feet don't fail me now | closed to clint barton
She woke up wrapped in someone else's scent--which meant someone else's sheets and someone else's bed and someone else's pillow, even though her hand slipped under it to seek out the familiar handle of her knife. For a minute there was only panic, like falling asleep too early and awakening thinking a whole day had gone by.
But then Natasha remembered, and her eyes fluttered opened. Embarrassment, humiliation, they might have all rioted inside her, if she had let them. Everyone broke apart now again. The important thing was that she put herself back together, and she as very, very good at doing that.
Rolling to her side, her eyes tracked the room, targeted the other body in residence. Clint. He was slumped sideways in the chair by his small, cramped desk.
Quietly, she padded over to him, carefully not remain on his side and in his periphery if he woke up. She didn't like people coming up behind her for the same reasons she suspected he didn't.
She stopped at arm of his chair, leaning over to tap the space key on his computer, recognizing the the Russian words instantly.
Odd, that little twinge in the region of her heart. It didn't surprise her that it was there, beating. Natasha felt, and strongly, but what was surprising was that he invoked. It had been a while since a man had done anything but arouse her. This wasn't arousal, not all the way. This was something else.
This was something dangerous.
She smiled at his sleeping form. "I could have given you lessons, if you asked," she said softly.
