I have no excuse for this. It's porn. And there's going to be a whole 'nother chapter, and it's even worse porn. A few feels sprinkled in for flavor, but seriously.

Hospitals. Ugh. Clint hated hospitals. And medical bays on helicarriers that resembled hospitals.

But since he had decided to run into a collapsing building in the middle of a mission and have a large piece of sheetrock fall on him, it was mostly unavoidable.

His arms had gotten the worst of it, from trying to brace against the falling rock, but he had some internal injuries too. He wasn't sure what exactly had happened, he was still a bit loopy from the medication (one of the main reasons he wasn't a fan of medical treatment in general) but both his arms were in casts from bicep to palm, which meant he was totally out of commission and forced to stay in the hospital because he couldn't even feed himself.

He was not happy.

And even worse, he'd only been in there a day. And the doctors said his casts would have to stay on for at least three weeks. Three weeks of being spoonfed and getting sponge baths.

He was going to go insane.

Just as he was despairing making it three weeks without committing suicide, there was a knock on his door. Natasha slipped in, with a small bag and two brown bottles.

"God bless you, woman." The corners of her mouth depressed in a small smile.

"Don't get too excited; it isn't alcohol. You're on pain meds, remember?"

Clint groaned. Natasha pulled a tray around and plunked a bottle down in front of him, and then reached into her bag and pulled out a straw. He looked closer; it was a bottle of IBC root beer, his very favorite non-alcoholic drink. And the straw was long enough that he could drink without embarrassing himself.

Clint felt a pang in his chest. That was happening more and more these days, an overwhelming, choking feeling would seize him without warning. And always when he was with Natasha. She could do something as simple as hand him a cup of coffee, or as dramatic as save his life.

It was dangerous. It was a dangerous feeling, and he knew it, and she knew it, and they were always careful to stay at arms length, figuratively speaking.

But there was nothing Clint could do about the warmth he felt whenever she did something like this; silently and casually reminded him that she knew him better than anyone on the planet.

She reached into her bag again and pulled out a stack of DVDs.

"Tarantino marathon?"

"Fuck yeah. Kill Bill first."

"Nope, Reservoir Dogs. You know how I feel about Kill Bill." Five Point Palm Exploding Heart Technique, really? And what did those people have against guns, anyway?

"Hey, who's the invalid here?"

"Who's the idiot who ran into an unsecure building during a firefight here?"


She sat in a chair by his bed and they watched Reservoir Dogs, and then Inglourious Basterds, and by the end of that, Natasha's head had drooped to rest against her arm on the bed. Red curls fell over Clint's hand, and even with his very limited range of motion he couldn't help weaving a few strands through his fingers. He let her stay like that for a few precious moments before calling her name.

"Tasha. Hey, Natasha. Wake up."

She lifted her head, looking at him without a trace of grogginess. He almost wouldn't have believed she'd been asleep, if he didn't know that was how she always woke up.

"What time is it?"

"Eleven-thirty. You should probably go get in your own bed; I don't think your neck will thank you for sleeping like that."

She stood up and looked him over critically. She grabbed a blanket from a shelf and put it next to him, so he could pull it over himself easily if he needed to. Then she gently moved the remote that controlled the angle of the bed to his hand and picked up the empty bottle. This was a side of Natasha that Clint didn't get to see very often, since he was almost never bedridden. She didn't fret or hover or ask if you needed anything, but she was a better caretaker than any nurse on the ship.

If he were ever to tell her this, Clint was pretty sure she would hurt him.

She brushed her fingers over his temple, and the spot tingled.


"Goodnight. Come back tomorrow?"

Her expression was soft. "Sure."

And so the bedridden weeks went by. Natasha spent as much time as she could in Clint's room, even going so far as to bring a small lap desk and do her paperwork while they chatted about everything from performance art (the similarities and differences between the ballet and the circus) to torture methods (how to properly electrocute someone without killing them). He got her to watch Kill Bill again, and once she accepted that it wasn't meant to be taken that seriously, she enjoyed it quite a bit.

But it was two weeks into his sentence, and Clint had another problem.

He was a man, and a pretty vital one at that. And his job usually didn't allow time for picking up women, which meant he had habits that, to put it delicately, required his hand. And his casts were very much in the way.

So when Natasha showed up right after a mission in a tiny black dress, he knew he was in trouble. Part of him was flattered she hadn't stopped to change before coming straight to him, but the majority of his brain was distracted by the way the dress fell across her chest and thighs.

Quick, distraction, he thought.

"Hey, how was the mission? Please, recount every detail, I'm starved for action."

So she did. She told him about how she'd been "interrogated," and they both had a good laugh about that. The idiots didn't even try to use sodium pentathol, not that it would have helped. No, instead they talked and talked and gave her everything she wanted to know and a bit more besides, before she put them in their place.

"Could've used you there, though. They had Roberts covering me. The guy took a shot just because some thug shoved a pistol under my chin; it got messy."

Clint gave a humorless chuckle. He knew better than to take a shot while Natasha was working unless she gave him the signal, but at the same time, he knew that feeling. It was hard to watch a man put a loaded gun against Natasha's skin while she was tied up and still believe she was in control. It had taken him many years and several highly stressful incidents to get over it, and even now he got a pang of worry every time she let herself be in that position.

"It would have been the right call if you'd been anybody else, Nat, you can't blame the kid."

"Sure I can." She picked up the television remote and leaned back in her chair. "So guess what I did?"


Clint was distracted. Natasha had reclined so that her legs were up on the bed. He'd been okay while she was sitting in the chair next to him and he couldn't really look at her directly, but now her long, elegant legs were stretched very conveniently into his field of vision. Her bare feet padding his calf through the blankets like a sleepy kitten, and for some reason even that little contact was getting his attention.

"I hacked Stark's personal movie library. I'm pretty sure every movie in the world is on this thing. Whatcha in the mood for?"

"I don't know. You pick."

She fiddled with the remote some more, giving Clint ample time to appreciate the curve of her bare calves and thighs. He was just turning his head to let his eyes trail up the rest of her body when she swore and stood up.

"This is the problem with hacking a system run by an AI. We may be stuck with Netflix."

Clint made a noise he hoped sounded like a response. Natasha was crouched in front of the laptop they'd hooked up to the television, and to say the view was nice would have been a colossal understatement. With the way the black fabric hugged her hips, he wasn't really up for eloquent.

She tossed a look over her shoulder.

"Oi, Barton, eyes off the ass." This was a common exchange with them; she was usually amused more than irritated when she caught him staring. But she must have seen something in his face, because she stopped fiddling with the technology and stood up, giving him that same analytical look she gave every night when she did what she could to make him more comfortable.

"Oh." There was a long pause. "How long has it been since you masturbated?" The shock he felt was nothing compared to the arousal. The question sounded clinical, but there was a heat in her gaze that belied the detachment.

"Well…" he said, then held up his plaster-encased arms indicatively.

She looked at him for another second, then turned to shut the door to his room. She tapped a keypad beside the door, and the sound of the lock clicking into place sent a shiver of anticipation up his spine.

Then she turned back to him and approached his bed, taking the hem of his sheets in one hand and drawing them back.

"Tasha," he said quickly. "Are you sure you want to do this? Don't feel like you have to do anything for me, I'll get over it…"

"Clint," she interrupted. "Shut up."

He shut up.

She climbed into the bed with him, straddling his thighs. He had practically forced his nurse to get him real clothes (hospitals were bad enough without wearing paper dresses) so he was wearing sweatpants and a very loose t-shirt. Tension and excitement curled in Clint's stomach as Natasha rose up on her knees to pull the waistband of his pants down, keeping her eyes fixed on his growing erection.

Her hand slipped deftly into his boxers and pulled him out, and she immediately gave him a firm stroke from base to tip. Clint's head fell back with a moan.

"Fuck, Tasha."

"Good?" Her hand was moving up and down in slow, firm strokes.

"S— so good." He picked his head back up to look at her. She wasn't meeting his eyes, instead had her gaze fixed on his cock in her hands. Her tongue swept over her bottom lip, and Clint realized with a shock that she looked hungry. She wanted him. Wanted his cock. The thought made his insides clench with arousal.

She swiped her thumb over his tip and twisted her wrist on the way down, wrenching another moan from his throat. He took his gaze from her face down to her hand, but soon looked away. If he watched that small, feminine hand move over his cock, this was all going to be over embarrassingly quickly. Instead he trailed his eyes all over her body, taking it in while he could.

Her posture made her cleavage very prominent, and, even better, straddling him had made her dress ride up dangerously high. The fabric of his sweatpants was the only thing that stood between his legs and the soft pale skin of her inner thighs. He ached to touch her, to run his hands over every inch of her, to learn what that delicious-looking skin felt like, tasted like. His fingers twitched in his casts desperately.

Her strokes sped up, and he brought his eyes back to her face, to the undeniable heat in her gaze and the very slight digging of her teeth into her lower lip. She had to put her free hand on his hip to keep him from bucking up into her grip, her other hand finding just the right speed and pressure to bring him right up to the edge.

"Tasha," he said hoarsely. "Fuck, Tasha, I'm going to come." He wanted to give her some warning, but he was still shocked when she shifted backwards, moving her legs so she could bend over more easily. Then she closed her lips around the head of his cock, and he yelped.

Her hand continued pumping as she rubbed the flat of her tongue against his tip, and suddenly it was all too much and he was gone, filling her mouth with hot come that she swallowed without hesitation. His orgasm was so intense he nearly blacked out, three weeks of sexual frustration being relieved in one amazing climax. When he came back to himself, Natasha was still down there, her mouth and hand on him, her tongue lazily licking up the last of his come.

Her gaze finally flicked up to meet his, and he supressed a groan. Were it physically possible, the look in her eyes would've made him hard again. She slowly sat up again and brought her hand away from his lap, her index finger and thumb swiping along the corners of her mouth. Then she broke eye contact again, looking down to put him back into his boxer and pull his pants back up.

"C'mere," he said softly, and she looked up at him. He jerked his head backward to indicate he wanted her to come toward him. He didn't know what this meant, didn't know where they would stand now, all Clint knew was that he wanted to kiss Natasha more than anything in the world.

She leaned forward, but instead of meeting his lips, she pressed a kiss to his temple.

"It was just a favor," she murmured against his ear, and yes, that answered his questions, but it definitely wasn't the answer he wanted. He turned his head to press his nose against her neck and inhale, and he felt her lips part when he kissed her there. Just a favor, his ass. He could feel the heat between her legs seeping though his sweatpants.

But if that was how she wanted to play it, he thought as she got up, there wasn't much he could do about it in this state. He would just have to be patient.

Five more days.