He doesn't ask how things went wrong, just takes one look at her and steps aside to let her pass.
Although it's been days since they set eyes on one another, Natasha is in no mood to engage with him when she stomps off the elevator and strides away in the direction of the gym.
"Something I need to know?" he asks as Rogers emerges in her wake. Clint doesn't think he's ever seen the super soldier look so dishevelled and out of sorts. The fact that he doesn't make eye contact does little to reassure him. It's never easy when Natasha comes back from a mission and he has no context for what has transpired since she left.
The Captain stops, looks down for a moment as if looking for an explanation, and then shakes his head slowly. " I don't know where to start …"
"How about with why Romanoff looks like she wants to kill someone," he suggests. He briefly entertains the possibility that Rogers might be the source of her irritation, that their sometime partnership has taken a turn that makes her uncomfortable. Interestingly, the possibility that Steve might have made a pass at her doesn't even enter his head.
Again there is a pause before thoughts are vocalised. "It was worse than we thought," Rogers says finally, aware that Clint is waiting none too patiently for a response. "The operation was bigger and more sophisticated than the intel suggested. We didn't get there in time; the children had already been sold on."
Kids. That explains things. Natasha struggles with missions that involve children; they all do but Natasha worst of all, possibly because she lost her childhood to the people who made her what she is.
Clint exhales slowly, knowing that though she is furious she is also hurting. There are too many dead children in her past for her to simply accept that whatever happened halfway around the world is beyond her control. He looks down at his feet and rubs one palm across the back of his head, thinking. "Shit," he mutters under his breath.
"There was nothing that she could have done."
Looking back at the man who spends almost as much time with his partner as he does, Clint almost feels sorry for him. Steve isn't taking the facts well either but concern for Natasha makes him look wearier than usual. The fact that there was nothing she could have done makes exactly no difference to how helpless the entire situation makes her feel.
"Probably best if we all give her some space," he continues. " I tried to talk to her on the jet but she wouldn't engage …"
He's lucky that she didn't take his head off, Clint knows all too well that when Natasha doesn't want to talk there are few people who can lure her out. This is a battlefield that few people can step onto without fear of losing a limb. He gives her a few minutes and then follows.
He finds her in the gym, already pummeling the first of a series of targets. She is spectacular in her fury, her fists landing with precision as she pounds the bag in front of her. Clint leans against the door frame and watches her, assessing her mood. Post industrial rock floods the room at ear splitting volume, the sound reverberating off the walls and equipment until he can feel the bass in his chest. Natasha loses herself in the beat, her movements visceral and violent, her fists landing in time with the music and with enough force to send shockwaves through her limbs.
He doesn't know the details of what has happened; he doesn't need to.
"Nat," he calls as he moves further into the room, announcing his presence so that she isn't taken by surprise.
She doesn't respond, too caught up in the spell of violence or the music that swirls around her. Careful to put himself into her line of sight, he edges slowly closer. It's in her eyes, the barely suppressed rage that simmers beneath the surface, the potent mixture of guilt and anger that keeps her moving when she can't face the truth of a situation.
"Romanoff?" He reverts to her surname in an attempt to stir a reaction from her, well aware that whatever response he gets will probably result in bruises. She is a grenade and the pin is out; all he can do is try to limit the damage when the inevitable explosion comes.
"Leave me alone," she growls, still hammering the bag. There's a frightening economy to her movement, even with the chill of temper riding her hard. Perspiration glitters on her forehead beneath the strip lights, loosening some of the dried blood that still clings to her features. The feral look burning in her eye turns her into something wild and dangerous, almost a stranger, grief and rage flavouring the air around her.
He knows what he has to do. He is not looking forward to it.
"Nat …"
She whirls on him, fists up and ready to emphasise her words with them if need be. "I don't want to talk about it Barton," she tells him, leaving little room for argument. There's a wild desperation in her eyes that speaks of her demons, roaming free and tormenting her with the evidence of her most recent failure.
It's fortunate in a way that he has little intention of talking things out with her. Talking isn't what she needs right now, though that part of the healing process might come later, what she needs right now is a target. He both understands and loves her enough to be what she needs.
"So don't talk," he replies, rolling his shoulders in anticipation of what is to come, "but don't beat yourself up over it either."
She laughs, harsh and bitter, eyes rolling as she gives him her full attention for the first time. One hastily wrapped hand lifts and she points a finger at him, her anger turning outward and finding a target other than herself. "Don't you dare!" she hisses. "You weren't there Barton, none of us were there. They needed us and where were we? We didn't help them; don't tell me that I shouldn't feel anything about it!"
He needed her anger, was deliberately pushing her buttons to get a reaction, but it was painful to watch. Natasha had been a child like the ones she wasn't able to help today, falling through the net and suffering every day because of it. Of course she is going to identify with the children.
"We'll find them …"
"Now you sound like Rogers," she exclaimed scathingly. "They're gone! We could go to the ends of the earth and we'll still find no trace of them. We failed … I failed …"
He reaches out for her. "Natasha …"
She steps back, dancing out of reach. Her tongue is sharp as a lash, her anger barely held in check. "I'm not interested in talking."
He shrugs, unable to watch her beat herself into the ground just so that she can chase away the numbness. He is ready to lay his cards on the table. "So don't. Break something, scream, shout - whatever. If you want to fight then I am right here, literally right here, do it, but stop acting like an idiot. "
She flies at him, her attacks swift and brutal, unchecked force and unpredictability. Spending as much time in training with her as he does, he knows more than a few of her moves and though he makes no attempt to hit her back, he manages to block more of her blows than he takes. His passivity seems to infuriate her and she comes at him even harder, losing herself in the fire.
When she finally falters, breath heaving, the mask of her restraint faltering for a second, he pulls her to him and simply holds her to his chest. She doesn't break, doesn't speak, but she doesn't pull away either. She stays, she lets him offer her what she needs.
He can feel her breath against his skin, her heartbeat against his chest. Though he is already nursing aches that will no doubt develop into something more overnight, he can breathe easily because his bruises will bear her name.
"Whatever you need I'm here," he tells her and means every word.
She stiffens slightly in his embrace and he wonders whether it is too soon to try and placate her but then she relaxes again and nods to show that she has heard him. The anger is still there, tempered behind a more rational outlook perhaps but still there. It will take more than this to bring her to terms with the situation and he takes no offense at that. Cases involving kids are always the hard ones, always the ones that stop them sleeping.
As if sensing a change in the tide of his thoughts, she turns her face up to his and crushes her mouth against his own. Her kiss is violent, a proclamation that screams when she won't allow herself to, and he responds to her need in the only way that he can. When missions go awry and their minds are being torn apart with all that could have been done differently, Natasha is his valium and he is hers.
In spite of their semi public location, this particular training area being reserved almost exclusively for them and the other two agents that share the quarters immediately next to theirs on this base, both of whom are out on assignment somewhere in the Middle East, he doesn't worry about anyone seeing them. Neither it seems does she. The taste of her, all need and impatience, fills his senses, the press of her body against his own and the tight grip of her hands on his shirt telling him all he needs to know about her state of mind.
She's sharp as a blade, more than capable of cutting the hand that holds her, all serrated edges and imminent danger. He can't get enough of her.
Urgency drives them, Natasha pulling him along with her as she heads toward the door of her quarters, her mouth still pressed to his, hands still tugging at his shirt. Once inside impatience overrides the consideration for any injuries they might be carrying and they shed their clothing haphazardly, tossing fabric left and right in their quest to feel flesh against flesh.
She gives him her back as he helps her out of her attire, letting him press her into the wall as he trails hands and lips down her back and over her hips. Clint reads all of her tells, nipping at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, biting her hip bone, stroking his fingers down each leg as he helps her out of her clothes. He allows his fingernails to bite a little more on the way back up, nudging her feet apart so that he can delve between her legs and stroke her with one hand while the other travels up her waist to squeeze her breast.
Natasha's breath escapes in a soft moan, urging him on as she rolls her hips back against him, pressing against him in all the right places. She throws her head back against his shoulder, one hand coming up to rake through his hair and pull him close, allowing him to nip at her clavicle and see the contrast of his tanned fingers against her own pale skin.
Desire thrums through him and he has to hold back the urge to take her up against the wall, pinning her body in place with rough hands and his own weight. She would welcome it, he's sure of that. Tonight is not a night for him to be gentle, tonight is about purging anger and driving away sins.
Turning her head towards his, she captures his mouth again, her tongue duelling with his, slipping hot and wet into his mouth with an advance and retreat that he emulates with his hips, pushing them both towards the point of no return.
"Enough," she groans and turns fully to face him, pulling him close enough that she can no doubt feel every inch of him up against her. Her touch is rough and needy, nails scratching him deeply enough to leave marks. Between kisses, she draws him deeper into the small suite of rooms. Rather than heading toward the bed, she heads for the bathroom turning in the doorway to plant a blistering kiss on his mouth.
Clint growls low in his throat as her teeth sink into his bottom lip, the pain translating into fireworks of pleasure that drive his hands back onto her body, jacking her in tight against him. His hold on her is fierce, possessive, every part of him alive as he comes into contact with her.
She smiles against his mouth, runs the back of one still wrapped hand down the side of his face, her voice escaping as a throaty murmur. "There you are," she tells him, "this is the you that I need tonight."
He nods to show that he understands and then she reaches her arms upwards, hoisting herself up on the doorframe so that she can climb his body. Strong legs coil around his hips and she grinds against him. He doesn't wait for her to ask, simply positions himself at her entrance and wraps his arms around her torso as he slams his hips forward.
Their joining draws a sharp breath from both of them, but after a moment he draws back and then pushes his way back inside of her. Natasha hisses and arches her hips toward him as his nails bite into her bare back. "More," she demands, her voice full of erotic promise, the demand of a woman who can take a little pain with her pleasure, who sometimes needs a little pain with her pleasure. He obliges.
She moves within his hold, setting a punishing pace, rolling her hips in ways that he is immensely appreciative of. He adjusts her position slightly so that he can control the movement and ensure that every thrust hits her at just the right angle while working her nipples with his mouth and just an edge of teeth. "Harder?" he queries and glances up at her, face still pressed against her skin. He hopes that the answer will be yes.
"Harder," she moans in agreement, the muscles in her arms and shoulders bunching beneath her skin as she holds herself off the ground, body surging as she moves herself up and down his length. Every movement, every stretch will enhance the aches that she feels later. Their bodies work as one, fast and hard collisions of flesh working towards a mutual explosive release that he wants with every fibre of his being.
Thrusting in and out of her body, his hands digging into the bones of her hips, he claims her mouth in a kiss that scorches his nerve endings. Swallowing one another's breath, they feed on one another with lips and teeth and tongues, slippery and wet, fierce and unforgiving, every facet of their personalities rolling together and adding to the connection they share.
Wordlessly, he hooks a hand beneath her right leg and raises it higher, knowing that she can take it. Her inarticulate moans tell him all that he needs to know about her appreciation. Eyes dark with pain and pleasure, she urges him on with the movement of her hips and the bite of her teeth in her own lower lip. He thrusts harder, reading the signs that her body gives as he hits the end of her over and over.
Clint forces his rhythm to stay steady, moving in time with her and trying not to think about the storm that he can feel building deep inside of him. His body is on fire as he surges into her, knocking the breath from her with every thrust. Close, so close.
She tightens around him in a rush, body clenching and then releasing as her head falls back and she yells wordlessly, eyes rolling back into her head as her hips move of their own accord. Her leg coils around his waist, so tight that he fears a rib will crack under the pressure. The pain spurs him on, fighting the imminent explosion so that he can bury himself inside her a few more times, his breath harsh, his fingers digging into the muscles of her back.
His eyes catch and hold hers a second before he lets go, and in that moment she is both his weakness and his strength, his mistress and his slave. Clint comes with a muffled shout of his own, continuing to move until he has ridden out every last shimmer of pleasure and drawn out hers in response.
Face flushed and heart beating wildly, he holds their position a moment longer, enjoying the cage that her body makes around him, then gradually lowers her leg into a more natural position. She moans low in her throat as he relaxes the grip of his fingers, moving his hands carefully over her skin to tangle into her hair. The violence of the sex ebbs away, both of them spent and shaking.
Uncurling her fingers from the doorframe, she lowers her hands to the back of his neck and pulls him in for a kiss, nails lightly scraping against the back of his skull as her fingers trail through his hair. Her touch is gentler, quieter, but still holds the remnants of her anger. The wrappings scrape roughly against his oversensitive skin, a different kind of caress that sends shivers through him.
For a couple of long moments they simply stay there, quietly breathing each other in, her body still balanced in his arms. She clings to him as though her life depends on it. When she finally pulls her mouth away from his, her eyes flicker open and he sees guilt and pain and, most surprisingly of all, relief in their depths.
"Thank you," she murmurs, body still wrapped around him in the bathroom doorway.
Clint nods and plants a soft kiss on her mouth. There's nothing more to say, they understand each other without the weight of words, comprehend and accept each other's pain without need of explanation. With a subtle shift of his hips, he separates their bodies and then sets her down on her own two feet.
Stepping back from him, she allows one of her hands to link with his. Naked, fingers tangling together, they stare at one another. He is the first to move.
"Take as long as you need," he tells her, falling back on familiar routine. Sex will have taken the edge off, allowing her to take the first steps towards dealing with how she feels, a whetstone to sharpen her awareness of herself and her emotions, but she still isn't ready to talk. She will come to him when she's ready. It could be minutes or it could be days but she'll come when she's ready.
"I'll find you," she replies, and he knows from the look in her eye that it won't be long before she does.
He dresses quickly and slips out of her quarters, heading back to his own bunk to wait. Within an hour, she's at his door.