I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm really not sorry. :3
Natasha threatens, bribes, even begs, and the Maximoff girl always breaks. A shimmer of red at the edges of her vision, a color that once held so many negative connotations, but now, now it's her favorite.
This time she finds herself not in Budapest, or on a Quinjet, or tangled in bed in a safe house, but in a painfully familiar apartment in Bed Stuy. She wanders across the loft bedroom, padding barefoot across the threadbare rug and brushing her fingers over the scarred surface of the dresser before taking the stairs two at a time.
Clint leans against the kitchen counter, coffee cup in hand, and he gives her a warm, genuine smile as she trots to meet him.
"Think those are mine," he mumbles, and tugs the waistband of the boxers she wears before dipping his head to kiss her. His hand settles on her hip, lithe fingers sliding between fabric and skin, and a pleasant shiver runs through her at the teasing touch. She melts against him, grinning against his bare chest, and his coffee cup makes a hollow clunk on the counter as he sets it aside.
"Think I'll have to take 'em back," he growls, just the hint of a chuckle behind the words. He wraps her in a bear hug and nips her ear with his teeth, and she laughs too and pinches the tender spot beneath his armpit until he lets her go with an exaggerated 'Ow!'.
She throws him a raised-eyebrow challenging expression and darts away, eyes on the loft. She makes it two lunging steps before his arms are around her, pinning her back against his chest. Her feet leave the tile as he lifts her and twirls her, and he sits her on the counter beside his coffee and kisses her again.
"Too slow, Red," he says, and ruffles her hair.
She catches his hand and kisses his bruised knuckles - she wonders briefly why the bruises are there - then traces one finger along the line of his jaw, rough with stubble he hasn't bothered shaving yet.
"I lov-" she begins, but….
"Natasha, this isn't healthy."
Clint's lips move with the words but it's Steve's voice that echoes, and when she opens her eyes she's back in her bedroom on base, curled on her side, Steve's face inches from her own as he crouches beside the bed. He's opened the blinds over the window, but everything here seems dull despite the big shaft of sunlight burning the polished floor. The other place, the place in her head where Clint still exists, that's real, that's home, vibrant with color and smells and the light scrape of calloused fingers against her skin.
She sucks in a shaky breath and draws on a wavering reserve of strength, an inclination to move that only manifests when she needs to find Wanda. She slips out of bed, not bothering to acknowledge Steve as his fingers brush her forearm. The too-big leather jacket resting on the chair by the door finds it's way around her shoulders and she's escaped down the hallway, the faint lingering scent of his cologne spurring her forward, and she feels a bit of the old spark come back, well-honed senses awakening, just long enough to determine where Wanda might be hiding and track her down.
Maybe this will destroy her, and maybe then she can be with Clint again.