He finds her in the bathroom of her motel room, blood still seeping over her skin from the latest in a seemingly never ending series of minor injuries. Thirteen hours across the border and already they're licking their wounds and snarling at one another, the entire team on edge because of the HYDRA threat and Stark's increasingly evident drinking problem.
She doesn't look up as he steps inside, simply continues in her attempts to clean the blood away with shaking fingers. Clint knows that he shouldn't admire the contrast in shade and colour, not when she's hurting, but even bruised and bleeding she is the most captivating thing he has ever laid eyes on. As she twists her upper body slightly, trying to get a better angle, he moves closer. "Let me help," he says softly, part request, part demand.
Without a word, she hands him the damp washcloth and turns back toward the mirror, gripping the edge of the sink with both hands. She's wearing nothing but her underwear but he barely notices. Focussed as he is on helping her, he is largely oblivious to the lean lines of her body or the play of muscle beneath the skin.
Gently, he eases the cloth across her damaged flesh, stroking the area around the wounds as lightly as he can. At a particularly sensitive spot over her shoulder blade she winces, muscles flickering as she shifts away from his touch. He freezes and then places a hand to her side to still her.
"Sorry," he exclaims quietly.
Natasha exhales a near silent breath and meets his eyes in the mirror, a twitch of a smile fleetingly caressing her lips. "You weren't the one who blew up the building without clearing the area first," she reminds him.
Clint, whose protective instincts tend to rear up and snarl when Nat is the one hurting, feels the urge to fire one of his arrows into Stark's ass. "Want me to have a word with the Iron Asshole?" he asks, already knowing that she won't be holding a grudge. Minor injuries are almost unavoidable; throwing around blame doesn't exactly make for a cohesive team relationship.
To avoid thinking of the creative ways in which he could gain revenge on Tony, he returns his attention to the wound on her back and cleans away the fresh blood that is forming a path along her shoulder blade. Her muscles shift slightly beneath his touch and then her fingers come to rest over his own against her ribs. He lifts his gaze to look at her and finds her watching him in the mirror, green eyes impossibly large in the moment.
"You'd really do it wouldn't you?" she asks, her voice a soft murmur. "If I asked you to you'd really go after him because of what happened out there?"
Clint can't hold her gaze, it's too direct, too knowing. Natasha alone has the ability to see straight through him to what he would prefer to keep hidden. She sees him. She knows him, blood and body, thought and dream. "You already know the answer to that," he tells her.
He would go after Stark, or any of their team-mates, for her; only for her. He would burn the world to ashes for her and the thought scares him a little.
He becomes aware of the warmth of her beneath his palm, the slight flush that creeps across her skin at the unspoken acknowledgement of his willingness to commit violence for her. He knows that he should back away but he is too selfish to do it, brain and body fighting one another and making it impossible for him to move away from her.
Looking up again, he finds her eyes still on him. Her lips are slightly parted, her gaze direct and knowing. Her fingers slide across the back of his hand, a gentle caress that shifts his hand ever so slightly and brings his skin into contact with the curve of her breast. It probably isn't deliberate but it does draw his attention to the nearly naked woman in his arms.
Knowing that he should step off and give her some space isn't the same as actually doing it. His feet won't move, his entire body freezes under the weight of her gaze. Powerless, that's what he is, powerless.
Her fingers fall away from his but her gaze stays on him. She makes no effort to hide herself from him, the expanse of smooth pale skin, the whiplash curves that have lured dozens of men to their deaths; he makes no effort to avert his gaze. She is the Black Widow and he is caught up in the web that she spins around him.
Without moving the hand that rests on her rib cage, he drops the washcloth and replaces it with long strokes of his fingers, allowing his touch to wander over her back, tracing the line of her spine, the edge of her shoulder blade. His fingers linger momentarily at the still healing bruises below her rib cage, ghosting across the discoloured skin that she had acquired just a few days earlier. Her breath hitches, goosebumps rising as she shivers beneath his touch.
His skin is much darker than her own where his hand moves over her, tanned flesh moving across porcelain. Moving outward from her spine, he rests his hand in the dip of her waist, sliding his other hand downward to mirror its position. Shifting in his arms, she leans her body back into his own, her shoulders fitting almost perfectly into the cradle of his chest.
Her heat calls to his own, her weight almost entirely absorbed by his larger frame. Whatever pain she is feeling seems forgotten as her eyes slip closed momentarily and she hums a contented sound at the contact. What discomfort remains he can take away from her, it is within his power to do that, but she has to be sore, hurting, exhausted ...
"You should probably get some sleep Nat," he murmurs, forcing himself to show some restraint. As much as he wants her, always wants her, he won't take advantage of her when she's hurting.
She shifts slightly, lifting her head and allowing her eyes to pin him in place.
"Probably," she agrees. They watch each other in the mirror, neither of them moving, barely breathing. "But you've started something that you'd better be prepared to finish."
Clint is more than willing to take things further, even if it's all about her. She knows it too, knows that she has had him beaten into submission since the second she indicated that she was open to taking things further. He lets his hand move across her hip, fingers fanning out across her stomach so that he can ease her further back into him. Satisfied with her position, he traces upwards with one finger, blazing a trail up her sternum until he reaches the hollow at the base of her throat.
With a sigh of submission, she tilts her head back to give him access to her throat and he takes full advantage, sweeping his palm upwards and running a caress along her jawline with the pad of his thumb. He feels her swallow beneath his palm, the beating of her pulse.
Lips parted, eyes wide, she watches him. A soft breathy sound escapes her as she turns toward him, her face tilting up towards his in a way that makes him feel that he has found the centre of the world. For a count of five, neither of them move, then he turns her gently to face him fully and brings both hands up so that he can angle her head upwards toward him. Slowly he leans in and presses his lips to hers.
It is slow and sweet, his hands supporting her carefully, his lips tasting her with deliberate care. Fighter by nature, she melts against him.
After a moment or two he pulls back a fraction, giving her the opportunity to pull away, gaze seeking permission to continue. She gives it, guiding his face back to her own, sighing into his mouth as their lips touch.
It's all the invitation he needs.
Neither of them rush, keeping their contact to the brush of their mouths and the gentle pressure of his fingertips at her jaw. She lifts her right arm with obvious effort and grips his upper arm, her left arm snaking around his waist to pull him closer. He allows one hand to tangle into the hair at the back of her head. There is a quiet fire in their touch, banked and smoldering, the type of fire to keep them warm on long winter nights.
When they come up for air, and Clint is sure that he could just happily die of asphyxiation with her lips on his, he rests his forehead against hers. They both close their eyes, savouring the proximity, feeling the weight of their own bones and the bond that exists between them.
She plants a gentle kiss on his mouth, fleeting and sweet. "Take me to bed Clint," she whispers.
He doesn't need to be told twice. Arms wrapping around her waist, he gently lifts her from the floor. Natasha's legs wrap around him, thighs gripping his hips so that he can support her weight more easily. Her hands come to rest on his shoulders as she balances herself and then she relaxes in his hold, trusting that he won't let anything happen to her.
The bedroom is cool, the lighting soft. The air coming in through the open window smells of rain. Clint carries her to the bed, sits on the edge of it and positions his partner carefully in his lap.
They kiss, long and languid, allowing the small fire in their blood to stir and flicker. There is no urgency to their moment, both of them content to let it stretch out, to savour it. Neither of them push for things to move faster; Clint isn't even sure how far it will go. It isn't about desire, about completion, it is about comfort, contact.
She makes the first move, he simply follows her. Clothes are shed, lips collide, fingers brush over newly exposed skin, a teasing touch here, a firmer grip there. Her breath is warm against the skin of his throat, her weight slight on top of him as he wraps his arms around her and draws her closer.
She straddles his legs so that she is fully in his lap once more, upper body crushing against his own. Natasha uses her good arm to lever herself even closer, her fingers winding into his hair and demanding that he give himself over to her, that he throw aside all worldly concern and simply exist in the moment.
She's slick and ready when she slides down onto the length of him, her honeyed heat swallowing him one slow inch at a time. Clint exhales a low groan which is mirrored in the breathy sigh that pours from her mouth into his. For a second they pause, just breathing, just feeling, and then she moves.
The pace is slow and steady, the movement of his hips following the rhythm she sets, unable to escape the feeling that they are in the calm of the storm, on the precipice of something bigger than either of them. The rain taps against the windows and the first rumble of thunder splits the night as they move together atop the sheets, bare skin warming with every touch.
Floating and grounded at the same time, every fibre of his being shimmering with sensation, he feels the sparks in his bloodstream and allows his hands to wind their way into her hair. He chases the heady feeling of climbing higher, higher, the delicious shuddering glory of reaching that pinnacle and tumbling headlong into pleasure. He wants it for himself; he wants it for Natasha.
She arches in his grip, leaning back into his open hands so that he can support her weight. Desire rolls over and through them both, a steady tide that deepens and swells, magnifying with every shift of their hips and exhaled breath. They know where to touch, how to taste one another to bring each other to the very brink and one thin inch beyond it.
Lightning flashes beyond the windows, illuminating them both in a tangle of limbs and desire. Clint has never seen anything so quietly erotic as the woman in his arms, can't get enough of her kiss swollen lips, the sound of her, the smell of her, the feel of her. Her eyes are dark as they meet his own, desire blown. Encouragements fall from her lips in soft whispers as he moves inside her, whispering endearments, his lips brushing against skin warmed by their shared exertion.
She rises and falls atop him, bodies moving as one, as the internal storm breaks over them both in unison, blood igniting, senses shuddering into overload. The culmination of their efforts steals their breath, biology taking over as her limbs tighten against his hips and her fingernails bite into his shoulder. Clint sees stars as her hips slam down into his own and her body tightens around him. Her breathy exhalation of his name is perfection, her lips returning to his own to cut off any words that he might be tempted to say.
Skin glistening, they hold one another, limbs tangled, fingers brushing through one another's damp hair. Silence descends, broken only by the low rumble of thunder and the sound of rain outside.
Natasha presses her lips against his own, her hand resting palm down over his still thundering heart. "Better than any drug in the infirmary," she whispers and there is sincerity beneath the amused tone.
"Well I aim to please," he replies easily, expelling words between kisses, his arms winding around her to draw her as close as she can get. They wait out the tremors and ease themselves past the last sparks of their climax in each other's arms, trading kisses and soft words.
He can feel her exhaustion and when she leans against him, her head on his shoulder, he knows that he isn't returning to his own room and his own bed. He lifts her off him, settles her against the pillows. His fingers brush the back of her neck and move over that injured shoulder, checking for any fresh bleeding, looking for a reaction. Natasha doesn't flinch, simply sighs, the smallest hint of a smile touching her lips as the endorphins continue to provide the pain relief she needs.
Clint lies down beside her, one hand tracing the dip and hollow of her side. It isn't enough for her, she's not content with the space between them and she soon lets him know it, throwing an arm over him and curling closer. With his back to the mattress he lets her sprawl across his chest, her head resting in the curve of his neck and shoulder, her shoulder exposed to the night air. The sheet is pulled haphazardly across them, covering both of them from the waist down, though with Natasha on top of him he's far from cold.
The steady change in breathing tells him when she begins to drift off to sleep, his fingers still tracing meaningless patterns on the skin of her lower back. He watches the lightning and listens to the rainfall for what feels like hours, content just to feel the warmth of her and the way that her breath traces the hollow of his throat.
One of her thighs rides high over his hips and he closes a hand over the muscle of it, happy to remain a prisoner within the trap that her body makes over him. With no intention of disturbing her, he turns his face toward her, plants a kiss on the top of her head, and closes his eyes.