"Why do you want to do that?" Natasha asks, turning from her position by the window to fix him with a speculative look. Clint takes no offence to the question or her obvious suspicion. From his position on the bed he simply meets her gaze and tries to find the words to explain his reasons.
For too long they have hidden their relationship, and he is under no illusions that is anything less than a relationship, beneath a layer of professional responsibility. They agreed long ago that they would always be partners and friends before lovers, but lately he finds that he wants more. He wants to show her the man he was before he became the agent so that she can own a part of him that so few others do. "I don't know," he admits, "why did you get that tattoo when we were in New York?"
Natasha raises an eyebrow in his direction, as if the answer should be obvious, "to remind me of you."
Clint allows himself to think back to the first time he spotted that tattoo, just a quick glimpse while they were sharing a quick shower after a training session. He hadn't known that she'd gotten it and he was still, truthfully, a little bit surprised at the level of investment it showed in their partnership. She hadn't gone out and had his name tattooed on her or anything, but the small, simple depiction of an archer, drawn in black ink on the soft skin of her right hip was a declaration non the less. She had permanently etched him into her skin, carrying a reminder of him everywhere and it meant more to him than he could express.
"It's just that after everything that's happened, well, it seems important for me to show you where I came from, how I got here." He pauses, throwing the words out there and hoping that she will understand what he is saying. "I want you to know me in a way that no-one else does Tasha."
He watches her turning the words over in her mind, weighing them against whatever scale she uses to assess such things. Finally she nods her assent. She will go with him, back to Iowa and the house he once lived in, travel with him through the events that made him the man he is and try to understand. As she turns and glances back out of the window, taking a last look at the view of the city, Clint drinks in her silhouette, framed so enchantingly against the glass and sky beyond.
"You don't have to reopen old scars to prove that you care," she tells him, still facing away from him. "I don't need to see it unless you're sure..."
"I'm sure," he interrupts, "absolutely sure."
As she moves away from the window and heads back to where he waits on the bed, he watches her, all lithe muscles and predatory grace. Prowling up the mattress like the tigress she is, Natasha positions herself in his lap and leans in for a kiss. Lips brushing with a tenderness that now comes as easily as breathing, Clint considers the many contradictions of the woman in his arms. Cold blooded assassin, fire haired temptress, best friend, compassionate lover, she is all of these and more to him, she already knows him better than most can claim, but he wants to give her more. He wants to give her everything.
He traces his fingertips beneath the hem of her tank top until his fingers rest over the tattoo. He no longer needs his eyes to locate it, having traced it with his fingers, lips and tongue almost every night since he found it. His thoughts move away from their return to the US and toward the woman in his arms. As if she senses the change in him, she repositions herself against him, the bare skin of her thighs brushing against his. "You know I really don't think I told you how much I like this tattoo of yours," he murmurs against her lips. He absorbs the feel of her body against his, supple and pliant, waiting for him to make a move.
"Maybe you should show me how much you appreciate it," she purrs, pulling herself even closer, letting him see the sinful light in her eyes, "we've never needed words to communicate after all."