Then you found it wasn't you...
There was pain and confusion at first. Lights, maybe?
The voice, the presence, really, was gone. It was like a weight had been lifted, a lightness behind his eyes that seemed unsettling after the heaviness that had been there for so long. Yes - pain and confusion.
Who was he? Who had he been?
There were flashes of different times, places - faces. One floated to the surface to match the voice that had softly drifted to his ears, speaking a name, "Barton," - his name, he realized. Fingertips to fingers to palms. From the palms to slender wrists that are stronger than they appear, then up the supple and firm muscle of the forearm to elbows. Elbows to biceps to shoulders - shoulder that do not show the weight that they bear. The curve of the shoulders to a beautifully sculpted neck that supports a fiercely beautiful face that is framed by a shock of red hair that bounces in all the right ways. The face was beyond pretty really, and there was a tugging in his chest to the face. He allowed his eyes to open, his confusion coming out as grunts and moans.
The woman that had floated in his mind was there. She spoke again.
"Barton." A pause. "Clint."
And who he was started to flood back in, the gates opened by this woman - Natasha - but who he had been lately was nothing but a big black hole. He grunted this confusion, too.
The missing weight. Loki.
Things blurred for a moment, a conversation happening outside of himself, and when he finally became fully away, he looked at his partner.
"Why am I back? How did you get him out?"
"Cognitive recalibration. I hit you hard in the head."
Pride.
"Thanks."
He was starting to feel more like himself.
We're insane but not alone...
He was himself. The heat of battle, enemies swirling about him, his bow humming as he loosed a multitude of arrows.
She had said it was like Budapest. He thought this was like a fucking science fiction story.
And then, as if on cue, she flew past on one of those...alien things, knives plunged into the shoulder blades – what he assumed were shoulder blades – of one of the aliens, steering the damn thing with the alien. There was that pride again, and then reality hit him.
"Nat, what are you doing?"
He shot one of them without really thinking. In the moment, he took in the scene around him.
Bruce (no, Hulk) was jumping building to building, crushing the creatures in his fists. Thor stood at the top of the Empire State Building, shooting lighting through his hammer at the portal open in the sky. Tony had flown by more than once in a suit made of, shit, he didn't even know what it was made of. And Steve was wearing the flag and standing for everything that it stood for.
Maybe this was him going crazy.
All he could think about was putting an arrow through a demigod's eye.
Like the sun we will live to rise...
He had found an arrow, one last one that he had aimed at the bastard's head. Behind him, the others were ready. Loki didn't have it in him to look up, and it only angered him more.
Thor took over at that time, moving in and restraining his brother – adopted brother.
And then things came crashing down, as they always did after a fight. The muscles twitch after an adrenaline rush, waiting for more, and when it doesn't come, there is confusion on the muscles' part. He took a breath, deep and shuddering, as he watched passively.
He was aware of the presence. That face, those arms and legs, they were with him, silent and strong.
In the moment, he wanted to hug her, celebrate surviving one more day, but that was just a silly notion. Where did he begin and the other he end? Which one wanted to do that?
The choice is not his. She offered what she could in the moment – a hand on the shoulder. Her hand leaves a searing mark on his arm, unseen, not a scar that he can see, but it is there. As she passed by, she turned a fraction of an inch, and the look in her eye was one that made all of the promises that other whisper in the dark. He swallowed.
This was who he was.
Can I still count on you as a friend...
The group sat in the shattered remains of the shop that Tony had requested in his post-atmo-fall state. He was convinced that the decision was regretted, but Tony was stubborn and unwilling to back down.
And slaying hundreds of alien creatures worked up one hell of an appetite, he had to admit.
Those shoulders again, sliding down in perfect curvature to a slim waist then to rounded and strong hips. Those hips pooled into muscular thighs, down to a pair of knees, slim calves and ankles, and feet that could kick harder than a mule. He took a breath and propped his leg on the chair those legs were gracing.
The familiarity of experience – Budapest – allowed for this ease, and he felt those pieces falling more into place.
And ignite again...
Her tongue tastes like the blunt spices of middle eastern food, left over from their earlier meal. It doesn't bother him. It only serves as a reminder of the day, and he gets hard, thinking about the rush of the battle and the inherent, human joy of being alive to fight another one.
She breathes his name, and his fingers press into one of those parts that he had remembered when he became himself again, though he doesn't care which part it is. She dips from view before him, and as he feels her lips wrap around his erection, he ponders the meaning of a word that's been thrown around lately – compromised. If this was weakness, then he welcomed it with open arms, his head leaning back, teeth gritting with the intensity of his desire.
Tenderness is beyond them. They are friends, lovers, partners, anything that fits at the moment. Right now they are humans looking for affirmation.
She is finishing him off now, and it feels so damn good, but he wants more, and she knows it doesn't take long for him to be ready. She is walking through the darkness to the bedroom, and he follows because he always will.
She bends over the edge of the bed and looks back at him as he steps up and slides between her moist lips, already hard again. This is how she likes it, he remembers. So does he. Thighs to hips to spine. Her spine stretches before him, arched in the throes of her own passion. His hand traces the muscle and bone beneath her skin. Back to neck to shoulders.
And, oh, yes, there. He finds himself again, just long enough to lose himself again, too.
He pulls out, then, and she falls, content, onto the bed, turning onto her side and motioning for him to join her, which he does. His identity is confirmed, solid. He is he, and she is she, and they are they, and she is beautiful in the afterglow.
She wipes a stray hair from her face, "How do you feel?"
He grins, "Compromised."