Frozen Web

Chapter 5

After Natasha called Clint about coming over, she threw on some workout clothes and grabbed a water bottle to stuff into her workout bag. If they were going to work out, it was going to be intense, probably a 5-mile run around his woods or some kickboxing in his basement. This was no time for heels or lipstick.

She had made it halfway to his cabin when she realized she'd forgotten her cell phone. She tried to keep it with her at all times in case Fury called (though he'd surely find another way to get to her if he really needed—he was maddeningly good at that). Dutifully, she turned around and went home to retrieve it, muttering curses under her breath. What would have taken twenty minutes would now be forty.

She called Clint when she got home to let him know she'd be late. She knew he wouldn't care, but she'd been trained to give regular reports. Like she predicted, Clint didn't mind—what else did he have to rush off to? Nothing. He was trying to withdraw from the world as much as she was.

She wound through the woods surrounding Clint's cabin—He sure lives in the middle of nowhere, she thought to herself—and finally pulled up in front of his door. His favorite SUV was nowhere to be seen, but that didn't mean anything; he kept it hidden in the shed next to his cabin. He didn't like people to know when he was home. Natasha didn't blame him.

She hopped up the front steps and knocked on his door. They were far too familiar to stand on social cues, but the last time she'd walked into his place without warning she'd almost gotten an arrow in her eye. Clint could be pretty paranoid. Again, Natasha didn't blame him.

The door opened, and Clint grinned down at her, the same playful grin that would have made her blush if she wasn't so in control all the time.

"About time you got here," he said. "I was beginning to think you chickened out."

Natasha snorted. "You're not getting out of it that easy."

Clint pulled back so she could come inside. "What were you thinking?"

Natasha dropped her workout bag on the couch. "What about kickboxing? I could really use a stress reliever right now."

She started towards the basement, but he grabbed her arm. "Sorry, not kickboxing," he said. "The basement's a mess. I'm working on a project. We couldn't even get to the mat. But we could use the mat upstairs. It doesn't have the punching bag, but we could spar."

"Sure, that'll work," she agreed, heading up the stairs. Clint followed. "I could use a warmup anyway."

His upstairs was mostly a loft, with a modest workout ring in the main area and his bedroom tucked into the back. Natasha ducked under the ropes, stretching her legs against one of the poles before squaring off against Clint. They were used to fighting, and they never seriously hurt each other.

Natasha made the first move, lashing out with a quick jab at Clint's shoulder. He jerked away, coming back with a swing of his own. She thought she knew his fighting style, but something was off today; he was quicker than usual, and more aggressive. Usually speed and agility was her arena, and he hung back until he found the perfect shot. So she wasn't expecting it when he launched himself at her and knocked her onto her back. She recovered quickly, twisting her legs around his and twisting to the side so that she ended up on top. She was about to get him into a chokehold when he grabbed her arm and slammed her onto the mat—hard.

A bright flash of pain shot up her arm, but she ignored it, breaking his grip on her arm and springing to her feet. She lashed out with a quick jab, but the pain hit again, and she paused with a grimace. Clint noticed.

"What's up?" he asked, concern filling his eyes. "I didn't get you too bad, did I?"

Natasha rubbed her shoulder, wincing. "It's no big deal; it's been sore for a few days. I think I just fell on it wrong."

"Well, it makes no sense to fight on a strained shoulder," Clint replied. "Let me grab you an ice pack from the fridge. I bet it'll feel better in a few minutes."

Clint led her downstairs, and she sat down on the couch while he grabbed the pack from the refrigerator. He came back with a bag of frozen peas ("the best thing I could find," he said apologetically) and sat down next to her. She held the bag against her shoulder for around ten minutes, already feeling better, but Clint insisted on looking her over before they went back upstairs.

"Turn around," he ordered.

"Since when did you become so nurturing?" she asked teasingly.

"I just don't want to lose my favorite sparring partner," he replied. "Now turn around." Natasha turned around dutifully, and she felt Clint reposition closer behind her on the couch. He started probing her shoulder with surprisingly gentle fingers. "How does that feel?"

"Good," she admitted.

He chuckled, continuing his examination. "You're so tense, Natasha."

"I guess I've had a lot on my mind."

"I think we all have," he replied. "But that's what the team's for—to deal with this together. You don't have to be strong all the time, you know."

"Come on, Clint, that's how we function, the both of us," Natasha answered. "Relying on other people is never a good idea."

"Not even if you're relying on me?"

Clint's fingers had branched off to the nape of her neck, stroking and massaging. Natasha could feel the tension sliding off her shoulders like water, and it was wonderfully soothing. In fact, she felt truly relaxed for the first time in weeks. His hands slid lower, fluttering down her spine. Somehow, he seemed to know exactly where the worst knots were. His fingers pressed and pulled, brushing the bottoms of her breasts in a way that made an entirely new tension—one of sweet anticipation—well up in the pit of Natasha's stomach. She couldn't help but sigh with contentment.

Clint heard, and his fingers stilled. He leaned closer, the stubble of his chin brushing against her cheek. "Natasha," he said gently, tugging on her shoulders. "You can rely on me."

She turned around slowly, not trusting herself to speak. She didn't want to look into Clint's eyes, because she feared what she'd find there—and what it would stir up in her own heart. But he cupped her chin and lifted it tenderly. Neither of them said anything as he leaned forward and claimed her lips with his own.

At first, she was hesitant to respond, fearful of letting go of her always firm control. But Clint was persistent, and slowly she opened up to him. He tasted different than she remembered; in Budapest, he'd tasted of smoke and brandy, but now he tasted more like cool mint. Natasha didn't mind; it was a pleasant flavor. She let the kiss grow deeper, drinking him in as she wrapped her arms around his neck and wound her legs around his hips. Clint ran his hands up her legs and pulled her tighter against him, standing up and bringing her with him. He carried her across the room and into the first-floor bedroom. Natasha wondered briefly why he didn't take them to his own room, but then she realized how difficult it would be to climb the stairs in their current position.

He pushed the door open with a shoulder and walked to the bed, lowering her onto the mattress. He crawled on top of her, continuing to pepper her face and neck with kisses.

"Oh, Clint," she breathed, slipping her hands under his shirt and eagerly exploring his hard body. She pulled him closer impatiently, delighting at the heat that spread through the two of them, and her breathing quickened. It was hard to think straight—she had wanted this for so long, but there were so many reasons why she should put a stop to it right now. "What are we doing?"

"Wasn't I the one protesting last time?" Clint asked playfully, his lips tickling her collarbone. She felt cool fingers along her waist, slipping under her shirt and sliding upwards. "We've been strong long enough. We deserve to find some happiness… we deserve to find love."

Natasha attempted to form a rational reply, but it was difficult when Clint was nibbling her ear. When did he become so good with his tongue? He was sending shivers down her spine.

She tried one last time to regain some control. "Love? Aren't we a little old for that?"

But Clint shook his head. "Maybe love isn't just for children, Natasha."

His words were exactly what she needed to hear, and she pulled him closer, letting him kiss her throat and work his way to her lips, his tongue meeting hers. Yet in the back of her mind, something troubled her, some irritating déjà vu she couldn't quite recall.

Maybe love isn't just for children.

Where had she heard that before? It was so hard to think. She just wanted to lose herself in Clint's embrace and just for once, stop worrying about duty and reason and the outside world.

Maybe love isn't just for children…

Clint started tugging at her spandex leggings, breath quickening with impatient desire.

"Is this love, Agent Romanov?"

"Love is for children…"

Natasha knew.