A Gift From: telaryn
Type Of Gift: Fic
Title: The Truth of Him
A Gift For: theladymore
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Some knife-play, controlled (but non-graphic) bloodletting
Summary/Prompt Used: “Natasha uses something like BDSM to get Clint back on track aafter the Loki Incident.” “Clint’s turned on by Natasha speaking Russian.”
Author's Note: Thank you for this. Seriously – when I got your request it was like Christmas for me, because if you’d asked in advance what I love to write involving Clint and Natasha it couldn’t have been any more perfect.



It was an insane thought at an insane moment. Tony had insisted on the lot of them retreating to a Shwarama restaurant he’d seen during the battle while SHIELD and the authorities tried to sort out the mess they’d made of lower Manhattan, and none of them had been able to come up with an argument strong enough to stop him.

“One of everything,” the billionaire had called as they staggered into the wreckage of the shop. “Put it on my tab.”

Clint was pretty sure he was the only one of them who saw the opening in the suit that allowed Tony to produce his platinum card – and his brain had quickly informed him that it would be purging that knowledge at the first available opportunity.

He’d made it most of the way through his first plate of food when memory of helping his friend Oliver start work on his dream house in upstate New York flashed through his thoughts. Clint had had to leave the project before it was half finished, but he knew the plans by heart and knew that if Oliver had managed to finish it, it would be a perfect getaway spot. He made the call when he and Natasha returned to the helicarrier to report in and collect what was left of their gear.

“It’s roughly a three hour drive north through some really beautiful country,” he reported, once he’d hammered out the details with Oliver and gone to see Natasha with his proposal. “Oliver’s going to be in Luxembourg for the entire month, so the place is just standing empty. He said we could stay for as long as we want.”

Clint’s heart was beating a fast tattoo against his ribs by the time he finished laying out the information for his partner. Please say yes…please say yes…please say yes. He would have sooner died than admit it out loud, but realization of just how long they’d spent apart was suddenly threatening to crush him.

“We promised we’d see Thor off,” she said finally, “but as long as Fury approves the paperwork I already assumed we’d be spending the next two weeks together.”

In retrospect Clint understood he probably should have been worried about how relieved he was when she agreed. Freedom from Loki and the Tesseract was all he’d managed to achieve since this nightmare had started, and he’d only managed that through Natasha’s strength and resourcefulness. Not to mention her faith in you. He was going to need every bit of that again if he had a prayer of sorting out the shambles of his life.

Luckily getting Director Fury’s approval on their leave had been less of a problem and more of a “if you two had waited even one more day to get in here I was going to file on your behalf.”

The rest of the team had already gathered by the time they packed and headed out to Bethesda Terrace in Central Park. Clint didn’t know what he’d expected when he finally came face to face with the man who’d ruined him and saw for himself Loki subdued and bound for a prison that actually had a prayer of holding him. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but he was pretty sure the hollow, empty feeling in his gut wasn’t it.

Nevertheless, he tried to be social as the others mixed and mingled around the perimeter of the central mosaic, saying their goodbyes. He shook hands with Cap, swapped barbs with Tony, and nodded cordially at Bruce. He’d been hoping to do the same with Thor and then beat a hasty retreat to the car, but the Prince of Asgard had other ideas. “I would talk with you privately for a moment, Hawkeye,” he said when Clint approached him. The archer was going to politely refuse, but before he could say anything the God of Thunder had him by the arm and was gently but firmly steering him off to one side.

“The things my brother did to you represent a stain on our family honor,” Thor said, as soon as they were safely out of earshot. “I owe you a debt. You may call on me for any aid in the future and it will be rendered without question or hesitation.”

Clint accepted the offer as politely as he could, but deep down he wished Thor hadn’t said anything at all. Fighting the Chitauri had helped him keep the truth of everything he’d done at Loki’s behest at bay, but now that the dust had settled all of the unsteadiness and self-doubt had come rushing back in with a vengeance. He had every intention of facing his demons and defeating them, but Thor being all noble and princely about the whole mess just made the horror of it more real.

The one good thing that came out of their private talk was that it put Clint far enough away from everybody else that he was able to retreat to where he’d left his car without drawing undue attention to himself. Memorial services start tomorrow, he thought, as he started the process of taking the top down on the classic roadster. He’d already been exonerated of the deaths that had happened on the helicarrier during Loki’s assault in a hearing he hadn’t even been told was taking place. “You had more pressing matters to deal with,” was all Fury would say when he found out.

The director had spared him the indignity of a discussion where the political considerations of him showing up anywhere near the cemetery in the next week turned into an official order banning him from the funeral services. Out of deference to the possibility that Natasha might want to attend Clint had offered to delay their departure for a few days, but his partner had quickly reminded him she had very few friends among the rank and file agents. “Mark my words,’ she’d said by way of finishing the discussion, “more than a few of them think I had a hand in what you did.”

Clint didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t try.

By the time he got the top properly stowed, Thor and Loki had vanished in a flash of coruscating rainbow light and the others were finally starting to disperse. Nat was already moving in his direction, her duffel slung over one shoulder and a casual roll in her hips that drew his attention like a magnet. “I finished making your goodbyes for you,” she said, tossing her bag in the trunk and closing the lid. “They understood.”

“Thanks,” he said automatically, even though he suspected few – if any – of the others had really understood his reluctance to engage them in conversation. “You ready for this?”

She glanced at him over the top edge of her designer sunglasses. “Just remember you promised me this place has a hot tub.”
*****************************
Natasha couldn’t deny the wave of relief that shivered through her once she and Clint were securely belted into his car and on their way. Even with Clint as emotionally and physically battered as he was, life had always been easier when it was just the two of them. “One of my old friends has a place east of Buffalo,” he’d said when first proposing the trip. “It’s nearly four thousand square feet, with no neighbors closer than five miles.”

She’d been a little surprised at him worrying Fury wouldn’t give them the time off. The three of them that were officially attached to SHIELD might have saved New York, but the way they’d gone about things meant that their own people were going to be a long time trusting them again. Cap had it slightly better than they did – being Captain America and all – but Nat knew all three of them were looking at quite the road back.

Clint seemed to have a plan for this trip though, and up to the point where he became a true danger to himself or certain others Natasha was willing to let him take the lead…at least for now. As a result, conversation stayed light and easy between them for most of the drive; touching on absolutely nothing of consequence.

This wasn’t to say that they didn’t argue. She and Barton had been together long enough that certain regular tussles were actually comforting. Music was what they argued over most often – Clint was a fan of classic rock and certain types of country music. Natasha preferred instrumental when they were driving together, finding the words of most songs distracting when they were trying to carry on a conversation. If they didn’t feel like talking, she had a perverse fondness for conservative talk radio. The first time she’d insisted on subjecting him to Glenn Beck, Clint had retaliated by changing to one of the more offensive comedy channels on his satellite radio.

“It’s just as ridiculous, but without the real world consequences,” he’d pointed out when she’d ended the argument by shutting the radio off.

“What’s life without a few consequences?” had been her best comeback. The question had been largely rhetorical, followed by her reaching over to unzip his jeans and showing him the kind of fun they could have facing the consequences of a blow job at 125 miles an hour. Natasha had actually considered repeating the move on this trip as a means of getting Clint out of his own head for a while, but the bits and pieces she’d managed to pick up since they’d left Central Park told her quite plainly that putting Barton in that position now would like as not result in him crashing the car.

Another ongoing argument was how often they stopped on any kind of road trip. When he was on a perch, waiting to take a shot, Clint was one of the most patient men Natasha had ever known. He still held the agency record of waiting just over twenty-four hours without a break to take out a target. Put him behind the wheel of a car, however, and he inevitably turned into an over-caffeinated twelve year old boy stopping at every roadside stand, tourist trap and rest area they passed.

“Oliver did say we would need to stock up on food,” he pointed out as they entered the last town on the GPS – clearly trying to preemptively diffuse any potential outburst from her. Natasha had expected as much however, so she let him have the win without complaint.

Their food choices tended to be as disparate as their music choices, so that particular peace didn’t last long. Natasha tried not to react, but she couldn’t help raising both eyebrows almost to her hairline when he tossed three packs of Twizzlers into the cart. “Don’t start,” he warned, shifting a bundle of salad greens aside to reveal a bag of Lays Chicken and Waffle flavored potato chips. “Those things are an offense against God and man.”

Natasha didn’t know why she answered him in Russian. There were any number of reasons – the most obvious being that she was starting to relax and let her guard down again – but the unexpected flush of heat that filled his grey-green eyes as she told him, “Lucky for you, I am neither,” showed her that without question it had been exactly what he needed to hear and how he needed to hear it.
*************************
It was like she’d reached into his brain and flipped a switch; suddenly Clint couldn’t think of anything beyond getting them both naked as quickly as possible. Of all the kinks Natasha had brought out in him over the years, the language one was definitely one of the more bizarre. And it wasn’t every language either, although he’d done his duty, shown her A Fish Called Wanda, and endured her occasionally calling him “Otto” to this day when they were alone together.

No, it was just Russian spoken in her native dialect that typically set his hormones racing. She did it so rarely anymore that when it slipped out Clint felt like she was letting him in on some secret only the two of them were allowed to share.

“I just realized,” he said as they were loading up the car with their purchases, “this is the longest dry spell we’ve had in years.” The closest they’d come to actually being together in months had been a web-chat one night when he was in New Mexico and she was babysitting Tony Stark in Los Angeles that had turned unexpectedly sexual. Memory of her in a desk chair, her professional suit in disarray as she’d brought herself off for him was more than enough to finish what the small taste of language had started.

Natasha’s expression was thoughtful, but Clint saw a hint of mischief in her eyes. “I suspect you’re right about that,” she said – her tone maddeningly casual as they resumed their trek towards the house. “Can I assume you’ve packed accordingly?”

A knot of tension Clint hadn’t even realized was there suddenly loosened in his chest. “Was never a Boy Scout,” he said, reaching over to rest his hand lightly on her thigh, “but I think I did all right.”

It took him another moment before Clint realized that on some level he’d been expecting Natasha to flinch when he touched her, and another one beyond that before he realized that he hadn’t initiated physical contact between them since he’d woken up in restraints with his mind his own once more. He’d been too afraid to.

“Nothing has happened that can’t be fixed,” Natasha said softly, sliding her hand over his. “And despite what that Asgardian prick would have you believe, you will never be so lost that I won’t bring you home.”

They finished the drive wrapped in a comfortable silence; Clint knew that he, at least, didn’t trust himself to say anything useful after that.
*******************
”This is magic and monsters, and nothing we were ever trained to deal with.” She had the truth of him now, and Natasha could admit – at least in her own head – that it put her on much steadier ground going forward. Once upon a time he’d walked into her darkest hour and she’d welcomed him as the weapon that would finally end her life and the monster she had become.

Clint had ended that life, but he’d brought her into a new one; one with friends and purpose and space to figure out who she wanted to be. What she needed to do for him wouldn’t be nearly as difficult – despite his current self-doubt and depression, Clint Barton was mentally and emotionally one of the most resilient souls she’d ever met. She would do it without question or hesitation though, because it was him. She owed him. She loved him, even if it was a weakness she could never admit out loud.

Finally, she would do it because somewhere along the way she’d lost interest in a life where Clint wasn’t at her side.

Natasha’s eyes widened as they turned onto a private driveway and they caught their first good look of the house. Clint whistled – clearly as impressed as she was. Nat remembered that he’d had to leave off helping his friend before the house had been finished. “So…Oliver is well off?” she asked, knowing the question was ridiculous but asking it anyway.

“Never thought about it in those terms, but I guess so,” Clint said, obviously still trying to process the truth of his friend’s financial status for himself. “Some kind of international banking thing.”

Some kind of international banking thing indeed…Natasha thought as Clint parked and they started the process of unloading the car. By her admittedly rudimentary calculations, millions of dollars in material alone had been put into the house. It was light and airy, mostly high ceilings and huge windows that on the one hand didn’t allow for a great deal of privacy. On the other…nearest neighbor at least five miles away.

As they carried the groceries into the kitchen, Nat began looking at the picture windows in a very different light; one that involved the two of them being very, very naked…

She’d been watching for an opening since they’d left the store and she’d realized Clint was starting to shift back into something resembling his normal mindset. As he was shutting the freezer door on the last of their food she saw it and pounced.

Moving into position behind him, Natasha molded herself to his back; hands resting possessively on his hips. Clint stiffened at first, clearly startled by the unexpected contact, and she heard a soft needy whimper escape from the back of his throat. Nat closed her eyes briefly, savoring the sound and the way it made the silk between her legs deliciously warm and damp. “You know,” she purred, skimming her hands across his hips and down the front of his jeans to cup the bulge of his hard-on, “all you had to do was ask and I would have taken care of this for you an hour ago.”

His hands flexed against the stainless steel surface of the freezer door as she reached his belt buckle and started working it open. “There…ah…the ice cream would have melted.” His voice cracked on the last word and she heard him swallow. “Wanna clue me in here?”

“You’re a bright boy,” she smirked, getting his jeans undone in no time flat and pushing the offending cloth halfway down his thighs. “Shut up and turn around.”

She could tell by the way Clint’s body moved that his brain had immediately and absolutely abdicated all control. Keeping her hands on him, Natasha rolled smoothly to her knees – letting her hair play across his fully erect shaft. When she was in position, she ducked her head and ran her tongue across his full length. “Dammit Nat…” he moaned softy, thumping his head back against the refrigerator door as she took him inside her mouth.

The surprise and speed of her assault had been deliberate – intended to leave Clint with no room for conscious thought or questioning. He’d been spending far too much time in his head, first trapped there by Loki and then by circumstances beyond both their control. If she had a prayer of truly reaching him, of putting things right between them once and for all, she needed to keep him from thinking too much…or preferably at all.

As her head moved back and forth, tongue hitting all his sensitive spots, Nat kept one hand on his hip – holding him in place as she reached between his legs with the other. The skin behind his balls was sensitive enough that a few gentle strokes of her fingers had him making small, desperate, wordless noises. After a moment, he threaded his fingers into her tangled hair – still letting her set the pace – but holding on for dear life.

“Oh yes,” he groaned as she slid the hand between his legs far enough in that the tip of one finger brushed across the furled skin covering his opening. “Nat yes, please.”

She understood immediately what he wanted without him having to say another word. Pulling her hand free, she quickly slicked her forefinger with spit and then reached up between his legs again – pushing firmly against the tight ring of muscle. She heard the archer blow out a shaky breath as he tried to relax enough to allow her to penetrate him. Natasha kept the pressure as slow and steady as she could, until somewhere around the first knuckle his body seemed to wake up and realize that this was one of his brain’s better ideas.

All the while she continued sucking on his cock, varying heat and damp and pressure until Clint was literally sobbing for breath. When she finally managed to take him deep enough that the head of his cock was catching at the top of her throat, Barton finally lost all control. Crying out, he came relentlessly hard – his cock literally spasming against her tongue as she swallowed everything he had to give her.

By the time she was finished enough to let him slip free, Clint was openly trembling from head to toe. “Get down here,” Natasha ordered, tugging on his hip until he slid down to the floor to sit beside her. “Last thing we need is you getting a concussion our first day here.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” he agreed, wrapping his arms around her and hugging her to his side with a sudden surge of strength. They shifted a bit, until Natasha was comfortably settled in the crook of his arm, and then Clint sighed.

“That sounded almost happy,” Natasha noted, unable to keep the smile off her own face.

The archer chuckled. “Happy. Yeah – that’s a word I can live with.” He kissed her hair. “Thank you.”

“Oh we’re just getting started,” Natasha pointed out. “Thank me later when I’ve done something to earn it.”

She had no idea how long they sat together on the kitchen floor, backs to the refrigerator, clothes in disarray; but finally a deeply sobering thought brought her back to reality. “We have to finish emptying the car.”

Clint’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah, I guess we do.”

Natasha glanced at one of the nearby windows. “It’s getting dark.”

“Yeah, I guess it is.”

Neither of them moved.
********************************
It was full dark by the time they managed to roust themselves long enough to finish dragging everything into the house. Dinner was rejected that night in favor of unpacking, settling in and properly christening the master bedroom. By the time they fell asleep in each other’s arms, the world was dark and still around them. It would be well into the next day before either of them stirred.

Natasha had been prepared coming into the trip for Clint to have nightmares. He’d suffered from them in the past for far less compelling reasons than his most recent traumas. Their first night together was quiet though, almost as if she’d pulled him so far out of his own head he couldn’t remember anything else outside the here and now.

Things were more balanced – more normal – as they started their first full day of vacation, but even though Natasha did her best to keep him distracted, by suppertime the first day she was reasonably sure Clint had something he wanted to ask her; something he wasn’t entirely sure she was going to agree to. The idea was worrisome on its face, but since pushing him for the information before he was ready to talk wasn’t going to do either of them any favors, she decided to stay her own course. He would come to her in his own time and whatever it was he wanted from her she would give.

The first round of nightmares that hit that night as they lay together in the darkness were bad, but nothing Natasha couldn’t handle. She held Clint, stroked him, and urged him away from the monsters that lived in his subconscious as best she could. Each time she gave him the opportunity to talk about what was tormenting him, and each time he refused; burrowing so deep into her embrace it was as if he was trying to crawl inside her.

The next day passed a little slower, a little quieter, and Nat was left with a much stronger sense of her partner’s ulterior motive in proposing the trip. It wasn’t until their third full day, however, that he felt comfortable enough to lay out what he wanted.

Natasha returned from a morning run through the forest to find Clint at the kitchen table – coffee in his hands and a folder on the table in front of him with papers spilling out of it. Picking up the mess without giving him a chance to say anything by way of explanation, she took the chair across from him and began to read.

Personnel records. Shit. Hawkeye had been more together than any of them had thought if he’d been able to acquire these and smuggle them out of headquarters without being spotted. Three forms down, something in Natasha’s brain clicked and she realized exactly what she was looking at and had a pretty good idea why Clint was showing them to her.

“These are the dead from the attack on the helicarrier.” She flipped quickly through the entire stack, counting up the total and matching it to what she knew from her own glimpses of the official reports. Her heart skipped a beat as she caught the name on the last page. Shit…shit…shit… Battered, broken; she’d done her best, but Clint had known exactly what he was going to need from her all along to set himself right again.

“I couldn’t ask you until I was sure you didn’t blame me too,” he said, drawing her eyes up off the page at last. “I needed to know that we were at least okay, and I know that now and you probably have no idea what that means to me…”He broke off abruptly as she glared at him. “Sorry. Just trying to convince myself I’m not the completely worthless asshole I feel like right about now.”

Natasha blew out a quiet breath, trying to wrap her head around what Clint was really asking her to do. “You’re not looking for a whipping, are you?” she asked finally. “That’s well traveled territory for both of us, and I don’t think you’d be this reluctant to talk about it. You’re scared because you want to bleed for these men and you don’t think I’ll agree to it.”

She knew she had the right of it when he was suddenly having trouble meeting her eyes. “I need closure Nat,” he said finally. “The kind of closure that’s not going to come from the rounds of therapy Fury has already hinted are in my future, or from getting back to work and ‘getting on with my life’. Reaching across the table, he stabbed a finger at the stack of papers. “Thirty-six people. I might not have pulled the trigger, but I absolutely set everything in motion.”

The argument about him being mind-controlled at the time was already on her lips, but Nat banished it at the last possible second. He’d brought this to her because he genuinely believed it would help, and she was the only one he could trust not to cripple or kill him getting there.

“If we’re going to do this,” she said at last, looking up at him again, “it happens on my say-so, not yours.” She spoke confidently enough that it startled him into meeting her eyes. “Your logic is sound, but if I think you’re in the wrong head-space for this I’m not so much as picking up a flogger.”

“That’s the point though, isn’t it?” he asked, clearly confused. “I’m not in the right head-space. I need this to get in the right head-space.”

Natasha was tempted to explain herself in Russian and put the burden on translating on him for a change, but this was her partner – genuinely begging for her help. The least should could do was not make it any more difficult than it had to be on him. “You need to convince me that you’re doing this for the right reasons,” she said at last. “Closure…atonement…not continuing to beat yourself up over something that arguably was not your fault in the first place.”

He was quiet for a moment, and she was grateful that he was taking her seriously. “So how do I prove myself?”

“You don’t,” she said. “You’re putting yourself in my hands for this – you’ll do what I say until I’m satisfied you can go forward.” She paused, making sure she had his full attention. “And the first thing I’m going to tell you is get your ass upstairs. I’m going to make sure we’re secure down here, and then I’ll be up.”

*****************************

As soon as she was alone, Natasha exhaled sharply, slumping in her seat as she massaged her aching temples. She literally didn’t know how she was supposed to feel about this. What Clint was asking from her was definitely part of her skill-set. Now that she knew what he wanted, she had every confidence that she could take him where he needed to go and bring him back in one piece.

The problem was that the level of trust it would require from both of them was a bond more profound than she had ever considered sharing with any human being currently living or dead. If anyone’s entitled to it though, she thought, pushing herself to her feet at last, it’s him.

He was sitting cross-legged on the bed when she finally felt ready to go upstairs, looking calmer and more focused than she’d seen him in months. His shirt and jeans were gone, but in deference to the fact that she’d given him no clear direction on what she wanted, he’d replaced them with a well-worn pair of cut-off sweatpants. Of the gear she knew he’d packed, his wrist and ankle cuffs, two twists of rope and his favorite paddle were on the nightstand nearest him. A flash of purple drew her eye to a chair in the corner now draped with a large swathe of flannel. Natasha smiled softly at the sight, going to the ancient blanket and gathering it in her arms. Burying her face in the soft, warm cloth, she took a moment for herself to inhale the mingled scents of laundry soap and Clint.

Needs to be closer, she decided, folding the blanket and relocating it to the nightstand as well. The movement put her within arm’s reach of him – Clint reached out and caught her wrist before she could pull away. “Thank you,” he said when she looked at him, his eyes over-bright with emotion.

“We haven’t arrived yet,” she said in Russian, reaching up to smooth his hair back. Closing his eyes, Clint leaned into her touch – a peaceful smile playing around his lips. Natasha let her hand slip to cup his jaw, urging his face up until their eyes met again.

“You are safe here,” she told him, still speaking in Russian. “Nothing you say or do can harm me or turn me away from you. Everything you say within these walls will remain within these walls.”

“I understand,” he said, answering her in Russian. Natasha held him still for a moment longer, studying his expression, marveling at how absolutely vulnerable he suddenly was. “I am in your hands.”

She nodded to show him that she was pleased with his answer, then dropped her hand and stepped back. “Lose the shorts,” she said, switching back to English.

His answering grin had a healthy dose of mischief in it. “Yes ma’am,” he said, clambering to his feet. He had the shorts off, and was back kneeling on the mattress by the time Nat picked up one of his wrist cuffs.

He held out his left hand without waiting for direction. “Give me a safe word,” Nat said, letting the transgression slide. She deftly buckled the cuff in place, automatically testing the fit with two fingers.

He was incredulous. “Really?” He studied her for a moment, clearly trying to discern her motivation. “We’ve never used them before.”

Nat shrugged. “We’ve never gone this route before. I want every safeguard we can find in place before I go rooting around in that head of yours.” She brushed a hand lightly against his hair before retrieving the second wrist cuff and repeating the process.

She could feel his eyes following her as she buckled the first cuff around his ankle, and then the second. “Purple,” he said as she finished her work and sat back on her heels. Natasha looked up at him and saw a calm certainty.

“Purple,” she agreed, rolling smoothly to her feet. “Lie back, center of the bed.”

Clint was already moving into position by the time she finished speaking. “Arms?” he asked.

“Spread eagle,” she said, going to the drawer where she’d stashed the knife they used for their games. “It’s been a long time since we’ve done any sort of knife play.” She took out the knife and set it on the nightstand next to the paddle. “I’d rather you not be able to move any more than necessary.”

She’d heard the small hitch in his breathing when she brought the knife out, but forced herself not to react. There was no obvious sign when she turned back towards him that he was upset, but his attention lingered a beat longer than necessary on the nightstand before he was able to refocus on her. “We okay?” she asked, giving him an out if he needed it.

For a moment, Nat was certain he was going to take it. Then, just as quickly, it was gone. “Fine,” he said softly, his nod quick and sharp.

Moving in close, Nat helped him lie back. Clint automatically put his arms and legs into position, but his eyes never left hers. “You’re safe here,” she repeated. “You know that, right?”

“I’m fine,” he said, and she almost believed him.

Securing him took time, but Natasha didn’t miss a step – the elaborate process of questions and answers as she bound his wrists and ankles the way she wanted was an important part of the process for both of them. The only adjustment she made was when she reached the step where a blindfold would have been brought into play. Normally when she used the knife on him they both liked having some sort of sensory deprivation going on; typically a blindfold, although occasionally she would remove his hearing aids as well.

Now, instinct drove Natasha to skip right past that step, and if Clint noticed the change he trusted her enough not to comment on it.

When she was satisfied with his position, Nat paused for a moment and let her gaze roam hungrily over her partner’s naked body. “I always forget how good you look laid out like this,” she observed, letting him see how much the sight of him was affecting her. “Once we settle things, you should probably plan on spending a lot of time in that position.”

His obvious pleasure at that thought warmed her. “I want you to keep your eyes closed or focused on the ceiling as much as possible,” she added. “If you watch what I’m doing with the knife it’s going to be that much harder for you to keep still.”

Once he had nodded to show that he understood, she retrieved the blade, unsheathed it, and moved into position. “No blood this time,” she said, noting that Clint’s attention had gone immediately to the knife and he seemed not to be able to tear it free. “This is going to be no different from any of the other times we’ve done this.”

“Except for the blindfold,” he said softly, and she watched his throat ripple as he swallowed hard against the fear that was starting to take control.

Already sensing how bad this was getting ready to go, Nat nevertheless rested her free hand on his bare chest. “Clint – look at me.” He was still able to respond to her direct commands. “Are we okay?” she asked as their eyes met and she saw the traces of panic in his expression. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, then drew a deep shuddering breath and nodded.

“We’re okay. I’m okay…I…I trust you. Let’s do this.”

She still almost called a halt to the whole thing. Something about the knife in particular was triggering him – but if it was something he could get past Nat knew that she would have much more control with her dagger than she would trying to bleed him with a lash.

“Eyes on the ceiling,” she reminded him, dropping the blade low enough that it would be outside his field of vision. As soon as he had complied, she set the point of the dagger lightly against the skin of his stomach.

His breathing immediately became audible, his chest rising and falling much more rapidly than it had been. “You’re safe,” she murmured. “Nobody can hurt you here.” She began to pull the point back towards her, but immediately had to break contact when his breath rate increased again, causing his stomach to rise and fall unexpectedly fast.

Looking up at Clint’s face, Natasha saw immediately that he was on the verge of a full-blown panic attack. “I can do this,” he gasped, keeping his eyes fixed determinedly on the ceiling even as tears trailed steadily from the corners. “I’m fine. I can do this…I can…” His voice trailed off into a wordless cry of anguish as Natasha lay the flat of the blade against his chest. The contact was for a fraction of a second, but it was long enough to tell her what she needed to know. She was already reaching to cut the first rope binding him when Clint’s hyperventilated litany of “purple…purple…purple…” finally reached her ears. Moving as fast as she dared with Barton’s panic continuing to escalate, she got his arms undone first, then his legs.

The archer was already going fetal by the time she snatched up the flannel blanket and wrapped it around him, and for a moment Natasha worried she was going to have to take more extreme measures to calm him down. After several minutes though, his sobs tapered off and his breathing began to slow. Shifting them both until his head was pillowed in her lap, Natasha began rubbing slow, soothing circles into his back, urging his frozen muscles to ease.

Clint’s fingers curled against the soft skin of her waist, blunt nails digging compulsively at her flesh. “He kept saying he was going to make me kill you, that there was nothing I could do to stop him.” The raw, terrified sound of his voice cut Natasha to her soul. “He kept showing me images of us together, of the knife…” His voice broke on the word and Nat tightened her hold on him. “I kept looking for openings, any way I could to break free of his hold. I was going to kill myself, but he just laughed.”

“It wouldn’t have happened,” Nat said quietly, twitching the edge of the blanket so that it covered more of his exposed skin. She knew telling Clint that she’d had more than a few nightmares about that very scenario wouldn’t have helped him in the state he was in. It would only shift his focus from Loki to obsessing about the fact that maybe she had a reason to be afraid of him, when the issue wasn’t his – it was hers.
**************************
Clint couldn’t even muster the energy to be embarrassed by his melt down; Natasha had been too quick to surround him with things that his brain associated with being comforted and safe. All he was expected to do was lie still and let go the fears that had gripped his soul for too long, and as his thoughts began to clear he realized that some good had come out of him losing his shit like he had. He felt lighter – like some last poisonous remnant of Loki’s control had been weighing him down and was finally bled free.

“I want to try again.” He’d barely realized the thought was there, before the words had been spoken and it was lying between them. Twisting around, he looked up into Natasha’s eyes. “Now that I’ve admitted what he did, what he was threatening me with it can’t have the same kind of hold, can it?” To name a thing was to steal its power – he’d learned that when he was a child running with the circus.

His partner studied him for a second, her expression disturbingly unreadable. “There are other ways I can draw blood on you,” she said, idly trailing her fingertips along his bare thigh. “This way would have given me more control, but it is very intimate.” She exhaled sharply. “Perhaps too intimate, under the circumstances.”

Clint closed his hand on top of hers, squeezing as tight as he dared. “I can’t let him keep control like this,” he said – feeling his own rising panic and internal desperation threatening to overwhelm him again. “If he still gets to call the shots, then everything I’ve been trying to do to break free is for nothing.”

Her green eyes were as steady and determined as he’d ever seen them as she cupped his jaw in one slender hand. “Loki is not in charge here, Barton. I am.”

He didn’t flinch away from her certainty. “Then help me. Help me see if I can get past this, or if I need to start accepting that this is the way things are going to be.”

She was quiet for long enough that Clint was preparing himself to hear her refusal when she finally said, “Get up.”

His blanket was set aside again. Natasha repositioned them with Clint between her legs, his back to her front. As many of the pillows as they could gather went beneath her body in order to set the two of them at a comfortable forty-five degree angle. As they worked, Natasha continued to use her hands to soothe him; letting her palms glide softly across every piece of exposed skin she could reach.

When they were finally settled, Clint could see his partner at the edge of his vision, looking over his shoulder and down the length of his body. “You need to stop gathering so many scars,” she said, her voice chiding him as she stroked his hair back from his face.

He chuckled softly. “I need to stop having my perches blown up underneath me, that’s what I need.” He traced a particularly raw-looking twisty one that followed the curve of his pelvic bone. “That one’s new – I must have picked it up in New York.”

They lay together quietly for a few minutes, just enjoying being together. Too soon Natasha asked, “are you ready?”

He desperately wanted to make a joke of it, to let her know that what had happened was an aberration, but if she’d taught him nothing else Nat had drilled into him that truth between them was crucial in these moments. “Show it to me first, please?”

Fear teased at the edges of his awareness as she raised the naked blade into his field of vision. “It’s tool, Clint. Just a tool. Nothing more, nothing less. It’s only power comes from the hand and the heart of the person wielding it.” Turning the knife in her hand until the point was facing them, she lay the flat of the blade against his skin, low on his chest. Clint could tell she’d chosen the position deliberately – the slightest pressure from her would slide the razor-edged blade into his flesh, between his bottom two ribs and up into his heart.

His breathing was short and sharp as he struggled to remain still under her touch, and his skin flamed hot with shame as he heard a soft whimper of fear escape his throat. “Put your hand on the hilt,” Natasha murmured – the words a low, soothing hum in his ear. “Over mine.”

He was visibly shaking as he raised his hand to do as she’d asked him to. “Just you and me here Barton,” she said once he was finally able to clasp her hand firmly. “No ghosts, no threats – just the same two broken people we’ve always been with nobody in the world to trust but each other.”

For a second he had it. He was still shaking badly, but the only presence he felt anywhere inside or out was hers. He had it, and a moment later it was gone – lost in the cold fear that swelled up inside him. Clint managed to maintain contact through the first few seconds of the fear taking hold of him, then…

“I can’t,” he gasped, feeling something battered and broken deep within his soul start to curl in on itself as he jerked his hand away. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Natasha pressed a gentle kiss to his hair, distracting him as she withdrew the knife and set it aside. “You have nothing to apologize for,” she repeated. “We don’t have to do anything more tonight.”

Clint was suddenly exhausted, physically as much as mentally; if he was sure of nothing else, he knew that. Natasha didn’t seem to be in any hurry for him to move off her though, so he stayed where he was for the moment, trying to process the swirl of his emotions and memories into something he could move forward with.

“You’re thinking too much,” Nat whispered after a while. Her kiss against the skin of his neck was slower…warmer… Clint’s eyes drifted closed at her second kiss, and when she bit gently into his flesh, and his entire body pushed reflexively into the contact. Reaching beneath him, he skimmed his palms across the curve of her hips and down her thighs. His cock twitched with interest as her soft moan of pleasure vibrated through him.

As soon as she released him Clint rolled smoothly, coming up on his arms and looking down at her. Their eyes met, and he felt everything inside him go quiet – the same way it had all those years ago when he’d looked into her eyes and realized that he didn’t have to kill her.

“That’s a smile I haven’t seen in a long time,” she said, reaching up and combing her fingers through his hair. “What’s going through that head of yours?”

Huffing out a quiet breath of laughter, Clint said, “You’ve been on me for days to stop thinking so much. I think I finally get it.” Reaching down between her legs with his left hand, he traced the length of her slit with a finger. Natasha’s eyes went wide for a moment, then she relaxed into his touch. “This,” he said, stroking her clit in exactly the way he knew she liked. “This is home, you and me like this.”

“Most…most people wouldn’t understand you,” she breathed. The catch in her voice was small, but it seemed to go straight to his groin. Knowing he could affect her like this in these moments, when their defenses were completely down for each other, was his favorite thing in the world.

“You do though, don’t you?” he asked, slipping two fingers inside her. Before she could find the words to answer, he leaned down and kissed her as thoroughly as he could.

It wasn’t the kind of thing he could have explained to anyone else so they could understand – but somewhere inside the simple truth of a woman who had been trained in every conceivable way to sexually control a man trusting him enough to let him take control; even after everything that had happened – was the answer to whether or not he could be saved from what Loki had done to him.

“Fuck me Barton.” His breath hissed out between his clenched teeth as Natasha wrapped her fingers around his shaft. “Don’t tease me, don’t worry about the consequences.” She urged him closer, until the head of his cock was brushing against her opening. “Just do it.”

He’d pushed inside her in one long, firm thrust before she had even finished talking. Natasha wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling his hips in even tighter than he would have thought possible. “There’s my boy,” she murmured, twining her arms around his neck and cupping the back of his head. “I’ve missed you.”

He kissed her as slowly and thoroughly as he could manage given how closely they were pressed together. “Missed you too.”
*********************************
Clint took his time, and Natasha was perfectly happy letting him set the pace. She’d been spending too much time in her own head since they’d left Manhattan, and even though she didn’t begrudge Clint the amount of control she’d been maintaining over their relationship it was nice to let go for an hour or so and just come together as themselves. … just the same two broken people we’ve always been with nobody in the world to trust but each other.

The fact that they fell asleep afterwards wasn’t a surprise – the fact that the clock on the bedside table showed nearly midnight when Natasha finally woke was. Disentangling herself from Clint’s embrace, she headed downstairs to the kitchen and the file still spread across the table. While coffee brewed, she put the papers back in order and began familiarizing herself with each name. Most of them she knew casually. Some of them she’d worked with on different missions, either with Clint or on her own.

She was on her third cup of coffee when she reached the last name. Phil Coulson. He’d been Clint’s handler for over a decade, and when Barton brought her into SHIELD he’d become hers as well. Natasha had liked Coulson as much as she liked anyone in SHIELD – he was a straight shooter, as the saying went, but as long as she’d worked with the man he’d never failed to put the welfare of his assets above political or bureaucratic concerns.

”Barton’s been compromised.” Memory of the phone call she’d gotten alerting her to the start of this whole mess rose in her mind. She’d been under cover for months when Coulson pulled her out. Natasha had never been able to verify for herself, but she suspected he’d tanked the mission without permission from any of the higher ups solely because he knew she would move heaven and earth to bring Clint home.

“I did it,” she said, brushing her fingers lightly across the page. She hadn’t done it in time for Coulson to know before he died, but it was important to Natasha that she had been successful in the end. It was the last thing he wanted me to do.

“You did what?”

Natasha looked up, only half-startled to see Clint standing in the doorway – looking uncharacteristically serious. “You change your mind?” he asked, nodding at the papers spread out in front of her.

She shook her head, gesturing him to the same seat he’d used before. When Clint was settled, she passed him Coulson’s sheet. “Nobody directed Coulson to take on Loki,” she said, settling back into her own chair. “Nobody would have ever considered he’d do it. Not even Fury; I’m sure of it.” She drew a deep, steadying breath, some of the pain and emotion of that day leaking back in past her defenses. “The Hulk had been unleashed, Thor was in the cage, and you were coming up through the levels laying waste to everything in your path. I like to think Coulson’s intent was just to get Thor out, but whatever it was he made his choice.” She frowned, feeling the threat of tears burning at the corners of her eyes.

“It was one of the bravest things I’ve ever seen anyone do,” she said. “From all reports he didn’t hesitate, and his sacrifice finally forced all those competing egos to work together for something greater than themselves.” She pointed at the paper that was now in Clint’s hands. “I understand why you carry the guilt you do for the others, and I will help you find peace for them.” She sighed, hoping she was choosing the right words for him to understand what she was trying to say.

“You weren’t there,” she said at last. “I was, and from where I sit you saying that a sacrifice that great and that selfless is something you should somehow feel guilty about or atone for completely misses the point.” She swallowed, feeling a few tears break free. “It’s offensive, and I won’t be part of it.”

Clint was quiet for a long enough time that Natasha had a momentary flash of doubt that she’d gone too far. Finally he set the paper aside. “Done, so long as we can talk more about what happened in the future. I…still feel like I failed him more than any of you, but there’s obviously a lot about what happened that I don’t know.”

Coulson had died without learning that she’d brought his favorite asset safely home. It was the least she could do for both men. “Agreed.”

Clint settled back in his chair. “What else do you need from me before we do this?”

Psychologically, Nat knew she was as comfortable with the situation as she was ever going to be. Physically however… “Will it be easier or harder on an empty stomach?” she asked Clint. Physically and emotionally, he would be taking the pain. It had to be his call.

“Easier,” he said without missing a beat. Natasha nodded.

“Okay then – find me the strongest structural member in this place. Something capable of carrying all your weight.”
**********************************
Working off his memory of the original plans for the house and his rudimentary understanding of construction, it didn’t take long for Clint to identify one of the beams in the living room as suitable for their purposes. When Natasha crossed paths with him an hour after they had decided to go forward, he was hanging his full weight off the pressure treated wood.

“Looks good,” she said, eyeing the set-up critically. “The angle of approach means we won’t have to move too much furniture.’

Clint swung back and forth for a second, and then leaped lightly to the ground. “What next?”

Natasha looked over the area and him one more time. “Cuffs, chain, carbiners, blindfold, and my lash with the leather-wrapped handle. Change back into the sweats you had on earlier and leave everything else upstairs.” She blew out a quiet breath. “If you can manage it, bring the field kit and your blanket.”

A thread of nervous energy shivered through him, but Clint managed to nod. “I’ll get all of it.”

As he jogged back upstairs, Barton mulled over his conversation with Natasha. He’d heard the stories of Coulson’s death of course. He’d read the file, seen everything he thought there was to see, and he’d never expected his partner to have such a strong, absolute reaction to what he was proposing. Including his former handler on the list of the dead had actually been less about absolving himself of his guilt for Coulson’s death – even though he carried that in spades.

It was mostly because the loss hadn’t registered for him yet. It was like it hadn’t happened, and Clint knew the longer he went without his brain being able to accept what had happened as unshakeable fact, the worse his reaction was going to be when he was finally forced to face it.

Handling it now wasn’t a deal breaker though, especially not if it meant that much to Natasha. Clint already appreciated how above and beyond anything he would normally be able to ask anyone else in his life this was.

Soft instrumental music was on the stereo by the time he returned, and the lights had been lowered – making the high-end living space something…other. Natasha had stripped down to a black camisole and panties, and was in the process of tying her hair back when he entered the room. Clint felt his cock stiffen automatically at the sight of her. This isn’t about that, he reminded himself, trying to properly school his thoughts. He didn’t know for certain – there was every possibility he would get laid tonight…tonight? but right now it was best that he think in very narrow terms.

“We all right?” Natasha asked, coming to him. Clint set his burden down, took her in his arms and kissed her.

“I’m a little scared. Otherwise, we’re fine.”

She grinned wryly at him. “You’re scared because you’re not stupid. The important question is, are you ready?”

“As much as I’m ever likely to be,” Clint admitted. “Let’s do this.”

Natasha took her time getting him into position and secured. Now that the scene he’d imagined for so long was finally looming close, Clint was fairly vibrating with nervous energy. He managed to keep from snapping at Natasha to hurry things along, but it was a close call. Intellectually he understood that what he was asking her to do was dangerous in its own way for both of them. As such, it was in his best interest to let her be as thorough as she felt she needed to be.

“That right cuff seems a little tight,” she said, testing it with two fingers. “How does it feel to you?”

Clint tried to focus on the familiar feel of sheepskin lined leather encircling his wrist. “It’s fine now, but there’s not a lot of margin for error,” he admitted. “I swell at all, and it’s going to bruise.”

Natasha nodded. “I thought so.” Reaching up, she loosened the cuff by a hole and stepped back. “Ready for the blindfold?”

He exhaled, and then nodded.

It was the first time in longer than he could remember that he’d been without his sight. A weird sense of peace descended on him as the darkness closed in. “Are you taking the hearing aids?” he asked as he felt her fingers curling into the waistband of his sweats.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve gone anywhere near this intense,” she said, easing the fabric over his hips and down his legs. “Besides – you’re going to need to hear the names being called out.” Crouching at his feet, she stepped him out of his pants. “Spread your legs far enough to get a solid stance,” she said, patting his right calf before pushing to her feet. “I can’t have you jerking all around if I’m going to do this right.”

Nodding, even though he didn’t know if she was looking at him, Clint shifted until he was as comfortable as he was likely to get. When he stopped moving, Natasha said from some distance behind him, “I’m going to give you ten strokes before I draw blood – warm you into what to expect. Stay as still as possible.”

He nodded again. “I’m ready.” The words weren’t nearly as confident as he wanted, but the tip of the lash drew a line of fire across his shoulders a moment later and there was suddenly no turning back. Clint had never been much of a “pain slut” as the term was used. He liked being flogged, but preferred Natasha to use the heavier whips on him – weapons that created more ‘thud’ than ‘sting’.

He hadn’t been tasked with counting off the strokes out loud this time, but Clint kept careful track in his head. Even as he heard Natasha draw breath after the tenth stroke, he was bracing himself for true pain.

“Gunnery Sergeant Anthony Yeager.”

Clint unexpectedly lost all control, swearing violently as the tip of the lash sliced neatly into his flesh, drawing a line of blood in its wake. Struggling to pull himself back together and focus on the name, Barton tried to put the man in context. Gunnery sergeant meant he would have been in one of the defensive towers Clint had known to target as they made their approach and had likely died screaming before Clint had even set foot on the carrier.

“Lieutenant Sara Peterson.”

Clint gasped at the fresh pain, but now that he knew the level he was going to be expected to endure, he managed to hold his tongue. He knew Sara, and he remembered taking the shot that had brought her down. They didn’t know each other well, but Clint was suddenly aware that he knew every female name on the list. Not because of any particular twist of fate, but because deep down he was that guy.

“PFC Charles McGregor.”

The memories were coming faster now, even though the cuts stayed precisely timed. He made each one a person in his head, calling on the details he’d gleaned from their files to make them someone with a life and a future that his weakness had cut short.

Somewhere around the fifteenth name, Clint realized that the muscles in his arms were starting to shake. Natasha had drawn enough blood at this point that he could feel it running down his back – turning fifteen…sixteen separate cuts into one messy blur of pain.

“On your feet!” The command was quick and sharp, and Clint’s response was automatic. Drawing on every last bit of strength he could find, he forced his legs back under him, feet flat on the floor, and pushed upward until he felt the fire in his arms and shoulders ease. His entire body trembled with the effort, and his breathing was loud and heavy in his ears.

It was the first moment he realized that his legs had nearly gone out from under him.

“Corporal Margaret Shields!”

Now that he knew how far he’d already pushed himself, Clint was having trouble keeping his thoughts off the pain radiating from each fresh cut. His chest was heaving as he struggled to remember to breathe, and he knew he was flinching now with each cut Natasha laid on him. If it was anything more than she was prepared to handle from him, she gave no sign.

“Adam Gentry.”

Clint remembered Adam very well – they’d never been friends exactly, but they’d worked several missions together. He was good at his job, quiet and steady. One of those agents that likely would have gone unnoticed his entire career by people outside his own team except Clint had hung him early on with the nickname “Wool Hat”. It was one of his typical jackass moves – Gentry had been required to wear a stocking cap in the field owing to hair that was a brighter red than Natasha’s natural color, and Clint had a genetic compulsion to be a dick.

After two missions where the man had done nothing but smile every time somebody called him that, Clint had been convinced to take him out for a beer and ask him what the deal was. Turned out Adam had been a Monkees fan, and that night Clint had learned more about Mike Nesmith than he’d ever expected to know.

He was so lost in memory that he missed the fact that with Coulson gone, Adam’s name was the last on the list. It was only when the next cut never came that his breathing began to slow and awareness of his surroundings began to bleed back in. Breathing heavily, he tried to orient himself.

“Good…good…”

The words were meaningless, but the approval in Natasha’s tone nudged him over an invisible line as he realized he’d made it through. Everything inside and out abruptly stilled; any lingering pain or pleasure he was still aware of turned to dust and crumbled away. “I’m going to take you down,” Natasha said, as she pressed her hand on his heart, stabilizing him with skin-against-skin contact. “This position isn’t safe anymore.”

There was another moment of profound stillness where Clint suspected she was waiting for him to answer. He couldn’t do it.

Working as swiftly as she dared, Natasha got him unhooked and lowered to the floor. “I need to see to your back,” she said, positioning his hand on something that was unmistakably his blanket. “I want to put you on your stomach on the blanket while I work.” He started to reach up to push off the blindfold, but she stopped him with her hand on his. “Not yet. I’ll take that off at the proper time.”

He literally didn’t have the ability to question her. The feel of the well-worn flannel against his skin soothed him immediately as she got him laid out, and the darkness forced on him by the blindfold helped keep him suspended in a near-floating state. He was distantly aware of the pain in his back starting to burn, but otherwise he felt hollowed out, empty. “Let go,” she crooned, combing her fingers gently through the sweat-soaked spikes of his hair. “Let it all go. None of it matters right now.”

She’s right, he decided as he made a token to reconnect with his physical body and failed utterly. This wouldn’t be the last he grieved for everything Loki and the Tesseract had stolen from him; especially not when there was still Coulson to talk about, to celebrate and to mourn. Right here and now though, none of it mattered. He was safe in the arms of the one person he trusted above all others, and none of the rest of it mattered.