Touch Starved
Clintasha fic
2,126 words
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The medical checkups are extensive. Clint has taken to bringing a book, or a newspaper. It’s guaranteed to be at least forty minutes, but he only goes as far as the vending machine that sputters out bitter coffee that’s far to hot to drink. He’s the reason Natasha is here at all. The least he can do is be here for her in case she needs him.
When he finally sees a doctor emerge from the clinic, he rises. His thigh still aches where her bullet passed clean through it. It’ll heal. It’s not important.
“Any progress?” he asks.
“Better than last time,” the man says, gruffly. “No one needs stitches.”
Clint sighs, relieved. It’s not much, but it’s an improvement. The doctor shoulders past him to get to the offices down the hall. Clint is used to the hostility, now that it’s been a few weeks. He’s put everyone in a difficult situation, and he’s owning it as best he can. There doesn’t seem to be one person in the entire agency who isn’t furious with him.
Natasha emerges, looking about as happy as anyone might after being poked and prodded for the better part of an hour. She glares at him. He gives an awkward thumbs up accompanied by a questioning smile. She doesn’t laugh. He’s not sure what her laugh sounds like, but he’s determined to hear it one day.
“I can run on the treadmill,” she tells him. “The doctor will email you.”
“Great,” he says. It is. She’ll have an outlet for her anger aside from beating him to a pulp on a sparring mat.
They walk in silence through a maze of halls until they reach the high-security holding suites. For what is essentially a prison cell, the suites are surprisingly pleasant. Large windows face onto the lawns of the facility, and in the early evening light Clint can see the grey figures of cadets jogging around the thin perimeter track. The sound of the lock tumblers clunking into place behind them cuts through the quiet, and he yawns.
“I’m going to take a shower,” he announces. Natasha ignores him, and goes to her bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind her. The boundaries have never been in question, and Clint is tired, so he doesn’t bother asking her what she wants to eat. There’s leftover pasta, she can have some if she gets hungry during the night. He’s heard her sneaking around in the early hours of the morning. It doesn’t come as a surprise that she doesn’t sleep much.
His phone dings, and he pulls it out to find an email from the doctor waiting for him. Natasha has been cleared for light exercise, nothing strenuous that might rip stitches or cause undue injury. The tone is clipped. Clint can’t remember the last time someone ended a message to him with ‘best wishes’, or even ‘regards’. He’s out of favour with the entire agency, not to mention there are probably a few people in Russia who wouldn’t mind putting a bullet through his head. Clint Barton, though, is nothing if not a stubborn idiot, and he’ll wear this decision until he’s dead and buried. Of that, he is certain.
He showers quickly, and changes into comfortable sweats. It’s not late, so he goes through the ridiculous amount of security checks on the laptop that’s been left for him and starts on some of the grunt work Fury’s dumped on him as a small part of a punishment that looks set to last a few years at least. Clint doesn’t know why he has to enter five passcodes and provide his thumb print to get on the computer when Natasha could easily just take his phone, but he’s doing what he’s told these days.
Natasha emerges about an hour later, and goes into the bathroom. None of these doors have locks, and he wishes for her sake that they did. It can’t be fun knowing that someone could barge in on you at any moment. He’s tried to make it clear he’s not the barging type, but it hasn’t made a dent in her attitude towards him.
He listens to the sound of running water for a while, then shuts the laptop and goes to the kitchen. He heats up some pasta, and makes a cup of tea. He eats slowly, but when he’s done the water’s still running, so he gives up on any attempt at conversation and goes to bed. He misses his real apartment. The holding suite is plush, and there’s more than enough space for both of them, but there’s no place like home.
But if he went home, he reminds himself as he plugs in his phone, there would be no one standing between Natasha and the hundreds of people who don’t want her here. Who’s to say who would come knocking if they knew she was by herself? It would be risky, sure, but it could be done. Clint closes his eyes, and tries to stave off the paranoia. No one’s coming for her. He can make this work. People will forgive him eventually.
He wakes in the dark to the sound of quiet knocking. It takes him a few moments of rousing to realise that someone’s knocking on his door, and that the only person who could be knocking on his door right now is Natasha. He rolls out of bed, and opens the door.
Natasha is wearing the standard issue SHIELD pyjamas, and the image of her in sleepwear is so incongruous that he doesn’t hear what she says the first time she says it.
“What?” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes.
“I need help,” she says. Her voice has a tightness to it, but she sounds more tired than annoyed, which Clint takes as a win.
“What time is it?” he yawns, shambling after her into the kitchen.
“Three fifteen.” Natasha hands him a dressing and some clean gauze. “Dressing came off in the bath, and I can’t reach that far.”
He hides his surprise at the fact that she was in the bath. It gives him some satisfaction to know that she feels comfortable enough to relax. Asking him for help - well, that’s another milestone. He knows it’s technically his fault. It was his arrow that struck her in the shoulder, and it’s that injury that means she can’t reach far enough to fix the dressing on another wound that was also probably his fault.
Clint takes the supplies and motions for her to sit in front of him. She shifts a chair and sits down, pulling her top off in one motion. Clint tries to ignore that. She enjoys getting reactions from him.
“You’re bleeding,” he says, frowning. He presses the gauze gently to the wound, and holds her shoulder to apply a little pressure. Natasha says nothing, but she doesn’t pull away from him. In fact, she leans back a little into his hands. Clint brushes it off, and when he’s satisfied that the bleeding has pretty much stopped, he refolds the gauze and tapes it down properly. As he brushes her hair out of the way of the tape, she leans back again.
“Are you okay?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah,” she says. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for.”
“Mmm.”
She pulls her shirt back on, and turns around to face him. It’s the first time he’s seen her look at him like this. There’s no anger, no distrust. Nervousness, yes. Like she’s trying to summon the courage to say something. Clint waits, not wanting to spook her.
“I haven’t…” she mumbles. Clint hesitantly touches her hand. She bites her lip, and she looks like she’s about to cry. Clint withdraws his fingers, but she catches them. He looks at her, lost.
“I haven’t been close to anyone,” she murmurs. “Not… not in a long time.”
“That sounds lonely,” he says. He doesn’t know what she’s trying to ask him, and he feels stupid for it.
“I…” She hesitates again, and he makes the bold move of squeezing her hand. Her eyes flick down to their hands, almost intertwined.
“No one’s touched me who hasn’t wanted to hurt me,” she says, after a long silence. She seems to be experiencing some sort of emotional catharsis, and Clint isn’t equipped to deal with that, but he knows when someone needs a hug.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he murmurs. “You know that, right?”
“I do,” she says, and he feels her squeeze his hand lightly. “It’s just going to take some getting used to.”
“Do… do you want…” Clint cuts himself off. He doesn’t know what he’s offering, only that he’ll give her anything she wants.
“I don’t know,” she says. She sounds so lost, and he can’t help himself. He reaches out, and she flinches, but he opens his arms and before he knows it she’s reaching out for him too, and they’re holding each other in a hug, and it’s awkward, but it’s warm, and he can feel her heart beating against his chest. Her head comes to rest on his shoulder, and he keeps holding her. She tightens her grip, and now he’s fairly sure she’s crying. He just strokes her back, and lets her shift herself onto him so she’s straddling his lap. There’s no part of him thinking about anything but comforting this woman he’s dragged into his world. She holds onto him like no one’s ever hugged her, and Clint’s throat starts to ache because he realises that’s probably true.
“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice muffled by his shoulder. Clint blinks. They’ve been sitting here so long that he can feel the stiffness in his neck. She pulls back abruptly, and the spot where she was resting against his shoulder feels suddenly cold.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” he says. “None of this is your fault.”
She nods, and pulls away, clambering off him. She says nothing, and he watches her stumble to her room and close the door behind her. He goes back to bed, and sleeps.
In the morning, she’s made coffee for both of them. That’s new, he thinks, and he drinks it while trying to hide a smile. They go to the holding facility’s small gym, and he runs on the treadmill next to hers. He goes with her to her daily round of medical checks, and this time she’s gone for over an hour. They pass the day in silence, and when it comes to the evening, they eat together. Clint thinks the silence is almost amicable.
“If you need any help,” Clint says, while they’re washing the dishes, “you know, with… with bandages, or… anything…”
“I’ll come to you,” she says. He nods, satisfied, and they go their separate ways. Clint reads for a while, and then turns in.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep for when he hears his door opening. He barely has time to sit up before Natasha is standing at his bedside, shifting from foot to foot.
“N’tsha?” he mumbles groggily. She doesn’t say anything, and he sits up properly, blinking in the darkness.
“Can I sleep here?” she asks. It’s almost inaudible. He blinks again.
“With me?” he asks. She nods. He knows instinctively what is going on this time, and pulls back the comforter in invitation. She visibly relaxes, and climbs in, pressing herself up against him. Clint shifts so her head is resting on his chest, and she’s half on top of him. He makes sure she’s covered, and starts to stroke her back lightly.
“Thank you,” she whispers. She presses her nose into the hollow of his neck, and Clint wants to cry for her. She’s so starved of kind touches that she’ll climb into bed with the man who upended her life just to feel him hold her. How long has it been since she’s felt the touch of someone who hasn’t wanted to hurt her?
He falls asleep with Natasha in his arms, and when he wakes she’s still there, curled against him, still holding onto him as she wakes up. She says nothing, just shifts closer. Clint props himself up a little on his pillows, and cradles her gently. He starts to stroke her hair, and she pushes into his touch like a cat. Clint can see the tears gathering in her eyes when she looks up, and it breaks his heart.
“It’s going to be okay,” he murmurs. Everything is quiet as dawn slowly breaks, the sun creeping down the wall towards them. Natasha makes a muffled sound and presses her face into his neck. Clint just holds her, watching the light move, and wondering what their future holds.