"The fiercest anger of all, the most incurable, is that which rages in the place of dearest love."
― Euripides
After her fractious conflict with Clint Natasha returned to her room, the one place where she could avoid sympathetic eyes, forced social interaction or the painful possibility of happening upon Steve. Storming inside her room she slammed her door aggressively behind her before turning and violently kicking the bag of belongings she had brought from Steve's the night before. In conjunction with this abrupt expression of exasperation and rage a gruff growl ripped from Natasha's lips as frustration surged through her veins, inducing her to pace frantically round her room, hands placed on her hips and gripping hard in annoyance. After a minute or so she deduced that it would be more appropriate to transfer her pent up anger into physical action, and so dressing in a pair of black yoga pants, a black tank top and her trainers she made her way out the door, grabbing her towel and water bottle in haste, before heading towards the gym.
On entering the gym she found it was quiet knowing that Clint had recently returned from a mission and that Steve has busted his hand, she deduced that it was highly likely to be deserted. Just as she liked it. Walking up to the punching bag, she placed her water bottle and towel on the ground before unleashing a violent flurry of punches and kicks assaulting the hanging bag and causing it to swing haphazardly in all directions, prompting her to adjust and hit accordingly. Recently a considerable amount of her time had been spent in the gym, not only to tone and eliminate the body that reminded her of the child she had carried, the role she had been assigned but never undertaken, but also it helped to channel her emotions. She spent so much of her time concealing her emotions, pushing them into the pit of her stomach and allowing them to simmer, but never to erupt and break the surface of her well set facade that the gym was a place where she could unleash those contained feelings without constraint. A way of unleashing emotions that was not a show of weakness but a show of strength, and productive in her line of work, time well spent rather than time wasted on self pity, heartbreaking reverie and shattering loss. As her punches increased in speed and pace, she felt the heat of exertion start to prick her skin, withdrawing beads of sweat which trickled over the contours of her well sculpted and muscular form, a show of her efforts. She revelled in the tightening pain that ebbed into her muscles, notifying her that her body was working hard, was beginning to fatigue but this spurred her on further as she interpreted its message as a challenge. It was as if the presence of Steve and the birth of their child had ripped at the walls of the Black Widow, clawing at its hard exterior, exposing the soft underlay of a woman who had started to believe in love, but now all that work was being reversed. The progress that had brought her so much happiness had also brought destruction and heart break, a process that now replaced those gaps with the hardened bricks of resilience and detachment. Gone was the woman who could have been a lover, who could have been a mother, who could have had it all.
After a hefty work out spanning most of the morning and afternoon, concluded by an in-depth investigation into a number of recent criminal cases involving potential terrorist units and leaked confidential government information, Natasha retired to her room managing to avoid any of her fellow Avengers much to her relief. Now dressed in a pair of plaid shorts and a loose white t-shirt, she scoured the room for a jumper to wear, before eyeing a burgundy number grabbing it and starting to pull it over her head. However as the material started to skate over her arms, she inhaled deeply and was met by the strong masculine aroma that immediately conjured images of the golden haired soldier. As an immediate response she swiftly wriggled out of the garment, wrenching it from her body before flinging it to the floor in abhorrence, partnered by a snarled frustration,
"You've got to be kidding..." Combing fingers through her tousled dark tresses, that had been ruffled in her skirmish with said jumper; she allowed a heavy sigh to release before kicking the jumper away from her, as if it merely being in proximity to her was bad enough. Turning away from the offensive garment her hands came up to her face, her fingers rubbing along the ridge of her nose up towards her forehead, before gliding across her brow line and back down towards her cheeks, as if brushing away the creases in her stony concealment. Walking towards her bedside cabinet she fished out a bottle of vodka that she had already drank a third of, pulling it out she admired it before her eye caught the movement of a piece of paper falling back into the drawer. The last time she had reached for this bottle she had struggled to piece together the remnants of that night, only knowing that when she had woken in the morning she had felt the dull continuous thud beating at her temples along with a menagerie of answer phone messages from Steve, concerned for her wellbeing and worrying about her whereabouts. Allowing a frown to assault her features almost instantly in bewilderment, she bent down to procure the mysterious document, before bestowing her gaze upon the offending image and wishing that she hadn't. It was her 13 week baby scan. The scan showed the small, fuzzy, monotone figure of her son, so small, so new, so perfect. With the image still held tightly in her shaking hand, her body descended slowly in defeat as she perched herself on the edge of her bed her eyes never once leaving the scan. She could feel the emotions she fought so hard to contain, push forcefully against its constraints begging to be released, she felt the sharp stabs of guilt pierce her abdomen, inducing her entire body to tighten and throb at this influx of discomfort. It wasn't until she saw a tear drop from her cheek and fall on to the scan that she realised her walls had bowed and weakened, allowing a smidge of her underlying anguish to leak through her mask, scorching her cheeks with tormented tears, blurring her vision and eliminating the image of her son. At the revelation of this lapse of control, she flung her head up ripping her gaze from the reminder of what once was, before assertively chucking the image back into the draw and vigorously kicking it closed. Her eyes scanned for the whereabouts of the vodka bottle and once locating it, she contemplated the possibility of acquiring a glass, before deciding that it wasn't necessary and bringing the bottle to her lips she took a large swig of her favoured spirit. The clear liquid flowed down her gullet, the satisfying burn scorching her throat and causing a contented gasp to escape her lips and her eyes to fall shut.
As the minutes passed her steady descent into a drunken oblivion spiralled at an alarming speed, as she indulged in the sorrowful melody that reverberated around the room and allowed the numb euphoria that accompanied copious amounts of alcohol to bestow its welcoming spell. She wanted nothing more than to forget what had happened to her, how she had allowed herself to indulge in the belief of love and family she had no idea. It had become painfully clear that the revulsion and disgust she had harboured against herself for this show of weakness had manifested into a destructive demon that she frequently projected on to others, Steve being the main victim. Although she knew it was unfair on all those around her, it was the only way she knew how to cope; to revert back to the Natasha of old was her only choice, to forget that any of this ever happened was her solution. As she lay situated comfortably on the bed, allowing the waves of drunkenness to pull her under, she felt the undeniable flush of heat diffuse rapidly across her skin, burning delightfully, as her vision now deteriorated into a blur of colours and shapes, accompanied by a wild spinning that caused her movements to become ungainly and blundering. She revelled in the feeling of nothing, the ability to forget just for a moment was her greatest luxury, however she soon felt the burgeoning desire for another pleasure and she knew just where to go. Pulling her now seemingly impossibly heavy limbs from the bed she shuffled precariously to the edge before rolling unceremoniously off and onto the floor, inducing a release of hysterical laughter to pour rapidly from Natasha's lips as she lay splayed out on the carpet before sitting up slightly. Her amusement however was short lived as through her hazy gaze she spied the burgundy jumper that once belonged to Steve; her laughter subsided rapidly replaced by an expression of pure contempt. Scrabbling clumsily across the floor on her hands and knees she grabbed hold of the jumper, before forcefully ripping it in half, accompanied by snarls of aggravation and words of hostility through gritted teeth,
"Will you just... FUCK OFF!" The tattered remains of what once was a beloved garment now flew across the room, hitting the wall and landing near the bin. Satisfied with her outburst, she looked around again before spying her desired object: the bottle of vodka. However on closer inspection the inebriated red head found the bottle to be empty, allowing another burst of rage to consume her, the bottle followed the fate of the jumper, as she forcefully launched the object towards the wall allowing the satisfying smash and tinkle of broken glass to resound beautifully in her ears before scrambling up to standing. Once she had managed to steady herself, and focus her gaze just enough to be able to deduce the location of the door she blundered across the room her steps heavy and lumbering. Although considering the quantity of alcohol the spy had consumed, it was clear that her physical capabilities meant she was able to control her movements more effectively than the average person, who most likely would've been unconscious. Exiting her room she made her way along the corridor swaying noticeably, her intended location fixed within her drunken stupor.
Clint indulged gratefully in some down time and after an appropriate period of sleep; he awoke, raiding the kitchen for snacks before scurrying to his room intent on abandoning himself to the pleasure of copious amounts of TV. Laid contentedly across his bed Clint's attention was fully focused on the programme before him, however he had been fighting a continuing inner battle against his burgeoning worry and concern for Steve and Natasha. His interactions with both of them had awakened the fear that things between them were far worse than he first imagined, and he couldn't help but feel that the tension between the couple was a ticking time bomb, awaiting detonation in which their tentative relationship and the whole concept of the Avengers Initiative would be destroyed in one foul swoop. As Clint had once again drifted off into an apprehensive reverie, he was abruptly interrupted by the distant sound of heavy footsteps coming towards his room which then led to his door being aggressively kicked in by a heavily intoxicated Natasha. Sitting up hastily, an expression of alarm and annoyance sculpted the archer's features as he yelled assertively at the inebriated red head,
"WHAT THE HELL NAT?! Was that really necessary?" Natasha turned slightly, slamming the door shut behind her before swanning further into the room an amused smirk graced her lips, her cheeks sported the hot crimson blush of a drunken individual, and her eyes were set low and heavy, clouded by lust and alcohol. Her voice was rich, dulcet and languid; her words fell with delicious ease,
"Oh shush Barton... you love it." Clint could tell by her body language and the way she spoke what her intentions were and he didn't like it. Despite the temptation to indulge in the feel of her delectable curves beneath his hands, against his body all over again called to him invitingly, he would never allow his desire to cloud his judgement and contrive against the few morals he still held. Swinging his legs across the bed, enabling him to stand he spoke his stern and steely warning,
"Nat, behave." Walking towards him she swayed her hips provocatively, showing off her toned legs and the decidedly alluring curvature of her hips, before placing herself in front of him and as she gently rested one perfect petite hand on his shoulder she brought her lips to his opposing ear before whispering seductively,
"What's the fun in that?" At that he felt the enthralling warmth of her breath brush closer to his skin and before he knew it her mouth started its assault on his neck, the feel of her luscious mouth burning a trail of kisses, interspersed with the provocative grazing of her teeth along his pulse point. His eyes momentarily closed in pleasure, a gasp of bliss escaped his lips, and it wasn't until he felt Natasha's hands start to creep underneath his t-shirt that he realised this wasn't a dream. It was happening, and it shouldn't be. At that thought Clint grabbed hold of Natasha's wrists before pulling her away from him and casting a severe gaze upon her he firmly stated,
"Natasha, no. Stop this now." Her murky green eyes, blazed brightly with desire and defiance, as swiftly and powerfully Natasha flicked her wrists in a manner that allowed her hands to break free. She now grasped his wrists, as she pressed her body into his, allowing him to feel the delectable swell of her breasts against his chest inducing every muscle in Clint's body to tighten in restraint, as the tip of her tongue skated across the bottom of her lip in the most enticing manner,
"I don't think that's what you really want." Her features were generously embellished with mischief, desire and amusement, as she wore the famous smirk that had become so rare these days and her eyes sparkled with wild abandonment as she assessed her prey, her long lashes enhancing her bewitching glances. Her body was now pressed against his and from the drunken obscurity swamping Natasha; she administered a forceful push on Clint's wrists in a manner which caused him to slump back on the bed. Her hands still held his wrists in a steely vice like grip, as she slowly placed her knees either side of Clint's hips, allowing her to straddle his lap the way she knew he adored. Her eyes maintained contact with his the whole time, the delight and amusement of how powerless he was within her clutches danced victoriously across her features. Clint's body remained staunchly rigid, not a single muscle in his body relaxed, as he feared if he did so his body would lose utter control and he would allow himself to readily be consumed by the desire and temptation that pounded forcefully at the pit of his stomach. His jaw was clenched; causing his teeth to grind together in response to the struggle against his body for control, his voice therefore came out strained and tight,
"Natasha, stop this right now. Stop it." At that comment an illustrious laugh erupted beautifully from her crimson lips, as her head tilted back in pure glee at the pathetic delivery of his plea. Once her hilarity had subsided and her gaze had once more been bestowed back onto Clint, she lunged forward, her lips colliding with his in the rough and brazen manner that she knew Clint had always revered, in an exquisite combination of tongue and teeth her lips devoured his. As she continued her brash and insistent assault on Clint's mouth, Natasha ground her hips into his, pushing her body as close to his as possible in order to coax the desired response from the archer. For a moment Natasha started to revel in the oncoming success in her conquest of Clint, as her hips rutted in a frenzied passion and soft moans managed to pour from her occupied lips, allowing her hands to loosen slightly in their grip on his wrists. A gratuitous error on her part. In a response of pure distaste and a surrender to the inevitability of there being no kinder, nor less abrupt, way of dealing with the current situation Clint fought against the desire that emanated through his limbs, burning with a yearning heat, as his hands ripped away from her grasp allowing him to pull her off his lap and onto the bed. Hurriedly he stood placing himself a considerable and safe distance away from the bed and Natasha. His face was flushed scarlet, whether that was due to arousal or anger it was hard to deduce, his hands were clenched tightly into fists so much so that his knuckles had turned a bright white. Alarm and annoyance now consumed Natasha's features, as she glared daggers towards him before jeering at him, her voice dripping with venom,
"WHAT THE FUCK CLINT?!" Momentarily Clint closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath and clenching his fists harder, before exhaling and turning swiftly to meet Natasha's gaze, ready to confront the vicious storm that he had only waded into slightly that morning. His voice was stern and severe, low and controlled however each word he uttered stabbed into Natasha's heart preying on the weakness and vulnerability that her unmerited consumption of alcohol had exposed,
"No, Natasha. I've had enough, I'm not going to tiptoe around the subject any longer. You had a son, with Steve Rogers... a man you love. You are a mother... so just stop this, stop this now because as much as you're hurting so is Steve, he needs you. He needs the mother of his child to listen to him, to be there for him as much as he is there for you. Nat, you can deny what you are, what happened, what you feel but you will never be content... ever. Having sex with me won't fix that, it won't mend the damage you've endured; it won't eradicate the grief that I see in your eyes every day. It won't replace the child you lost, or the man you love who you're starting to lose. You may be a mother without her child, but remember Steve is a father without his son." At that Natasha dragged herself from the bed, her cheeks no longer held their bright colour and her eyes now held tears on the verge of falling; her mouth was set in a defiant line, her expression blank. As she stood she swayed slightly, before striding towards him and placing herself right in front of him, her lips barely moved but within the tense silence that encapsulated them he heard the deep, sharp cut of her words,
"How dare you tell me what I feel and what I've gone through. You have no fucking idea Clint, no idea." As she sauntered, past Clint towards the door, she hesitated and allowed herself to turn back towards him, he stood there looking at her with eyes that wanted so much to heal her wanted to make her better. She'd never seen him look so helpless in her life, and that terrified her. In the glint of the light he could see that a tear had managed to escape, leaving a glistening trail down her cheek, and when she spoke her voice sounded impassive as if it was not connected to the broken and turbulent woman who stood before him,
"I pray to God you never know." As she turned and left the room, closing the door behind her Clint felt his body crumble as if she had extracted every piece of him that was for her, and he hoped that he had gotten through to her somehow. She was this swirling, crimson fire that had ignited his life with an excitement and passion that he never thought he would encounter, he loved her and he wanted her to fight against the grief and rage that now plagued her. He wanted her to fight not just for herself, but for Steve and James too. They deserved that, she deserved that.