air, she was dizzy from the lack of it. Or dizzy because of him, she wasn't sure which. He tasted like coffee and darkness and that wasn't the kind of thing she ever thought about when she kissed someone. His hair was rough under her fingers where she cradled his head between her hands, and she didn't think about that kind of thing, either.
"God," he hissed, breaking away from the kiss for a second, and she realized she was trying to twine one of her legs around his to bring him closer. He was hard against the cradle of her hips and every movement either of them made was making them both shudder.
"Please..." she trailed off, unable to finish the thought because she had no idea what she was asking for. He buried his face against the side of her neck and she held him there, feeling his lips and his ragged breath against her skin while he tried to regain some control.
"Not the time or place," he finally said, and it was laced with regret.
"No," she agreed, and he pulled away, slowly, as if every movement hurt.
"I think they're gone."
"Probably. For now." He stepped away from her completely then, and she forced herself not to follow or attempt to keep in contact with him.
"Who were they?"
"Two of them were Mikhail Korsokov and Dominic Ivanov. I didn't recognize the third. They work for a mid-level drug operation in northern and eastern Europe."
"I take it you have some history there?"
"A bit. I killed their boss last year. They weren't too pleased about that, even if it was his son who ordered the hit." She watched his face carefully for some kind of reaction, disgust maybe, or disbelief. He gave her neither, just a nod of understanding.
"Did you get what you needed back there?"
His questions forced her to return to the present and their situation. "Yes," she pulled two cell phones out of her pocket and handed him one. "These should do for now. I'll call DeLuc about the papers and get the payment and pick up instructions. With any luck, we should be able to leave by this time tomorrow."
*****
Things were strained between them by the time they got back to the apartment. She was making sure not to touch him inadvertently, and wasn't making eye contact, either.
"Natasha," he started, but she turned away and slipped into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. He heard the sound of the lock, and resisted the urge to try the knob.
She'd looked even more unsettled after their kiss than he'd felt, if that was even possible. On the carrier, she'd told him she thought death was preferable to being bound to someone like this.
What did he think?
Clint sank down onto the floor with his back to her door and rested his elbows on his knees as he raked his fingers through his hair.
He'd had relationships before, and a couple of those times he'd thought he was in love. In high school, when it had been all about teenage hormones and a kind of hopeful longing, then many years later, right after he'd joined SHIELD. That had been a more grown-up kind of love that made a man contemplate changing his lifestyle and clearing out half his closet.
It was nothing like this.
Which didn't make any sense, and made him take a long, hard look now that he had a little bit of breathing space. The adrenaline had faded, they were locked in and had a plan, and while there were plenty of people out there who wanted to kill them, he had a reasonable certainty they weren't going to show up tonight. Given the look in her eyes, he doubted that Natasha was going to come back out (he briefly wondered if she would unlock the door at some point to give him access to the bathroom), so he had nothing to do but think.
He'd been fascinated with her file from the moment he opened it. Her record was impressive. Seeing her in person once he started surveillance on her proved even more impressive. When he'd seen her up close, he'd been able to appreciate that she was beautiful, but he'd seen plenty of beautiful women. It hadn't been until he'd touched her that everything had gotten turned inside out.
That wasn't quite right. There'd been that sense of knowing he shouldn't kill her. That had been odd. Not unheard of, he'd had it before, but still out of the ordinary. His gut knew she was going to be important to him, somehow.
He had a few options, a few ways to look at it. First, that this was some kind of shared fugue state. They were losing their minds, either by chance or by design. If it was by design, either she was manipulating him, or some other third party was manipulating them both. That had a wide open range of options to chose from.
But.
If it were her doing, if this thing between them was all some kind of elaborate con, then wouldn't she have touched him first? That's what she'd described after all. Not that she couldn't be lying, but he'd approached her, not the other way around. So that was unlikely.
On the entirely other hand, they might not be crazy at all. That option opened up ideas he wasn't sure he was comfortable with and he rubbed a hand over his eyes. He was grudgingly beginning to accept there might be something beyond them at work, something he had no grasp of and had never wanted to try to understand.
Clint stretched out on the floor and balled his coat up under his head to serve as a pillow. They were as safe as they were going to get for the time being, and he might as well take advantage of it and get some rest.
Interlude 2: Dutiful Daughter
Chapter 6