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“Do you want me here tonight?”
He stood in the doorway that separated their suites, hand tightly gripping the knob, tensely awaiting a response he knew he wouldn’t get. He hadn’t figured it out still, was it his anger with her actions, the way his insides burnt with rage every time he thought of what she’d done? Or was it his fatal attraction to her, the one that made him throw aside whatever morals he had left for just another taste of her?
Perhaps it was both. And although unnamed, this new sensation had him on his knees, ready to abandon everything.
He found the light switch, drowning the room in darkness and letting out the faintest sigh. For courage.
Her bed was cold, the sheets rustling quietly as he slid in, the last remnants of the verbal blow he was planning on delivering earlier stuck in his throat.
He couldn’t bring himself to, not when she was shaking like that, her body twitching uncontrollably just mere inches away.
“Natasha?”
She sensed the uncertainty in his voice. It was a question, a call, a scolding, a plea. Anything to elicit a reaction from her. She’d felt the mattress dip under his weight, a little shocked for she was sure he’d left already. She’d breathed in, trying to withhold the tremors, cold sweat trickling underneath her sweater. It hadn’t helped. If anything, it made it worse, the shudders taking over her entire being.
She’d known what she was getting herself into, well, she’d thought so. After all, no drug or vaccine or whatever you’d like to call it could do much damage to her system. Unfortunately, she had fallen victim to her own insolence, yet another of the Red Room’s poises turning out to be nothing but a lie.
It had started during dinner, the chilly evening air of Marseille slithering beneath her dress. Thankfully, Barton wasn’t talking to her, and neither was she, for the record, otherwise he would’ve sensed her stuttering. She’d stuck it out, all the way through dessert, barely poking the fork through her last cherry and secretly dreaming of a hot, steamy shower.
That hadn’t gone according to plan either. She’d had to scrape herself off the bathroom floor, her vision too blurry to even walk in a straight line. That’s how Clint had found her after he’d busted in, claiming to have forgotten his charger in her suitcase - desperately holding onto the sink in nothing but the hotel bathrobe, her hair a sticky mess she’d quickly thrown in a low bun to keep out her face.
She hadn’t cared in the moment, of course, the headache that had been creeping in for hours having finally settled. A dull pulsing hit between her eyebrows, so overpowering she’d barely felt his arm around her waist, dragging her to the bed.
She doubted he’d ever had to dress a woman, it was usually the opposite and she was usually the one doing it for him, too impatient for his stalling. She’d felt his reserve, the way he wouldn’t let his fingers hover, bitterly realizing no clothes would ever hold the heat his palms did, the same heat she was so desperately craving.
She’d been disappointed, much to her dislike, at the prospect of him leaving.
“I do want you,” her body had told her.
Yet, she couldn’t force the words to come out. She’d accepted that her pride cost her her pleasure.
His hand was slow, painstakingly so, his fingers tracing the curve of her hips before dipping at her midriff. It had taken her a while, getting used to his love language. What a cruel way to realize that same physicality was always weaponized for her. She’d thought it a joke, their very first night together, the way his arms had engulfed her sweaty torso, burrowing his face into her hair. She hadn’t dared move, pressed against his heart, listening as its fervor gradually died down. Was that how it was supposed to be? Had he really not been appalled, enough to make him turn his back, or worse, get up and leave? She’d always thought herself so very capable when it came to men. But then? It was her who lay disarmed, the taste of him still burned against her lips. Because he had kissed her, truly kissed her, deep and slow, and sensual, like he’d meant it.
She felt all of him now, closer, his breath against her ear as he moved onto her pillow. The tremors came and went, the steady rising of his chest grounding her after each one, soundless and reassuring. He hadn’t allowed himself to be this frivolous before, not during daytime, not when both of them were so soberly aware. Yet, his touch was earnest, far from accidental or in a sleepy haze. He wanted to be here. Hell, it just dawned on him what that damned feeling was. It was passion, pure, searing, raw passion, the type that tore you at the seams, the one that left you physically aching, disintegrating at the thought of them. He hadn’t allowed himself to dissect it before, Natasha was just his partner, in the field, and, occasionally, after hours. No strings attached. Yet, watching her with targets, feeling the empty spot on the bed next to him, that hit some place he never knew could hurt.
He feared overwhelming her. He feared coming off detached. So, he’d used the sex to convey whatever emotion, tip-toeing around her, around his own internal strife.
But now, when there was nothing left of her but the pain, the Black Widow was just human.
He squeezed tighter, a small smile pulling at his lips when their fingers weaved so close to her erratic heart.
“What?” the whisper was faint, almost drowned by the blood rushing up her neck.
“Hmm?”
“You’re smiling. What’s that about?”
“Am I not allowed to smile?”
She rolled around to face him, her pained groan dissolving in the air. Even in the darkness, her face was pale, the sharp line of her jaw too tempting for him not to trace.
“Nat,” he breathed her in, longingly, lips tenderly grazing over her cheekbone. The tears dripped salty on his tongue and it rattled him when she looked away, burying her face in his sleeve instead “Tell me where it hurts.”
Everywhere. The pain was everywhere, every inch unmade and marred. She wanted to scream, the fire behind her eyelids unbearable. Clint’s grasp, her desperately craved safe haven, was slipping away.
“Do you know where you are?”
She shook her head, the familiar sensation of her red locks missing, the hiss biting at her bare neck instead.
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
The chattering of chains was deafening, the pitch rising higher and higher until it was nothing but a scream. No, a chorus of screams, a blend of faces drowning in crimson.
“Wake up, Natalia. Your punishment’s arrived.”
She couldn’t move. No one was holding her down, but she couldn’t move. Panic began rising in her chest. Why was the room so dark? Where was Clint?
Something heavy and covered in liquid slithered on top of her chest, crushing her bones to dust. She was choking, a pair of hands twisting at her neck, her mouth pooling with blood.
“ Убийца. ”
Her scream was horrid, violent, and guttural, devoid of all that was human.
“Natasha,” Clint had to jump on top of her, pinning her wrists to the bed as she thrashed uncontrollably. The sheer panic, the pure unadulterated fear in her eyes, it terrified him “Natasha, calm down, it’s me. It’s okay, Nat, you’re okay.”
He knew that this was it. Whatever boundaries they’d previously set were no more.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he cradled her in his arms, her body limp and dripping with sweat, barely registering the fact she was no longer cold “You’re safe now. I promise. You’re safe.”
For six long hours he held her, tracing circles on her back, just him and her, fending off sleep together. She clung onto him with such fervor the two times he got up, once to get her water, and another, for a wet towel.
It was far from ideal, the chills, the nightmares, now the fever. The symptoms were piling up, and there was nothing he could do but watch, storing every little detail in his brain instead.
But they made it work. He told her stories of his crappy childhood, hoping to distract her, quietly humming the words with his fingers in her hair. She was jumpy, startled by the creaking of the pipes or the steps down the hallway, her nails digging deep into his flesh with each one, a series of faint apologies he just ended up kissing away.
She fell asleep with the break of dawn, her body finally exhausted enough to knock her out into a dreamless slumber.
It gave him time to think, about his life, about his place in hers.
That fateful night in Moscow, he’d thought it over, again and again, each time it being the only logical solution. He’d withdrawn his weapon, unable to erase the image of the little fighter girl, thrown into the middle of a predetermined war.
He’d felt her anger weigh her down then, savage and destructive, and most of all, defensive.
Now, he only felt her grief.
Clint stroked her cheek, amazed at the emotion it stirred up inside him. She had trusted him, Natasha Romanoff had trusted him to be her anchor.
“You look terrible,” she was sitting at the edge of the bed when he woke up, surfing through the same five tv channels, bored out of her mind “Sleep well?”
“You don’t look that great either. But yeah, I suppose.”
Clint hoisted himself up, rubbing his eyes, trying to comprehend the time of day. It had gone back to normal too soon, Natasha functioning as if none of last night had happened. He was glad, of course, relieved at the sight of colour gradually returning to her face.
“So,” she finally gave up on the tv, tossing the remote over to the armchair in the corner “We need to talk.”
“O-kay,” that whole spiel made him inexplicably nervous, although, yes, they did indeed need to do that “Can we do it over coffee, though?”
She winced when he pulled the curtains, the sunlight activating her migraine on command. Still, it was a nice warm day outside and she could definitely use the fresh air.
Natasha flopped into one of the chairs on their tiny balcony, European architecture and its charming nooks having significantly grown on her the past couple of months, relishing in the warmth of the midday sun. She couldn’t help but notice, the way it washed over her archer, the glow of his skin soft and golden. She passed a cup to her, the smell of caffeine enough to distract the headache for a little while.
“You really scared me last night. Do you want to talk about it?”
She knew he didn’t mean her fever, although, in the moment, it had seemed pretty terrible too. She felt a little odd, the fact that he was there to see it all disturbing and incomprehensible. If only she could single this one out and pray it would never return, but she knew better than to hope for the impossible.
“I- Sorry you had to witness that,” she took a sip, the liquid warm and pleasant in her throat. He gave her one of his skeptic looks then, it slowly evolving from being uncomfortable to confused, and finally settling on pitiful. Crap. “I didn’t mean to freak you out like that.”
“It’s okay. As long as you’re good, I don’t really mind.”
He swallowed, hard, sparing her the couple of sappy sentences he knew she would not appreciate. Looking up, he found her deep in thought, staring intently at the commotion on the street below. He lowered his drink, carefully calculating his next move.
“What did you want to talk about?”
Her head jerked in his direction, her emerald greens alive and sparkling.
“What are we, Clint?” she leaned over the table, tapping on the glass “I can’t ignore the shift any longer. It’s distracting, at the very least.”
“What do you want us to be?”
He took her hand then, his thumb brushing the soft skin of her palms. She squeezed back, already bested by his touch, locking eyes with him with nothing but the truth swimming inside.
“More.”