So...this has been long overdue. A large bout of Clintasha feelings hit me over the past week; I wrote this story when I was out of internet and out of service, so this has been sitting idle on my computer for the past few days. I skimmed over the edits, so apologies if there's any I missed.
Enjoy!
"The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them." -Ernest Hemingway
He's nearly asleep, the quiet sounds of the pitter-patter of the rain dancing across the metal rooftop providing a rather decent soundtrack for the nighttime. His eyes are just fluttering shut, his body slowly loosening from it's tense state, when —
There's a rapid succession of knocks against wood and he's jerking awake, one hand slipping to grasp the Glock he keeps under his pillow, tightening his fingers around the handle and bracing himself. For what, he doesn't know, but when the knocks continue, each one growing ever more desperate, his ears become in tune with a pattern, one that he's known for over five years — one that he would know in his sleep.
"Nat," he murmurs, throwing the loose sheets off and stepping through the doorframe towards the nearly empty entryway of the apartment, weaving around furniture and nearly bolting there. He doesn't even have to look before he's sliding the deadbolt over and throwing open the metal door.
His partner's standing there; she's looking at him with those green eyes of hers and a rather unnaturally pale face. He sweeps his eyes over his skinny frame. She's lost a lot of weight, he notices, but that's not all — she's got one hand clenched on her right side, with a scarlet pattern blooming around it.
"Hey," she whispers, voice low and soft. All of his senses immediately go on alert: something's wrong. He reaches for her almost on instinct, stepping closer and brushing her fingers aside.
There's something wrong alright; she's breathing too heavily and the blood staining her loose tee seems to be getting larger by the second. He draws her in, putting one arm around her hip and the other pressed against her side.
She doesn't protest, unlike she would usually; instead of commenting, he keeps his voice silenced and helps her towards the couch. He slams the door shut with his foot and they're a few feet from the piece of furniture when it all goes wrong — she sways, only slightly, but it's enough for him to stop in alarm. His mouth is parted to ask what's wrong when in an instant all of her weight is on him.
He barely catches her, one hand jerking down to slip underneath her thighs and the other catching her upper arm; her eyes are closed as he moves one thumb up to the side of her neck to feel her pulse. It flutters under his touch, and he counts the beats in his mind, forcing himself to stay calm.
But it's hard; this is his partner, the woman he'd trusted his life with ever since he saved her in that fateful day in Budapest. This was the talented redhead who fully helped him develop his hand to hand combats skills, the woman that he'd —
He shakes his head. No. Now is not the time.
She moans. It's faint but it's there, bringing a flash of relief to his mind. Her eyes shoot open and she gasps, her hand flying to her side. He carries her to the couch, setting her there gently. Just as he turns to grab the medical kit he keeps underneath his bed, a tight grip on his upper arm appears.
He turns. Her eyes are wide and she's breathing heavily, but it's only slightly better then before, he notices.
"Clint," she hisses against the pain. "I'm here — here to warn you. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s gone; Fury's underground and—" she stops, squeezing her eyes shut.
He kneels down beside her, whispering, "I know, Natasha. You were on the news, you know."
She laughs; it's low and harsh and she swears immediately after it, throwing her head back. "I've been looking for you for weeks, you jackass," she hisses. He chuckles, moving to brush his fingers over her forehead. Immediately though, his smile drops.
"Tasha, you're burning up," he hisses. "What — what've you been doing?"
Her head jerks up, green eyes meeting his. She leans towards him, brining the hand not pressed up against her wound to his cheek, rubbing it slowly with her thumb. She leans in, sliding her lips carefully over his.
He kisses her back, slowly, gently, and carefully, one of his hands dropping from her forehead to cradle the back of her neck, slanting his lips for a better angle. Her tongue slips over her bottom lip and he nearly looses it; but then his mind flashes to her wound and he pulls away, a worried expression taking over.
"You're hurt," he hisses. "Don't distract me."
She smirks; it's a weak one though and she winces after it. "I just need to rest," she tells him.
He raises his eyebrows. "Nat," he whispers. "Don't lie to me."
She draws her bottom lip between her teeth. "My stitches tore," she reveals, and he swears. They've both had their fare share of torn stitches over the years, but she seems weak. Weaker than she should be.
He drops a light kiss to her forehead then, getting up from where he was kneeling. He whispers, "Stay here, мой огненный паук." He's only gone for a moment, but when he returns with supplies in hand, her head is thrown back against the sofa and her eyes are closed.
He patches her up, quickly and making it as painless as possible, but she speaks harshly in several languages that make him believe — no, he knows — that she's swearing. But it's over within a half-hour, and her breathing has evened out enough that he relaxes. Only barely though, because he's forever worried when it comes to her.
He's never been compromised like this, and he knows it.
It's dangerous.
But instead, he pushes away the thoughts yet again; that was another conversation for another day. He pushes the supplies away onto the glass table before drawing two blankets from one of the upper cabinets — one for her, one for him. His bare feet are quiet as he steps across the floor, draping a blanket over her limp form. She latches onto the fabric like a child holds their favorite toy, clutching her fingers around one corner and pulling it close to her.
He leans down, slanting a slight kiss over her lips. She responds barely, but when he pulls back she's already mostly asleep.
"Thank you, мой ястреб," she murmurs, her eyes flickering shut.
He watches her for a few moments, comforted by the fact that she's able to fall asleep in his presence without any sort of weapon. Though, he realizes with a slight smile, she's probably got four knifes hidden on her person at this moment.
But, he thinks as he watches her sleep, she looks like a child.
He eventually draws himself into a chair in the corner, wrapping the other blanket around himself and used his arm as a head rest. Sleep pulls him in, the raindrops slipping around on the roof.
When he wakes, she's not there; he jerks up, the fabric falling off his person. Before he has a chance to freak out however, the sharp smell of something coming from the kitchen reaches his senses. He relaxes then, stepping around the couch and into the small kitchen to his left.
He nearly swears when he sees her dressed in little more than a sports bra and a pair of his boxers; she swivels her head to the side when he appears, leaning against the doorframe. Her eyes meet his and she smiles, pausing from where she's flipping what looks like pancakes in the pan.
"Morning," she murmurs, quirking an eyebrow. "How'd you sleep?"
He rolls his head, hearing a sharp crack. "Alright," he quietly says back. "You?"
There's a sizzling as she flips one of them, revealing the dark underbelly of a rather well-done batch. "Fine," she says. "Considering I nearly bled on your couch, I'd say I'm doing okay."
His vision jerks down to the large white patch covering the space just below her right ribs; without warning he's stepping towards her, reaching her form within a few steps — the area was rather small, after all — and brushing his fingers over her ribcage and down, touching the wounded area.
She doesn't tense like he had expected her to. Instead she doesn't quite tense as he wraps his arms around her, tucking his head into the crook of her neck.
He places gentle kisses there, whispering, "I missed you, Tasha."
She takes a deep, shuddering breath. "I missed you too."
There's the sound of metal against the counter before she's turning in his arms, slipping her hands around his neck and giving him a good, proper kiss. His fingers grip her waist as he tastes her lips, slowly and carefully, relishing it. He hasn't seen her in months, not since she and Rodgers became the face of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s most wanted.
He's missed her, and she knows it.
He pulls away after a few moments, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of her mouth before quirking the corner of his lips into a soft smile.
"Tasha," he says after a bit. "What's next?"
She smiles back; it's a tired smile, both full of surprising warmth and carelessness all at once. "I say it's high time we took a vacation," she announces. "We haven't had one in years."
He nods, hands loosening on her hips, settling there just lightly. "I'll say," he teases. "The last time we had a break was — I can't even remember."
She leans forward to kiss him again, lips slanting over his.
Of course, it's that exact moment that Stark chooses to comes through the ceiling.
So...what'd you think?