Shoutouts to Barefoot Beach Bum, Jewelz1642, Black Widow and Hawkeye OTP, madiwadipandalover, Jo, jdho2, buh-rum-tss, Guest, ArabianForest, hiddlestonlover213, bellapaige88, WhispersOfWings, and MaddieFayeth96 for reviewing!

Wow, this story has now broken 250 followers. I'm just shocked and thankful to everyone.

Alright, guys, here's your warning. This story is no longer rated T because it is now rated M. Our favorite spies do some talking and, well, a little bit more in Budapest ;)

I really hope you guys like this chapter because this was one of my favorite ones to write. Natasha lets Clint see a side of her emotionally that she never has before, and I enjoyed exploring that side of her and this side of their relationship.

For extra emotions, listen to "Latch (Acoustic)" - Sam Smith. (If you read Falling Slowly, you'll see I'm reusing the song, but damn, is it fitting.)

Please, please, please keep leaving your thoughts and opinions. I would especially love to know what you think of this chapter, sooooo yeah =)

Enjoy! =)

Chapter 21

Natasha felt herself slow start to come back into herself. The last thing she remembered was being in the rain but feeling uncomfortably hot. Now she was cold again, and she kind of wished she was back to being hot. She let out a quiet groan as she rolled onto her back. Her head was pounding, and she was afraid to open her eyes—ten bucks says that when she opened her eyes, the room would be spinning, and her headache would get worse.

Forcing herself to open her eyes, she lifted her hands up to her face to cover the bright light she was expecting to blind her. But as she opened her eyes, she saw that she was on a bed in a dark room. She winced and pushed herself up into a seated position, only to find that she wasn't in an unfamiliar place. She recognized exactly where she was. She was in the safe house.

She felt dizzy and discombobulated, and for a second, she was fairly sure she was going to throw up. Swallowing hard, she tried to keep herself under control, but she leaned over the side of the bed and threw up.

"Natasha?" Clint's voice caught her attention, and she groggily looked off in the direction that his voice had come from. "Oh, shit. Shit. Lie back down."

"I threw up," Natasha blankly stated.

"I can see that. Lie back down, Nat. Stop trying to get up. I'll take care of it." Clint crossed towards her and put the back of his hand on her forehead. "How do you feel?"

"Terrible," Natasha honestly answered. "What happened?"

"You smacked your head off the ground and got a nasty concussion. I brought you back here to the safe house. It's not really…safe for us right now," Clint replied.

"How'd you get us out of there?" Natasha asked. She watched Clint's face go still, and he avoided her eyes.

"I eliminated the threat," he said. He lifted his eyes slightly and looked at her seriously. "I got my bow."

"How could you tell with all that rain where they were?" she asked.

"I'm just that good," he answered, but his voice and his eyes were dull. "You managed to hit two of them, even though you couldn't see through the rain."

"Dr. Munroe?" she asked. Clint swallowed, and he shook his head grimly.

"Didn't make it out. Ran out into the middle of the street yelling about giving himself up, and they shot him." He ran a hand through his short hair. Natasha closed her eyes and let out a quiet sigh, careful to keep the flow of her breath away from Clint.

"Goddammit," she hissed. "We were so fucking close."

"I know." Clint looked at her, and then he walked out of the room. Natasha wanted to ask him where he was going, but she didn't have the energy. All she wanted to do was brush her teeth and go back to sleep where she didn't have to fight this horrible nausea and dizziness, where she didn't have to fight the realization that she'd failed on her mission.

Clint walked back into the room carrying a trash bag and a roll of paper towels. Quietly, he walked over to the side of the bed where she'd thrown up, and he expertly set about to cleaning up the mess she'd made. Natasha felt only slightly embarrassed, and she knew that it was because she felt too bad to feel the height of embarrassment that she normally would. Throwing up was strangely vulnerable, and now Clint had experienced this side of her.

As he carefully cleaned up her throw up, Natasha noticed a stream of blood coming from one of his ears. She leaned back up onto her elbow, the movement catching Clint's attention and making him pause. He opened his mouth to tell her to lie back down again, but she lifted a hand and pointed to his ear.

"You're bleeding," she said. Frowning, he touched the area that she was pointing to, and he drew his hand away to look at it.

"From the explosion," he said.

"Are you hurt?" Natasha asked.

"Not really," he replied. She waited for him to elaborate, but he just kept quietly cleaning. Neither of them spoke when he finished. She watched him stand and leave the room, and she used this opportunity to get up. Her duffel bag was in the corner, and she weakly staggered over to it. Standing up was a whole different story than sitting up, and she felt a thousand times more dizzy and nauseated than she had before, but she willed herself not to throw up again.

She could hear Clint coming back down the hall right as she found her toothbrush and toothpaste. Putting one hand against the wall to steady her, she walked to the bathroom that was attached to the small bedroom, and she started to brush her teeth. Hygiene was something that was important to her, and she was going to be damned if a fucking concussion kept her in bed the whole time. Clint stuck his head in the doorway of the bathroom with a frown on his face.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Brushing my teeth," she answered with the toothbrush in her mouth. "I just threw up."

"You shouldn't be up and moving around," Clint said worriedly.

"Don't tell me what to do," she said, her voice coming out more harshly than she'd intended it to. She saw Clint's face harden.

"Natasha, let's not do this." His voice was tired.

Natasha paused to spit into the sink, all the while her head was still spinning. She glanced at him in the bathroom mirror. "Do what?"

"Fight right after another mission. We literally just made up after the last one," he said. "I've been worried sick about you. I really don't want to fight with you right now."

Natasha resumed brushing her teeth, but she didn't say anything. She knew she was being unfair to him, especially after he'd just cleaned up her vomit without uttering a single complaint. She also knew it was a defense mechanism—she wanted him more than anything. She was her most vulnerable after missions, and she didn't want to let Clint see her that defenseless and raw.

She spat into the sink again and washed her mouth before rinsing her toothbrush off and putting it on the side of the sink. She glanced up into the mirror again and saw that Clint was leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest, and he wasn't looking at her.

"Thank you," she said finally. He still didn't look up at her.

"You're welcome," he replied. She turned and crossed towards him until she was standing in front of him.

"I mean it," she said. "You saved my ass back there. And you cleaned up my puke. That was nice of you."

"That's what partners do," Clint replied. His blue eyes lifted and met hers. "You should get back in bed. You need rest."

"So do you," Natasha replied. "Ten bucks says you're more injured than you're letting on."

"No, I'm not," Clint retorted with a frown. Natasha lifted her red eyebrows.

"You sound like me," she said.

"Get in bed," Clint ordered. She thought about asking him what was wrong with him, but she didn't. Besides, she was too cold to be defiant, and the thought of getting back in bed sounded appealing. She waited for him to move so she could walk past him. He'd already changed out of his clothes he'd been wearing when they'd headed out early that morning; now he was back in that flannel he'd been wearing last night.

She thought about changing out of her jeans and sweater, but she was too cold and felt too sick. Instead, she just made her way slowly back to the bed and lay down in it. Clint didn't move from his spot in the doorframe—he just stood there with his back to her without looking at her.

"Clint," she said out loud. He turned towards her.

"Yeah?" he asked expectantly.

"You need rest, too," she said. Pressing his lips together, he shook his head.

"I need to stay on guard," he said. "Even though the place is armed, we can't take any chances."

"I'm cold," she said. She watched his face soften as he thought about what to do. Slowly, he crossed towards her and sat on the edge of the bed, removing his shoes and lifting the covers to get underneath with her. Instantly, she moved towards him and let him wrap his arms around her. As she relaxed in his arms, she finally let herself have what she wanted. Him. She pressed her nose into his chest and slowly breathed the smell of him in. He always smelled like soap, gunpowder, and bow oil.

She loved it.

She knew that letting him in like this was dangerous, but in that moment, she didn't care. She'd failed her mission, and she felt like shit, and all she wanted was for him to hold her. Above her, she felt him tuck his face down against the top of her hair.

"Are you warm?" he asked her quietly. She shook her head, and he tightened his hold on her just a little bit and pulled the covers around her so that she was cocooned in nicely between him and the blankets. Absentmindedly, he began to rub her back.

"Is it still raining?' she asked.

"Yeah, it is," he answered. "Why?"

"I just wanted to know." She closed her eyes and let her arms stay tucked in between their bodies. "Clint?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sad." She opened her eyes.

"I know," he said softly, his voice deep and warm to listen to. Natasha remembered that when she'd first been brought into SHIELD, he hadn't shut up. He'd talked and talked and talked nonstop, and at first, she'd hated it. Nothing had been more annoying than the sound of his voice talking, but after a while, she'd grown to like it. He was naturally somewhat soft spoken, and his voice was deep and rumbly when he talked. She especially liked the sound of it right after he'd woken up when it was sleepy and adorable. God, she hated herself for thinking of him as adorable.

Outside, a new torrent of rain began to fall down, and she could hear it clattering against the roof. In that moment, she felt as though nothing existed outside of them. All that was left in the world was this safe house, the rain, and Clint Barton holding her tight. She knew she was risking so much by allowing him to be this close to her emotionally, especially after she'd been holding him at such an emotional distance, but she didn't care. Not anymore. She'd been compromised since the first day he'd walked into her life, and each day that had passed had only compromised her even more.

"Are you hungry?" Clint asked. "I can make some Ramen."

"No," Natasha replied. "I feel too sick to eat right now. Maybe later."

"Ok."

"Please don't leave." It was the concussion that was taking away her filters, her defenses. Had she not suffered that head injury, she probably wouldn't have been saying all these things and letting him get so close to her, but she was concussed, and she couldn't stop herself from speaking.

"I won't." Clint pressed his lips to the top of her head, and she closed her eyes again. Feeling safe, she allowed herself to fall back asleep.

As soon as Clint had seen Natasha go still on the ground, the rain falling hard on her, he'd never been more afraid. He'd felt conflicted as he'd watched both Natasha get thrown to the ground and Stefan Munroe get pummeled with bullets. It had been a lot for him to process, but it had been Natasha's stillness that had made something inside him snap. He hadn't been inspired to take out the enemy after he'd failed to keep Dr. Munroe safe—he'd been inspired to eliminate the threat after he'd felt fear for Natasha's safety.

He was disgusted with himself. He had been trained to be the best agent that he could be, to always protect and serve the people. And yet the one person he'd been assigned to protect that mission had been the one person who'd been killed. Because of his own personal attachments, he had lost sight of what really mattered: the mission. That being said, Clint knew that realistically, Dr. Munroe would have been killed even if Clint had been focusing 100% on keeping him safe. If Clint hadn't been worried about Natasha's well-being, Dr. Munroe still would have run out into the street, and he still would have been shot. That was inevitable. But maybe Clint would have eliminated the threat out of respect to Dr. Munroe's memory instead of fear for Natasha and himself.

He'd been beating himself up over it ever since it'd happened. As he'd carried Natasha to the safe house and put her in bed, he'd become more and more disgusted with himself and his personal priorities, letting it make him sullen and angry. He'd been a mixture of self-loathing and concern for Natasha—there was always Natasha—and even after Natasha had woken up, he hadn't been able to shake it. But as he lay in bed with her, her head tucked into his chest and her body soft and warm against his, he started to release the blame he was holding to himself.

Natasha's breathing was deep and even, signaling that she was asleep. She was still in pretty rough shape after her concussion, and he was nervous to let her sleep too long, but he also didn't want to disturb her. This was the closest she'd ever let him get to her, and it was new for him. For the first time, the Black Widow was snuggled up tightly against him and holding onto his shirt as if she were afraid he would get up and leave her alone.

But what she didn't know was that she never needed to worry about that. He couldn't have gotten up and left her even if he'd wanted to. He was in too deep now. Shifting slightly, Natasha let out a sigh, and she nuzzled against him. Unable to help himself, Clint discreetly smiled. He'd lied when he'd said that he didn't watch her sleep. Well, he didn't do it on purpose—it just sort of happened. In his defense, he did wake up a lot in the middle of the night because she took the blankets—she was always pulling them tight around her to keep out the cold air—and he just happened to look at her while she was sleeping.

Secretly, Natasha was a cuddler, and she only ever really cuddled with him while she slept. But today was different. She was holding onto him and willingly putting herself in his arms. At first, she'd tried to start a fight with him, but he'd shut it down, not in the mood to put up with her strange defensive behaviors and erratic mood swings. And after he'd expressed that he wasn't having it, she'd switched. She'd snuggled up to him and fallen asleep, and Clint was going to be goddamned if he disturbed her.

He let her sleep for two hours, and she didn't move at all during that time unless it was to shift where she had been keeping her weight. Clint didn't dare move, either—he just kept his arms around her and his hand gently rubbing her back. As he tried to get the nerve to wake her up, he realized he was in love with her. He was in love with this fascinating, hilarious, talented, amazing, breathtaking woman, and there wasn't a single fucking thing he could do about it. He'd known it before to some degree, but he'd never allowed himself to admit it. God, how could he? Admitting that you were in love with someone was akin to signing your death certificate. He knew that. And yet, here he was hopelessly and undeniably in love with Natasha Romanoff.

"Hey. Natasha." Gently, he moved his hand to her arm, and he lightly tapped her to get her attention. "Tasha."

Slowly, she started to open her eyes, curling up further under the blankets and blinking up sleepily at him.

Fuck, I'm a goner, Clint thought.

"Are you hungry?" Clint asked. "Do you want something to eat?"

"Yeah," she sleepily replied. "How long did I sleep?"

"Two hours," he said, his blue eyes looking down at her with more concern and affection than he would have liked to show in that moment. He was still feeling pretty rattled from having just admitted to himself that he was fucking in love with his fucking partner, aka the most complicated woman on the face of the Earth, but no big deal. "Do you know where you are?"

"Safe house in Budapest." She untangled herself from him and rolled onto her back, lifting her arms up above her head and straightening her legs out to stretch her muscles. "Fuck, I'm sore."

"Me too," Clint said. "You going to join me in the kitchen?"

"Yeah. Just…give me a second," she groaned out with a wince as she pushed herself up into a sit. She blinked several times to get herself reoriented with the room and the rest of the world around her. She felt as though she'd been asleep for nine years, not two hours, and she still could have used another year or so of sleep.

"You ok?" Clint asked.

"Mmhmmm. Just sore as hell and a headache to boot," she answered drily. Carefully, she pushed herself up into a standing position and shakily took a few steps. She hated whenever she was out of control of her own body, and now was one of those times—she especially hated that it was happening in front of Clint, the last person in the world that she wanted to look weak in front of but always managed to.

"I know how that goes," he said patiently and waited for her to make her way around the bed before he started walking out to the kitchen with her. Natasha may have been concussed, but she was still aware enough of her surroundings to know that Clint wasn't being his usual self. He was normally more cheerful—which was annoying—and humorous—also annoying—but he was quiet and pensive. Natasha quietly walked out to the small kitchen with him, and she took a seat at the tiny table and chairs in the middle of it while Clint started working on the Ramen.

It didn't escape her notice that they were so in tune with each other that they just kind of knew what the other person was going to do without talking about it. Sometimes it made Natasha uncomfortable because she didn't like knowing that someone knew her that well, but just then, it made her feel safe. It reminded her that Clint had her back. Even though he'd proven that multiple times that day with the whole eliminating-the-threat-by-himself-and-then-carrying-her-back-to-the-safe-house-and-cleaning-up-her-puke thing.

He moved about the kitchen with the ease and grace of a man who actually knew his way around the kitchen. This kind of surprised Natasha; she hadn't exactly pictured Clint Barton, master assassin to be all that knowledgeable about a kitchen and how to make food, but he was always surprising her. She watched him get the water boiling in the pot. His shoulders were down and slightly curved forward, and his head was tilted downward, too. Natasha knew Clint, and she knew that this was the posture he adopted whenever something was wrong.

"Are you ok?" she asked. Clint turned to face her, and he leaned against the counter, putting his hands on the counter behind him as he waited for the water to reach a boil.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine," Natasha replied. His blue eyes calmly regarded her in silence for a few moments, and then he shrugged half-heartedly.

"I'm fine," he repeated.

"How did you learn your way around the kitchen?" Natasha asked, suddenly changing the subject. Clint was used to her randomly changing the subject now, and he didn't show any surprise at the new twist to their conversation.

"I've picked up a few tricks here and there," he vaguely answered. "I like cooking."

"You do?" Natasha found herself smiling at him in surprise. He nodded.

"Yeah. I don't know why. I think I probably enjoy the eating part more," he said. Natasha's smile grew a little bit.

"Now you sound like you," she answered. Finally, he smiled back at her.

"I guess so," he replied quietly.

"Look at you. You're like the perfect man. You cook, you play guitar and piano, you know how to kill someone 100 ways with your bare hands, and your hair smells like a meadow," she quipped. His smile widened, and he shook his head.

"Damn, Nat, you sure know how to turn a man on," he said drily. Natasha softly laughed.

"There he is. I knew the Clint Barton I knew was in there somewhere," she said. He glanced over at the pot to check on the water, but the smile still stayed on his face. "How long do we have to stay here?"

"I don't know," Clint replied.

Natasha frowned. "You didn't contact someone at HQ?"

"How can I? Our comms are down right now with how bad this fucking rain is," Clint said with a bitter look towards the ceiling as if the ceiling were to blame for their current predicament.

"Right," Natasha said. She sat back in the chair, her knees tucked up into her chest, and she just watched Clint as he finished making their Ramen. She never would have thought that she'd like seeing the archer in flannel, but admittedly, it was growing on her.

It wasn't long before he brought over two steaming bowls of fresh Ramen noodles, placing one in front of her with a fork sticking out the middle of it. He sat down in the chair across from her and mirrored her stance as he leaned back against the back of the chair. Natasha studied his face, noticing how out of it he seemed. Even though he'd told her he was fine, she didn't believe him. Normal Clint would have been making some kind of joke about the whole situation to make her laugh, but he was quiet and pensive.

"You're worrying me," she said out loud. He looked up at her with a surprised look on his face, and he blinked.

"What?" he asked.

"You're worrying me," she repeated. "You're not being you."

"I'm a spy. When am I ever being me?" he countered. She pursed her lips and nodded in a conceding manner.

"Ok, I guess that's fair," she said slowly. "But you're not acting like the you I know."

Clint looked away from her and back down at his bowl without saying anything. Natasha felt a flash of frustration pass over her; for the first time, she wondered if this was how Clint felt whenever she did that to him. She decided that she didn't like it. Finally, he let out a quiet exhale.

"Dr. Munroe is dead because of me," he said. "I wasn't as…as there as I should have been."

"Clint, it's not your fault," Natasha said automatically. "You couldn't have stopped him from running out into the street."

"But I could have gotten him somewhere safer. I could have been more focused on keeping him safe. I could—"

"You can keep talking about all the things you could've, should've, would've done, but that's not going to change the outcome of what happened," she interrupted. Clint gave her a hard look.

"How are you so calm about his death?" he asked. Natasha blinked in surprise.

"I'm not," she said. "Trust me, it's eating me up inside, too. He was under my watch, and now he's dead." She paused. "I just don't waste energy trying to take back something that's already happened. Or at least I try not to. I'm always going to remember seeing him die in the street in a way he didn't deserve. I remember every single one of my failed missions, every single person that died because of me. I never get them out of my head. Ever."

"How do you deal with it?" Clint's voice was quiet and flat.

"I take it out on the next person I fight. The next person who's trying to hurt me or hurt someone else under my protection. That's how I handle it," she replied, her voice the same level as his. "Is that the only thing that's bothering you?"

Well, I'm in fucking love with you, Clint thought.

"Yes," Clint said.

"It's not your fault." Natasha pulled her bowl a little closer to her and curled a scoop of noodles around her fork. Tentatively, she brought it up to her lips and gently blew on it to cool it off a little bit more before she put it in her mouth. In a way, this whole thing that was happening with Clint was new for her. Usually, he was the one giving her the pep talk, and she was the one hung up on something, but now their roles were reversed.

Clint Barton may have been all solid muscle and sturdy build, but that didn't mean he could always hold himself together as well as he looked like he could.

Quickly, they ate their Ramen in silence. When they were done, Clint took both of their bowls to the kitchen and washed them. Natasha wished that she could help him, but she was fairly certain that if she tried to stand up, she might not be able to keep her balance the whole time. One of the most frustrating injuries, in her opinion, was a concussion because of how much it just threw everything off. With a gunshot wound, you didn't get disoriented or dizzy while trying to recover. She would gladly take a bullet over a concussion any day.

"Ever played Two Truths and a Lie?" she said when Clint was done washing the dishes. He gave her a curious look.

"Yeah," he said. "Are you suggesting we should play it now?"

"You bet I am," she replied.

Clint stared at her for a few seconds. "Are you feeling ok?"

"What? Of course I'm feeling ok. I'm not allowed to ask you if you want to play a game?"

"No, you can. That's just usually not your scene."

"Well, it is today. You first."

"Why do I have to go first? It was your idea."

"You have to go first because I'm concussed."

Clint gave her a bored look, but he crossed back to the chair and sat down in it, sighing as he thought. "Ok. I was playing Mozart by the time I was nine, I have a brother, and I prefer hot tea to coffee."

Natasha furrowed her eyebrows as she thought. "The brother. That's a lie."

"Nope, that's a truth," Clint replied. Natasha's eyebrows rose, and she stared at him in shock.

"You have a brother?" she asked. He nodded, his eyes locked on hers, but he didn't say anything. "Is he older or younger?"

"Older," Clint said. "The lie was Mozart. Your turn."

Natasha wanted to ask more, but she knew better, so she kept her mouth quiet. "I don't like wearing make up, I can braid my hair 64 different ways, and my favorite type of alcohol is vodka."

"The braid," Clint said instantly. Natasha snorted.

"Wrong," she said. "I actually know how to braid my hair 64 different ways."

"Wow. I was impressed with you before, but now…" Clint's voice trailed off as he thought some more. "Vodka?"

"Correct. I hate vodka. I like wine," Natasha said with a smile. "Your turn."

"I hate classical music, I love my family, and when I'm drunk, all I want to listen to is country."

"Country?"

"Nope. That one's true, unfortunately. Family."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Silence.

"You should rest some more, Nat."

"Will you stay with me?"

"Of course."

For a long, unsuccessful hour, Natasha tried to go back to sleep, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't. Clint had never been more candid with her, and she couldn't stop thinking about it. She'd seen him at an all time low today, and she wasn't sure how to handle the way he was opening up to her. She'd allowed him to get close to her physically, and now it appeared that she'd let him get close to her emotionally, too. Deep down, she wished she could push him away. But she was in too deep, and she knew it.

He was holding her the same way he was earlier. If she positioned her head just right, she could hear his heartbeat beneath the warm flannel of his shirt, and she didn't want to take her head away. Clint Barton brought out a side of her she'd never known existed. She never would have thought she'd be willingly cuddling in bed with a man who'd tried to kill her, not wanting to let him go.

Outside, the rain poured down steadily just as it had been since that morning. It didn't look like it was about to let up anytime soon, and Natasha couldn't say that she minded. She always slept better with the sound of rain coming down, anyway. Above her, she felt Clint shift his head downward and plant a kiss in her hair.

"Thank you. Again," she said out loud.

"I thought you were sleeping," Clint replied, a hint of amusement creeping through his voice.

"I couldn't sleep," she said, pulling back a little bit to look him in the eye. He stared curiously at her, his own blue eyes fully alert without the tiniest bit of tiredness lurking in them.

"Neither can I," he said. "Is your head hurting?"

"A little. It's not as bad now. Has your ear stopped bleeding?"

"Yeah. I don't know where that came from."

"What are the rest of your injuries?"

Clint shrugged. "Minor."

"Clint."

"Natasha."

She looked up at him, and he looked down at her. Neither of them spoke. His hand lightly rubbed her back, and it felt good and comforting to Natasha. She wasn't used to people comforting her, but it felt nice. It felt unspeakably nice. Reaching up, she put her hand on the side of his face and brushed her thumb over his cheekbone, mirroring the way he always did it to her.

Clint took his cue from her, and he kissed her. His lips were soft and warm, and they didn't take more than she gave him. She slid her hand to the back of his neck and lightly tugged on his short blond hair. Quietly, Clint sighed into her mouth and pressed his hand more firmly against the small of her back. Natasha was so close to him that she was already snug against his body, but that was ok. That was exactly what she wanted.

As Clint continued to kiss her, her hands moved to the top button on his flannel, deftly unbuttoning it. Clint stilled beneath her touch, and she paused to gauge his reaction.

"Tasha," he whispered worriedly. "I…you're hurt…"

"You won't hurt me," she whispered back. "Clint…"

"You're not thinking clearly—you have a concuss—"

"I'm thinking perfectly clearly. I want this." Natasha stared hard at him. "I want this."

Clint processed her words, and then he nodded quickly, his blue eyes wide. "Ok. Fuck. Ok."

He lowered his mouth back down to hers and began kissing her again as she continued to unbutton his flannel. She could feel her blood growing more heated with each passing second. God, she wanted this. She'd been wanting it for a while, but she hadn't wanted to act on it; she hadn't wanted to scare him off. Though really, this was Clint she was with. She doubted he scared that easily.

His tongue delved deep into her mouth, and he swiftly and effortlessly moved so that he was on top of her. Nope. He didn't scare that easily. Natasha couldn't get his shirt off fast enough. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons; she barely even noticed Clint's hands tugging at her leggings and her sweater to get them off of her. It wasn't until Clint nudged her arms to signal to her to lift them that she registered he was undressing her.

Her stomach muscles clenched, and she found that she was growing breathless with each kiss she devoured from him. Finally, she got his shirt unbuttoned, and she quickly pushed on his chest, pushing him up so that he was sitting up on his knees, and she was in his lap. His arms circled around her, the heat of his skin driving her crazy. She brought her hands to his chest and shoved them back into the shoulders of his shirt to push it off of him.

Beneath her hands, he flinched, and she pulled away to look at the place she'd touched. His shirt was now halfway down his arms, and she could see that someone—Clint—had sloppily stitched up what looked like a grazed bullet. She looked at him with concerned eyes.

"Did this happen to you out there?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said. "I've had worse."

"You didn't tell me. I could have stitched that up for you," she replied. Clint's lips were swollen, and his eyes were glassy as he looked up at her, looking mesmerized by the redhead in his lap.

"I did an ok job, I think," he answered. She lifted her eyebrows.

"No one should have to stitch themselves up alone," she said. He looked at for a few seconds.

"Kiss me," he ordered. She didn't wait for further instructions. Instead, she kissed him hard with every ounce of concentration she had—she wasn't sure if she were feeling dizzy because of him or the concussion, but if she had to bet, she would have placed all her money on Clint. His lips moved to her neck, leaving behind a fiery trail across her skin. Gasping, she stilled as he kissed her collarbone and then her chest. Silently, she thanked herself for having thought to put on a decent bra that day instead of a comfortable one.

"Clint," she breathed. Placing her hands back on him, she pushed him back down onto the bed so that she was above him. She was finally getting what she'd been waiting for: the chance to touch him. Clint watched her with rapture-filled eyes as she pressed her lips to his collarbone the exact way he'd put his on hers, and she slowly mapped out a path down to his chest and his abs. Her hands skimmed over every inch of him, every single inch that was covered in well-toned, solid muscle. "Jesus, Barton."

"What?" he exhaled, his eyes still glued to her.

"You're built," she replied. His muscles tightened beneath her mouth as he let out a quiet chuckle.

"Thanks," he said appreciatively. Natasha pushed herself back up into a straddle over him and began to unbutton and unzip his jeans. Clint didn't need much encouragement to lift his hips up, allowing her to drag them all the way off before throwing them to the ground. As she came back up to continue her scientific exploration of his body, he surprised her by flipping her over onto her back. His hands felt like fire in the most wonderful way. Every touch, every kiss, every sigh felt unbelievably good to her.

Clint's mouth traveled to her collarbone; despite herself, Natasha let out a quiet moan. He felt her reach between them and push her leggings off, shoving them off with her toned assassin legs and feet and pushing them to the floor to join his jeans. Without wasting any time, she wrapped her legs around Clint's waist and arched her back. She could feel him hard and firm between her legs through her underwear, and she swallowed hard in anticipation.

Every sensation was better than the last. Clint's hand slid to her back, and with a quick twist of his fingers, her bra was unhooked. Natasha couldn't help the smile that spread over her face, and in a sudden fit of need, she took his face between her hands and pulled his mouth back to hers. She never got tired of kissing him, of having his lips move over hers as he kissed her in return. Admittedly, she'd thought about what it would be like to be here in this moment with him, and by God, he was not disappointing her fantasies.

She moved her hands back down over his chest and over his waist until she got to where she wanted. Hooking her thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, she pushed down and eliminated the last piece of clothing on his body. He let out a quiet groan when she took his length in her palm, grasping him firmly. His size was everything she needed and more, and she felt her throat go dry. Clint was kissing her breasts, enveloping a nipple in his mouth, touching her, licking her, everything. Briefly, she considered the fact that she might explode just from an overload of sensation.

A startled gasp came from her throat when he discarded her underwear before she could even process it. When he lowered his body back down to hers, the both of them completely naked, she was unable to look away from him. His face was flushed, and he was breathing deeply with his eyes scanning over her face. He seemed to be looking for any sign that she didn't want to continue, that she wanted to stop, but she gave him none.

"We need a—"

"We don't. I've got it covered," Natasha said, interrupting him with a swift kiss. Nodding against her lips, Clint didn't argue. She took him between her thighs and felt him move his hand between their bodies to help position himself just right. She could barely catch her breath. Licking her lips, she stared up at him, and with one slow push, he was inside her. At the feeling, Natasha closed her eyes, and she sighed. The feeling was indescribably amazing, unbelievably right. He didn't move, instead allowing her body to get used to the feel of him inside her.

"Tasha," he whispered, his voice quiet and reverent. She'd never heard her name murmured with such sweetness before. Lowering his mouth to that space just below her jaw, he kissed her, and he began to move. His movements were slow and unhurried, almost worshipful of her. He touched her with his hands and with his mouth, all the while wondering if this were really happening. He'd been imagining this moment for so long, and now here he was moving within her body and kissing her and doing all the things he'd wanted to.

It was terrifying and liberating all at the same time. Nothing had ever felt better emotionally or physically, and it nearly paralyzed him to the core. Each push and withdrawal he made brought him closer and closer to this stunning woman and the realization that by God, he was in love with her. He had expected her to want to take the lead, but she was letting him lead her to her orgasm.

Beneath him, she arched her back, and the angle changed, causing him to moan at the feeling of it. He started to pick up the pace and the force of his thrusts. Natasha could feel her orgasm starting to build up, and she didn't fight it. There was no sense in delaying what they both wanted, what they both needed to happen. She didn't want to wait, and she could see from the look on his face that he didn't want to, either.

She rolled her hips beneath him and ground against him as he pushed into her deeper and deeper with each thrust. Taking one of his hands in hers, she moved it to her breast and closed her eyes at the feel of him firmly but gently cupping her, his fingers brushing over her nipple. He continued thrusting deeper, moaning quietly again as she pressed her lips roughly to his shoulder in a kiss. She could feel that familiar heat building up between her legs, and she knew it wouldn't be long. She tilted her hips back and was surprised to feel him loop an arm beneath her back to keep her hips in that same angle. With three more thrusts, he had her. Her climax ripped through her body, sending electricity throughout every muscle of her body. A cry escaped from her throat as she rode out the sensation of falling and losing every sense in her body but this one. She couldn't see, and she couldn't hear. All she could do was feel.

At the feeling of her tightening around him, Clint could no longer hold back, and he followed after her, his climax rendering him incapable of speaking or thinking of anything. Except for her. There was always her. Natasha held him in her arms as he fell apart, his own cry resounding in her ears. She held him, and she watched him with dilated pupils as his forehead crinkled, and his jaw tensed. She held him as he came, and she held him as he came back down, his head resting on her chest.

"Natasha," he breathed out loud.

"Shhh," she said soothingly. She started threading her fingers comfortingly through his short, thick hair, and she closed her eyes. "Shhh, Clinton."

She felt his chest expand and contract with each breath he took in time with hers, and she couldn't help smiling. Clint Barton was in love with her, and she didn't know it. But what Clint didn't know—hell, what she didn't know, either—was that she was in love with him, too.

He had compromised her.