"Shit," Natasha muttered as she dropped the soap again. Showering was much more difficult with injuries. In the fight she had amassed quite a few.
Right now she was balanced precariously on the slippery shower floor, standing on one foot. Her ribs were bruised like someone had used her sides to play the bongos and now her right hand didn't want to cooperate because two of her fingers were swelling.
"Romanoff, you alright," Clint called through the crack in the door. When she didn't answer because she was currently trying to pry the shampoo lid off with her teeth, Clint entered. "I was just coming in to wash my face, is that okay?"
She dropped the bottle. It thudded against the tub, sliding into her leg. Natasha held back a painful moan.
"Fine," she muttered, wracking her brain for another way to get the shampoo bottle flipped and in her hand without ending up on her ass since she was presently using her good hand to support her weight.
"You sound like you're having trouble," Clint commented.
Natasha scoffed. "What gave you that impression?"
"You've been swearing at the soap for the better part of twenty minutes."
She sighed, cursing herself for cursing and alerting him to her troubles. "I'm kind off hating having long hair right now." Fumbling around very carefully she managed to get the shampoo and place it back on the side of the tub.
Clint smirked as he wiped his face with a damp washcloth. He managed to escape the fight relatively unharmed, just a few scratches. "I could help you, if you wanted," he said innocently, dropping the cloth and shoving his tooth brush into his mouth.
"You're kidding," Natasha said, still fumbling with the shampoo bottle. Leave it to Barton to be a jerk when she was obviously having a hard time. She was getting a tension headache just from concentrating so hard on the bottle.
"No, I wasn't," came a voice. Natasha heard him spit into the sink and then she felt a cool breeze along her back and whipped around, pulling the shower curtain around her.
"Jesus, Barton, are you trying to get me to throttle you?"
He leaned up against the wall next to the shower.
"As fun as it sounds, no." He gestured to his face. "Eyes are closed, so I'm impaired."
"Oh, is that supposed to save my modesty?" Natasha said sarcastically.
"Maybe," Barton smirked. "Mostly I was just trying to make sure you didn't gouge my eyes out."
"Well, maybe next time you'll knock before opening the shower curtain," Natasha muttered.
Barton shrugged, eyes still squeezed tight. "You're stubborn. You never would have accepted my help if I only asked politely. I'm here now, so the choice is easier."
"Yeah, right," Natasha muttered. She could smell the minty toothpaste as he spoke.
Barton shrugged. "It's your choice. You can let me help you or you can sit in there and shrivel up like a raisin until your hand heals. Either way, it's going to be uncomfortable."
Natasha frowned.
"Fine," she grumbled. He was right after all. She had already been in the shower for a half-hour and she was no closer to being any cleaner than what she was when she started.
She turned slowly, pulling the shower curtain with her so the only thing exposed to Barton was her back and her head.
"I have to open my eyes to see the back of your head," he said flatly.
"Fine, just don't look anywhere you don't need to," Natasha muttered.
"I won't," he promised. He bent slightly to take the shampoo bottle from the corner of the tub.
"Wow, they really got your ribs good huh?" he said, noting the dark purple circles that were outlined on her back.
"Thought you weren't looking," Natasha said. He could hear the smile in her voice.
"I wasn't," Barton said, squeezing shampoo onto his hand.
"Mmm hmm," Natasha hummed.
Barton's fingers slipped into her scalp, massaging. He pulled her long red hair into a knot at the top of her head as he worked in the soap. His ministrations felt so good, especially after the day they had. She almost sighed. He tipped her head forward gently, pushing her towards the hot stream of water, rinsing the soap from her hair. "Close your eyes," he told her.
"I feel like I should be the one saying that," Natasha joked.
"I'm being very professional," Barton assured her.
"You know I'm naked right?"
"No, I hadn't noticed."
Natasha smirked.
Clint kept his focus on the back of her head but as the red curls slipped from his hands he followed them down her graceful neck, and eventually down the strait of her back. Her skin glistened under the water: milky white and soft.
His eyes followed where they shouldn't, knowing the shower curtain was slipping away. With effort he pulled his gaze up.
It wasn't like he had never seen a woman in the flesh before and it wasn't as if he hadn't seen Natasha in very little clothing. She often trained in shorts and nothing more than a training bra, leaving very little to the imagination. When they sparred and he would pin her, hands trapping her arms above her head, he could feel the swell of her chest as it rose to meet his, the coarse and delicious friction as their hips glided together. "You like using your hands, don't you?" Natasha would often say to him just as she managed to wrap her legs around his back to flip them on the mats. Her pelvis would crash against his as their stomachs collided like two walls. He could feel every muscle of her abdomen tense as she pinned him. "I prefer the legs."
Barton shook his head. As much as he longed to hold her for real and not in one of their training simulations, he knew she would never reciprocate his feelings, could never, it wasn't aloud. Still, it wasn't without great effort that Barton managed to get any feeling out of her at all. That's why he teased her so. That tiny spark of anger, of annoyance. It meant she was still human. There was still a heart to toy with.
But now, even in this compromising position, with her leg pulled up to keep the weight off her ankle and the lines of bruising on her back, there was something so delicate and feminine about her. So vulnerable. He wanted to protect her. Scoop her up in his arms and keep her safe. Even if that was all he could ever do for her, he wanted to keep her safe.
"There," he said, washing the last of the soap from her red locks.
Romanoff turned slightly, looking back over her shoulder. She reached up and grabbed his hand as it rested on her shoulder blade. "Thank you, Barton."
He watched the water caress her face gently, sliding along her cheek bone and pooling on her lower lip. Her tongue flicked out to soak up the small puddles.
He swallowed down the fiery heat that was ripping through his chest and nodded. "No problem. I'll grab your towel. You left it in the room."
Natasha turned the water off as Barton left, returning several seconds later. She stood behind the curtain, waiting for him to leave the towel.
"Just leave it on the counter, I'll be fine."
"Romanoff, don't start that. You could barely stand in the shower, don't even pretend like you're going to get climb out of the soap-slicked porcelain without killing yourself."
"Death by soap. What a way to go," Natasha mused.
Barton chuckled. It was a deep throaty sound and Natasha felt her pulse race. Stupid. Stupid.
She hovered for a moment. "Close your eyes," she mumbled.
"Already on it," Barton replied to her. He held the towel in both hands, opening it wide to her. His eyes were shut firmly. He heard the sound of the shower curtain being pulled back. A hand rested on his shoulder, the water soaking into his shirt. He didn't care. Another hand rested on his other shoulder.
He waited for her grip to tighten, but before it could he heard the sound of skin sliding against porcelain. Natasha had slipped, pitching forward. Her arms reached for the first upright thing which happened to be Clint's neck. Her arms locked around him as his arms wrapped to envelop her in the towel.
"Well that worked out well," he mused. "I told you the tub was dangerous." Clint opened his eyes slowly, sure that Natasha was securely wrapped in the towel, if only because he was holding it around her.
"Sorry," Natasha mumbled. Her face was still wet. Beads of water dropped off the ends of her hair. Her lips glistened as her eyes raked over his face.
Clint blinked stupidly, holding Natasha flush to his body. He could feel every curve of her, separated only by the towel and his clothing. The water from her body soaked into his shirt, pooled around his shoes. He still didn't care.
"It's okay," he whispered, only because her face was right in front of his. So close that he could smell the shampoo on her hair, feel the warmth in her breath as she breathed against his neck.
Her lips parted, arms tightening around his neck. Instinctively Clint leaned down, preparing to meet her, then he whispered, "Tea?"
"What?" Natasha murmured against his throat. Clint swallowed.
"Do you want some tea, before bed?"
Natasha pulled her eyes down; looking at the floor, attempting to shake off whatever crazy thoughts had just taken over her brain.
"Yeah, that would be…nice," she said. Carefully, Clint set her down on the side of the tub.
"Pyjamas are on the counter," he said, slowly backing up. "You good?"
Natasha nodded. "I'm good."
Clint disappeared, with the task of making tea to occupy him. Natasha on the other hand wanted to stab herself in the eye with towel bar. What was wrong with her?
She busied herself with the difficult chore of pulling her pajamas on. Clint had left her a pair of shorts and a running T-shirt. This should have been simple. She could take down ruthless mercenaries with one hand but right now she was being foiled by an elastic waistband and two arm holes.
When she finally managed to slide into the clothing she ran the towel over her sopping hair once more, squeezing out the majority of the moisture. She could still smell Clint on the towel, from when held it (and her) against his chest. He had felt so warm, so secure. In his arms she had literally melted. She shook of the distraction. Clint. It was Clint doing this to her. Him and his perfect scruffy hair. The short stubble on his chin. Those piercing eyes. The way they held her own gaze. Lasting and longing.
Natasha groaned, flinging the bathroom door open. She looked up and stopped cold. Clint stood there, staring at her. His eyes were a deep abyss of longing.
There was no tea. She remembered to note that.
She hobbled forward and opened her mouth to say something. Clint stepped forward to meet her and that's when his lips crashed into hers. It was urgent, forceful, and at the same time soft and gentle. Clint cupped her face with one hand, the other scooping around her waist to support her weight because of the bummed ankle.
Natasha wrapped her arms around his neck again, this time using it as leverage to force their lips together, deeper. She ran her tongue along his bottom lip, sucking it into her mouth. Clint moaned against her as they found the door to the bedroom. He made sure to wrap his arms around her waist to act as a buffer between her bruised ribs and the doorframe.
"We should stop," Natasha said in heated whispers.
"We should," Clint agreed.
"This is against every protocol in the damn book. S.H.I.E.L.D will fry our asses," Natasha said huskily as Clint's lips travelled down her neck.
"I was never much for protocol. You know that Romanoff," Clint said against her face as his tongue travelled up behind her ear.
"I'm probably on my way out the door once you submit that report. So…"
"So…," Clint echoed. He pressed his forehead against her own, feeling her heart beat against his chest.
"Natasha," she said quickly.
"What?" Clint asked, brow crinkling.
"You can call me Natasha, if you want."
Clint smiled. "Only if you call me Clint."
She responded with a heated kiss that occupied both their hands and mouths, so Clint had to kick the bedroom door open with his foot. He also managed to kick it closed again before they collapsed in a heap on the bed.
