Work Text:
"Sit," Maria ordered. Somehow, her usual firm tone managed to hold a tiny bit of room for compassion as well. A tiny bit.
Clint winced as he sat and she pressed the alcohol-soaked towel to his arm with as much gentleness as she applied a bullet wound to a terrorist.
"Stop fidgeting, Barton."
"I'm not," he protested then fell silent. He studied her face as she sat less than a foot in front of him, carefully cleaning his wounds and cutting back the shredded sleeve nearly melted onto his skin. "Think I'm going sleeveless in the future."
"Not in winter," Maria ordered absently. Her brow furrowed. She was completely focused on her task, and for a moment, Clint felt awkward, wondering if he was just a body to her, not an actual person underneath the agent.
He reached up and touched her shoulder.
She drew her gaze up with the reflexes born of years as a successful agent, assessing his mood and the threat level with barely more than a flicker in her eyes.
"Thank you," he said.
Maria drew in a slow breath, then nodded curtly and rummaged through the first aid kit for a bandage to wrap his arm in. "Next time, Barton, try to avoid the laser gun."
Clint just smiled at her. They both knew he would do what needed to be done, regardless.