AN I don't own Avengers/Marvel or any of its characters! Clintasha fluff!
They had a routine for after an assignment went bad and no one knew what it entailed but then again no one needed to. Natasha was just fine with it being their secret. When the rest of the agency saw them walk into one of their room assignments together, they all whispered and jumped to conclusions. Braver ones said they were fucking each other's brains out because violence and bloodshed was foreplay to them. Ones who knew them better guessed that they were drinking, trying to forget. Coulson secretly thought that they simply snuck off to go to sleep because he knew how bad the nightmares used to torment Clint and he could guess she got them too, if not worse. But what really happened after that door closed behind them and locked with it's signature little beep was something only they shared and Natasha loved it.
Kathmandu had been bad this time. Every muscle in her body felt like it'd been strained and Clint still had Nepali blood dried on his skin. Coulson had tried to get him to shower as soon as they got back, before briefing Fury, but Clint had refused, only wiping the blood of his face that he could in a bathroom sink. He was waiting for her, she thought. It made her smile, even as her body screamed in protest at the movement. Currently, he was rifling through her bag for advil-popping six and handing her the bottle. She followed suit.
As she pulled the sari off her head, she felt it catch and hissed when she realized it had stuck to her skin with the dried blood. On three, she yanked it free and felt a couple drops of fresh blood trickle down the side of her face. Clint would hate her for that, she already knew. He hated seeing any injury on her, usually, if it was from a fight they hadn't fought together but he hated clearly bleeding ones even more. If he'd been there, on the ground with her, he wouldn't have minded. It was when he wasn't there-when he was trapped in some shitty motel room or on some rooftop taking surveillance orders from shield-when he knew he could have lessened the injury if he'd been there with her that rubbed him the wrong way. She'd told him a hundred times she was fine but he never seemed to care. Even if he just turned her two broken ribs into one or a broken wrist into a sprain, he would have been satisfied. It was not being there that killed him.
But she couldn't very well continue with their routine with the sari still on, so he would have to deal. He would live. Truth be told, though, she'd kept it on to keep him from seeing any more injuries before they were alone. She shrugged and folded the material before placing it in the laundry basket. Clint's clothes were already there, folded and waiting. Coulson would come by soon to collect it and whisk it away to the agency laundry department that specialized in getting human bodily fluids out of designer leather boots. How long had his clothes been there, though? She didn't remember seeing him undress or even walk past her. But he had a way of existing that put her at ease and made her not notice the little things as much so she shrugged it off.
Suddenly, she heard the sound of the shower being turned on. A smile didn't touch her lips-not with so much of her body still complaining from the last time she moved her facial muscles-but it made her chest a little lighter. Off went the shirt and the leggings and soon she'd stripped down to nothing. The sound of the shower began to vary, telling her he was already inside, and she mustered up the strength to walk that way.
Inside the bathroom, she was hit with a cloud of steam. It almost made her cough-almost-but she recovered, closing the door behind her. Without a word, she joined him.
"Was beginning to think you weren't coming." He flashed her a tiny smile, just a little fragment of what it should have been, but she rolled her eyes at him. After a second, he stepped aside to let her under the water. Already, the water at the bottom of the shower was a sickly shade of reddish orange from all the blood washing off of them but, thankfully, this time it mostly wasn't theirs.
His fingers brushed her shoulder, and she paused. They didn't really talk much during these times but that didn't mean they didn't communicate, and she got the message. With one hand still resting on her arm, he pulled her back before she could duck under the spray. He'd noticed the fresh blood.
"Yours?" She didn't say yes but her silence was answer enough and he frowned. That same, horrible weight settled into his features and she shook her head at it, trying to stop him, but he was already off. He pulled away, leaving her shockingly cold in the air. One hand raised, he signed to her: I'm sorry. Instantly, she was hugging him as tightly as her throbbing limbs would allow and he pressed his face into her hair, ignoring when it smeared blood on his cheek. She didn't want him to apologize, ever, but he always did. Never out loud and always signed but that almost made it worse because it was so much more intimate. A few tears slipped out but disappeared in the shower's spray. He wasn't sorry that she'd gotten hurt, he was sorry that he hadn't been there to fight and to take half the hits in her place.
She shook her head when she felt his shoulders shake. Crying wasn't new to them but it wasn't the soft, trembling sobs that she hated it was the guilt behind them. But this was the routine. So, she bit back whatever she wanted to say to him because she knew he wouldn't hear her and she pulled them both back into the water. They stood there, tangled together, until the water beneath them ran clear.
Slowly, she eased herself away from him just long enough to grab the bar of soap and the bottle of shampoo, holding them out to him. He chose the shampoo, undoubtedly thinking of the blood he'd seen. She didn't say a word, though. That was the rule, unspoken or not, so she merely took her bar of soap and began to slide it against his skin. First his chest, grazing the edges of a few cuts. Then, gliding as light as air over the sea of bruises that littered his back. As she worked, she tilted her head and let it rest against his chest to give him better access as he massaged the shampoo into her scalp. It hurt like hell and she cried but neither of them could tell. He teased the edges of the head wound, working the dirt out of it even when she grit her teeth and even when she pressed too hard on a sore muscle.
She could have stopped running the bar of soap over his skin a long time ago. She'd thoroughly scrubbed everywhere from the backs of his knees to behind his ears at least twice but she kept going, repeating the motion, until she felt his hands untangle from her hair. Gently, he took her chin between his forefinger and thumb and lifted it. Her signal to rinse. Slowly, she let him tilt her head back into the water, using his hand to keep it from running into her eyes. Her jaw clenched whenever the spray hit the gash straight on but his hand didn't direct her elsewhere so she stayed still, letting it wash out the soap and the dirt.
After a minute, he tilted her head to one side and then the other. His fingers combed through her hair and gently massaged, making sure all the shampoo got rinsed out, but he drew it out. She was practically melting into him at the soft little touches. Something about feeling clean for the first time in weeks mixed with the sensation of his hands so carefully taking care of her made her lean into him for support. He gave it though, without question.
When it was his turn, he handed over the shampoo and traded her for the bar of soap. He could have started anywhere on her body but he was taller than her and the routine accounted for that, too, as he kneeled to reach her legs. She poured shampoo into her hands, cool against the heat from the shower. He nuzzled into her touch the second she carded a hand through his hair, but she almost missed it because he was currently massaging and scrubbing her inner thigh.
Two taps on her heel and she lifted her foot. The bar of soap slid against her toes, followed quickly by his fingers, and she had to grab his shoulders to steady herself. It was silent, but she felt him smile. He'd always liked when she leaned on him, but he loved it even more when he was the one who put her off balance in the first place. Son of a-he was lucky that she liked him. Otherwise, the sensation of his nose nuzzling in and pressing against her crotch would have been met with a swift kick in the face.
He didn't make it sexual, though, even if he surprised her. Maybe later, once they'd slept off the adrenaline crash and eased back into their playful banter, but not now. Sex wasn't part of the routine. Instead, he stood, forcing her to reach up for his hair, and turned back to duck his head under the water. She let him rinse his hair himself, but stepped up behind him and dug her thumbs into the base of his spine as he did. He almost fell, catching himself with a hand against the tile. Served him right for turning his back to her.
She kept going, massaging up along his spine and under his shoulder blade until he was shaking beneath her touch from exhaustion. His hand found hers and held it, stopping her. He turned to face her with a little smile and guided her under the water with him so he could wash the now dried soap from her skin. Her gut said he would try for payback but she wasn't sure she minded, really. The feeling of his hands on her skin in such a tender, affectionate way wasn't something she could ever mind.
Sure enough, he began to massage her shoulders. Then, he moved up to her neck and kept at it until she let her head fall back against his shoulder. When she was officially at his mercy, he planted a single little kiss on her cheek and turned off the water. He stepped out, dried himself, and held out a towel. She'd been planning to take control tonight, to make him let her take care of him, but it was just so easy to let him wrap her in the cloth and dry her skin. Just like the shower, they traded off and she dried his back while he dried her hair. He taped a piece of gauze over the slashes in her hip; she put a few butterfly closures over the cuts on his cheek. It was easy to lose herself in the familiar rhythm of it all. She wanted to, she realized.
Still without saying a word, he took her hand and led her over to the twin bed with agency regulation sheets and one pillow. But neither of them really cared-it wasn't cold enough to need blankets and only he needed a pillow because she always curled in so tightly around him he became hers. It was all agency regulation, anyways. She couldn't even remember whose room they'd slipped into anymore, but they were all identical anyways. Interchangeable.
He lay back on the bed with a groan, scooting to give her room between him and the wall, but she shook her head. Good thing he was pretty. His eyes squinted at her but she grabbed the two water bottles from the dresser and he was suddenly a little less skeptical. Both were empty in a matter of seconds.
With that settled, she finally let him lay back on the bed in peace and took her place beside him. She curled into him, like usual, until she felt his heartbeat against her cheek and the rise and fall of his chest beneath her head. Her reassurance that he was okay. Beneath her, she felt him shift and wiggle to free one of his hands. He wrapped one arm around her waist, avoiding the gauze pad, and brought his other hand up to slip beneath her hair, cupping the back of her neck. It made her less vulnerable, he thought, but it also let him feel her heartbeat in his palm. His reassurance that she was alive and safe in his arms.
"I love you," he whispered against her ear, trying for the last part of their routine.
"I love you too." And that, she thought, was what let them both fall quickly into the grip of sleep, never loosening their hold on one another. Sometimes, life was shitty. A lot of the time, they both got hurt and gained a nightmare or two from it. But, with their little routine, nothing ever seemed quite as bad when they were together.
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