Yes, I'm still alive! I've been writing a lot lately, but mostly I'm working on an uber-long fic which I have yet to start posting.

Anyways, I was bored at a party so naturally I started writing fanfiction on my phone in the notes section and this happened. I know it's sort of similar to Fix You, and even Lost Girl (what can I say? It's a theme I love). But I liked it a lot, even though it's short, so I decided to post it. Enjoy!


xxxxxxx


The gentle creak of the door roused Clint from his deep sleep. He lifted sore, heavy eyelids, heart fluttering hopefully, and distinguished a sole, slight figure slipping through the bedroom door.

"Tasha," he mumbled blissfully, recognizing her silent stride as she moved toward the bed. She paused near his head, and his eyes slid shut as she ran a hand through his hair, nails lightly scraping his scalp.

"Missed you." His tired tongue formed the words clumsily.

She offered no reply, but he didn't need one. Her gentle touch on his hair spelled enough.

Clint shifted his arms from under the bedspread and tried to pull her in beside him. She chuckled and pushed his hands away.

"I'm still in uniform. Let me clean up."

Clint released her and reluctantly folded himself under the warm blankets as she moved away from the bed. His bleary consciousness was already beginning to fade to deep, euphoric darkness, tinged with the promise that she was home.

Her face and hands and voice were sprinkled through vague half-dreams, tauntingly near but always untouchable. Dark, silent inconceivability tangled with her laugh. The next thing he knew for sure was that she was slipping into bed beside him, somehow soft and freshly showered, the sweetness of her familiar smell enveloping him. He inhaled deeply and pulled her closer, palms tingling with the delighted thrill of touching her again. She nestled readily into his chest, fingertips clawing gently at his shirt front, and he wrapped his arms firmly around her, his nose skimming her damp, fragrant hair. She rested her cool, slender legs against his under the covers.

He opened his eyes and craned his neck to peer down at her. The pale glow of the moonlight illumined her face, reflecting in her open eyes which blinked and stared widely at nothing. The horrors of this past mission perhaps, all too raw, too recent; he glimpsed them in the depths of her empty gaze. The small hands which had stolen life, stabbed, slashed, strangled, shot, slain mere hours ago, now clasped his clothing, working gently at the cotton which lay over his heart. The lithe body, so tense when peering down a scope, so cruel, so deadly to those who opposed her, now lay beside his, defenseless, vulnerable, utterly relaxed and without pretense. To those who viewed her from a distance, she was a killing machine, lethal, emotionless, a force to be reckoned with; up close she was so small. Her enemies saw the fire, her colleagues saw the clipped, businesslike exterior, only he got to see this. Natasha Romanoff, soft and thoughtful and tiny. Natasha Romanoff, peaceful and vulnerable. Curled up at his side, one terrible hand placed on his heart.

Her enemies got the flames, her allies got the ice.

But this, he thought, brushing a kiss past her forehead, his thoughts fading to black. This warmth, was his.