Work Text:
Peel Me A Grape
The training gym is large, but not overly so, just spacious enough where the gymnasts and coaches have a little bit of elbow room between the various stations, but not a place for a ton of spectators to sit and watch. There are six distinct areas with Olympic competition-level equipment filling the spaces of the rectangular gym. In the center of the room there is a 16 foot square matted area for floor exercises. Surrounding the mat in clockwise rotation are the parallel bars and rings on one side, horizontal bar on the next, pommel horse on the third and vaulting horse on the fourth side.
You arrive at the location and take a quick, yet thorough assessment, a skill honed into you from many years in the field. The text messages you had received telling you to come here was cryptic at best, so you don't feel too surprised to note your heart is beating a shade too fast. Worry about him does that to you, sometimes. Okay, all the time. You take a centering breath. He doesn't need to see your worry, your concern. He especially doesn't need to see your want and yearning. He's your asset, your agent, your partner, your subordinate. He's your responsibility. And though you are loathe to admit it, you are but a mentor to him and nothing more.
You phone pings and you quickly read the new message. "Clint/Pavel/Matt/Danny/Tony is here. He is alone. He wants you. Take care of him." Natasha/Jim/Lucy/Kono/Abby aren't anywhere in view, but you see him, standing near the parallel bars, dressed in all white - tight tank top and nearly form-fitting exercise pants that cinch at the ankle. You are momentarily dumbstruck at the sight of him. The sound of a new message forces you to drag your eyes away from his body. "I'm leaving him in your capable hands. The place is securely locked down. Don't fuck this up! Enjoy the show. ;-)" You hear the first notes of a jazzy piano refrain filter in through the gym speakers and you lift your eyes back up to see him looking straight at you. It's a look you've never seen from him before - a mixture of defiance, determination, sensuality and longing. It's also the look of challenge and its laser-focused on you. You realize that he's waiting on something, and further realize he wants your acknowledgement, your acceptance of a challenge. You aren't sure what you're agreeing to, but there's no way in hell you could ever say no to him, not in this or anything. So you nod your head dutifully, and a small pleased smile breaks out on his face. You don't even want to think about how placing that smile there makes your heart constrict. Instead you give him a tiny smile in return to which you receive a small nod.
He walks over to stand at the head of the parallel bars. He gives you another small nod, and you see him throw something small and black towards the towels lined up off to the side of the mats. When you hear the music shift from looping repeat to the start of an actual tune you realize it must have been the remote. You watch him leap up and grab hold of the parallel bars then gracefully lift himself into a handstand. You have the slight presence of mind to notice that the song is vaguely familiar, as the strum of a bass join the piano, then a woman's smoky sultry voice demands that you "Peel me a grape. Crush me some ice. Skin me a peach, save the fuzz for my pillow..." Everything else about the song is lost to your subconscious as you watch him on the parallel bars.
You are mesmerized by his strength and grace, in the way he lifts his body into a handstand holding onto each bar, then gracefully shifts, balancing his weight up on a single bar. His athletic ability on display for your sole observation is heady in a way you would have never dreamed. It doesn't surprise you to know that you are aroused, already half hard in your pants. How could you not be, as you watch him move his beautiful body in a physical display of prowess. What does surprise you is the way that you can see his own arousal in the hard line of his cock as it is no doubt straining in his jock. You fervently wish that he's hard because of you and not just from the exertions of his routine. All too soon, his exercise is finished as he dismounts with a double flip. You're applauding, about to go to him and tell him how good he was, when he waves you off as he moves to the next station.
He takes position almost beneath the rings, then jumps up to grasp them. And although you know the rings are clearly not as high off the ground as they would be in Olympic competition, you are extremely impressed with his vertical leap which had to have been at least 2-1/2 feet. Quickly though, your entire world narrows down to him, watching the way that he moves his body in fluid rhythm to the music as he performs, swinging his body into handstands, planks, splits and hanging crosses. He is breathtaking, arms straining to hold each pose for the requisite two seconds before easing into the next pose. There is almost no sway in the rings as he performs and you are awed by his skill. You knew he was talented, you've seen him in the field, but this is something entirely different. Too soon, though, he finishes his routine, dismounting with a double twist and sticking his landing.
Before you can think to applaud, he's walked to the next station, the horizontal bar. He jumps up, aided by a spring incline and grabs the bar with an overhand grip. He then proceeds to spin, twist and flip himself over and around the bar, all to the steady backbeat of the music. His movements are quick, precise, and breathtaking. You don't realize how you had been literally holding your breath each time he'd release the bar in mid air until his final flip had him back on solid ground and you find yourself drawing in a shuddering lungful of air.
Your eyes track him to the next station, the pommel horse, and you watch him perform an awe-inspiring routine of scissors and flairs. You are amazed at the way he travels up and down the horse with such quick and precise hand work, all while moving his body in graceful arcs, fluidly, keeping in sync with the music. He makes a picture perfect dismount, which you had no doubt he would pull off. He is phenomenal, which you already knew in the way he performs on the team. But this display, this performance, has you shifting your mindset from thinking of him as someone you have to protect to someone you should respect, for knowing who they are and what they are worth. The thing is, you've always respected him. But now you realize that the barriers you've built between the two of you - for his protection, for his own good - may have been a good idea initially, when he first started. But now, after all this time, after all you have been through together, now those barriers had created a chasm between the two of you, one that you did not know how to cross.
He's made it around to the side of the rectangle with the vaulting horse, and you realize he has performed on every piece of equipment so far, doing complicated, exhaustive routines, yet he smiles and even winks at you as he races down the runway vaulting off the horse to perform a double back flip. It's the smile and the wink that does it, that tells you what a fool you are. You know you have the proverbial 'the penny dropped' look on your face when he graces you with another small fond smile as he makes his way back to do his second run. Your worry about how to bridge the gulf between you and him is ridiculous, because he's already done it, here, now. Inviting you here to see him perform, to see him excel, in a new and different light, is him building a bridge. Actually, it's more than that. You think about the texts, 'He wants you.' 'Take care of him.' 'Don't fuck this up.' He's not only built a bridge, he's opened the door and laid out the red carpet. You'd be a fool not to accept this opportunity, this gift, that he is giving you. In the few scant moments it took you to have your revelation, he's made it back to the start of the runway. This time you smile at him, and gesture with your hand in a 'be my guest' motion. This time, his smile is cocky, mischievous. This smile tells you everything thus far has been a performance, executed to exacting standards, but now he's going to put on a show. You're proven correct with his next run as he races down the runway, performs a somersault five feet in front of the vaulting horse, only to land on the springboard and somersault off the horse into a one and a half twist flip. His landing is not precision perfect, he stumbles but recovers, and then he throws you a satisfied grin.
He glides over to the edge of the mat for floor exercises, standing on the corner nearest you. He gives you a nod, and then appears to be waiting for a specific beat in the music. For a moment, you wonder exactly how long is this song, because it seems to go on forever. That thought quickly evaporates as he takes a running start then executes a series of somersaults, flips and mid-air twists to the opposite side of the mat. His performance on the mat is so well choreographed to the beat of the music, that you are curious how long he has been practicing the routine. But again, your line of thinking is derailed when he slides down into a split, legs spread wide straight out to the side, his forehead pressed to the ground. All you can focus on is the firm round globes of his ass. Then he elegantly rolls himself up into a handstand, and you are completely lost in lust and admiration. He continues for a few more flips and rolls. His final run ends with a backwards somersault multiple twist combination and the biggest smile you have ever seen gracing his face.
And then he's standing right in front of you, breathing hard, his performance complete. He is a strong, solid presence, a man who has figured out his worth and his purpose, and he's damn proud to show it off. His pupils are blown, the iris a thin circle of color. His body is actually vibrating, and he seems to be literally holding himself in place, waiting. You have never wanted anything or anyone before in your life as much as you want him right now. You find that you have stepped forward, stepped right into his personal space without conscious volition, and realize just as fleetingly, that to do anything else would have been futile, this moment has been forever in the making.
You raise your hand and gently cup his cheek, the barely there stubble lightly scratching your palm. He smiles and turns his head slightly to press chapped lips to your skin and you find yourself pulling in air in a rushed inhale, taking the musky scent of his fresh sweat in. Suddenly all you can hear is the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears as you are overcome with intense desire. Your hand snakes to the back of his neck, and you tangle your fingers in the damp curls of his hair. You pull his head forward, meeting him half way. Your lips are so close that you feel his every panting exhale. The kiss to come is inevitable, a foregone conclusion, but you want him to know its not based on lust or the heat of the moment, it's based on him, who he is and what he means to you. You want to whisper his name over his lips in a benediction, in prayer. The one word that escapes from your mouth before you taste his is "Mine."