This was a quick fic I wrote as a release from stress. Contains allusions to PTSD.
Disclaimer: None of this is mine.
Natasha knew something had changed the stakes when Clint came through her front door instead of letting himself in by scaling the fire escape.
His backpack was slung over his shoulder and his t-shirt looked like he hadn't changed in a week. There were fresh stiches on his forehead and the beginnings of a bruise on his jaw. "Hey," he said softly, bending to give her a quick kiss. His lips tasted like salt and toothpaste with a hint of something purely him. "I had a quick shower back on base, but…" He shifted his weight from foot to foot, eyes flicking around to settle somewhere over her shoulder.
Natasha reached to set his bag on the floor. "Go."
Clint nodded and headed straight through her bedroom door towards the bathroom. Upon hearing the shower turn on, Natasha followed, lying down on the bed with a book. She could make out the sound of Clint sighing under the water.
The shower ran for far longer than normal, but Natasha resisted any temptation to investigate. The water would do its work.
The shower shut off and moments later Clint appeared wearing old tracksuit pants and rubbing a towel over his hair. Natasha traced his movements with her eyes as he sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, forearms on his knees.
"Feel more human?" Natasha ventured, closing her book.
The lines around his eyes deepened as he gave a tight-lipped smile. He turned his body to look at her and Natasha noticed him wince. "Injury?"
Clint shook his head. "Muscle cramp."
Natasha set her book aside and rose up on her knees, spreading her hands wide. Reading her signal, Clint stretched out on the bed, his cheek pressed against the pillows. He breathed deeply as Natasha smeared her hands with oil.
His skin was still warm from the shower when she brought her hands down on his shoulders, slowly working the muscles. She pushed hard and dug in deep, this was no romantic gesture. Clint hissed and swore as she made her way from his neck down his back, willing the tension to release. One final roll and Clint groaned into his pillow, his body heaving as he caught his breath.
Satisfied, Natasha pressed a kiss to his nape and lay down beside him. Oiled up and stretched out, he was positively edible, but twitchy in the way he was more and more these days. Since New York.
He rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. "Not sure how long my body can hold up to this."
Natasha ran her fingers through his hair, teasing the hints of grey around his temples. "Well, you aren't getting any younger."
He cast his eyes down, blushing like he always did when she noted the years he had on her.
She slid one hand over his stomach, feeling the slight softness that covered his muscles. He hummed appreciatively, reaching up to stroke her wrist. She enjoyed him like this, strong but unrefined, unashamedly himself.
Clint closed his eyes for a moment. "I think my days in the field are numbered."
Natasha frowned. It was not like she hadn't noticed that Clint was being assigned to more jobs that required his analytical skills rather than his physical, but she wouldn't have expected him to mention it. "Clint, what are you trying to say?"
Clint drew a long, deep breath and kept his eyes fixed straight above him, away from her.
"I think I want out."
"Of the field?"
"No. Well, yes. But it's more than that." Clint stayed very still, his only movement the fingers of his left hand tapping against the bedspread like a nervous twitch. That was also new. "You said once I had to level out," he rasped. "It gets harder every time I come back."
"So you want to leave S.H.I.E.L.D," Natasha concluded, swallowing down the tiny lump in her throat.
Clint's fingers stopped tapping. "I guess so." He rolled onto his side to face her. "What do you think?"
"I think you shouldn't let other people influence your choices."
It must have come out harsher than she intended, because Clint's brow furrowed and for a moment he looked hurt. The Black Widow might be the master of saying the right thing at the right time, but Natasha Romanoff wouldn't be taking home prizes for excellent interpersonal skills.
"Never mind. Just wanted to run it by you."
So he had been thinking about this for a while. Natasha was not surprised, she had suspected something was on his mind ever since he came home grumpy after being put on a new strike team two months ago. Most of his old team had been decimated in the attack on the helicarrier. Even though her missions tended to be solitary, Natasha knew how important trust was in those teams, how it took years to build and was almost always forged in blood. Bishara, who had celebrated her engagement only days before she was killed. Morrison, who told the worst jokes. Coulson, who had been a good leader even if he took the liberty of using her first name far too often and made tea by heating a mug of water in the microwave, something Natasha would always consider barbaric. Clint had gone to every funeral, clutching her hand until it hurt, and trying to adapt to a new team must feel like a betrayal.
No one was jumping at the chance to work with Clint, either. Some wounds never healed.
"What would you do if you left?" she asked, deliberately softening her voice.
The corner of Clint's lips twitched, like he had read her play. "Dunno. Could be a house-husband."
Natasha snorted. "That's ridiculous. You'd be stir-crazy after two days. Besides, we're not married."
He propped himself up on his elbow, suddenly serious. "What if we were?"
"Clint, is this your way of asking me to marry you?"
Clint's one shoulder shrug was a poor attempt at nonchalance. "Think of the health insurance benefits."
Natasha tipped her head back and laughed, not sure if it was out of mirth or relief, and she loved that he could cause a reaction in her that was not planned or rehearsed. "This is the worst proposal ever."
Clint chuckled, leaning in to her. "No, really. If I leave I'll need someone to be my next of kin."
"Ask me properly one day and I might consider it."
He leaned over and kissed her deeply. "Whatever you want," he breathed.
Clint lay back and Natasha rested her hand on his chest, feeling it rise and fall as he drifted into a doze. She watched him for a while, guarding his respite from the world, until she brushed her lips over his forehead and went into the kitchen, knowing he would be out for a while.
She was sitting on the couch and going through some surveillance reports, clutching a cup of hot tea in her hand, when Clint padded into the room, yawning and rubbing the back of his neck. His pants her slung low over his hips and Natasha admired the curve of his spine as he reached into a cupboard for a mug.
"You'll have to look for a new job if you leave," she called as he rummaged in the cutlery drawer and stirred some of that revolting instant coffee he insisted on keeping at her apartment. "I'm not supporting a kept man on my salary."
The spoon clattered to the floor.
"Tasha," he said slowly, not moving. "Is this a yes?"
Natasha rolled her eyes. "You're an idiot, Clint Barton. Get over here."
He flopped down next to her on the couch, a grin spreading across his face as she set down her cup so she could climb into his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Sleep well?" she murmured into his ear.
His hands came up to settle on her hips, his lips brushing her throat. "I could use a little more R&R."
Natasha smacked him lightly on the shoulder as she laughed, her forehead coming down to lean against his. He closed his eyes, his arms tightening around her.
"Clint," Natasha said when he looked at her again. "Are you okay?"
It wasn't something they asked each other often. "Yeah," Clint said, drawing out the word like he was surprised at the answer. "Yeah, I think I will be."