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“Ngh, Natasha?” Clint mumbles when he feels the bed shift, the warmth against his side vanishing and letting the cool night air hit his bare skin where the covers slide down.
Her hand runs through his hair, scratching at his scalp lightly and sliding down behind his ear in a soothing gesture, one that normally relaxes him back into sleep. James slides into the space vacated by her warmth, metal arm thrown over Clint's waist, heavy and comforting. He dozes off again, nuzzling his face against the hollow of James's throat, breathing in the gunpowder and metal scent of him which has become so familiar.
It's only when the door opens letting the draught in that they both stir, snapping awake because that isn't the door to the bathroom or the hallway, but the door to the balcony of their apartment in Stark Tower. James sits up, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed and Clint follows, reaching for his discarded t-shirt and grabbing James' instead, a little too long, a little tight around the shoulders.
James grasps the back of his neck gently for a moment, his flesh hand warm and calloused as he leans in to kiss Clint. Clint makes a pleased noise, returning the kiss lazily. “Balcony,” James says, pressing his fingers into one of the bruises they've left on Clint's neck, making it ache pleasantly.
“Yeah, I know,” Clint says, pushing himself to his feet and hissing at the chill.
James gives a soft laugh and nudges him before heading towards the balcony. Clint follows close behind, stretching to work out some of the stiffness in his back and shoulders because damn, they know how to work him over. Not that he's complaining, mind, not when he can see James doing the same, massaging the place where metal meets flesh.
Natasha is out on the balcony staring out over the city, the breeze tugging gently at her pyjamas; a faded t-shirt of James' and a pair of Clint's old sweatpants. They're too big for her, but it always warms him to see her wearing them. He can see the curl of smoke from a cigarette and she only ever smokes when something is bothering her, something that hits her deep and that can only ever be something to do with her past.
The two of them head out, falling into step with each other without thinking. James leans forward against the railing, staring out at the sky, tinged yellow from the lighting; it never truly goes dark in New York. Clint pushes himself up to sit on the same railing, utterly unconcerned by the dizzying drop below them, his knees brushing against Natasha's.
“I'm fine,” she says, not moving except to speak. “Go back to bed.”
“Natasha,” James begins and she stops him by slipping the cigarette between his lips, smirking at him for a moment. She drops her hands to the railing and Clint can see how white her knuckles turn where she grips it.
“We're awake now,” Clint says, shrugging his shoulders, his gaze slipping to James' lips where they wrap around the cigarette as he takes a drag.
Natasha gives him a sharp look, but he can see the shadows in her eyes. “You just got back from a mission where you were awake for seventy hours, Clint. You are not awake.”
James chuckles softly and passes the cigarette over to him. Clint smokes as little as Natasha, but he takes a drag now, watching the smoke be caught by the breeze. “Can't sleep. Barnes snores.”
“Fuck you, Barton,” James says dryly, eyes dancing with humour.
Clint gives a teasing wink. “And here I thought you'd remember last night. I know you're old but I thought your memory was better than this.”
James gives him a sour look. “Kids these days. I should take you over my lap and tan your hide.”
“Do you promise?” Clint says, tongue dipping out to tease his lips as he hands the cigarette back to Natasha.
She laughs softly, although it's strained and tired, and takes the cigarette from him, taking one last drag before she stubs it out against the railing and drops it over the side. “I'm fine,” she says quietly, and just the fact that she says it shows how very not fine she is.
James straightens up and nudges against her side, sliding his arm around her, slung low against her waist. “It's cold out here.”
“That's a low blow, James,” she says, giving him a dark look, because they know that James hates the cold, hates the reminder, although he can use winter to his advantage better than anyone Clint has ever known.
“I know,” James says, voice full of the affection that no-one but them ever gets to see. It works anyway and she lets them herd her back inside, James' arm still around her, Clint pressing up against her back.
Clint settles on the bed, pulling Natasha into his lap and resting his chin against her shoulder, hands resting lightly against her stomach. She sighs softly and takes one of his hands, brushing her lips against his scarred knuckles.
“Tea?” James says, looking between them.
Clint nods, and Natasha makes a soft noise of agreement. James squeezes her shoulder and heads into the kitchen. They can hear him moving around in there, the sound deliberate to put them at ease; they both know that he can be utterly silent when he wants to be.
They don't speak until James returns, passing them each a mug. Clint wraps his hands around his, letting the warmth soak into his fingers. No matter the joking, the cold does get into his joints, leaves them swollen and painful, and the heat is a blessed relief.
James climbs into bed with them, a line of warmth against Clint's side, sipping his own tea. The silence is comfortable but Clint can feel the tension which runs through Natasha's body, can see the way her hands tremble.
“I dreamed I was in the Red Room again,” she says eventually, closing her eyes and leaning back into their warmth. Neither of them speaks, unwilling to interrupt. Where Clint needs coaxing and James needs bullying, Natasha need silence and time to gather herself. “I dreamed that they took me apart, left me... unmade.” And Clint winces at the word, burying his face against her neck, reminding her and himself that they are whole and safe and together. On her other side, James, kisses her wrist, twining their fingers together.
“They made me kill you. Made me break you. Over and over again to prove my loyalty.” He voice remains steady, enough that anyone else might take it as being uncaring. They have never been anyone else.
“We're here, Natasha,” Clint murmurs against her neck. He slides his hands down the length of her arms until he can wrap his hands around hers, and James' settle over his. “We're both here.”
James tilts her head up to kiss her gently, almost chaste and she pulls away after a moment to bury her face against his shoulder, breath shuddering through her. James manoeuvres the covers over them and gets them laid down, the sounds of the city outside soothing background noise.
Clint hums softly as he gets comfortable, nonsense sounds that slowly shift into a simple melody, the Russian words coming easily to his lips.
There’s a green oak-tree by the shores
Of the blue bay; on a gold chain,
The cat, learned in the fable stories,
Walks round the tree in ceaseless strain:
Moves to the right – a song it groans,
Moves to the left – it tells a tale.
James gives him a smile, grateful and sad and slides an arm around them both as Clint continues to sing, his voice low and husky, and between them, Natasha slowly relaxes, the tension melting out of her.
And I there sat: I drank sweet mead,
Saw, near the sea, the green oak, growing,
Under it heard a cat, much-knowing,
Talking me its long stories’ set.
Having recalled one of its stories,
I’ll recite it to the world, glorious…
The words trail off when Clint feels her breathing even out, sleep claiming her once again. James strokes a hand down his shoulder, leans in to kiss him before closing his eyes. Clint twines a leg with Natasha's, presses his face against her hair and lets himself sleep.