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aa_natasha 9/21/2012
Many things stir in the darkness of Moscow's wee hours, but none of them are in this particular corner. The hotel's upscale nature means that most of the wilder nighttime activities don't encroach on the peace and quiet its residents expect (and pay for). Silence stretches, spreads, settles like a blanket across those who slumber.
Secure in the knowledge of their security measures and their ability to wake swiftly should the need arise, Clint and Natasha are among these. They lie curled opposite each other in the oversized king bed like two halves of a closed parentheses. Natasha's hair remains a wild mass of red curls that spreads across the curve of her arm and the white of her pillow. Her breathing is slow and even, her sleep unworried.
Clint's never been prone to nightmares. He's spent his life as a soldier, as an assassin to a government, and still, his sleep has gone undisturbed. Whether it's because he's never questioned the orders before or because he does not think of it, either way the deeds of his past haven't affected his sleep. Tonight, it is different. A glass of scotch before bed and he's already restless, his breathing the first sign of agitation as it hitches unnaturally. He kicks at blankets, the feeling on them trapping his legs and translating into his nightmares.
When Natasha awakes, it is an instant shift to full alertness. It's been trained into her bone-deep, and it's a skill she's relied on for most of her life. Despite this, she does not jerk upright or swing into action; she simply opens her eyes, silent and still in the darkness as she lets them adjust and places what it is that woke her. It doesn't take long. It's hard to miss the rising toll of troubled slumber when sleeping next to someone night after night. With a quiet frown in the darkness, Natasha shifts upward on her elbow and presses her fingers lightly to Clint's forehead in a soothing gesture that sometimes interrupts dreams and lets him drift back into something more peaceful.
It doesn't. If Clint were awake, if he were conscious of who's fingers brush against his skin, he'd likely be less suicidal to attempt to grab her wrist with the snap of his fingers. But then, if he were awake, he would not need to. His fingers are cold, drained of blood and white with tension. "No," escapes his lips in a soft grunt. "I won't."
Natasha stills, allowing Clint's grasp despite its bruising pressure. She exhales slowly; her fingers draw down to curl against her palm. Quietly, she says, "Clint."
"Fuck you, Loki," Clint mumbles sharply, a muscle jumping in his jaw as it clamps down once again. A breath exhales through his nose, the name piercing his psyche slowly and his breathing steadying a moment after. "Tasha?"
"Wanna ease up?" Natasha suggests, her voice quiet but kept carefully warm. She twists her wrist slightly in his grasp. "I plan to need that hand this week."
Sleep-clouded thoughts do not lend themselves to immediate reaction, nightmares still haunting eyes that are decidedly dark brown where they slide open, for all the darkness masks them in any case. Then his grip lightens, even as he attempts to pull her closer with the anchor of that contact. "What if I said no?" he jokes, words cracking only slightly from tension and something else, buried deeper.
"Rather not make you, Barton," Natasha answers with measured lightness. She gives him a small, crooked smile in the darkness, though the shift of her eyes across the lines of his expression is far sharper. She doesn't exactly fight Clint's pull, but neither does she give in. A steady, careful resistance keeps her where she is, half hovering next to him, and she twists her wrist again to break his grasp and then, slowly, to twine her fingers through his. "Clint," she says again, but this time her voice has gone far softer.
Fingers curve against hers, leeching warmth as Clint draws and exhales another breath. He lifts himself slightly to throw himself back down against the pillows, a gesture to get comfortable and back to sleep even as he says dismissively, "Don't. Don't make this into something."
Natasha draws back, sliding her fingers free and pushing up to sit with her back pressed against the headboard. She rakes her fingers through her hair, combing it into some semblance of order, and leaves his words to hang in dark silence between them for several long moments before she turns her head to look back at him, resettled against the pillows.
Clint doesn't attempt to cling to the contact, letting her fingers slide away. As she turns a look on him, however, he shakes his head in a sharp gesture, rolling away and onto his side to leave his back to his partner.
Natasha's frown as he turns is swift and sharp, and if Clint were watching, he'd recognize it as dangerously determined. "Clint," she says again, letting her hand draw flat against the span of his back. It rests briefly between his shoulder blades, then she draws it down the line of his spine with firm, gentle pressure. "We both know that's not going to work."
"Fuck, Nat," Clint exhales softly in the silence, a shiver running briefly in the wake of her fingers. "It's just some bad dreams. They'll go away, or they won't."
"Tell me," Natasha requests. Her hand draws back up to rub small circles at the base of his neck, and after a moment she adds, "Come here," with a soft tug at his shoulders and thumbs that dig into the nape of his neck.
Clint resists for a moment, tension tight in his neck and shoulders, but he twists back to her after a moment. "Every time, it's Loki. He has--he has everyone I've ever cared about. The kids, Barney. You," he explains slowly, quietly.
Natasha's touch is not expert, but she knows the feel of Clint and the work of muscles well enough to find the spots that hold tension. She digs her thumbs into pressure points with purpose rather than gentleness. "We're safe," she tells him, reassurance pointless but present nevertheless. "He's decided to fry bigger fish."
"We're all going to fry, Tasha. Long as he's here, the world isn't safe," Clint mumbles, the weight of tiredness on his words as muscles begin to ease under her caress. He winces at one tender spot, but doesn't object.
"Maybe," Natasha admits into the darkness. Her voices pauses, leaving the word between them as she concentrates the spot that drew his wince with a softer touch. After a moment she adds, "But if we do, we'll fry together."
Clint laughs, a quiet sound that is more guttural than voiced. He agrees as he drapes an arm over Natasha in turn, a simple weight without any attempt of anything more, "Yeah, least there's that."
Natasha's hands fall free at Clint's shift and settle in her lap. In the lack of pressure, she slides into him of her own volition and curves against his side. "They'll get better," she says with the quiet firmness of someone who knows.
There is no answer to the assurance, only the soft exhale of his breath marking Clint's acceptance of her words before he buries himself in the curve of her neck. The gesture only borders on platonic, the softness of an inhale marking it as--something more, that he does not press. Not now.
Natasha's arms draw tight around Clint, and she slips her fingers into his hair and draws her nails lightly against his scalp. Her breath is quiet, calm, carefully even, and she leaves the silence between them.
Many things stir in the darkness of Moscow's wee hours, but none of them are in this particular corner. The hotel's upscale nature means that most of the wilder nighttime activities don't encroach on the peace and quiet its residents expect (and pay for). Silence stretches, spreads, settles like a blanket across those who slumber.
Secure in the knowledge of their security measures and their ability to wake swiftly should the need arise, Clint and Natasha are among these. They lie curled opposite each other in the oversized king bed like two halves of a closed parentheses. Natasha's hair remains a wild mass of red curls that spreads across the curve of her arm and the white of her pillow. Her breathing is slow and even, her sleep unworried.
Clint's never been prone to nightmares. He's spent his life as a soldier, as an assassin to a government, and still, his sleep has gone undisturbed. Whether it's because he's never questioned the orders before or because he does not think of it, either way the deeds of his past haven't affected his sleep. Tonight, it is different. A glass of scotch before bed and he's already restless, his breathing the first sign of agitation as it hitches unnaturally. He kicks at blankets, the feeling on them trapping his legs and translating into his nightmares.
When Natasha awakes, it is an instant shift to full alertness. It's been trained into her bone-deep, and it's a skill she's relied on for most of her life. Despite this, she does not jerk upright or swing into action; she simply opens her eyes, silent and still in the darkness as she lets them adjust and places what it is that woke her. It doesn't take long. It's hard to miss the rising toll of troubled slumber when sleeping next to someone night after night. With a quiet frown in the darkness, Natasha shifts upward on her elbow and presses her fingers lightly to Clint's forehead in a soothing gesture that sometimes interrupts dreams and lets him drift back into something more peaceful.
It doesn't. If Clint were awake, if he were conscious of who's fingers brush against his skin, he'd likely be less suicidal to attempt to grab her wrist with the snap of his fingers. But then, if he were awake, he would not need to. His fingers are cold, drained of blood and white with tension. "No," escapes his lips in a soft grunt. "I won't."
Natasha stills, allowing Clint's grasp despite its bruising pressure. She exhales slowly; her fingers draw down to curl against her palm. Quietly, she says, "Clint."
"Fuck you, Loki," Clint mumbles sharply, a muscle jumping in his jaw as it clamps down once again. A breath exhales through his nose, the name piercing his psyche slowly and his breathing steadying a moment after. "Tasha?"
"Wanna ease up?" Natasha suggests, her voice quiet but kept carefully warm. She twists her wrist slightly in his grasp. "I plan to need that hand this week."
Sleep-clouded thoughts do not lend themselves to immediate reaction, nightmares still haunting eyes that are decidedly dark brown where they slide open, for all the darkness masks them in any case. Then his grip lightens, even as he attempts to pull her closer with the anchor of that contact. "What if I said no?" he jokes, words cracking only slightly from tension and something else, buried deeper.
"Rather not make you, Barton," Natasha answers with measured lightness. She gives him a small, crooked smile in the darkness, though the shift of her eyes across the lines of his expression is far sharper. She doesn't exactly fight Clint's pull, but neither does she give in. A steady, careful resistance keeps her where she is, half hovering next to him, and she twists her wrist again to break his grasp and then, slowly, to twine her fingers through his. "Clint," she says again, but this time her voice has gone far softer.
Fingers curve against hers, leeching warmth as Clint draws and exhales another breath. He lifts himself slightly to throw himself back down against the pillows, a gesture to get comfortable and back to sleep even as he says dismissively, "Don't. Don't make this into something."
Natasha draws back, sliding her fingers free and pushing up to sit with her back pressed against the headboard. She rakes her fingers through her hair, combing it into some semblance of order, and leaves his words to hang in dark silence between them for several long moments before she turns her head to look back at him, resettled against the pillows.
Clint doesn't attempt to cling to the contact, letting her fingers slide away. As she turns a look on him, however, he shakes his head in a sharp gesture, rolling away and onto his side to leave his back to his partner.
Natasha's frown as he turns is swift and sharp, and if Clint were watching, he'd recognize it as dangerously determined. "Clint," she says again, letting her hand draw flat against the span of his back. It rests briefly between his shoulder blades, then she draws it down the line of his spine with firm, gentle pressure. "We both know that's not going to work."
"Fuck, Nat," Clint exhales softly in the silence, a shiver running briefly in the wake of her fingers. "It's just some bad dreams. They'll go away, or they won't."
"Tell me," Natasha requests. Her hand draws back up to rub small circles at the base of his neck, and after a moment she adds, "Come here," with a soft tug at his shoulders and thumbs that dig into the nape of his neck.
Clint resists for a moment, tension tight in his neck and shoulders, but he twists back to her after a moment. "Every time, it's Loki. He has--he has everyone I've ever cared about. The kids, Barney. You," he explains slowly, quietly.
Natasha's touch is not expert, but she knows the feel of Clint and the work of muscles well enough to find the spots that hold tension. She digs her thumbs into pressure points with purpose rather than gentleness. "We're safe," she tells him, reassurance pointless but present nevertheless. "He's decided to fry bigger fish."
"We're all going to fry, Tasha. Long as he's here, the world isn't safe," Clint mumbles, the weight of tiredness on his words as muscles begin to ease under her caress. He winces at one tender spot, but doesn't object.
"Maybe," Natasha admits into the darkness. Her voices pauses, leaving the word between them as she concentrates the spot that drew his wince with a softer touch. After a moment she adds, "But if we do, we'll fry together."
Clint laughs, a quiet sound that is more guttural than voiced. He agrees as he drapes an arm over Natasha in turn, a simple weight without any attempt of anything more, "Yeah, least there's that."
Natasha's hands fall free at Clint's shift and settle in her lap. In the lack of pressure, she slides into him of her own volition and curves against his side. "They'll get better," she says with the quiet firmness of someone who knows.
There is no answer to the assurance, only the soft exhale of his breath marking Clint's acceptance of her words before he buries himself in the curve of her neck. The gesture only borders on platonic, the softness of an inhale marking it as--something more, that he does not press. Not now.
Natasha's arms draw tight around Clint, and she slips her fingers into his hair and draws her nails lightly against his scalp. Her breath is quiet, calm, carefully even, and she leaves the silence between them.