Disclaimer: Everything belongs to their respective owners. The title is a quote from TS Eliot's 'The Love Song Of J Alfred Prufrock,' because I couldn't resist.
Till Human Voices Wake Us
She takes a simple mission in Chicago for a week and returns to find Clint on the sofa with a cigarette clenched between his teeth and a bottle of something that is definitely stronger than beer in his hand. 'Fortunate Son' is blaring through his iPod speakers.
Fuck.
Clint's apartment is littered with empty bottles and old takeout containers and it's obvious he has only left the place to get food, because like her he doesn't want disclose his address to strangers on the phone.
He looks up to acknowledge her and his eyebrows rise as she reaches straight for her zipper.
"Steve asked after you," Natasha mentions as she strips off her uniform.
Clint stabs out the cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and leans back against the sofa, limbs spread wide. "Did he now."
"Of course he did." Natasha climbs into his lap, the rough fabric of his jeans causing instant friction against her naked skin. "He's so nice."
"You make it sound like an insult."
"Well, I'm not a nice girl." She grabs his shirt collar and kisses him deeply.
Clint groans, his head falling back as she starts to nibble down his throat, grinding her hips against him, but he doesn't move to touch her until she grabs his hand and places it over her breast.
"Fuck, Tasha," he hisses, calloused fingers kneading her flesh. Natasha whimpers before she can help it and it seems to break something in him, his other arm wraps around her back and he kisses her like he's drowning.
It ends with her on the floor with his face between her thighs.
In bed he is gentle with her, rolling his hips and kissing her until she shakes and comes apart beneath him, and he buries his head in the curve of her neck and doesn't bite down when he comes.
Afterwards Clint leans over her as she lies on her back, his fingers combing through her hair. "It's growing," he comments, snagging a curl.
"Yes."
He rolls away from her to the edge of the bed, keeping space between them while he takes out his hearing aids.
In the morning Natasha presses a kiss to his shoulder before sliding out of bed. "They're sending me to Korea today. It's recon, I should be back in a few days."
Clint exhales slowly but does not move towards her. "When did you find out?"
"I got the call an hour ago. Didn't want to wake you."
"Okay."
She's halfway to the front door when she feels him come up behind her, his chest against her back and his hands gripping her upper arms hard enough to bruise while his lips graze the nape of her neck. "Tasha."
She turns to face him, waiting. This is when he asks her to stay.
Clint presses his forehead against hers and says nothing.
She has learnt his nightmares in the two years she's been coming to his bed.
It took them a long time to get from fucking in the S.H.I.E.L.D gym to fucking in his apartment and even longer before he stood in front of her door with a question in his eyes, but now they finally have the whole sleep thing worked out. Clint keeps the thermostat cool and always checks that Natasha has a knife under her pillow before drawing her into his arms.
She's sleeping on her side with his hand on her hip when his sudden tension wakes her. He's sitting up, eyes open, and whatever he's looking at isn't in this room.
Natasha leans over, tapping the bed like she normally does to get his attention, but he's still too dangerous to touch.
It's forever before his breathing slows and she knows he's fully awake, and she reaches for him only to see him flinch away.
He looks as wary as he did when he found her in that warehouse, when she was soaked in blood and far too young for him, half dead and more than half mad.
She watches his profile as he picks up his pillow and heads for the living room.
They're on his sofa watching Return of the Jedi when Natasha realises she hasn't been back to her own apartment in over a week.
Clint has his arm around her shoulders, his thumb stroking her neck. "Do you like this movie?"
"No."
"Huh."
He looks put out. She reaches for the button of his jeans to make it up to him and Clint pushes her hand away, pinning her down on the sofa cushions and shoving his fingers into her pants. When he tells her to come she screams.
After dinner they go another round in his bedroom and he collapses on to her in the post-coital haze, still half hard inside her, their kisses slow and languid.
He gives her a lopsided grin as he pulls her in close, his sweat soaked skin beginning to cool. "Your clothes are starting to take over my closet, you know. Might as well choose a permanent space."
She recognises the light but urgent tone and claws tear at her chest.
The silence is too loud to bear.
It's a rare full day off and Clint is leaving a soft trail of kisses down her neck and shoulders while she combs her fingers through the short blond spikes of his hair. They've been driving each other mad with want and when he pulls her shirt up and takes a nipple into his mouth she gasps his name.
His teeth scraping across her skin is enough to make her weak.
She reaches across to his bedside table and rifles through the drawer. He's pulling her back onto his lap when her fingers come in contact with rough fibres that will rub her raw. It's been so long the lines are fading.
She offers him their ropes and he shakes his head. No.
"Don't you want to?"
"Tasha." His voice has dropped to a growl that feels like gravel. "Don't push this."
"How is this different?" She strains at the panic in her throat and he says nothing. She slides the rope across his bare chest and offers him a humorless smile. "You laying down your gun, cowboy?"
She can feel his pulse spike, see his breathing quicken. His fists clench but he makes no move.
"Just let it be," he finally says and pulls her hand away. He outs enough pressure on her fingers until she drops the rope and she is done.
"Well, that's fucking fantastic," she spits, bitter. "Should I ask for a solo mission next time? Or maybe just a partner who has my back."
He wrenches himself away and walks out the bedroom door. "Maybe you should," his voice echoes down the hall.
She pursues. She grabs him by the shoulder and spins him around. She's ready to tear him limb from limb but this is all wrong, the balance is off and she doesn't know how to get it back, doesn't know how to get it right but patience and understanding and suffering through touches that are too soft and kisses that are too earnest aren't working and she doesn't know how to fix it.
"What is this?" she asks. She doesn't care what she sounds like anymore. "Are we done?"
He doesn't meet her eyes. "Maybe we should be."
"Is that what you want? Someone else training with me, touching me, fucking me, laying their hands on me? Because I can go out there and find—"
"What do you want?" he roars. Now his hands are digging into her shoulders and the pressure is right but it's still all wrong.
"I want you."
She throws him off and aims a punch that he dodges like she knew he would, catching hold of her wrists, calloused fingers against her scars.
"God damn it, Tasha, I couldn't remember you!"
He's panting, eyes wild, when she wrenches out of his grip, throwing another wide hit that he blocks easily with his forearm. She grabs his wrist, throwing him the slightest bit off balance, enough to slam him against the wall with his arm pinned behind his back.
The impact feels like a shock wave and he springs into action. Lightning fast he twists away and the momentum sends her pitching forward towards the wall, only for him to catch her around the shoulders and pull her back against him seconds before she hits it.
He freezes and she feels his heart race as he draws a shuddering breath, the blood pounding in her ears as she lets him hold her, his lips against her temple, his fingers splayed across her back.
When he kisses her it's like coming up for air.
He's in her arms, or she's in his, and when he collapses she goes down with him.
He grabs her hand in his, kissing her knuckles. "Fuck, Tasha, I couldn't, fuck," he pleads against her shoulder. "God, I… I couldn't remember..."
And the pieces fall in line.
Pressing her lips to his, she swallows his words.
"You're still here."
She bites his lip until she tastes copper on her tongue and he gathers her in his arms and lowers her on to the floor, moving between her legs as she pushes his pants down and he thrusts inside her. She wraps her legs around him and he swears to a god he doesn't believe in.
His hand slides over her throat and finally, she aches with relief.