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He heard the door open, then slam closed behind her. The sound of her heels hitting the far wall was a dead giveaway that her mission had taken a toll on her. Natasha was not one to throw her shoes around as they were one of her few indulgences. Her closet had a large number of designer names hung neatly on the shoe rack he built for her last Christmas.
From what he'd seen, heard, and read about Tony Stark, Clint knew the man would push Tasha’s buttons. She made a name for herself before SHIELD, killing men like Stark for information, money, and occasionally for kicks if they pissed her off.
Clint had been keeping tabs on her progress throughout her assignment, without her knowledge, of course. Natasha didn’t appreciate his more protective instincts as much when they were employed in spying on her. To be honest, he didn’t get much appreciation when they were geared toward keeping her alive, either. Unfortunately, whether she liked it or not, Clint had a vested interest in her safety that was unlikely to ever change.
A pitfall when one was in love with their partner, he found.
It took a great amount of restraint on his part not to hop on a carrier to Malibu after he found out about Stark’s epic failure of a birthday party. It’s not that he didn’t think she could handle herself, quite the opposite, really. Clint knew she could handle any situation, but that didn’t change the fact that he wanted to be there for her, to support her, and possibly put an arrow or two in Stark's ass if he tried to lay a finger on his partner. Clint knew firsthand just how alluring Natasha could be, and although rationally he couldn’t blame any man for wanting her, rationality rarely came into play when those men tried to hit on what was his.
He made himself comfortable on her spacious bed, knowing she would find him soon. Other men would fear for their lives about now. To be caught lounging in the Widow's web was a death sentence for most, but he had built up an immunity to her poison over the years, had come to crave it even. Clint had a healthy respect for her formidable skills, but never fear.
As expected, she found him seconds later. She paused at the door, and Clint couldn’t help the surge of male pride that shot straight down his spine at the look on her face. Two bottles of beer clutched in her hands, ruby lips poised to berate him for breaking into her apartment, frozen mid-motion, and her emerald eyes growing wide in appreciation before the shutters slammed shut. He would be lying if he said it didn’t hurt when she shut him out, though the years had taught him to expect as much.
Mentally shrugging off the sting he went back to admiring his most recent acquisition, stolen right from underneath Fury’s nose. The glossy photos before him were nothing compared to the original, although far less detrimental to his health.
Clint knew the exact moment Natasha realized just what he was looking at; her stance tensed, shoulders squared, and one of the beer bottles slammed down on the dresser with a crack. He did his best to suppress his smirk, really, he did.
“Where did you get those?” Each word was a silk-covered dagger aimed at his throat and thrown with precision enough to make him proud.
Clint’s lips pulled back of their own accord in what she had dubbed his ‘devil may care’ grin. “I have my ways,” he teased with a calculated wink, knowing it would rile her up.
Score! Alabaster cheeks flushed prettily in indignation.
Clint had undertaken his own super secret mission to break into Fury’s office a few weeks ago, the theme from Mission Impossible playing in his head the whole time. Which reminded him that he really needed to talk to Fury about upping his security; it was hardly comforting to know it had taken him less than two minutes to break into the Director of SHIELD's office, where all their personal information was stored.
“Besides, I was there the day these were taken, unless you’ve forgotten.” He glanced up from one of his favorite shots of her reclining on her stomach, one hand hugging a silk pillow and the other teasing her parted lips clad in nothing but a little black and white lace bra and panty set he selected, to meet her eyes in challenge.
For a second, she appeared to be lost in a haze of memories, too soon for his liking, she snapped back to reality, glaring down at him.
“Last I checked, you are the one with the eidetic memory and therefore you don’t need hard copies, Barton.” She reasoned, but he didn’t miss the subtle quiver in her voice or the way she took a swig of her beer to hide the slight tremble in her hands.
When Fury laid out her cover for Stark's evaluation, Clint had been more than a little upset. Although he was aware of what her job occasionally entailed and had covered her more than once while she seduced the target with both her words and body, he still wasn’t overly fond of the idea of some low-class photographer shooting her in next to nothing. His objections were made known, and after a very long night of arguing and way too much tequila, Natasha agreed to allow him to be present for the photo shoot.
He was quite proud of himself for winning that fight.
Upon arrival, they found that the set had already been set up, a selection of lingerie lined up for her perusal. Natasha, who was rather unaffected by the whole affair, went to change behind the screen without a word to the poor newbie that was volunteered to be the photographer.
Clint almost felt sorry for the guy when he all but swallowed his tongue as Natasha came sauntering out in a little green satin number minutes later. Almost, considering Clint was rendered speechless himself, but who could blame him with all his blood rushing south of the border. It was hardly fair to expect coherence while she stood there like a vision plucked straight out of his fantasies.
Thankfully, the young agent had enough sense to realize that the woman he was ogling could kill him in twenty different and very imaginative ways with only her pinkie finger. That and once he realized Clint was not only staying, but watching his every move, he kept his comments to a minimum and his eyes to himself as much as was possible under the circumstances. Clint gave him a solid B+ for effort.
Once the shoot was underway, Clint found a nest out of the way and settled in to enjoy the view. Over the course of their partnership, they had seen each other in various states of undress, but as he watched her from his perch on the scaffolding above, he realized that this was different. His typically caustic partner had never been making love to a camera with hooded eyes. It took all his considerable willpower to resist the urge to throw her over his shoulder, whisk her away, and have his way with her.
It hadn’t helped matters that Natasha repeatedly glanced his way between shots. Their combined gaze smoldered, igniting into something wholly not professional. Clint allowed himself to hope for a second that it meant something beyond friendship, but as the shoot came to a close, he felt her walls falling back into place. By the time she reemerged fully dressed, the moment was lost.
Reflex overrode thought, his hand shot out of its own accord catching the boot Natasha launched at his head, effectively bringing him back to the present. She huffed in annoyance before flouncing across the room, snatching the photos out of his hands, replacing them with a cold beer without missing a step.
He didn’t mind; copies were made and stashed away for safekeeping or lonely nights.
Taking a long pull of his beer, he listened to her move around in the bathroom, enjoying just being in the same room as her once more. His last mission kept him away for two months, and although they spoke frequently, the distance left him bereft.
“How was your day, dear?” He could practically feel her eyes roll at his comment. Years passed before Natasha adjusted to his brand of humor, and even longer before she responded.
“Let’s just say I’m glad to be back.”'
Clint angled his body toward her as she exited the bathroom, breath catching in his throat at the sight of her draped in his discarded shirt from earlier. He hoped she would find it, but he hadn’t been prepared for the possessive rush of testosterone that accompanied the sight.
Without a word, he lifted his arm, inviting her to join him. After a moment’s hesitation, she complied, crawling into his arms willingly.
He lived for moments like these, where he could wrap her in his embrace, hold her close without fear of a fight ensuing or offending her independent nature. Moments where the lines blurred and her ever-ready walls fell long enough for him to slip in.
Contrary to popular belief it wasn’t love at first sight on his part. Clint hadn’t saved her because he was a love-sick fool, as Fury accused him of being when he’d brought her into the fold against orders. He saw something in her that day, something that he recognized in himself every time he looked in a mirror. Killing her would have been paramount to admitting that he was beyond redemption; he hadn’t been ready to face that possibility just yet.
Love came much later for him. It took a year and a half before she stopped spitting at him like an angry cat every time they were in the field together and he disagreed with her ‘methods’. Even longer for her to trust him to have her back without question. Still, he didn’t see the shift until he was pacing the infirmary, waiting to hear if she would live or die.
An array of sights, sounds, and emotions assaulted his mind with harsh detail; he quickly calmed the storm, choosing instead to concentrate on the long strands of flaming hair wound around his fingers in tight ringlets. He loved the silky texture, but in truth, he preferred her with shorter hair. Like it had been when he’d met her. The shorter length suited her personality in his mind; the long mane reminded him of the temptress, not the fierce, determined woman that was his partner. The Widow and his Tasha were separate entities in his eyes.
“When do you have to leave?” She murmured into the hollows of his neck; he suppressed a very unmanly shudder at the sensation
“In a few hours.” He breathed into her sweet-smelling hair, hoping the scent would ease the ache at the thought of leaving her again so soon. He contented himself with drawing patterns across the smooth skin of her arms. Natalia, he traced in flowing script. Her given name and the one he reserved for his dreams.
“The orders came in this morning. Coulson’s found something in New Mexico that apparently demands my particular skill set to protect, or at least that’s the line of bullshit he’s spinning today.”
She nodded against his chest, her small fingers interlacing with his own longer digits in silent acknowledgment of his irritation at being sent to the middle of nowhere. But for all his aggravation, this was the life they had chosen and the cards they were dealt.
It didn’t stop him from wishing for something more.
“Fury’s given me a few days leave, but he’s shipping me off for an undercover op in Russia in three days.”
His heart skittered in his chest at the mention of her birthplace. Clint had half a mind to call Fury and tell him where he could shove his assignment, but he knew that wouldn’t help and Natasha would flay him for the effort.
“Natasha…”
“I know Clint. You don’t have to say it.” She sighed softly, and if she hugged his side a little closer and he pulled her in a little bit tighter, neither one of them mentioned it.
Be careful, he wanted to say. I love you, he wanted to say. All things that went unspoken between them.
This is where they lived, wedged between the lines. And if it was killing him slowly to hold her like this, but never have her, he didn’t mind.
Instead, he let the minutes tick by, listening to her quiet breaths, all the while trying to ignore the nagging feeling in his gut. The one that whispered that for better or worse, everything was about to change.
The End