Wrote this oneshot a while back and just got around to typing it up. This one barely made the 1000 wd limit at 979 wds. Phew.
Okay, okay, now I've GOT to get off this addicting site and freaking STUDY! Later, people.
A soft clattering noise and a muffled curse awakened him. He opened his eyes and rolled over onto his back, heart skipping with hope.
The light was on in the bathroom; the warm yellow glow peered out from under the door. There was a quiet hiss, then a tsk of frustration.
Clint sat up and slipped his legs over the edge of the double bed. He stood and padded across the carpet, ruffling a hand through his hair.
He opened the bathroom door, blinking and squinting when the light hit his eyes
Natasha was sitting on the counter in her underwear, scowling and twisting to inspect a wound in the mirror. Her disheveled tactical suit lay in a heap on the floor, and her hair was tied back in a messy ponytail. Boxes of spilling medical supplies and bloody rags lay scattered across the counter around her, and she was struggling to reach an injury on her shoulder blade, muttering under her breath.
Her eyes slid up to Clint's in the mirror, and her face softened as she turned to look at him.
Clint lounged against the doorframe, a smile spreading across his face. "You're back."
Pleasure showed in her eyes. "Guilty as charged."
Clint folded his arms. "How long?"
"Ten minutes?" she estimated.
"Why didn't you wake me up?"
The left side of her mouth lifted in a half-smile. "Thought about it, but you looked so peaceful."
She swung her legs a little, as he looked her up and down. Her lower lip was cut and slightly swollen, and a shallow scratch traced the line of her cheekbone. A neat line of steristrips marked a cut on her eyebrow, and another one marched along a laceration on her right arm. A long gash followed the entire length of her leg from her thigh down to her ankle, and, worst of all, a serious-looking wound on her ribcage was closed by a straggling line of stitches.
Natasha had turned back to the mirror, and was dabbing tediously at the deep cut on her right shoulder blade.
"Philly didn't treat you well, then," Clint observed.
Her eyes met his in the mirror for a split second. "I'll live."
Clint listed his head. "You always do," he said softly.
His partner tossed the tissue aside and held the lips of the cut together. Clint pushed off the doorframe and stepped forward.
"Here. Let me."
She offered him a glance of acceptance, then twisted away from him, exposing a thin gash that ran down the side of her neck. When she turned back, she had a surgical needle threaded with suture, and she passed it to him. Then she swiveled and dropped her legs over the far side of the counter.
Clint stepped closer, and gently brushed her ponytail forward. The cut was deep – clean, long, and fairly straight. The bleeding had mostly abated, but even as he watched, the edges of the cut became tinged with red.
Clint lightly slipped her bra strap off her shoulder and began to stitch.
"Get your target?" he asked, after a moment.
"Just barely," she answered. "They sure work us hard, don't they?"
Clint cocked his head reflectively, making another stitch. "Yeah… I guess they do."
After a minute, he added, "I missed you."
Natasha turned her head towards him and raised her eyebrows, a smile playing at her lips. And Clint understood, without her even making a sound.
She had missed him, too.
Neither of them spoke again until he had finished. He tied the thread off and snipped it close. "You're all fixed up."
She spun back towards him, smirking mischievously. "I'm in your debt," she teased, readjusting her bra strap.
Clint chuckled, leaning his hands onto the counter on either side of her. Then his eyes fastened on the cut on her eyebrow. His hands found her knees, and he slowly eased her legs apart, stepping between so the lip of the counter pressed into his stomach. He took the sides of her jaw in his fingers and gently turned her head over, angling it so the light fell on the wound.
He frowned in concentration, skimming his thumb over the track of steristrips. Her breathing had slowed, and he could feel her watching him.
The scratch on her cheekbone caught his eye, and he tilted her head again, studying the mark in the light. He tipped her chin up next, his gaze locking onto the dark cut on the corner of her plump lower lip.
All her wounds were accounted for now, but he didn't stop his examination. Up close, her skin was flawless, and he marveled at how luminous it was, even in the harsh, artificial light of the bathroom. Gently, he rolled her head over again, letting his eyes drag slowly across her smooth skin, drinking in the sight of her. His thorough gaze searched every inch of her face and neck, from the curve of her cheekbone, to her delicate nose, to her full lips.
"Did I miss anything?"
He met her eyes, and saw amusement twinkling there. She'd arrived at the fact that he wasn't just searching for injuries anymore. He smiled, tilting his head thoughtfully at her. Then he moved in and touched his lips to hers, lightly, so as not to reopen the cut. She inhaled slowly through her nose, and he applied a little more pressure, but the contact was still little more than a gentle meeting of lips. They both held still, savoring the moment, curiously testing the taste and feel of each other's mouths after their time apart.
Gradually, Clint withdrew. Natasha's lips were parted, and her eyes were closed.
She opened them, and a hint of a smile bloomed across her face.
Clint smiled back, noticing how her eyes seemed to glow with a light of their own.
"Welcome home, Widow."
