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It’s unnerving, Natasha thinks as she sits down in the chair next to Clint’s hospital bed, eyes taking in his pale, still form.
She lets her gaze drop to the bandages covering his torso; takes his limp hand, carefully pressing her lips against bruised knuckles.
“Clint.” She whispers, but there’s no reaction; his eyes stay closed. Natasha keeps murmuring aimless things against skin just to keep that tether.
It’s unnerving because stillness doesn’t suit Clint, Natasha thinks, he’s actively holding a momentum to move; from shooting, or constantly holding a conversation with himself or whoever’s around him, from breathless gasps and loud moans at night to sleepy kisses and soft touches in the morning, it’s always there, there’s always something. Natasha craves it, needs it like air to breathe, and it helps chase the shadows away.
She comes back when she feels Clint squeezing her hand weakly, eyes returning to his face.
“We have to stop meeting like this.” Clint mutters hoarsely, a small smile playing at his lips. Natasha rolls her eyes, but nods in agreement.
She’s always there, hungry to take whatever he has to offer, but at least she knows that for them, it goes both ways.