He's too warm for her to care that they're still in the common area. She comforts the paranoid part of her brain with the knowledge that for once, they are alone in the residential area of the tower and the others won't be back for hours.
They've got hours.
She smiles to herself and crosses her arms on his chest, putting just enough pressure on her forearms to lift her head and shoulders so that she can look at him. His features are soft and calm, an indent in the corner of his mouth reflecting the smile in his eyes, so she runs the tip of her nose against his and he grins, chuckling. She makes a small humming noise as he tightens his arms around her waist and she begins to swing her legs, bent at the knees, feet in the air, resting between his. She likes that she can feel his heartbeat where her hand rests on his chest and begins to tap the rhythm out for him. He closes his eyes, content laying in the square of sunshine coming through the window, enjoying the feeling of her weight pressing into him. She eventually loses the beat, skips a BA-thump and stops her tapping, gives up on tracking the movements of his heart. She instead takes up humming some lullaby Clint thinks he might know, but she's not sure what it is either. They discuss the possible origins, eventually wondering why so many children's songs have such dark lyrics and Clint tries to think of one that is strictly happy. He fails and attributes it more to his personal experience than a lack of any happy ones at all. She decides that they should look it up. Later. When using him for a mattress isn't so comfy and warm. He guesses, with a smirk, that they'll never know then and she snorts, but does nothing to prove him wrong, opting instead to stretch her right arm out behind his head, curling her fingers in his short hair and resting her cheek over his heart. She brings her left hand to rest on his chest beside her face, elbow bent into her side. He tucks his chin into her hair, burying his nose in her curls long enough to breathe her in and shifts his hand beneath her shirt, smoothing his hand along her spine. She hums contentedly at the contact and burrows her face into his neck. She says, voice muffled by skin and sleep, that she should really steal more of his clothes. They smell like him and hers don't and that doesn't seem fair, really. He just smiles, says okay and kisses the top of her head.
It doesn't take long for her to fall asleep, soft, even breaths warming his skin, tickling a little, and he should probably wake her and move this nap to the bedroom, but it's a really plush carpet, and the sunshine feels nice and Natasha is warm and soft and he finds, eyelids fluttering closed, that he is too relaxed to move and too comfortable to care about keeping up appearances.
