Wow! I'm really overwhelmed with everyone's response to this! Thank you guys so much for reading! I'm glad I've kept your interest! I hope you enjoy this part!
Clint tries to return the borrowed keys to Tony the next day, and Natasha, against both of their better judgments, accompanies him down to the lab. The two of them have existed in a cloud of happiness lately, their own personal bubble, and while he agrees that they need to get out of the bedroom, he doesn't want to spend more time away from her than necessary. He takes a deep breath though, and figures that since they're approaching Tony in the lab, he won't say anything too embarrassing.
Clint realizes within seconds of walking through the door that he's made a critical error.
Tony looks up at him, walleyed from focusing too closely on his project, and Clint can tell that the billionaire's laser focus has shifted to him. More specifically, to him and Natasha.
"Good morning, lover boy! Oh, and you've brought the lovely lady with you," Tony grins widely at them. "Glad to see you two can still walk!"
Bruce, who is tinkering with what looks like an old motherboard on the other side of the room, shoots Clint an apologetic grimace, though he wisely stays out of it.
Clint forces himself not to roll his eyes. "Cut the commentary, Stark. We just came to return the keys to your car."
Tony smirks at Clint's response, and it looks like he's holding back whatever lascivious retort he wants to make. Clint pretends he doesn't notice and hands the borrowed keys over to Tony.
Or, well, he tries to.
Tony physically (some might say theatrically) recoils. "Oh, hell no, Green Arrow! I saw the security tapes of you two . . . canoodling in there. You're getting that thing sanitized first. And second. And third. Matter of fact, maybe just recover the seats."
Great. He had been hoping that maybe, just maybe Tony hadn't gotten a hold of them, that JARVIS had done them the favor of deleting their indiscretions, but clearly that hadn't happened. Clint wants to crawl into a hole somewhere, and he relies on his years of training not to react to that revelation.
Tony stops, seems to mull something over in his head, then continues, "Actually, you know what? Keep it. I don't think I'll ever be able to look at poor dear Stark 37 the same way ever again. Call it an early wedding present"
Tony turns back to his work, and he misses the glare Natasha sends his way when he folds himself back over his bench. It looks like he's going to ignore them, but then he stops, rests his screwdriver back on the counter, and quirks his head as if he'd suddenly remembered something.
"One more thing, though, um. Aren't you afraid to spend so much time below decks, as it were, on a woman who routinely kills people with her thighs? Just sayin'."
Oh god. The security footage from the gym, too, then.
And with that and a little wave of his hand in their direction, Tony Stark's focus is back on his work and Clint and Natasha are left staring, flabbergasted.
"Okay, then." Clint pockets the keys, then turns to Natasha. "Feel up for a run?"
"Sounds better than extracting Stark's toenails one by one. I'll have to get back to that later." Clint is sure she's kidding.
Mostly.
They turn to go, but Bruce calls out to them.
"Hey, guys, can you spare a minute?" The doctor catches up to them, and with a glance in Tony's direction, "You know what? Let's walk and talk."
Once they're safely away from Tony's curious mind, Bruce asks, "Is everything still going okay? I know it's been several days since you were dosed, and I wanted to see how the two of you were holding up."
They've reached the elevator now, and Natasha replies, sharing a gaze with Clint.
"We're fine."
Clint inclines his head in agreement. They are fine, better than fine, but even if they've let the rest of the team in on the secret that is their relationship, he's not quite ready for anyone else to know too much. He loves being in love with her, but he's not ready to share that feeling; he likes where it rests, close to his heart and warm.
Bruce nods. "Good. Well, I don't want to drag you away from your workout, but do you think you could stop off with me at the lab for some more blood samples? I want to check your hormone levels, make sure nothing else has cropped up since you were in last. Shouldn't take more than five minutes to get what I need."
It's simple enough, and they follow Bruce to the medlab.
Banner is as good as his word, quickly drawing three small vials of blood from each of them and sending the tubes off with a technician.
"I'll let you know if anything turns up." Bruce pulls off his glasses, walking with the agents to the door.
"Or if nothing does." Natasha's words are not a request.
"Of course."
They're at the elevators now, and Clint is itching for the run they've planned, can feel his muscles twitching for the simple exercise.
"And, hey, listen, um, I don't know if you remember, but tonight's Movie Night. Tony's decided that Steve needs to see all the James Bond movies, so if you guys are up for it, we're meeting around 8 . . ." Bruce trails off.
Natasha looks over at Clint, and he can see the smile behind her eyes as she remembers three days in a shitty hotel room in Eastern Europe where the only entertainment had been a poorly dubbed copy of On Her Majesty's Secret Service and a surfing magazine. Why a surfing magazine had been lying around an old hotel in Ukraine he would never know (or, for that matter, an old Bond film), but it had been a rather pleasant three days just the same.
Bruce mistakes the glance between them as hesitation, and adds, "If you're worried about Tony, I'm sure he's gotten most of it out of his system. He just likes to be in the middle of things."
Clint answers with a smile, "No, um, that sounds good, actually. Nat?" He asks, even though he already knows her answer.
"Yeah, it sounds good. Count us in. See you around, Doc."
They spend the hours until the movie running and training, in each other's orbit, but always just out of reach. It's better that way, Clint hates to admit, because as much as he loves her, loves being with her, there's something so emotionless about the way they fall over each other when they touch, the way they can't resist each other. He wants to touch her, make love to her simply because he wants to, not because some otherworldly drug is telling him to, and wants the same in return from her. He hates having the choice taken away from them, and he's equally terrified that everything he's felt over the past few days has been false, implanted in him, just like before.
Well, no one would say that they aren't in the middle of a potentially messy situation.
They shower on their own floors, taking the precautions that they should have considered days before. It's good, though, showering on his own, with no bare bits of Natasha or sultry moans to distract him. As the water beats down over him, the heat soaks into his muscles, refreshing him, and he can feel his head clear a little.
The opening sequence for Casino Royale is already rolling by the time he enters the darkened room, and the only free space is next to Natasha on the loveseat set back toward the wall. Clint always sits there on Movie Night, though Natasha doesn't always join him; he prefers even in this to watch the action from a distance. The others have already draped themselves over the big couch shoved much closer to the TV, and are so absorbed that they hardly notice Clint's arrival.
He sits down beside her, still avoiding skin to skin contact, but Clint's wearing jeans and Natasha's got on a sweatshirt and everyone's watching the screen, so when she leans against him, he lifts his arm and lets her fold herself into his side.
And it's just so nice to be able to spend quiet time with his team for once, to be quietly affectionate with Natasha and have no one make dirty insinuations about them, so nice in fact that Clint starts to forget himself and really relax. The two of them work their way through the six-pack Clint brought with him downstairs, and he's feeling nicely buzzed by the time the movie starts to pick up.
He's gently circling his thumb over Natasha's shoulder and thinking about grabbing another beer when he notices the stricken expression on her face. It isn't much, nothing more than a slight furrow in her brow and a peculiar light in her eyes, but she was definitely upset about something.
Quietly so as to not disturb the others, he prods, "You okay?"
She nods and shrugs, motioning toward the story being acted out in front of them.
And then he gets it; how similar everything is to some of the things they've done, how the whole situation strikes close to home. His heart breaks a little for Natasha; he knows she's been as much an emotional wreck as he for the past four days, but he didn't realize that she was so out of whack that a movie could affect her normally unflappable self.
So he pulls her closer against him, kisses her hair, and the fact that she's letting him do this more or less in front of the rest of the team tells him all he needs to know about her mental state.
And then it happens. An accident, really.
Natasha turns her head just as Clint is leaning down, and he ends up pressing his lips to her forehead instead of her hair, and just like that, the fire that they've been so careful to avoid flares up between them. He hears Natasha's low gasp as the wave of arousal hits her, and she's pressing against him in a very different way than she was just a moment ago. She stares up at him, panting.
Maybe it's a combination of the drug with the alcohol, but Natasha inches closer to him, hitching her leg up over his and now her thigh is rubbing against him in just the right place, and all of a sudden, he's sporting a raging erection in the same room as his team.
Natasha turns her head, and with her breath hot on his ear, she whispers, "Grab the blanket."
He sees the one she means, folded neatly on the wooden stool next to the couch, and he whips it open, spreading it over their laps. It isn't much, and they wouldn't fool anyone, but the guys are otherwise engaged, so what the hell.
Clint slips one hand below the blanket, runs his fingers up and down Natasha's thigh. He feels her shift, spread her legs a little wider so he can get better access. Her own hand slips below then, but he shakes his head firmly when she grasps him.
"You first," he breathes into her ear.
He continues teasing her on the outside of her clothes, gliding across her hips, dipping between her thighs, never spending much time in any one spot, until at last Natasha gets impatient, grips his hand in hers, and presses it into her core. She's so wet that can feel it through the fabric of her yoga pants, and he hasn't been this close to coming in his pants since he was 16.
Clint can tell it isn't enough for her, so he slides his hand up and under the waistband of her pants, slips below her panties, and then his fingers are sheathed in her warmth. It's an awkward position, but Natasha doesn't seem to mind, and she's got her face turned and pressed into his shoulder as he works her.
One eye on their teammates, Clint continues to rub her, circling her clit and palming her until she starts to shake. She's losing control now, and the hand that was gripping the side of the loveseat comes up to her mouth to stifle the sounds of her panting, and thank god that James Bond is crashing his car right now because he's pretty sure no one could mistake the breathy noises she's making for anything else. She presses harder against his palm, bucking once and then again, and then she coming, hard, clenching around his fingers and shuddering her release and he's feeling pretty damn proud of himself right now for brining her off like that.
So proud, in fact, that he needs to excuse himself and hit the bathroom because there is no way he's can continue to sit here and not end up fucking her in front of everyone. Using every last drop of his willpower, he brushes his lips over her cheek, trusting that she understands why he's leaving the room right now, and he heads down the corridor for the bathroom.
It's a nice bathroom, as such things go, with a double sink, marble floors, and for some unknown reason, a Jacuzzi, but none of that registers on Clint's mind right now. And no sooner does he shut the door behind him and flick the lock closed then he's got his arm braced against the sink and his pants open with his dick in his hand. He feels somewhat infantile for jacking off in the bathroom, but his fingers are still slick with Natasha's juices and the image of her coming against the palm he's got wrapped around his cock is so fucking perfect that he just doesn't give a shit.
It doesn't take much to get him on the cusp, and he's about to come when there's a scratching at the door, and it opens slightly. He'd be worried, except he knows that the only person around here who can pick a clock that easily is Natasha.
He watches her enter the room, her reflection in the suspiciously large mirror hung over the sinks. She's beautiful and a little disheveled, and she's smiling that quirky, half-smile of hers, the intimate one that she's only ever used for him, and it makes his heart swell to see it on her lips now.
"Couldn't let you run off without me," she says as she strips her pants off. She's on him in three steps, then pushes him backward until his calves hit the toilet. Then he's sitting down and she's straddling him, sinking down on him, and fuck, she's wet and tight and this is not going to last very long.
"Let me do the work this time." Her voice, husky even at its best, is sex roughened and exquisitely arousing, and he grabs her head to kiss the mouth that created that sound.
She raises and lowers herself on him, all the while kissing him, wrapping her arms around him and sighing happily when his hands come to rest on her ass.
She's so warm and wet and he was already close when she got here, so it doesn't take much for him to climax, holding her tightly against him while she swallows his shout.
Natasha is still sitting on him when he regains himself, gently running her hands through his hair and pressing light kisses along his brow.
"You're beautiful when you come," she says so matter of factly he can't help but believe her, even if he laughs at her choice of adjectives.
"You think they noticed we left?"
Natasha shrugs, and with the motion, he starts to slip out of her.
"It's not like it's a big secret at this point. Remember the security tapes?"
Clint grimaces, helping her to her feet. "I was trying to forget, thanks."
"Not my fault you couldn't keep it in your pants, big boy."
"You and I clearly remember that night very differently."
They clean themselves up, all smiles and snark in between friendly touches and laughter, and if Clint has ever had a better Movie Night, he doesn't remember it.
Of course, that's until Tony claps for them as they walk back into the room.
"Great job, guys. I give you an 8 out of 10."
Clint refuses to ask how they lost two points, so he just snatches the bowl of popcorn from him, and sits back down on the loveseat with Natasha, studiously ignoring his peers.
Life is good.
There you go! The next part should be up in three days! I'd love to hear what you think!
