Zen.
A brilliant word, Natasha thought, to describe Clint Barton's humble home.
He lived in a top floor apartment, high above the noise and pollution of the city. The walls were all either beige or broad bean green, creating a cool, clean landscape. The floors were wooden, smooth underfoot. Everything was carefully organised, perfectly ordered. Not a speck of dust or dirt.
His bedroom was military-neat, with the bed-sheets crisp and not at all rumpled from sleep. It was as well-kept as a hotel room. A yoga mat was spread out at the foot of the bed, facing the morning sun. There was a firmly locked door leading on from Clint's bedroom. Natasha tested the hinge. Nope.
The kitchen was crumb-free, with no dirty plates by the sink, no newspaper strewn across the dining table. There was a blooming purple orchid on the window sill.
There was nothing in the space that even hinted at who the occupant was. Nothing. In fact, Natasha had to double-check that she had the correct address before she let herself in.
The occupant of the space was evidently out, so Natasha made herself a mug of coffee, and settled into an armchair that was deceivingly comfortable, after the initial hard-backed appearance of it. She set her coffee down on the low table to cool a little... and woke up to the door clicking open, six hours later.
(-)
Clint Barton unlocked his front door, and threw his keys onto the kitchen table as he made his way into the apartment. He toed his boots off, landing them neatly together next to the door with a practised flick of his ankles. He placed his folded motorbike jacket and helmet atop his shoes, and walked straight to one of the kitchen cupboards, pulling out a bottle of red wine and taking a pull without bothering with a glass. It was only then that he noticed the used coffee filter, and discarded teaspoon. He set the bottle down on the side, and snuck further into the apartment on silent feet.
"Tash?"
Natasha Romanoff sat up straight, and picked up her mug of cold coffee. "Hi."
Clint raised his eyebrows, expecting an explanation of sorts, but she merely sipped at her drink, and made a face. "Wine?"
"Please." She tucked her feet back underneath herself, and passed him her mostly-undrunk coffee.
He half-smiled, and fetched the bottle of wine and two glasses from the kitchen, drinking the coffee on his way. He rinsed the empty mug, and placed it on the draining board, before returning to the living room.
He poured Natasha a glass, and settled down into the armchair opposite her.
She surveyed the deep purple colour and sniffed it with interest. "Blackcurrant?"
"Correct. It's Firetail. From South-East Australia."
She tasted it. "Quite nice."
Clint shrugged. "Cheap. Nice." He took a long drink. "What are you doing here, Tash?"
She shrugged her slim shoulders, nestling deeper into the chair.
He waited longer, but she gave no answer.
"Busy day?" she inquired, after a few minutes of silence.
"Just tailing someone," Clint replied, before yawning widely. It was almost three am, after all. "You?"
"Dull." She took another sip of wine, staining her lips darkly. Clint saw her hand shake ever so slightly.
"Tash?"
"Yes?"
"Are you all right?"
"Fine." Her voice was sharp. "Thank you," she added, after a beat.
He nodded slowly. "Sure."
They sat in silence for a while longer, barely moving except to raise a glass to the lips.
Clint's eyelids were becoming heavy as lead, drooping with exhaustion. He placed his empty glass upon the coffee table, and looked over at Natasha. "Tash? Time for bed, I think."
She was asleep, her half-full glass threatening to spill.
"Oh." He stood up, plucked the glass from her hand, and set it with his. His hand came to rest comfortably on her shoulder, rousing her gently from sleep. "Tash?"
She blinked a few times, before saying, "Hi."
He smiled fondly at her, and let his hand brush down from her shoulder to encompass hers. "Come on."
She allowed herself to be led to Clint's bedroom, trying not to stumble, despite his slow pace.
He pulled back the pristine bed-covers, deposited her onto the mattress, and tucked her in. "Sleep. You're safe here."
She nodded sleepily, her eyes already closing again.
He brushed his lips against her forehead, before slinking out of the room, leaving the bedside lamp on for her. He constructed a make-shift bed out of armchair cushions and a throw blanket, and settled down on the floor of the living room. His eyes closed, and he dropped off instantly into the depths of sleep.
(-)
"Clint?" Natasha's bare feet made no noise as she crossed the floor into the living room, looking down upon Clint's sleeping face.
"Mm?"
She knelt down next to him, and took his hand in hers. "Are you OK?"
"Mm." He opened his arms, and she instantly led down next to him, cocooning herself in him. "You're safe," he murmured in her ear, feeling the brush of her hair against his cheek. "No one can hurt you here. Sleep."
She nestled against him comfortably, feeling warm and content with the knowledge of him being with her, protective and fully capable. One of her hands rested on his upper arm, feeling the firm bunch of muscles beneath his battle-scarred skin.
"Sleep," he repeated, his voice husky and thick with fatigue. It sent tingles down her spine.
She focussed on the regular waft of warm air that came from his nostrils, the rise and fall of his chest, the feel of life that flowed inside him. "I'm scared," she whispered.
"What are you scared of?"
She pressed her lips to the side of his neck, feeling his pulse beat beneath them. "Fire. Control. Being controlled."
He sighed into her hair. "Keep being uncontrollable. People can't control you, if you control yourself."
She gripped him tighter. "Don't ever hurt me," she whispered into his collarbone. "I couldn't stand it if you ever hurt me."
"Never," he said. "Never."
She closed her eyes. "Keep me safe?"
"Always."
She finally slept through the rest of the night, safe and sound in the calm and tranquillity of Clint's arms and walls.
Zen.