Colombia

The fiery haired assassin watched as the archer’s head lolled back against the pillows supporting him, succumbing to the pull of healing sleep again, as she found herself wondering for the thousandth time in the past hour what it was about the wounded agent in front of her that drew her like a moth to the flame.

Every time their eyes met she felt the faintest brush of a memory, trying to free itself from the door she kept them locked behind in her mind. The feeling of deja-vu that happened when their gazes clashed kept her constantly off balance, a feeling she didn’t quite appreciate as any hesitation could get her killed, a mantra that had been drilled into her head since she could remember.

Shaking her head to rid it of the unwanted thoughts she returned her emerald gaze to the sandy haired archer who was snoring softly. Satisfied Barton was sleeping soundly she slipped soundlessly out of the room and melted into the shadows of the dimly lit hallways. Moving with a preternatural grace born of years of training Natasha moved through the maze of corridors to her quarters situated just doors down from Barton’s, something she hadn’t realized before.

She locked the door behind her and surveyed the small space that belonged to her, the bed was neatly made, clothes occupied the space of one half of the closet, the other half full of weapons. She made her way to the closet and pulled the two Glocks from their holsters wrapped around each of her thighs and gave each a cursory inspection before placing them in their spots in the small armory she had accumulated.

After swiping the small iPod from the nightstand she meandered into the bathroom, intent on drawing herself a bath to soothe the kinks in her neck and back, probably caused from the amount of time she had spent in the uncomfortable chairs in Barton’s room. While the water ran, heating to the right temperature she plugged the iPod into the docking station on the counter and chose a soft calming playlist she had made just for situations like this.

Once the water was satisfactorily hot she squeezed a small amount of scented soap into the water, watching with childlike delight as the soap bubbled, releasing the calming scent of vanilla into the air. She sank into the water with a sigh, the nearly scalding water instantly sinking into the tight muscles in her body. Natasha sighed in contentment, allowing the soft sounds of the Russian lullaby and the calming scent of vanilla to relax her mind as well.

Her eyes slowly drifted shut of their own accord, the melody of the lullaby bringing back hazy memories of a different time, memories of sunshine and laughter.

“Папа! Папа!” (Papa! Papa!) She flung herself down from the fourth stair step straight into the arms of her father. She giggled crazily as he swung her through the air before bringing her up to eye level for a whiskery kiss, causing yet another fit of her laughter to ring out through the room.

“Ah, my baby girl, you grow more beautiful with every day that passes. Soon you shall be the most beautiful girl in all of Russia, and no man will be able to resist your wiles!” Dmitriy Romanoff looked down at the unruly mop of vibrant red curls through which peeked out the deepest green eyes and found himself thanking God again for the gift of his daughter.

The precocious four year old struggled to be let down, kicking her legs wildly until her father complied. The second her short legs hit the ground she raced back up the stairs, intent on repeating her jumping antics, knowing her father would always catch her. A sharp knock on the door startled her, causing her foot to slip on the step as she lost her balance and tumbled to the bottom of the stairs.

The breath was promptly knocked out of her and her green eyes began to well with tears as she took in several shuddering breaths, a precursor to the screams that were sure to follow. Dmitriy rushed to scoop his daughter up in his arms and soothe her as he went to answer the door. The red haired toddler quieted quickly as another harsh knock sounded followed by loud angry shouts. Dmitriy set his daughter down and moved in front of her.

“Natalia, listen to Papa, I need you to go to the back door and run as far and as fast as you can. Do you remember where our special spot is?” He glanced behind him and watched as she wiped a tiny fist across her eyes and nodded up at him, her tear stained face full of fear. “Go Natalia, Papa will be there for you soon.”

She took several steps backwards towards the kitchen and hid behind the doorframe, not wanting to leave her father. She peeked our from her spot and watched as her father opened the door to face an angry looking man. She covered her ears as the men’s voices raised in volume, until they were shouting at each other. With her hands over her ears the shouts were muffled when a sharp crack echoed through the house.

Natalia looked around the doorframe in horror as her father’s limp body crashed to the floor, a deep crimson stain spreading from the hole in his head. She must have cried out as the man’s eyes whipped up and met hers, a gleam of evil spreading as he moved towards her.

“Ah, Natalia. How unfortunate it is that you had to witness this little scuffle here. Would you like to come with me now dear?” He held out a hand to her as four other men filed in the door, each tossing a harsh smelling liquid over the floors and furniture. She shrank further back away from the man and he tsked under his breath.

“Ivan, the men are finished here, are you coming?” The voice could barely be heard over the suddenly loud whoosh followed by loud crackling and immense heat. Tears spilled from her green eyes and tumbled down her face.

“I wish you had come along willingly Natalia.” Ivan murmured quietly before backhanding the child. Natalia fell to her knees as her vision swam, unable to protest as she was roughly picked up and carried out of the burning remains of her home. The last thing she heard before she gave into the darkness were Ivan’s whispered words,

“Welcome to the Black Widow Program Natalia. You’re going to like it here.”

Natasha jerked upright, her chest heaving as tears poured down her cheeks. The immediate haze of panic receded as she was not able to find any attackers and she sucked in a deep breath, trying to clear the acrid scent of smoke from her mind. Several seconds ticked by before she released the breath and looked around her, the water was now lukewarm, all traces of bubbles gone, the playlist on the iPod finished, the tranquil moment well and truly shattered.

She stood and reached for the towel hanging just to the side of the tub and scrubbed herself down quickly, trying to wipe the memory from her skin as well as her mind. Prowling from the bathroom she dressed in a pair of loose sweatpants she had pilfered from Phil the first week she had been here, and pulled on a simple grey v-neck then strapped only one holster to her thigh, the reassuring weight of her Glock chasing away the remaining threads of panic her memories usually left behind.

Checking the time she cursed to find that she had been asleep for nearly four hours, much longer than she had wanted to leave Barton alone. She, better than most, knew how terrifying it was to wake up in a bed, in pain and alone. She slipped out and into the hallway, making a bee line for the medical wing of the base.

As she passed the entrance to the gym she could feel the hairs at the back of her neck prickling, her instincts screaming at her that something wasn’t right. Keeping one hand on the grip of her weapon she pushed soundlessly into the training center, senses on high alert, trying to determine what was wrong.

The low sounds of a man’s voice caused her head to whip towards the far back corner, where the door to the shooting range was located, a barely discernible glow coming from the crack under the door. Moving silently she approached the door and listened intently, trying to pick up any other sounds. The soft groan of pain solidified her resolve as she opened the door quickly and slipped inside.

The dim safety lights had been triggered and cast a faint glow over the range, but her eyes immediately zeroed in on the form huddled against the wall. A few steps closer and she could make out the features of the archer she had been tasked with protecting, another two steps and she caught the sharp metallic scent of blood. The archer still hadn’t detected her presence and was continuing to draw a long black blade down his thigh. Her eyes widened as she realized what he was doing, and before she could stop herself the words were out of her mouth.

“Clint, please stop.” Her words caused him to jump, the blade sinking deeper into the muscle of his thigh. He raised his tormented blue-grey eyes up to her green ones as she moved closer, both hands raised in front of her to show him she meant no harm. He surrendered as she approached, the hand slipping from the blade to fall limply on the ground.

Natasha knelt down by his side, one hand examining the damage done to his leg as the other quickly yanked the knife out and slipped it into the slot on her holster. At her touch the archer had closed his eyes and hissed as she removed the knife, blood now flowing freely from the two gashes in his leg.

"You need stitches Clint.” She hesitated slightly, the sound of his name on her tongue foreign, yet enjoyable.

"Please don't drag me back to medical." The plea was whispered, his voice layered with emotions she was all too familiar with. The battered archer she was helping to his feet was running from his demons, something she had been doing since she could remember. An uncharacteristic lump formed in her throat, how many times had she pleaded for one kind word, or mercy and had it been denied. Maybe tonight they could both find a little comfort.
...........................

Her soft husky voice had broken through the walls, and when he looked up at her, the lights had cast a soft halo around her fiery red hair, and he was suddenly too aware of what he had been doing. Still, he hadn’t seen an ounce of disgust or reproach in her emerald eyes, instead he saw similar shadows reflected in the green depths.

She had told him he needed stitches as she pulled the blade from his leg, and he begged her not to take him back to medical, his voice heavy with guilt and shame. Yet again she surprised him by simply helping him to his feet and shuffling him out of the training center and down the hallways.

His tired mind barely registered as they stopped in front of a door briefly, before he was moving again. Her soft hands led him into the bathroom where she made him sit on the closed lid of the toilet then wrapped a thick towel around his leg.

“Hold this. I’ll be right back.” She placed his hands over the towel and pushed them down gently before disappearing from the bathroom. He heard the door close and a couple minutes passed before she reappeared in the doorway a large bottle of vodka clenched in one hand, a compact first-aid kit in the other, and a small smile curving her full lips.

“I don’t have anything for the pain as I stitch you up, but maybe the vodka will take your mind off it?” The last part was punctuated as she offered the bottle to him, a hesitant look in her eyes. Clint found himself reaching for the bottle and taking three large pulls, the liquid tracing a fiery trail down to his stomach before settling, warmth rushing through his veins.

Her hand reached back out and he looked at her questioningly before handing the bottle back over to her, watching in rapt interest as she took four equally large pulls then handed the bottle back and picked up a needle and sterile thread. She took a deep breath and removed the towel, now soaked through with his blood, and glanced at him. Clint nodded slightly and took another deep pull from the bottle before gritting his teeth.

The needle slipped through one end of his torn skin and Natasha worked quickly and efficiently, pulling the wound closed, keeping her stitches neat and small. The voices that had been tormenting Clint were just a distant buzz in the back of his head as he took another long swig of the vodka. The alcohol rushed through his system quickly and Clint began to feel its effects, he was blessedly numb.

With his head somewhat cleared from the clamor of the voices and guilt he took this time to observe the red head kneeling in front of him. Her long red hair tumbled down her back in loose curls and he itched to reach out and sift his fingers through the silken strands. He watched as one curl slipped in front of her face and she blew out a puff of air trying to get it to move from her line of vision without stopping what she was doing.

Clint reached out, ignoring the trembling of his fingers, and brushed the stray curl back from her face and tucked it behind her ear. His fingertips ghosted over the soft skin of her ear and Natasha sucked in a startled breath at the contact, her slender hands faltering slightly. He pulled back his hand slowly, trying not to break the moment. Another few moments ticked by in silence before she leaned down and cut the thread with her teeth, her breath fanning over his skin briefly before she pulled back and claimed the bottle of vodka for herself.

He watched, transfixed, as the delicate muscles in her neck worked with each swallow of alcohol. She stood, and Clint mourned the loss of her heat as she grabbed a clean washcloth from the small linen closet next to the sink and wetted it. She moved back in close, enveloping him in the warm vanilla scent mixed with traces of gunpowder, that was uniquely hers as she gently wiped away the lines of dried blood from his leg.

Once she was finished cleaning his leg, Natasha helped Clint to his feet and moved with him out of the bathroom and into his bedroom, stopping once they reached the bed. Clint lowered himself down on the bed, letting out a small groan as his tired muscles welcomed the soft cushioning, allowing his eyes to close briefly before realizing Natasha had not joined him.

He cracked open one eye to find her standing just to the side of the bed, indecision warring in her eyes, the bottle of vodka gripped loosely in one hand. Clint scooted his body, making room for her slender body, and patted the space beside him.

“I promise I won’t bite. I just don’t want to be alone quite yet.” A shadow of understanding passed across her face and she drained the rest of the vodka before setting the bottle on the floor and climbing gingerly on the bed next to Clint, her body heat sinking into him.

Disjointed thoughts tumbled through his head, courtesy of the vodka he was sure, but suddenly the need to feel her skin under his and her full lips pressed to his pushed every other coherent thought out of his head. In that moment he couldn’t bring himself to think of the consequences, he craved her touch like nothing else before, he wanted to simply feel, to luxuriate in the comforting touch of another.

He rolled to his side to face the Russian beauty, and found her wide green eyes watching him, no fear in their depths, but curiosity and more surprisingly, hunger. Clint slowly brought a hand up to cup her cheek, gently running his calloused thumb over her smooth skin. Natasha leaned into his touch, her eyes slipping half closed as she moved her hand up onto his solid chest.

For several long seconds they stayed like that, wrapped in each others body heat, but it wasn’t enough for Clint as he watched her pink tongue swipe across her lips he ached for a taste. Dipping his head low, he hovered less than an inch above her mouth, their breaths intermingling, her emerald green gaze clashing with his, and he could barely make out the faintest sprinkling of freckles across her nose.

The moment stretched on until Natasha closed the remaining distance and pressed her lips to Clint’s. It started as a chaste kiss, the brief press of lips, but neither agent could deny the sudden flame of need, and Clint deepened the kiss, her lips tasting of honey and he was a man starving. The inferno burned brighter and he tunneled his hand into her thick red curls, pulling her closer for him to devour as her fingernails dug into the muscles of his chest.

He pulled away reluctantly to pull in a breath and couldn’t help the smile that snuck across his face at her little mewl of disappointment. He pressed his forehead to hers, each panting like they had just finished a marathon. Slowly she opened her eyes, and as he gazed into the emerald depths, glazed over with hunger and need, he knew he was lost.

“Natasha.” He breathed her name, a plea, a prayer, a promise, and lowered himself for another taste of her decadent lips. She met him eagerly, gasping as his teeth nipped at her lower lip, and he dove inside, his tongue battling with hers, the smoky taste of vodka blending with the taste of vanilla.

His hands began to roam over her soft shirt, desperate to learn her curves. In this moment he was just a man, no voices, no guilt, his hands tightened their grip, holding onto his lifeline. She gave a breathy moan of satisfaction as her hands traveled from his chest to loop around his neck, one hand buried in his sandy hair, little fingernails digging into his scalp, the tiny pinpricks of pain sharpening the desire flooding through his system.

Then one second he was wrapped in her heat, her lips pressed to his, the next she was gone, the soft click of the door the only sound that betrayed her flight. Clint blinked several times, his alcohol fogged brain trying to figure out what had gone wrong. He flopped to his back, one hand on the quickly cooling space her body had been just moments before and mentally kicked himself.

His body succumbed quickly to sleep, as exhausted and worn as it was, and he fell asleep with her fading vanilla scent in his nose.

Notes