Natasha left another tender kiss on his neck and scooted off the sofa as gracefully as possible then, making sure, Clint got a good nice look on her backside in the process. She thought to remember he had a certain liking for her ass... And a little more teasing would lighten the ongoing heaviness of the situation.
"These have to go, hotshot."
She made quick work of what was left of his jeans on his body before she sat back down next to him and lifted his leg over hers, as carefully as possible. She wouldn't really have needed his explanation, the aggressive swollen flesh around that one bandage spoke a clear language. This time the shivers on her arms were clearly visible and she had to stop for a moment to blink away new tears, before she started to unwrap the bandage.
It had been so much easier, calculating possible losses and dangers for fellow agents back in the hasty blood red daze of Washington. Every decision would have brought pain and fatal consequences, Steve, Nick and her had been fully aware of that. She had thought to be okay with it in the end. Regimes falling apart weren't exactly new to her.
But out here, weeks later, with too much time to think between on her hands and faced with that very pain, of her long year partner of all people, regret and the destruction of hundreds, maybe thousands of lives, weighed so much heavier on her shoulders.
She made quick, sterile work of her treatment, knowing her hands would only start trembling, making it even worse, if she let herself listen to the noises from Clint's lips or look at his face. But when that ugly wound was finally free of dried pus and small remaining uncleanness and sealed under another layer of bandage, her composure crumbled.
She leaned her head back against the sofa, with tightly shut eyes, holding back the threatening new wave of anger, remorse and helplessness. Her hands remained on Clint's leg, restlessly caressing over the warmth of his skin, over other, older rough spots of scars she remembered, proofs of his life in the field and how often he had made it out of there alive. He was with her now too, he had made it out of there, he was back with her... She just had to hold on to this, somehow.
But the picture of whatever had happened to him, whoever had unloaded a whole magazine on him instead of watching his back, without a warning of any kind, wouldn't want to go away.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2014-04-28 08:01 am (UTC)Natasha left another tender kiss on his neck and scooted off the sofa as gracefully as possible then, making sure, Clint got a good nice look on her backside in the process. She thought to remember he had a certain liking for her ass... And a little more teasing would lighten the ongoing heaviness of the situation.
"These have to go, hotshot."
She made quick work of what was left of his jeans on his body before she sat back down next to him and lifted his leg over hers, as carefully as possible. She wouldn't really have needed his explanation, the aggressive swollen flesh around that one bandage spoke a clear language. This time the shivers on her arms were clearly visible and she had to stop for a moment to blink away new tears, before she started to unwrap the bandage.
It had been so much easier, calculating possible losses and dangers for fellow agents back in the hasty blood red daze of Washington. Every decision would have brought pain and fatal consequences, Steve, Nick and her had been fully aware of that. She had thought to be okay with it in the end. Regimes falling apart weren't exactly new to her.
But out here, weeks later, with too much time to think between on her hands and faced with that very pain, of her long year partner of all people, regret and the destruction of hundreds, maybe thousands of lives, weighed so much heavier on her shoulders.
She made quick, sterile work of her treatment, knowing her hands would only start trembling, making it even worse, if she let herself listen to the noises from Clint's lips or look at his face. But when that ugly wound was finally free of dried pus and small remaining uncleanness and sealed under another layer of bandage, her composure crumbled.
She leaned her head back against the sofa, with tightly shut eyes, holding back the threatening new wave of anger, remorse and helplessness. Her hands remained on Clint's leg, restlessly caressing over the warmth of his skin, over other, older rough spots of scars she remembered, proofs of his life in the field and how often he had made it out of there alive. He was with her now too, he had made it out of there, he was back with her... She just had to hold on to this, somehow.
But the picture of whatever had happened to him, whoever had unloaded a whole magazine on him instead of watching his back, without a warning of any kind, wouldn't want to go away.
"I'm sorry..."