Title: HOSPICE

CLINT/NATASHA

Rating: Teen +

Note: I started this story during NANOWRIMO and I didn't want to leave it any longer to gather spider webs. This is a story for me to sort of make up the ways Clint/Nat fed off of each other. A study in the assassins' dance. It's angsty (my usual), but it's great fun to write it. Comments are super fun too.

HOSPICE

1: Love Shack

I once read a poem when I was a young girl. It had words of death and words of living. They were things I knew—things I had seen myself; things I was trained to master. I was young and very unafraid. It is easier to read about death when it is part of the living routine.

Controlling is easy for me. Death, I am trained to control like an animal, for I am its master. My eyes do not fear its fantastic teeth and terrible claws, nor does my mind. How many times have I stared down Death and refused to allow him to take me?

I suppose that everything must meet a maker. I have met mine. He has always been with me, waiting on the shadows of my life. Surely, this lifestyle attracts the creature of Death. If I were him I would wait joyously for my company. I cheated him long enough, I think.

Even as I see him now, standing there like a mist, eyes a bright green, I know that we've known each other for a very long time. I am not uncomfortable; I am patient as he is too. He will wait until I am ready to follow behind him. I've asked Death for my living day and he must respect that.

I am not afraid of Death.

I am a woman who feeds off of the very last words of the people I was sent to destroy.

I am not afraid of Death, but I am afraid.

We've talked about this, Clint. Remember what I meant and what I said.

Thank you for everything,

Natasha

Her eyes caught his. She wasn't going to let him be so stupid.

"Barton, if you even think about taking a shower before me-," Natasha began.

Clint set his jaw, the shadow of a grin playing around his face. "It could be more efficient if we simply showered at the same time, Romanoff."

This could be fun, she thought. Barton was dim-witted enough and horny enough for her games tonight. Sure, she was tired as all hell, but that didn't mean she couldn't throw in a bit of cock teasing before they crashed for the night.

Biting her lip with a bit of a scowl, Natasha sighed, "You know, maybe you're right." She walked towards the one bedroom with the adjacent bathroom and felt his eyes following her. "Whatever would be quicker… more efficient."

Sitting on the lone arm chair in the room, Clint smiled. He'd be damned if she left him hard and alone. The Persian air had a raw sweetness to it that made him feel revved for closeness. Sex, of course, was ideal, but not necessarily needed. Running a bandaged hand through his hair, he remembered that stinging ache in his hip and suddenly the idea of thrusting into his assassin partner was less desirable. Although, Natasha was certainly always a degree of desirable, the idea of torn stitches in turn for a bit of sex seemed to dim the suave of the night.

"I could help you with that wound on your shoulder," he offered, as he watched her leaning against the wall of the bedroom in a less than obvious manner.

In the dim of the room, Natasha frowned. "Damn. For a second I thought I had you."

Clint scoffed and achingly pulled himself up from the chair. Digging his hand into his side, he applied pressure to his throbbing stitches. Walking towards the luring redhead, he made a motion for her to spin around. She did as instructed and waited for his hands to gently examine her wounded back.

"Sweetheart, Clint Barton is thinking with a different brain tonight and that's the one between the ears," he whispered into the nape of her neck.

Natasha couldn't avoid the stupid grin on her face. She could throw her panties right at him and Clint could just as well tease her back with a few smirks and flexes of his body. However, neither were ever that deliberate when it came to sexual acts, they acted in bed just as they did on a mission—smooth, skilled, and dangerously. Never were they juvenile when a wave of lust came about.

As the night ticked on, quiet was all that could be noticed in the Persian night. There was nothing but the occasional sound of a late night insect speaking to the bright moon in soothing patterns. The safe house was hidden away securely in a small village of France; its brown shingled outside made to look as mundane and common as possible. Both Clint and Natasha enjoyed waiting for the okay from S.H.I.E.L.D to be brought home and debriefed on their mission in the cozy house. It was a very small safe house, but nonetheless it had a charm to it. With this charm came a dangerous nickname: the love shack. Clearly, it was ridiculous and silly to name it such a thing, but it somehow stuck as an identity. Agents would be teased for days if others found out that partners were made to stay there after a mission. It was a notorious place well known for hookups among agents, a thing that S.H.I.E.L.D absolutely tried its best at avoiding. Clearly, Clint and Natasha had other reasons for liking the brief stay at the love shack. Some of those reasons could be summarized as, "simple and less of a hassle than the safe houses of Italy" or "better to relax in during down time" for the reader in the team.

Evidently, those who knew of Clint and Natasha were a bit suspicious of those reasons.

"You know, when I saw you get hit tonight I was really worried that it was going to be worse than this." His chilly hands massaged her tense back muscles. A few hitched breaths from Natasha indicated to Clint that she was indeed, very sore. He always pictured her as a tense and ready to spring feline so it occasionally surprised him when the tension was too much for her to handle. Obviously, she would never say so herself, but Clint was sufficient enough at reading her sore and hurt faces.

"Nothing I haven't had to deal with before," she sighed as Clint's magic worked deeply into her muscles.

Clint chuckled softly at his partner. A bullet wound was a scratch, a lost limb was hospital worthy, and death was simply a day off.

Natasha turned around to face him, her eyes radiated thanks.

"You're alright, Clint. I was thinking about ditching you, but I might keep you around," she gave him a tired wink and with a sway of the hips she walked into the bedroom leaving him behind.

If Clint wasn't too old for rolling his eyes, he would have done it. Turning back to head into the kitchen, he wondered how long Natasha would take for herself to shower off. He really wanted nothing more than to turn the shower to scalding and stand in it until every old ache in his bones would melt away down the drain. Ideally, Natasha would beg him to join her. As his mind trailed off onto more dangerous paths of warm skin and wet hair, he pulled out their hospital kit. Stacked to lid with gauze, medicines, and more interesting accessories, Clint pulled out a few things to dress Natasha's wound with. The sound of the water turning on caused him to groan. He just wanted the crusty blood off of his skin.

Knowing Natasha forgot a towel like always, he pulled one from his bag and set the bandages and medicine on it and wrapped it into a ball. When he first began working with her and they only had one shower to share, he thought that Natasha never having a towel was simply her way of flaunting herself for him. It wasn't until a while later that he realized that she truly never thought about grabbing one; it was as if she never grew accustomed to having the luxury of stepping into a soft towel after a shower. He nearly asked her about the habit once, but decided otherwise. It was simply one of Natasha's quirks.

Gently knocking on the bathroom door with his bruised knuckles was enough of a warning for Natasha. Clint turned the knob and walked into the tiny, small bathroom filled with warming steam. Goosebumps rose on his arms and he breathed in the smell of her lemony shampoo.

Natasha knew he entered and it certainly took her a long time to get used to him knocking then entering. Previously, he would end up in a choke hold as her naked, soaking body pinned him to the bathroom wall in anger. Eventually, she realized that in doing so was a waste of valuable showering time.

As Clint was about to leave the warmth and allure of the bathroom, Natasha gave him a quick word of thanks. He looked at the glass of the shower and saw the pale, curvy shape of her body and again felt the pull to simply walk in uninvited. However, tonight was not the night for it. He would wait his turn. Dropping his head feeling dirty and exhausted, he reached for the door knob and when dripping wet hands gave a gentle tug at his arm, he automatically turned to her.

Natasha didn't know why she even reached out for him, but piecing things together, she figured the tired and almost childlike disappointment on his face made the decision for her. She never knew why Clint always brought in a towel for her, most of the time without even stopping to catch a peek at her naked body. It took her a very long time to realize that maybe Clint was just a good guy; he didn't necessarily need nor have a reason to do that for her—he just did.

"You look like you can't wait another minute to clean up," Natasha said gently as she looked at his tired face. Natasha's torso hung out of the shower, her hands still on his arm. Clint gave a weary half smile, his eyes slightly more lively than his body. "Come on, Barton."

He raised an eyebrow and tugged his shirt upwards, his torso of muscles rippled as he did so. The way Clint held eye contact with her while she was dripping wet and naked really tugged at her. She found it impossibly respectful in a way, like he didn't even care enough for her body. At the same time, she found it enthralling.

Clint held his shirt in his hands as he looked at her questioningly.

"You sure? I can wait another ten minutes if you want." Being a man did have its weaknesses, his body clearly wished to get wet with her now, while his face really did mean what he said.

She rolled her eyes and stepped out of the flowing shower. Sometimes he could really be too good.

"Goddammit, Clint. I know you want to get in the damn shower. You couldn't stop talking about cleaning up since we got here tonight." Natasha reached out for his belt and undid it gently, but quickly. As Natasha began reaching for the button on his pants and the zipper, Clint looked up at her. Her eyes caught his and suddenly she felt embarrassed. "I—sorry, I guess I forgot that you know how to undress."

Smiling softly, but without texture, he examined her face. Every dip, every freckle, anything he could find. He thought she was beautiful standing in front of him, her red hair weighted down by water, her eyes soft and tired, the paleness of her skin—she was as vulnerable as he'd seen her in a while. He remembered her hands gently resting on the waist of his pants. Clint frowned as his hands reached up to trace a few cuts on her face; his finger followed one red line along her high cheekbone. Natasha squinted slightly, wondering what he was doing.

"Hate when you get cuts on your face like this," he mumbled. His eyes locked with hers suddenly. Natasha opened her mouth to say something, but before she could, he cupped her face gently and gave her lips a soft kiss.

Natasha closed her eyes and selfishly let herself enjoy his kiss. She could recall every time they kissed softly like this, for they were low in numbers. He pulled her to him, Natasha's wet body dampening Clint. She pulled herself back to allow space, her hands working their way down his zipper. Clint pulled out of this kiss and shook his head.

"No," he nodded back to the running shower. "You're cold so get back in there. Like you said, I know how to undress myself." Clint gave an encouraging grin with a bit of a knowing attitude.

Natasha raised an eyebrow and huffed for effect. Clint's thickening groin couldn't be hidden and she wanted him to know she could control it. She let her hands slip lower than she should have, lingering in sensitive areas and enjoying when his eyes widened out of instinct.

Pulling her hands away she nodded, "Okay," turning back into the warmth of the shower, she waited for her partner to come in after her.

When both agents were clean and dry and their wounds had been disinfected, wrapped and taped up, they shared company in silence. That was one trait of Clint's that Natasha highly praised, he was the best quiet company anyone could ask for. She was definitely exhausted, but she wanted to keep to her usual after mission habit of drinking a strong tea blend and settling into a chair with an old Greek tragedy. Clint occasionally teased her about lugging around those old bound books that were packed next to her black brassieres inside her gear. Natasha would tactically let slip his collection of risky magazines just under the flap of the back of his bag. He would retort with the usual excuse of being on a long mission alone and she would relish in the way he squirmed with his defense. However, she found it odd that he never took them out whenever they were together. She figured he was trying a bit of decency.

Curling herself up into an oversized black sweater, she reached for the mug of steaming tea. The herbs instantly opened up the bit of stuffiness inside of her nose. Finally comfortable, she cracked open the worn bind of Antigone by Sophocles. She knew this tragedy well, but found comfort within it. Silly, it was to find comfort in a play of killing. It wasn't necessarily the plot or the themes that comforted her, but merely the familiarity it held. Natasha knew it well, and some days she wished she could remember what or who made her read it first.

Clint watched the relaxed creature read over the worn pages like it was the only focus in her life. He liked her this way—the way she curled into a sophisticated tragedy for the hundredth time and felt it like it was the first. He realized that she wasn't that way with much of anything; nothing really surprised Natasha Romanoff. Sometimes Clint would picture her as a goddess ruling her own fate. After being totally at the mercy of another controller, it would be seen as a gift to be able to decide for herself. That's why he knew she was so strong with her points and her morality for she finally got it in her control and she'd be damned to let somebody else toy with it again.

He knew most people didn't get that. At times, he'd hear new agents, and sometimes even a few older ones, make whisper about Agent Romanoff. He recalled the first time he heard a young, frustrated agent call her a 'cold hearted bitch with a great rack'. Not knowing why, but Clint grabbed the kid by the back of his buttoned shirt and dragged him down the hall, down a flight of steps, and out of the front door of a satellite S.H.I.E.L.D base. The kid didn't show up again after that. Now, it was simple to him. Natasha was as tragic as the Greeks she relished in, he could nearly visualized a blood connection form as she read on.

Natasha Romanoff was not a bitch. She simply discovered that she was in control of her own being and by making such a realization, she slowly took the reins with great strength that only the hands of a mistreated survivor could handle.

Natasha looked up from her book. Her red hair was back in a wet, lazy bun, and a few stray hairs found their way around her face. She gently closed Antigone, stretching her back like a cat, flexed hands and all, before standing up. Clint was casually leaning against the fridge, holding a sweating glass of ice water. He rotated it around watching the ice float lazily on top. Looking up, he nodded at her; she looked away with a yawn and mumbled a goodnight.

"You're not going to make me sleep on the pull out bed are you, Nat?" he teased her as she stopped her trek to the bedroom.

Natasha turned her head, the red bun bouncing slightly.

"You didn't mess up that bad during the mission tonight," she said quietly.

Clint looked down and laughed pitifully. She was dead wrong; he did mess up pretty badly during the mission. If it wasn't for his mistake, they wouldn't be injured as it was. Clint wanted to apologize for most of the night, but he knew better than that with Natasha. Sometimes she just wouldn't let him get it out. There were days where all Clint needed was to apologize and vent about the idiocy in the way life happened, but Natasha would give one sharp frown and he'd bite down on his tongue.

"I'll be in a little later. I want to start some of the debriefing paperwork," he said between sips from his water glass.

She swung her arms before setting them on her hips. Natasha wasn't going to let Clint do his brooding act tonight. Nothing was his fault and Clint had this way with her: if he felt moody, she felt moody. And right now, all Natasha felt was sleep behind her eyes. Was it too much to want him to feel the same?

"Clint, no. Don't you even think about starting that crap now," she looked at the clock on the wall and back to him, "it's nearly 4 a.m. Coulson will be fine with doing that stuff later on." Running a hand over her tense neck, she winced. "Anyway, we're both sore and tired."

Clint tapped his toe on the cold floor in thought. She was right, he was sore and tired.

"Okay, just give me ten minutes and I'll try to get some sleep." He looked over at her through his drooping eyelids.

Natasha gave him a long look before walking into the bedroom, gently closing the door behind her.

She wasn't sure what time it was when Clint finally climbed under the covers. Natasha was a light sleeper and the sounds of her surroundings always kept her on alert. Both were very well aware of the weapons that they kept very close during the hours of the night. Natasha had a small pistol just under the bit of mattress directly under her and Clint had his trusty knife under his pillow. As she was about to relax slightly and fall back into a light sleeping pattern, Clint moved closer to her under the covers.

Clint was exhausted. As he settled under the covers of the bed, he inhaled the lemony scent of Natasha's hair and before he knew it he crept closer to her. He liked a lot of things about Natasha, her hair and the way it moved and smelled was among his favorites. As a boy, he never really had a thing for redheads, but that was before Natasha came along. Clint and Natasha hardly ever cuddled up on a bed unless it was purposely for warmth on a freezing mission, so that's why his next move was pretty risky.

"Clint," Natasha's groggily sounding voice spoke.

His eyes closed and his senses a bit dim, he mumbled something into his pillow.

"You what?" Natasha hissed softly into the dark of the room. She felt Clint smooth some of her hair off of her neck and she wanted to berate him for doing so, but it felt too comforting to tell him to stop.

"I want to wrap my arms around you," he simply stated.

Natasha scrunched her nose, but did not protest when she felt his strong, protective arm wrap around her middle. Soon she heard the soft snoring of her partner and felt comforted. Though her heart was beating quickly, she felt safe. This safety helped the on-edge assassin slip into a gentle sleep.

Did you know that the night we stayed in the love shack was the first time you weren't afraid to wrap those arms around me? I know you well enough to assume the reason that you never did until that night was because I asked you to stay away—to keep us professional. I wasn't sure how long that rule would last, for most men I dealt with in my life never seemed to respect a request such as that from me. Though, you did. Of course we've been intimate with each other, but not like that.

Anyway, I just want to thank you for changing that rule of mine around.

Regards,

Natasha

AN:

Let me know everything!

x, Cassie