I know I said I wouldn't write for a while, but I couldn't stop this one.
Notes: Whatever you recognize, I don't own. I am not a Marvel universe aficionado, so what I know of Black Widow & Hawkeye is what's presented in the film(s). So if I completely go against the comic cannon, I do apologize and hope it doesn't offend too much. And searching out Jeremy Renner/Clint Barton's eye color yielded strangely indeterminate, conflicting results.
All that being said, thanks and I hope you enjoy!
xxx
"This is just like Budapest all over again."
"You and I remember Budapest very differently."
She didn't have time to think about it then. Flying bullets and advancing enemies don't allow you much time to think. But even then, and still now, his answer surprised her.
Budapest. An op gone south. Pinned down in a firefight. It had been harrowing for them both. They had tried to deny it at first—how much it had shaken them—but there was no sense in denying it now. They had both moved on.
Her eyes flickered towards the debriefing room, imaging the discussion within. He would need someone when Fury got done with him. Not that he would ever admit it. But then again, she'd always been able to read him better than he would like. A small, private smile quirked the corner of her lips.
Maybe that's why his answer surprised her. It was rare for him to make jokes at all, let alone in the middle of an op. Let alone defending New York and the world from an alien invasion. It still sounds bizarre for her to say.
"This is nothing we were ever trained for."
Damn straight. Never had she spoken truer words. Not even to him.
Again she glanced at the solid door, almost wanting to be in there with him. They were a team. They did things together. But this time was different.
He had been compromised by the enemy. Beyond her reach, beyond her help. Well, at least until he got in range of her fist. "Cognitive recalibration." She'd have to remember that one.
Again her lips lifted in an attempt of a smile. He'd come more back to himself as time passed in the wake after breaking Loki's spell. Maybe she could blame the whole episode for his unexpected response during the fight.
But maybe not. Maybe he was referring to something else. Maybe he'd chosen to forget all the bad and remember the good. She only had good memories of Budapest simply because it was their first. The first time they had fallen into each other in the wake of an op. Never before had she been so affected by a job. That's all it was—a simple fucking job. But not so simple. He understood, and they saved each other that night.
And several more after that. Always a silent understanding, a need to feel alive and in tune with another. She certainly wouldn't go so far as to say they made love, nor did they just fuck, but it wasn't just having sex. It was just simply a connection. Albeit, a connection with mind blowing, euphoric results.
But after all this, would he still welcome her? Would guilt cloud his mind and cause him to push her away? He was a dangerous man to corner if he didn't want to be cornered. She would have to risk it. He will need someone after all this. And there was no one better.
The heavy door handle opened with the hiss of hydraulic hinges, admitting his familiar, whipcord form. His face was set in hard, impassive lines; his gray eyes ablaze; his shoulders stiff with tension. She hadn't expected anything different.
"Are you next?" His words were clipped, voice laced with disdain as he spared her a sideways glance.
"No." She quickly answered, watching him continue down the hallway.
"You waited?" He didn't need to voice the rest of the question. They both knew she had waited for him. He was glad to see her, even if he didn't voice the sentiment.
"We both need a drink." She rose from the uncomfortable lobby couch.
"Way ahead of you." He pulled his keys swiftly from his pocket with a jingle as he kept walking, feeling her fall into step beside him.
But that was then. This is now.
She stares up at the familiar façade of his loft building, his unconvincing "sorry, force of habit" apology dying in her ears. She offers him a small smile and a few placating words. It really is no problem to be here. He's always been more comfortable in his own environment.
His loft is on the top floor. His own little nest, high above predators, that overlooks the city with a decent vantage point. But if he's being completely honest, it's the old, exterior, iron wrought fire escape he loves the most. It's the best perch—the best place to sit and watch. He has always liked being able to see.
He sits on the first few stairs up from his loft's landing, knees tucked to his chest, body coiled in tight lines as his eyes take in the familiar setting around him. She sips from her highball, legs stretched out on the landing as she leans back against the iron railing. She likes it up here too. She always has.
He brings his highball to his lips, taking quick pull of the clear liquid within. He only keeps premium Russian vodka for her. She's never told him how much she appreciates it. They both drink it neat which keeps it easy.
She watches him as he sits relatively unmoving. His mind has to be working a million miles an hour, though nothing in his body gives away his torrent of thoughts. But spies and assassins are good at keeping to themselves, especially snipers.
Silence has always been easy between them. Words are spoken when needed, but a lot more can be said without them. She sips again from her drink, and it almost tastes better than before. Her head tilts up to take in the night sky. It's not entirely impossible to see stars, but she has to look hard. The street is pretty dark around them with just a few street lights here and there. She's grateful for her light jacket against the breeze, almost wishing she'd left her shoes on. But he seems unfazed in his matching bare feet, dark wash jeans and dove gray t-shirt that does flattering things to his torso and arms.
"This reminds me of Alicante." She dares to break the silence, her voice husky from recent disuse.
"The view's not as good." He casually returns, his eyes still on the city before them.
"Not enough stars." She concedes disappointedly.
"The lights on the water were distracting." She breathes a silent laugh.
"But they were still pretty." She looks down to her drink with something of a sad smile. She's not usually so sentimental. She blames the alcohol.
"First Budapest, now Alicante," his voice is soft, heavy, "what's bothering you?" His asks, equal parts serious and annoyed. She steadily holds his gaze, watching his body unfold, long legs stretching out to rest his feet against the landing.
"This isn't about me." She smoothly answers. "We've been through a lot together. There's a lot to remember."
"Should I be worried that aliens and magic tricks make you nostalgic?"
"That wasn't what I meant when I mentioned Budapest." She defends, wanting to reach out and touch him. But he's an assassin. They both know not to touch each other unless invited.
"It was still surprising," he comments with a faint shake of his head, taking a sip of vodka. "Budapest was a hell of an op for us both. Hardly a victory. Unlike last week."
"You know what I meant—being surrounded, outgunned." She doesn't voice the rest. It's an op they would both love to forget but remember forever. His eyes drop to the highball in his hand before tilting his head back and draining its contents. His body reclines further against the stairs, leaning back to prop against an elbow, his lean torso stretching out to match his legs. It's a privilege few are granted, but it's always a mouthwatering sight to watch Clint Barton relax.
"I guess anywhere they send us next won't quite compare." A smile teases her lips as she glances aimlessly about.
"What do you do after you save the world?" She muses softly, amusedly.
"Go right on saving it, if Fury has his way." Tension laced his words, his eyes sharpening in displeasure.
"I can imagine what he told you." Her voice matches his seriousness, eyes locking.
"He told me what you couldn't." He says softly, his voice suddenly tight, closed off.
"Tasha, how many agents?"
"Don't. Don't do that to yourself, Clint."
"What I wouldn't tell you," she corrects with conviction, "you don't need that kind of guilt. You weren't in control."
"You didn't think I can handle it? Apparently Fury disagrees."
"Fury's a right bastard sometimes." There. She said it. The man knew his business, but he wasn't above deception and under the table dealings if the situation called for it. She knows just why Fury would have told Barton the truth. But she'd be damned if it was any fault of his own for falling under Loki's spell.
"You worry about me far too much." He almost sounds disappointed, except for a strangely appreciatively undercurrent.
"Is that not what teammates do?" She questions, her brow furrowing. "Look out for each other."
"Looking out and worrying are two different things." His voice drops to a seldom heard gentle tone, a slight smile lifting the corner of his mouth. She recognizes it immediately, unable to stop an answering smile of her own.
"If not for Budapest, looking out may never have grown into worry." Her heart starts to race on her words, fully aware that it may be the most personal admission she'd ever voiced to him. Even he seems taken aback by it. But he's not able to deny her words.
That night is just as vivid to him as well. Smooth skin damp with sweat, bodies tangled, high on the thrill of first time discovery. No other time had quite lived up to the rush, the feeling, the desperation of their first night. A jolt shoots unbidden through his groin at the memory.
She turns from him at length to glance out over the city, absently raising her highball, following his lead to down the rest. God, it's good. She really should tell him how much she likes it. Or would that be saying too much? She refuses to jeopardize anything that they have. Life is notoriously short for assassins, and she would keep all that she could get until that fateful day.
He reaches forward with his foot, brushing his toes lightly along the outside of her foot. She shivers at the contact, a wave of affection, loss, relief swelling in her chest as she returns his tentative touch. She can't help but turn back to face him, noting a similar mix of emotions etched in his handsome face. It's all the invitation they need.
He abandons the highball on the nearest step, surging forward off the stairs to straddle her extended legs. He holds his weight in his lower legs as he moves up her body, lips fitting effortlessly together. Her lips yield and match to his for each caress, each nibble. His mouth falls open to hers, tongues teasing, devouring. He tastes of vodka and something distantly spicy. The combination heats her blood, liquid heat pooling in her core, wanting so much more.
He presses his hips more into her soft body, letting her feel his arousal stirring to life. She whimpers at the contact, her body eager to rise to his, limited by his position confining her. She doesn't want to be separated from him, she only wants him closer, but this won't work.
She realizes her hands are gripping his solid forearms, raising one to his chest, gently pushing him backwards. His eyes are blown wide with arousal matching hers, both panting for breath, lips swollen from the other's attentions. Wickedly she slides her hand down his taught torso, skimming the familiar muscles until she traces the hard, bulging outline in the front of his jeans. A feral groan rumbles in his throat as she teases with up and down strokes, hoping to convey her point.
He pulls back, instantly springing to his feet, her following suit. It's an easy crawl through the window back into the dim interior of his loft. No heat is lost between them as their bodies fit together, lips crashing together. Hands tear at clothing—she's lost her shirt, his jeans' button is undone, the clasp of her bra snaps.
The dark linens adorning his bed are cool to her heated skin as she falls against it, welcoming his solid body atop hers. This is all she's wanted since she saw him in the helicarrier's medical bay—him, just him, moving inside her, making her feel.
His lips and tongue blaze a trail across her skin, knowing just where to strike. Her breathing catches in whimpers and gasps, her hips desperately rolling into him. His mouth closes around a supple breast, tasting her, drowning in her scent. She can't keep her hands off him, tracing over scars, new and old, lingering on the solidly defined bulk of his arms. She's always had a thing for his biceps. He coaxes her hips to rise, sliding down her last piece of clothing separating him from what he wants most.
His archery calloused fingers are dangerous, exhilarating, mind numbing against her wet, hot folds. She writhes beneath him, gladly giving him full control of her body. His erection ruts against her thigh, pushed to his limit by her gasps and moans. He doesn't want to wait any longer.
He tears off his boxers, shifting himself between her legs in the same movement. She instinctively spreads her legs wider for him, her chest heaving beneath him. He meets no resistance as he pushes in, slow and steady, not pausing as he buries himself as deep as he can go. He knows this is how she likes it. She gasps in mild discomfort, in exquisite pleasure as he fills her, stretches her, completes her. This is how she likes it.
Lips brush, teeth scrape as hips begin to move. Her back arches to better meet his thrusts, to find that perfect spot. A garbled symphony of curses, grunts, moans fill the room as their bodies move. She consumes him, her beauty, her strength overwhelming him as he pushes them both towards the release they so desperately crave. Her nails rake his back, her mind short-circuiting with each thrust that tightens her walls around him. Her breathing stutters in telltale warning before a gasping scream tears from her lips, convulsing around him, hot and tight, to drag him down with her. A guttural groan racks his body as waves of glorious release shoot down his spine, pouring himself into her.
They are both slick with sweat, overheated from their exertions. Neither wants to move. Their chests heave, pressing tightly together, lips meeting in a series of short, satisfied kisses.
"I thought I lost you." She whispers, as if afraid to break whatever existed between them. His gray eyes have never held her so tenderly.
"You brought me back." He reaffirms, his voice equally as unsure. He takes her hand in his, raising it to card through his hair, ghosting over the remains of a knob from their fight on the helicarrier. She can't stop the fully realized smile that grows across her face, basking in the euphoric glow from his body as she claims his lips, never wanting this to end.
She doesn't know if she should say it. Even he seems to agree. But they don't need to. Words are spoken when needed, but a lot more can be said without them.
It's said in the touch of their hands, the press of their bodies, the intensity in their eyes, the tandem pounding of their hearts.
I love you.