He didn't want to get out of bed, and saw no reason why anyone should force him to do so.
Mornings like this, where they were able to awake peacefully in their own time, instead of to the sound of a shrill alarm signalling a urgent matter, were rare, but today was certainly one of them. He wanted to stay underneath these blankets, warm and cozy, far away from the world that claimed to hold more beauty than what he knew he would see when he opened his eyes. Everything he wanted and needed was here, in his bed, in his arms. The real beauty to be found in the day would be appreciated through the slow awakening from a short night that was ending too soon with sunlight coming in through cracks around the window shutters.
The closeness of the woman in his arms - his partner, his best friend and his lover all rolled into one desirable package - still gave him a curiousity. He always wondered, if she could sleep so contently this close to his person, could he have her closer tomorrow, and more so the next day? She was, and would always be, his greatest desire, and though she'd hate him for saying it out loud, his greatest achievement. He'd said that once before and she'd kicked him so hard it had left a bruise on his knee that stayed for three months. She hated him phrasing it that way because she thought it was the kind of thing that Stark announced about women.
He wished at moments like this that he was more creative. That perhaps he could draw, or write, or have an expertise with some form of medium that didn't fly through the air to hit a target. What he would give to have Rogers' ability as a sketch artist so that he could copy this moment down and show it to her with a 'see, look at this and know how much you mean to me'. He could hit a bullseye at any distance, but with the lack of creativity, he'd have to settle for himself with showing her his deeper side. There wasn't anything that could have changed it, anyway, not even the requirement to get up and use the bathroom, which told him that he hadn't been asleep for very long in the first place.
He may not have been able to see the woman in his arms, but he could feel her. He could feel her as easily as he could feel the bow in his hands during a morning training session. His nose was filled with the scent of the generic shampoo that S.H.I.E.L.D. stocked in the showers, and despite last night causing a desperate need for a rinse down for the both of them, her hair was still soft and one stray curl of red was tickling the very tip of his nose with each breath. If he had the desire to move at all he'd have ran his fingers through those curls, but the realisation bought about the sensation of her hair already beneath his fingertips. On the side he lay on, his arm was cradling her head, his hand already holding it to his other shoulder so that his fingers were resting against the very roots of her curling red locks.
Her head was pressed tightly to his shoulder, though he couldn't tell whether this was from his cradling of her head or the fact that her arms were curled around his other arm. Were they not holding him in that way she probably would have had her head resting on the pillow beside him rather than against the muscle of his upper arm. Her nose was pressed into him so he could feel each exhale against the contours of his arm. When she would move ever so gently, something he increasingly noticed she did in her sleep, it was because both her hands were unoccupied and she would settle when they found his skin, tightening around his bicep with no nearly enough strength to be considered her usual hold on him.
His other arm was curled around her torso, winding underneath the slender hands on his upper arm and settling on her lower back right above the most dangerous curve of her body. If she awoke with his hand any lower it would only end one way, and that would get the morning off to a fantastic start - the first thought that made him consider moving - however he found that a sleepy exhaustion was still keeping him firmly horizontal on the mattress. Any movement of limbs would only be to readjust this comfortable position. Last night had exhausted them completely and the lack of sleep on his part wasn't mirrored by her - he increasingly joked about himself being the only one to wear her out just like she would comment that she had ruined him for other women.
The bedsheets were pulled up to just below their shoulders, which was rare for this time of year. S.H.I.E.L.D. had a habit of needing to constantly reprogram the air conditioning which last week had them awake with the blankets almost covering their heads. She took another breath and her upper body pressed against his for a small second, reminding him of the night before again - he couldn't count the time they had last spent pressed skin to skin like this. They'd been on separate missions for the last three months and while the first priority on their simultaneous return had been sleep, it had given way to a more aching need.
Unconsciously, he tightened his arms around her and she moved with him, turning into his shoulder a little more. If she were trying to get closer to him it had worked, and the corner of his mouth lifted every so slightly within the mass of her hair that was now covering his face. He could feel this moment starting to end, this blissful moment of no movement and touching skin. He could feel that, like himself, she was starting to wake up. He could feel it on his fingertips, which had started to move against his arm with a bit more feeling and the rhythm of her breathing was starting to change. Then, he felt the fluttering of eyelashes against his skin and her muscles began to stretch out, pulling parts of her away from him.
He let out a moan of protest and tightening his arms around her. "Mmm, comfy," he mumbled, his voice gruff and filled with sleep.
"Sleep," she mumbled in reply.
"Comfy," he repeated, his face settling down into her hair again now that he was satisfied she wasn't going to move and that their bodies were matched together again. They were silent for a while, but neither of them slept again. There were deep, sleepy breaths that overtook them as they enjoyed the afterglow of a few hours rest in each others arms, but before long she was moving and pulling her arms away from him. "No," he protested again, pulling her back.
"Gotta get up," she told him.
"Later," he said simply, his eyes closed and his arms even tighter around her.
"Clint," she laughed, a tired laugh that rippled down her back to where his hand rested dangerously low. He put pressure on her back, just enough to show her that he had no intention of letting her get out of bed yet. "We can't stay in bed all day."
"Oh, we can," he grumbled into her ear, shifting his hold on her. "We absolutely, definitely can."
"Okay, we can," she agreed. "But we shouldn't."
"We should," he told her. "All is quite and still and non-emergency…no reason to get out of bed at all."
To seal this decision, he pulled his head back a little and directed his lips to hers. He enjoyed their early morning kisses, slow and sensual with a casual laziness. Slowly at first, they brushed their lips against one anothers before he claimed them completely, and after a few gentle kisses he sought entry into her mouth and she parted her lips eagerly, despite her earlier insistence that she needed to get out of bed, and allowed his tongue to knot around her own. Her hand moved from his arm, travelling to the back of his neck and tangling with the soft hair that grew there, while his own arm trailed up from the small of her back to caress her cheek.
She sighed against his lips and clung to him, and whether it lasted one minute or fifteen, neither of them knew or cared. All they knew was that each second of contact left them dizzy after so long of being separated. Parting, but not moving an inch away from him, she opened her eyes to see him already smiling down at her. "Good morning."
"I'd say so," he grinned.