(And hey, this gets double-duty because it fulfills one of my six sexy words prompts too. ;))


The first time she finds a scrap of paper with a few lines of poetry tucked into her go bag, she shrugs it off. Clint's always reading this book or that. He probably tucked it into the bag thinking it was his own.

The second time she finds one, she's intrigued. Clint's not that careless.

The third time, she's touched that he's chosen to share this part of himself with her. The note joins the tiny collection tucked into a thick tome of Russian Literature on her bookshelf.

It happens sporadically over the next month or so.

Then the notes stop.

She doesn't doesn't ask him about them and she doesn't think about them too much either; their lives are too busy for that much self-reflection and staying alive takes priority on most days. But on those rare occasions when they're not off saving the world, she'll sometimes take the notes out and re-read them.

Then, one day, the notes start to reappear. Not always in her go bag this time, but in her locker, on her pillow, in her briefing notebook. One time she even finds one tucked into her canister of tea.

The tone of the notes changes as well. Whereas the first ones were simple observations about nature or friendship, these new ones take on a decidedly deeper meaning.

She likes to think maybe they reflect the change in their friendship as well.

Soon, she's receiving new notes almost on a daily basis.

Then the tone of them changes once again. The new notes are sexy, sensuous, almost too wicked for words.

She finds herself all too often distracted during briefings, imagining his hands and lips on her body. His writing makes her wet and she spends several sleepless nights, twisted in her sheets, pleasuring herself as she thinks about his words.

She can't take it any longer. She needs to do something, anything, about this restless need.

She struggles for days, fuming as the words refuse to form, as page after page of notepaper lands in the trash.

Finally, she admits defeat, and the note she writes isn't poetry at all, just a few jumbled words telling him what he means to her.

She arrives at his apartment, note in hand, prepared to tell him. When he answers the door, rumpled and unshaven and looking more delectable then ever, she launches herself at him, kissing him with all the pent up passion of the past few months.

Her note flutters to the ground, unnoticed.

She is a woman of action after all.