A.N: A tiny moment inspired by the thought - what could Clint do for Natasha when he's feeling particularly romantic? Hope you like it.
She wakes as if from a dream, consciousness coming to her slowly, surfacing as if through water. Sunlight pools on the mattress, warming her body and lulling her into a sense of security that she rarely feels. She shifts languidly beneath the sheets, stretching and reaching out through the covers of the bed with one hand seeking warm skin and reassurance.
Before her hand even reaches the other side of the mattress, she knows that Clint isn't there. Cracking open her eyes, she glances at the empty space beside her and then rolls over to consult the clock. It's almost eight which is almost unheard of for her, even on her rare days off, and she surmises that he has probably gone in search of breakfast for them both. The silence of the apartment suggests that he definitely isn't in the shower and that he probably isn't hard at work in the kitchen either, both revelations are mildly disappointing.
She rubs her eyes and pushes herself up on her elbows to get a better view of the room, keeping the sheet tucked around her body. Yesterdays clothes are still draped over the back of the chair in the corner, a lapse in his usual tidiness that makes her feel curiously warm inside, but his wallet, his phone and his keys are gone. She spares a moment to be slightly disappointed if not all that surprised that he didn't wake her up. Since the events that brought him to her door in California he sleeps badly and the disappearing act in the early hours of the morning has become commonplace.
She doesn't worry for a second that his behaviour spells trouble for them, it doesn't, he just needs a view to focus the racing of his thoughts when he can't talk about them. Clint is on a covert assignment and taking orders directly from Fury, it's understandable that he is taking it seriously. Nobody understands the complexities of missions involving direct orders better than Natasha herself so she says nothing when she wakes up to find him staring out of the windows in the small hours of the morning, just reassures him with glances and touch that she understands, makes him hot, sweet tea and leaves him to his thoughts.
Pulling on one of Clint's shirts, she pads through to the kitchen in search of breakfast and the man in question. She doesn't find him but theres a note on the kitchen counter beside a recently brewed pot of coffee, neatly folded and carefully placed so that she will see it as soon as she walks in. His handwriting is as familiar to her as her own, the letters precisely formed and edged in sweeping flourishes that are almost at odds with the public persona he shows the world, the wording simple. Fury called, routine job. Didn't want to wake you. Missing you already, C xx
Natasha smiles at the words and pours herself a mug of coffee before she turns her attention to the second sheet of paper that is folded around the note, somewhat heavier and of higher quality than the first. For a moment she can only stare at the contents of the paper, disbelieving, overwhelmed. She lifts it closer, holding it gently between her palms as if it is something precious and fragile, trying to make sense of what she is seeing.
Though his skill with a bow is well known there is another skill that most don't know he possesses, Clint is quite the artist, sketching landscapes from his perches while he waits for an opportunity to take the shot, tracing faces from photographs when he has a few quiet moments between missions and nothing else to occupy his hands. Anything that inspires him he commits to paper. He keeps them to himself mostly though occasionally he shares them with Steve who coaches him on how to improve his technique or with her so that she can share in the jobs that she doesn't go on with him. His art is personal and private and never in her wildest dreams did she expect he would show her something like this.
He has drawn her sleeping, a soft contented half-smile on her face as if she is dreaming. Her hair is scattered across the pillows, the tangled sheet barely covering her but only from the waist down, one bare leg escaping from beneath it. Judging by the angle she concludes that he must have drawn it while sitting on the window seat and wonders whether he did it before or after Fury called with the next objective in his undercover mission.
The image is undeniably her and yet Natasha doesn't perceive herself to be half as beautiful as he has made her. The sensuality of the picture is what captivates her, as if in the black and white lines that he has made she can see herself for the first time as he does. She traces the pencil marks with her eyes, the sweeping lines of her hip, the curve of her breast where her upper body twists to press into the mattress, the curl of her fingers atop the pillow. In the strokes of pencil on paper, in lines and shading and the smudge of his fingers, he has captured something more than her physical form, something that makes the image seem more real than a photograph, more personal.
She's still sitting at the table a while later, empty coffee cup in hand, picture on the counter in front of her, when the trilling of her phone interrupts her from her thoughts. It's Hill calling with a job for her, one that will take her to Europe for a couple of days and put them once again on different continents. It's work and she hates the separation but they make it work for them. Absence, as they say, makes the heart grow fonder and it leads to acrobatic reunion sex too.
She's given an hour to get ready but she's good to go in thirty minutes, showered and dressed, go bag packed and at her feet. To kill the time she checks her weapons and packs the book that she has been reading into her bag, ties her hair back in a band and finds a hooded sweater of his that smells of him to pack into her bag. The jacket is nothing new, she's been wearing Clint's clothes for years and nobody bats an eyelid at it now, not even the agents who scrutinise them for any sign that two of SHIELD's best might be more than partners. Nobody asks now, nobody gives voice to their suspicions, they've learned that it's easier not to and that neither The Hawk or The Spider take well to being the subject of idle gossip.
As is their habit when one of them is called away, she writes him a note to tell him where she is going and how long she expects to be away. It's a simple message, much like the one that he left for her. There are no delicate words or declarations made, they never say goodbye when they leave because it feels too final, too much like tempting fate.
As she places the letter on the counter, her eyes fall again on the picture and she smiles. Before she can change her mind, she picks it up, folds it carefully and slides into the back of her book where it will be safe. He won't be at her side in Berlin but that doesn't mean that she can't take something of him with her.
To leave something of herself for him she loops the necklace he gave her over the bedpost above his pillow then she grabs her stuff and heads for the door, swiftly putting the shields that she wears when she is out in the world back in place. Her mind is already on the job when she reaches the street outside and slides into the waiting car but as she is briefed on the mission she allows herself a moment to imagine the homecoming that might await her. She smiles and then turns her attention to the file that is placed in her hands.
Two days, three at the most, and then she'll be back. Two or three days of anticipation and then coming home to find him in her space, to feel his hands on her skin and his lips against hers. She can hardly wait.