A companion piece to Fading (Chapter One). This is Nat's side of the story.
The first time he touched her was in Budapest.
Really touched her, not just causally brushed up against her arm or bandaged her wounds. Not just ran his fingers through her hair by "accident" or let his hand linger on hers.
She remembers every time their eyes meet now, what really happened in Budapest…
It's the morning after the mission went south, after they'd both almost ended up dying. Both of them are exhausted as they stumble into the safe house. Clint collapses on the couch with a bottle of water, downing half of it in one giant gulp.
Natasha grabs her own bottle and joins him, swigging it down before turning her attention to his bruises, as he turns his attention to hers.
His fingers linger on a purple mark just showing underneath her tank top. "It's okay," she says. "Gun butt. Nothing worse than I've had before."
His fingers tease up the hem of her shirt, and their warmth lights a new fire in her belly.
They both stop breathing.
His other hand grips the material of her short shorts, sliding up her leg, and she is taken aback by the force of her desire. She's never felt like this. Never.
His grey eyes are dark when she finally meets his gaze.
Without pausing to think about what this could cost them, Natasha slides her hand up his shirt. And then he's pushing her back down on the couch, and she lets him, wanting this so much it terrifies her…
When it's over, something has changed between them. And not in a good way.
Back in New York, Natasha crumples up a piece of paper for the hundredth time and throws it in the fireplace. Because words can never, ever be enough to explain why she can't stay. She's compromised now; she let him get too close.
At the edge of the city, she pauses and looks back. Somewhere on top of a tower, she knows Clint is sitting on the roof watching the sun come up.
And for the first time in a lifetime, she won't be there.