Title: bless everyone who kissed you here
Rating/Warnings: Explicit; sex, f-word use, mentions of lack of bodily autonomy and hysterectomy from the Red Room
Link to AO3

Natasha is the one who kisses him first, rising up on her toes and leaning in to press her lips against Clint’s for a brief, satisfying moment.

She has, of course, noticed the layers that Clint wears. How most of the time he’s fully covered, except for his face and the few fingers exposed by archery gloves. Natasha is usually the same; her SHIELD uniform may be form-fitting but it covers every inch of skin. She's noticed as well how Clint steers away from physical contact; always easy to be around and quick to smile, but he keeps his hands to himself.

Not around her. Around her, Clint has gradually been letting his guard down. Wearing short sleeves during a training session and, after, playfully nudging his clothed shoulder against hers. Wearing a shirt with no sleeves when dancing undercover in a club and asking with a tilt of his head before his hands come to rest on her hips. Emerging from the safehouse bathroom in nothing but a towel, so she can take her turn faster without waiting for him to dress, and tugging playfully on her filthy hair as he walks past.

She's found herself doing the same; slowly baring her skin and soul in return and trusting that he won’t touch unless invited, won’t take what hasn't been offered.

She's also noticed the way that he’s started watching her.

She watches him back.

She watches when she leans in to kiss him for that first time; the way his eyes fix on hers, how his lips part, the hitch in his breathing, and the flush of his cheeks. For all he waits for her to make the first move, when she makes it the answer is clearly yes.

The next day it’s easy still between them. When she lounges next to him on his couch, take-out containers scattered across the coffee table, he doesn’t take more of her space than she’s previously offered, and when she kisses him again he smiles and doesn’t push for more.

It takes her three weeks to notice the thin scar that used to slice through the corner of her mouth has faded to nothing. It’s such a small thing – nothing like the violations of the Red Room, probably a side effect of some post-injury medication or time – that she thinks nothing of it.



Natasha peels down the top half of her uniform in the first stage of the decontamination unit. She’s one of a handful of Agents stripping off and none of them look at each other, except for Clint watching from where he hovers in the entrance with a strange expression on his face that she can’t place.

“Get a move on, Barton,” she tells him, but he doesn’t.

“Hey, you know Touched are supposed to use the single stalls,” Rumlow says, frowning at Clint as he walks around him, giving him a wide berth. “Get out of here, Barton.”

With a last glance at her, Clint leaves.

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