Chapter Text
Tap, tap, tap.
Darcy Lewis pushed her laptop off her lap and walked over to her bedroom window.
She'd been expecting this since her phone had buzzed with a news alert (BREAKING: Sources say Black Widow seriously injured in attack on Empire State Building.) from a local TV station more than two hours ago. Darcy had turned the TV off hours earlier, unable to watch any longer after seeing Thor thrown clear across and into the river.
Darcy flipped the lock on her window and pushed it open.
Clint Barton leaned in, wrapped an arm around her waist and yanked her to his mouth. His kiss was hungry, hard and desperate -- just like that first time.
That meant it was bad. It wasn't adrenaline or restlessness that brought him to her windowsill; it was fear and guilt and panic.
She closed her hands around the sides of his face, holding him to her and letting him feel her, warm and soft and alive and here.
After a long moment, Clint broke away from her mouth and buried his face into her neck. He was shaking ever so slightly.
"C'mere," Darcy whispered, running her hands down his back to his waist and tugging. She was startled to find hard leather and kevlar under her fingers but tried to swallow it. Now she realized she could smell dust and ashes.
He had come directly to her.
Her stomach fluttered, even though she tried to beat the feeling down. He never came to her right after -- it was always hours later, when he was restless and couldn't sleep, and even longer now that she didn't live in Avengers Tower anymore.
Clint shut the window after he climbed in and leaned back against it. Darcy sat on the edge of her bed and studied him. The light from the lamp on her nightstand cast long shadows across his frame, but she could make out a harsh smear of soot across his cheek.
"Do you want to talk about it?" she finally asked in a soft voice.
"No." Then Clint sighed and glanced in her direction. "I almost -- I looked up and -- I, I just..." He briefly closed his eyes and then reached down to gently cup her cheek. "I just had to see you."
Darcy felt her stomach flip upside down. Clint Barton really needed to never say that again. It wasn't like that with them. It was... well, Darcy didn't quite know what it was, but it was definitely not like that.
"Are you OK?" Darcy now could see that dark stains covered most of his vest, and she thought of that text alert.
And for the briefest moment, Darcy was relieved that it was her blood and not his. Glad that he was here, in front of her.
Darcy stood up and ran her hands up his arms before cupping his face and tipping it down to her. He smiled a bit, then, and suddenly he was kissing her again.
Darcy sighed a bit into the kiss, sternly telling herself that this, this is what they were like. Not puppy love and affection, but heat and fire, passion and comfort. She snaked her arms around his neck, the harsh armoring digging into her skin. Clint ran his hands down her back until he hit her bottom. He leaned down a bit, and Darcy knew what he wanted. She allowed him to grasp the bottoms of her thighs and pull her up and against him. As she wrapped her legs around his waist, he pulled her even closer with one arm, while he dug one hand in her hair.
Time seemed to stop, or maybe it sped up.
The next thing Darcy knew, Clint had sat them down on the edge of her bed. Her fingers ran clumsily down his chest, fumbling for a way to reach his skin. "Clint," she breathed, "I don't know how --"
He dragged her fingers to the hidden clasp and then moved to start yanking her T-shirt up. "Oh," Darcy said. Further words flew from her mind as the hard material parted to reveal flesh. She would be lying if she said she had never dreamed of this: Shedding his armor from him, turning him from code-name Hawkeye -- the stranger she saw on CNN and sometimes ran into in the halls -- into Clint, the guy who made her scream, the one who made her shatter into a million edges of glass. Clint shrugged out of the vest and then pulled her shirt off.
"God, Darcy," he murmured before licking a trail down from her throat to her breasts. The hard calluses on his fingers etched fire into her skin. She arched her back, digging her fingers into his hair.
And then her pajama pants were pooled on the floor at the foot of the bed and the fire began to burn hotter.
"Scream for me, honey," he whispered against her core. He dipped his head again and then --
Darcy saw stars, swear to God. She thought she screamed -- she could still feel the remains of it in deep in her throat.
God, her neighbors were going to kill her. At the very least, she was probably going to get another very embarrassing note asking her to please remember that the walls are thin slipped under her door.
Darcy swallowed, hard, and glanced down. She almost rolled her eyes at the satisfied curve to his mouth. So fucking cocky.
Clint slid up her body, his now-bare legs twining with hers. He cupped her right breast and leaned down to suckle at it. "You ready for more, Darcy?" he said into her skin. He moved on top of her, and she pulled her legs up, ready for him.
When he sank into her, his name rolled off her lips too easily. It was odd, how they moved so easily in concert. It had been like that from the very first time -- they just fit together. They weren't awkward together, even when they came together hard and fast like tonight. He slammed into her, drawing a cry with each push. But there was no pain, just need -- sharp and hard.
He needed this -- needed her -- because something bad had happened tonight. Something that made him want to cling to someone. She didn't think it was just because of the Widow, although that could simply be her wishful thinking. The first time had been like this; it had been the night after they had returned from some mysterious, weekslong mission that had taken them ... somewhere. Darcy didn't have the clearance for it, although she had some horrible, half-formed ideas based on the reaction Thor had when she and Jane had put in "Aliens" a few months ago.
Clint refused to talk about it, and a shadow fell across his face every time Darcy brought it up until she kissed it away. But it must have been bad. Tony had gone on a spectacular five-day bender that had crisscrossed the globe. TMZ was still doing stories on it -- Darcy had read one just yesterday.
"Darcy," he said, his voice strained. "I can't hold on -- I'm -- oh, Darcy!"
But she was there already, his heavy words banking her fire even hotter. And as he slammed into her one last time -- she could feel so much of him -- it was all she could feel -- she saw those stars again.
It was perfect. It always was.
Until her alarm went off, her bed cold and empty without him. She didn't even have to turn around; she could feel the stillness in her tiny apartment in Brooklyn.
Tears sprang to her eyes, but she shut them tightly, refusing to give in to them. It was what it was. But for the first time, Darcy thought, "I can't do this anymore."