Clint disarms in the bathroom without bothering to turn on the lights. The bedroom light gives him enough to work with and if his face looks half as bad as it feels then he's happy not to see the details. It's late and he's so very beyond tired that only pride is keeping him on his feet, he knows this and he's unashamed to admit it. He really doesn't need to see the evidence of just how far off script their day went, not when the guilt and the exhaustion are already fighting to see which of them can take him down to the tile for a ten count.
He removes the knife from his belt, releases the fastenings of his vest and groans at the dull pain in his ribs. The counter is littered with bloodied gauze and his entire body is aching but his mind is still racing, scenarios flashing by faster than he can make sense of. He can't shut it off, not without knowing that Natasha is okay, not without seeing her with his own eyes.
As if his thoughts summon her, she lets herself into his quarters. Her movements, as usual, are almost silent, only the quiet click of the lock being snapped into place announcing her arrival. She looks as bad as he feels, the weight of decisions made and actions taken resting heavy on her shoulders. It was a bad one, both of them are hurting and to add insult to apparent injury, the job isn't over yet. Tomorrow is going to be just as hard as today was and they both know it. Neither of them say anything about it, there's really nothing to say.
She moves past him to the shower, starting the water and testing the temperature of the spray against her palm before she turns back to him. Even in the dim lighting he can see the difference in the way she moves, the stiffness in her muscles. He wonders whether any of the blood on her skin is her own or whether her wounds are psychological.
They don't talk as they help each other out of uniforms that will have to be thrown away, peeling fabric, filthy and stiff with blood and other things, away from torn skin and bruised limbs. As their clothing piles up on the floor around their feet, they examine the worst of each other's wounds with careful fingers, gentle touches lingering on skin stained with blood and thicker things that he really doesn't want to think about. She's examining a bump to his head, eyes taking in his features with an intensity that frightens him, when he lifts her chin and catches her lips in a kiss. Her kisses taste like blood and metal and he pulls away realising that she is more hurt than she appears.
She pulls away slowly, pressing her forehead against his own, letting her breath mingle with his own, hand at the side of his throat and closes her eyes. "Shower, now."
"You're bleeding," he protests, "I can taste it."
"I'm fine," her tone brokers no argument, "nothing I haven't had before."
A hiss escapes him as he steps beneath the falling water, temperature and the simple impact of water on skin making his injuries flare to life. Beneath the heat, he forces himself to stay still, to feel the pain that his body offers him because it reassures him that he is alive. Clint braces himself against the wall, palms planted against the cool tile to steady himself as the water washes his sins away. Steam coils around him, rising from his skin like ghosts, and he closes his eyes so that he doesn't see the blood sluicing off his body and flooding down the drain.
He senses her at his back before she makes contact with him, the front of her body leaning into his back, offering comfort that he is starved for. She starts with her hands on his shoulders, sweeping gently down over the slick skin of his shoulders and upper arms, assessing him for injury as well as touching him just because she wants to. Her arms slide around his chest and she hugs him from behind, her cheek resting against the smooth skin of his shoulder-blade, reassuring him that she is there, that they are okay.
In her arms he relaxes, the screaming of his mind falling silent in her presence. As the guilt and the anger washes away, other thoughts creep in that have nothing at all to do with injured bodies and everything to do with another type of first aid.
As if she can read his mind, Natasha shifts against him, slender fingers ghosting across his hip and over his stomach. Her breath tickles his skin, warm air chasing the water that rains down on them both, her proximity almost more than he can stand. He trembles beneath her touch, muscles flickering at the gentle stimulus, knees threatening to give out beneath him as he resists the impulse to turn and break the spell. Her fingers close around the length of him and he bites back a moan, head falling forward and eyes closing once again. "Nat …" he warns, recognising that he is about a heartbeat away from losing the control that he has won.
"You know what I'm thinking about?" she asks.
Clint shivers involuntarily. There are about a hundred and one things that she could be thinking about because there's a hell of a shit list between them now, things she's seen, things they've done, wounds they carry. "Tell me," he replies, turning to face her. Her eyes are bright in the dark as she looks up at him, ferocious.
"I'm thinking that we could have died today," she says, emotion creeping into her voice. "There was a moment out there when I turned around and you were down and, just for a second, I thought that was it, that you were gone. I just need to know that we're both really here, that we made it through."
"We made it," he tells her, crushing her to his chest. His lips find her own, pressing soft kisses to her skin and she responds with a gentleness that takes his breath away. "I'm not going anywhere Natasha."
She nods, accepting the words without argument but he knows that her mind is far from still. As her arms close around him, hands moving over his back, he can sense the disquiet in her and knows that there is more to come. "Then make me forget it all," she says, voice as soft as breath as she winds herself even closer, "remind me that I'm alive."
The words go straight through him, calling to some deep and primitive part of him that only she seems to have the control switch for. She tastes of desperation and impatience when she forces his mouth back to hers, limbs winding around him in a way that makes rational thought all but impossible. With one fluid movement he has her in up his arms, her back pressed into the tile of the shower wall as they both shiver in spite of the heat of the water and each other.
Her hands are all over him, fingers winding into his hair, curling against his skin, wanting him closer, holding him tighter, her breath hot against him as the water falls around them like rain. His body responds to her touch and he follows her lead, shutting off the voice in his head and letting instinct guide him. With her body beneath his hands, her slippery weight supported off the ground and up against him in all the right places, he finds himself, a potent reminder that no matter how lost he gets he can always find himself in her.
His breath catches in his throat as her fingers slide between them, caressing wet skin as they guide him to where she wants him, her body pliant in his hands despite the strength that he knows it is capable of. He fills her slowly, offering her way more than his body as he slides, inch by inch inside of her. Their joining is like the triggering of an explosion, hesitation washed away by the water that surrounds them. Her hips shift with and against his own, both of them sighing at the stimulation. In the easy advance and retreat of their bodies, something blooms between them, something profound, just as shattering as the desperate hunger they feel in their more frantic couplings.
He keeps his eyes locked with her own as he moves inside her, stroking and caressing, moving with deliberate slowness and care until he feels drugged by the movement of flesh on flesh, by the sounds involuntarily made. In the clasp of her wet hands around his neck, in the way he meets her eyes, wild and glazed with want, as they move together, sliding against the wall, breath coming in identical rasps, grounded and floating all at the same time, he finds all that he knows of home.
"Make me forget," she pleads again, lips close to his ear as she tips her head back to give him access to her throat. Her teeth nip at his earlobe, nails digging into his shoulders as he picks up his pace. "Show me you want me."
It isn't hard to give in to her when she says things like that and he complies, moving his hips more deliberately, drawing out the sensations with each curl of his spine. Natasha shifts her position slightly, raising a foot against the edge of the tub to provide herself with leverage, and he groans as her body opens up to take him deeper.
With each push and pull dragging them closer, he gives her what they both want, the world becoming simply about fulfilling their shared need. He wants to turn her around and press her into the wall, to give himself the angle that he knows from experience she likes, but he doesn't because he wants to see her face. He wants to look into her eyes when he brings her to that point of no return, to know that he is the one to paint that expression on her face. There is nothing between them, no barriers, no bullshit, and the knowledge thrills him.
It isn't long before amid the sensations of hot and cold, hard tile and firm muscle, she shatters, the precise movements of his hips and the wandering touch of his hands making her body tighten around his own in a rush. Natasha implodes in his arms, breathing harsh in the semi-darkness, skin sparkling and eyes looking directly into his - which is what brings his own climax roaring down on him. He fights it, holding back, prolonging the inevitable and then lets go a moment or two later, both of them tumbling headlong into pleasure as all hell breaks loose inside his body, synapses firing so brightly, so rapidly, that he feels as if his body should be glowing.
He comes back to himself breathing hard, his body pinning hers in place against the wall, face buried in her neck. Her hands move slowly over him, body still tight around his own. For a moment they just breathe, neither of them moving and then she smiles at him, laying a soft kiss on his mouth, and everything, the world, the job, the life he leads, just makes sense again.
"Not sure that my legs are going to hold me after that," she remarks as he lowers her to the floor again a moment later. His body slips from hers, the warm, humid air of the bathroom barely comparable to the heat of her, the aches and pains beginning to assert themselves once again. Keeping a steadying arm around her waist, he eases her beneath the spray, helping her to shampoo her hair and clean herself off before doing the same for himself.
When they are out of the tub and wrapped in dry towels, they check one another more thoroughly. They've been lucky, in more ways than one, no major injuries, no obvious scars. His emerging black eye and her bruised ribs will heal soon enough - things, as always, could be far worse. Adrenaline has kept them on their feet for longer than he would think possible but exhaustion is creeping up on him once again, parts of his body that he rarely thinks about aching as if in sympathy with the bits that have obvious reasons to be sore.
They dress the worst of the wounds and pull on comfortable clothing, soft fabrics that don't put any pressure on the bruises that are already starting to show. He leaves their ruined suits where they lie, knowing that they'll still be there after a few hours of sleep. If he's being honest he isn't entirely sure what to do with them anyway, unless throwing them directly into an incinerator is an option.
"You know I can't stay here," she reminds him gently as they emerge into the brighter light of his quarters. He does know and he doesn't hold it against her, even when all he wants to do is sleep beside her. When they're on base it's one of their rules, just one of the things they do to avoid unnecessary attention. The Slingshot is a base that rarely sees agents such as them and as a result everything they do here is worthy of report. Staying the night with him here would be like taking out a billboard ad in Time Square, guaranteed to cause ripples throughout all of SHIELD's high command.
He offers her a weary smile. "I don't know, show up here, take advantage of me and then …" His teasing is met by a playful slug to the arm before she slumps against him, clearly exhausted and ready to turn in for the night.
With a groan Natasha butts her head against his chest but he can see the smile on her face. He plants a soft kiss against her hair and smiles back at her. "Barton …"
"Go on," he tells her, turning her around so that she faces the door, giving her a gentle push. "I'll see you at the debrief in the morning. I'll even get rid of your clothes for you."
Opening the door, her smaller frame dwarfed by the standard issue sweatpants and T-shirt that she is wearing, she looks both exhausted and adorable. The look on her face however when she looks back at him is more suggestive than should be allowed when he is all but weaving on his feet and quite possibly about thirty seconds away from passing out.
Raising an eyebrow, she smiles at him. "You can get me out of my clothes anytime you like Agent Barton," she promises.
"You trying to keep me up all night?" he asks.
Natasha chuckles and licks her lips, which does exactly nothing to help deter his mind from thoughts of getting her into his bed. "Not tonight, no. Sweet dreams Clint."
"Sweet dreams Natasha," he replies, nodding in appreciation of the response, and then she is gone, the door clicking closed in her wake.
In the silence of the room, he staggers to the cot in the corner and throws himself down on it, sets his alarms for the morning and rolls onto his back, trying and failing to find a comfortable position. He lets out a sigh, closes his eyes and starts to count back from a hundred. He only makes it to seventy-three before he passes out.