It was in moments like these that he almost believed that there was nothing that really mattered save the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the way she stirred in her sleep. Nothing at all was quite as worthwhile as his hand lazily running through her hair, their adventures paled. Seeing her stroll down the roads of Chicago, self-assured and beautiful; the way he had slipped through, under, beneath, and into the heart of Manhattan in the hunt for dark-eyed men; wild syndicates in the shifting sewers called Tokyo's corporate towers. Even the fire and dance of Budapest-a story they taunted each other with in casual, playful comments like they would ever honestly discuss that odd, painful time again didn't compare. These things seemed so tiny and remote when they were tangled together beneath an old quilt, he peering out the window as the fireflies flickered.
He wanted to caress her hair for hours, he wanted to sleep and know she would rise lazily, cat-like, in the morning. Still with him, still tranquil. And he hated to know that he would instead awaken with an aching neck, disheveled, alone, her drinking coffee in the kitchen and reviewing the next mission debriefing.
Maybe it's a mission for both of them, maybe not.
He hated more that he wanted her aloofness, that he craved the loneliness, the chasing back and forth. Ash and soot smeared across her doll-like face, his witty comments as he turned to watch her leave, to follow the swing of her hips. Just the usual. Violence and sex and "love's for children, I'm clearing my ledger, Barton" like hey babe, what about that janitor's closet in Riga three weeks ago? What about the way you looked at me? Is that kid stuff, those green eyes and my heart caught spinning like an ice skater, thirty-eight years all slipped away in a coy smile, soft hands? Is your ledger smeared with the sounds of your hands knotted in my hair?
But he couldn't live with her all domestic either, auburn locks pulled back and tending the sunflowers while the kids are at the pool. Because what the hell was the point of a tiger declawed? Pacing and snapping his gummy jaws, flexing loose skin? She was beautiful and alluring and he was quick, strong-but not in love. Just all muscles taut, sinews stretched, the two of them on edge every living second of the movie theatre and the bedroom and her humming Russian songs as she bathed, him lying on the floor pretending to do sit-ups or crunches but really wondering about Budapest, it always goes back to fucking Budapest. They were tangled and strangled like that; cause he was not in love with her strikingly red hair, her laugh, her accent (vague, muted, but there nonetheless no matter how she hid it during missions), her smile. How it went from his eyes clawing down her body, stripping her naked like he wasn't even worried she could do a thing till she broke his nose and he replaced his smugness with a bloody shit-eating grin, "So you like it rough, huh?" This was how they ran in circles, snapping at their own heels, biting tails in a bizarre mating ritual that their friends didn't quite get.
Steve was all about this chivalry stuff which Clint was pretty sure must have been French for too-much-money-to-waste-on-dinners and girls-are-too-weak-to-open-doors (though he kept that to himself when around the supersoldier, Barton had a smart mouth and didn't want it broken). Stark was a smooth, sauntering kind of guy that Clint vaguely idolized, how his face now ran rivers of faint wrinkles but women still blinked, and giggled, and fanned themselves silly in his presence. Must have been the money. Thor was loud, confident, blonde hair, and a beaming smile. He had no trouble with women, even those Stark led away because they would be "too much trouble for our favorite Ken doll, I'll handle them". And when they lightly nudged about the beautiful Natasha (or hottie, redhead, Russian, Anastasia, sexy, cat girl-was it the leather?-, Nat, and worst of all Tasha which was his own name for her) he just tossed out a smirk and let them know who exactly was fucking the bombshell and that they met on business, even once letting it spill nonchalantly that he was out on work to murder the fine broad. That earned some raised eyebrows and a brief cluster of men around the coffee machine at HQ. Funny how things seemed to always run back to Budapest.