Sometimes he arrives back at a safe house without feeling like he has achieved anything in the hours since he left; sometimes he's so bone weary that he can barely stand. The missions that he does alone are always the hardest, the nights longer when there is nobody he trusts to watch his back.
The calendar on the bedside table tells him that he's been here for nine days, nine days too long in a place that makes the Bates Motel look cheerful. He's more than ready to go home, more than ready to become reacquainted with the marvel that is his own bed after three months hunting down a terrorist cell through Europe. Whether Natasha is in it or not, his own bed is a luxury that he looks forward to more with every breath he draws.
Only the fact that he needs to be sharp enough to finish the job sends him to get acquainted with the mattress in his room. He's resting, well lying down on a reasonably comfortable surface with his eyes closed, when he hears the vibration of his phone in his pocket across the room. Clint sighs and unfolds from the mattress, snatching up the device and answering without looking to see who is calling.
"Hello?" He isn't the most patient of men when it comes to telephone communication, Natasha teases him about it all the time, how he usually can't wait for information or orders to be imparted before he's ending the call and hanging up.
There is a silence, a crackle of static and just as he's about to speak again he hears the rustle of fabric and the soft intake of breath. "Are you missing me Agent Barton?"
All thoughts of sleep evaporate sharply at the husky tones of that very familiar voice. He is missing her, more than he cares to admit. Three months of enforced absence from one another is enough to make his skin itch, particularly when she starts a phone call in the way she has opened their current one.
His free hand falls across his chest as he settles in against the pillows for the duration of the call, suddenly able to ignore the anonymity of his surroundings. He wonders where she is calling from, what she was doing five minutes before she picked up the handset to dial his number. "You know that I am," he replies gruffly.
Natasha chuckles, the sound skittering along his nerves and setting him on fire. "Me and about a million other things I imagine," she counters smoothly, "your favourite shampoo, your own bathroom, showers with a thermostat that actually works …"
The list goes on and on but she doesn't voice any of the other things he complains about when he's away on long jobs. In their line of work a reasonably safe place to rest their head at the end of the day is a luxury that they don't always have, the minor irritations are just that, minor.
"So did you call just to remind me what I'm missing?" he asks drily. He doesn't care why she called, only that she did and they both know that they could listen to one another all night even when they have nothing much to say.
Again with the throaty chuckle. "Actually, that is exactly why I called."
He knows this game, rare though it is between them. It isn't often that they call one another while they are working but in recent years they have opened that door a little. Separation and necessity being the mother of invention, they have taken to late night calls to take the edge off their frustrations.
"Where are you?" he asks, wondering whether she, like him, is behind the privacy of a locked door.
The silence stretches out for a second before she answers, "right in the middle of my bed."
"What a coincidence …" He doesn't ask which of her several apartments and hidey holes she is sleeping in because the details are irrelevant. Wherever she is she isn't expecting to be disturbed, which means that they can take their time over this call and everything it might lead to.
He listens intently to the sounds that drift over the line, the sound of sheets shifting, of a siren wailing somewhere in the distance. His hearing is as acute as his eyesight, a fact that few people realise, so it isn't difficult for him to pick up things that others might miss. It's easy to put himself there with her, to imagine the scent of her perfume in his nose or the warmth of her skin brushing against his. A flush of heat runs beneath his skin and the corners of his lips turn up into a smile.
"You've gone quiet …" she says softly, derailing the runaway train of his thoughts.
Clint chuckles, "I'm thinking."
"About?"
He takes a moment to ponder the question, wondering which of the images that are flashing through his mind is the easiest to describe. He pictures her lying against those rich burgundy sheets that she likes, her skin glowing in the dark. He imagines running his tongue down her breastbone until he can plant feather light kisses on her navel, until he can trace the lines of the tiny tattoo on her hip with his tongue. "About Prague."
Prague, one of their first missions together after they had acknowledged their attraction to one another. Natasha had done most of the hard work, he'd just been there as backup. Part of the mission had involved keeping eyes on her at all times and she had taken it upon herself to make sure that he had something worthwhile to look at. Occasionally, when she was feeling nostalgic, she would pull out that dress and wear it for him, always when he was a building away and watching her through a sniper scope.
"You always did love a view," she teases.
"Depends what kind of view is on offer." She's right though, of all the women who have passed through his life only she has brought out the voyeur in him. He loves to watch her, no matter what she is doing. It makes no difference whether she is bent over her desk filling in paperwork or walking along the street, whether she is taut as a bowstring or completely at ease.
Her laugh is sinful, making things low in his body tighten in response. "Then get your ass home Agent Barton and I'll make an effort to impress you."
"Just wear that dress and that'll be enough for me," he sighs, remembering the way that the fabric clings to her curves, how it feels to slide the material up her thighs, the contrast of black silk and pale skin at her neckline. Of all her dresses that one has a special place in his memory.
Her breath is shaky down the line but the words are spoken with clear intent. Another sinful chuckle, "you should see what I'm not wearing now."
Alone, a thousand miles and more away from her and with only the sound of her voice in his ear, his body reacts, responding to her words and the sensory memories that her voice invokes. "Tell me," he commands, his palm sliding over the muscles of his stomach until he can follow her every explicit instruction.
As she talks, he closes his eyes, immersing himself in the imagery that she offers, losing himself in her voice, in the sound of her breathy sighs and the shift of fabric. She tells him of all that she wants him to do to her, of what she imagines doing to him, her voice doing wonderful things to his libido. He learns what she is doing to herself, hears her reaction to his imagined touch. She paints a picture with words, a vivid one, every syllable a husky murmur that shoots straight to the core of him. Her voice resonates in the deepest parts of him and he closes his eyes in purely physical response, giving himself over to the moment and the escape she is offering.
He shifts position and bends one leg at the knee, his palm providing all the friction he needs to bring him close. Though his grip is different to her own, his hand larger and more calloused, there is a familiarity there that works for him. Whispered instructions and throaty moans guide him, her knowledge of his body allowing her to give him exactly what he needs. He follows her to the letter, offers her instructions of his own in return and is rewarded with the sounds she makes for him, his name escaping her on a sigh as she builds up to a climax.
His temperature spikes as his palm glides more quickly up and down his length. His breath quickens, synapses firing behind his eyes and he knows that he is close. There is a change in the tone of her sounds, an urgency that calls to his most base instincts as he pictures her biting down on abused lips, her back arching ... Shattering, he throws his head back against the pillow, a single word escapes him, her name. His voice is a broken murmur, practically pornographic and dripping with want as he rides out his orgasm and collapses back against the mattress.
For a moment or two neither of them speak, waiting for their heart rates to resume the usual rhythm. "Barton?" Her voice is breathy; she's still coming down from whatever highs she achieved. He pictures her in the middle of a bed a continent away, chest heaving, hair falling in a glorious tangle around her shoulders and across her pillows.
"Hmm?" he manages, already aware that sleep is his for the taking when they disconnect the call. Idly he wonders whether Natasha with her finely tuned sense of him planned this interlude to help him sleep.
He can hear the smile in her words, the promise held within. "I'll wear the dress when I meet you at the airport."