It takes her about two weeks to notice that he hardly ever leaves Stark Tower. She curses herself mentally for being this unobservant, because she's historically been more tuned in to him than this, but she cuts herself a little slack because there has just been so much absolute shit to deal with, since the golden god took his wayward brother home to face the music. Half of downtown Manhattan looks like toy blocks flung around by a toddler pitching a fit. A really BIG toddler. The green rage monster didn't do this much damage when he destroyed….what was it he'd said? Alaska? Anyway, she notices, and she thinks she knows why.

Ever a fixture at SHIELD headquarters, watching silent and brooding from rafters or scaffolding or whatever damn thing he could climb, he was just always there. The man lived and breathed SHIELD. And he hasn't set foot across its threshold since the Chitauri invasion was thwarted. He had been instrumental in that herculean group effort, an event so huge and so catastrophic it had made a team player out of Tony Stark, the ultimate in solo acts. Without his eyes, she'd never have been able to hijack that Chitauri air bike and use it to hitch a lift to the top of the tower, where she and Selvig had shut down the portal. He has to know this. And yet he stays away, keeps to himself, yes all right, he fucking hides. She gets it. When he thinks about SHIELD, he thinks about the fellow agents he killed. He thinks of his betrayal of those he had sworn oaths to. He thinks about how he tried to kill her. He thinks about those things and he owns them, in his heart, and is unable to transfer the blame for any of them.

He's pissing her off.

She thinks about it long and hard, trying to decide how to handle him. She knows her feelings aren't entirely objective, but that hardly matters. No one else has seemed to notice, and since she has, it falls to her. Like the marines, she'll leave no man behind. And he has been, back there where his mind wasn't his own and his soul was raped by the trickster Loki. He's still back there, and damned if she'll move another step forward without him. She goes quietly to Tony and requests some modifications to the dojo in the basement. He raises his eyebrows but something in her voice prevents him from making any smartass comments, for which she is grateful. Not because they would embarrass her, but because she'd sort of hate to have to kill him. Sort of.

She raps a fist briskly on the door to his suite in the Tower. There's a longish pause and then she hears his voice.

"Who is it?"

"It's me, Barton. Open the door."

"Kinda busy here, can you come back later?"

Asshole. She picks the lock in about 5 seconds flat and slips in the door. His back is to her on a cream colored sofa. He's watching television and there's a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the table beside his elbow.

"Yeah, you look busy," she says sarcastically. He jerks a little but doesn't turn to face her. This breaks her heart a little, that he won't even look at her.

"What do you want?" he asks disinterestedly. She walks around the end of the couch and kicks his feet of the coffee table. He flinches in surprise. "What the fuck?"

"Get up and put on your leather, Barton. You're getting soft, and we're gonna spar. Fury's orders."

"Maybe later. Not in the mood," he says, playing it casual.

"Did I ask, asshat?" she says conversationally, and his eyes flash for just a second. This encourages her. He's still in there. Somewhere. So she sneers, and she mocks, and she pushes, until with a snarl he leaps up from the sofa, shouldering her aside roughly, and storms to his bedroom to change. She blinks back the hurt while he's not there to see her. This is not about her. She can't show him any weakness. She can't hesitate. Can certainly not flinch. She just hopes one day he'll be able to forgive her.

They ride the elevator in silence. He's adjusting the straps on his wrist guards. He won't be fighting her with the bow, but he can't don his uniform without donning all the bits and accessories that make him the Hawk. She looks at him out of the corner of her eye, making sure he doesn't notice. He always takes the sleeves off, she thinks as her gaze sweeps over the flexing of his arms while he settles. He's not a lot taller than she is, certainly a great deal smaller than Thor, and Rogers. He's even shorter than Tony (sans the suit) and Bruce (sans the rage). She wonders if that bothers him. She thinks he's just right. But she's damned if she'll tell him so. There's rage and despair coming off him in waves, so thick its like a miasma of hopelessness. She's choking on it. But worse than that, worse than the taste of his bitterness on her tongue, is that he's killing himself with it, by inches. Fuck if she's going to let him. Just fuck that.

The dojo on one of the lower levels of Stark Tower is her favorite place. She comes here often, to keep her body in fighting trim. She is nothing if not a weapon, slim, swift, and deadly as a blade. She loves the moves, the ballet of martial arts. But to her very great surprise, Stark has made these rooms a place of refuge, and of peace. There's harmony. Balance. He's such an utterly chaotic person that she can't imagine how he managed this place. But when she thinks about it, maybe Tony's a lot more balanced than he lets anyone see. Maybe chaos *is* his balance. He's certainly not far from home, or a step out of time, or at war with his inner beast, like Thor or Rogers or Banner. There's no red in *his* file. And he's certainly not lost. Not like the man who steps off the elevator beside her. She takes a deep breath, inhaling the scents of bamboo and teak and incense. Really she's inhaling the tranquility, because things are about to get as far from tranquil as they can get.

She means to break him.

Before they're even all the way into the room, she executes a roundhouse and kicks him in the middle of his back, shoving him forward into the room and onto his hands and knees. She knows him too well. If she doesn't piss him off right now, he won't fight her. Not really. He'll only go through the motions of it. He utters a startled sound of protest and rolls to his feet, glaring at her.

"The fuck was that, Romanoff?" he demands angrily. She tilts her head to the side and quirks a finger at him.

"You're soft, Barton," she says coldly. She kicks him again, in the stomach, and he stumbles back a few paces, still glaring. "Soft," she repeats icily, and her foot slams into his thigh. "Slipping," she snarls, and kicks away the arm her brings up to block her. "Losing your edge." She leg sweeps him and he lands hard on his back, his breath exploding out in a whoosh. He does a quick kip-up and now he's not just glaring, he's well and truly pissed. Good.

He comes at her now, and they are a whirlwind of fists and feet, the peace of the dojo now shattered by the thwack of flesh on flesh, by the whoosh of breath, grunts of pain and satisfaction. She can feel it though, he's still holding back. He wasn't on the helicarrier. Of course, he was trying to kill her at the time, but he wasn't holding back! This is bullshit. She punches him in the nose, hears it crunch. It doesn't bleed a lot, so she's probably only fractured it a little. He snarls and wipes away the small trickle with the back of his hand, then shakes his head to clear it. She laughs at him.

Well. That does it. He comes at her now, full speed. And he is fast. His reflexes are as good as hers. His sense of timing and physical awareness are as good too. He punches her in the stomach and she gasps, and the impact sings through her body. Her vision narrows until there is nothing but this man, this adversary, this target. That's what he is now, what he has to be if she's got any hope of saving him. They brutalize each other.

She doesn't know it, but Tony watches on surveillance, because he's worried, and what she asked for worried him more. He's holding his breath as he watches, because they are fucking beautiful. They have no powered suits, no special serums, no immortal powers. They are their only weapons, and their dance is breathtaking and terrible. It's also intimate, what's happening between them on the mats, and he feels like a voyeur. He's worried, but he has to trust she knows what she's doing. It's hard to drag himself away, because watching them is hypnotic, but he shakes himself. Turns off the monitor. Gets up and goes looking for Pepper. Finds that for some reason, he has to have her. Now.

Natasha keeps pushing, driving him further and further into rage, fighting dirty and *hurting* him, because she needs him to lose control. When he does, it's as lovely as it is frightening. In his stormy grey eyes she sees nothing sane. This is the point where she does what is perhaps the most reckless thing she has ever done, and the hardest, because it goes totally against her nature. She has whipped him up into a frenzy, fueled his rage until he's consumed with it. And she drops her guard. Subtly, so it won't be obvious, because no matter how angry he is, he isn't stupid. And oh, it's hard. The Black Widow does not throw fights, not like this. She's acted the part of helpless victim plenty of times. Men are always going to fall for it. But that was knowing in the end she'd show them her real face and they'd lose. She lets him beat her.

There's a tiny stumble, and he flips her. She goes down hard, flat on her back, and he follows her down, and his hands are around her throat. Squeezing. There is no one home. She shoves her fear down ruthlessly, lets him cut off her air. Waits til the room starts to go grey around the edges. Then she says his name. Hoarsely, forcing the word out of her burning lungs, but there is no fear in her voice, no pleading. She is calm. Just his name.

Clint.

Above her, he freezes, and his fingers loosen. Now that she can breathe, just a little, she lets herself be aware of his body pressed against her. He's hard, but she doesn't think he knows it. Inside her, something trembles, but she doesn't let him see it. If things go the way she hopes, there may be time for that later. Now she just looks at him, unblinking, and waits. He is still wild, still lost and crazed, but he loosens his fingers and lets go of her throat. He hurls himself backwards, away from her, and she throttles the ache of loss her body feels without him molded to her.

"God. Tasha….I'm…." Her turns from her, and tries to flee for the elevator. Now is when she hopes Tony has delivered what he promised. She presses a button on the specially designed gauntlet he gave her this morning, muttering good luck. The door to the dojo slams shut in Barton's face. He stumbles to a halt and looks back at her over his shoulder. His eyes are bleak. "What did you do? Open the door," he says hoarsely.

"No," she says calmly.

"Open the goddamn door, Natasha," he yells in desperation. "Don't you see? I nearly killed you!"

"Idiot," she says calmly. Shows him nothing. "Coward."

He comes for her again, but it isn't fiercely beautiful this time. He's panicked. Cornered. She has no trouble fighting him off. This is the right time, she thinks, because he's owned by his fear and his self-loathing now. She flips him easily, and steps away from him. When he staggers to his feet, she presses another button. From the ceiling, cables shoot down, whip around his forearms like striking snakes. He's startled, momentarily confused. The cables pull tight, up and out, forcing his arms above his head, lifting him up on his toes. She cocks her head to the side and makes a small adjustment, giving him about an inch more slack, so he's on the balls of his feet instead. She knows his feet are just as dangerous, so another button whips similar cables out from the walls to bind his ankles. He struggles for a few minutes, raging and cursing at her to let him go. She stands impassively, just out of reach of a head-butt (the only maneuver open to him now) and watches. At last he's still, breath heaving in his chest, head down, refusing to look at her.

"Clint," she says softly. He shakes his head a little in negation and stares stubbornly at the floor. Her hand flashes out, grasps him by the hair on top of his head, and yanks it up. She steps up in his face now, nose to nose with him and just inhaling the scent of his sweat, and his fear and despair. There's something else too, but she's not ready to go there yet, not with those other things in the way of it.

"Let me go," he whispers bleakly.

"You wish, asshole," she snarls.

He opens his mouth to protest and she slaps him, hard. His eyes widen In shock.

"You will look at me when I speak to you," she says coldly. "And you will speak when I give you permission. Is that clear?"

"Tasha…"

"I said IS THAT CLEAR?" she shrieks into his face, and slaps him again, twice. She thought about using blades to cow him, but decided against it, as she has to hurt him to break him, and he knows she won't kill him. Never use a threat you won't fulfill. But he knows she'll beat him bloody, and she intends to. Only…probably not in the way he expects.

"Yes," he finally answers through gritted teeth. He knows her too well to argue with her. That's good. Saves time.

She uses scissors instead of a blade, because it confuses him, and she wants him off balance. She goes to work cutting his leather off him and he shouts in protest. She slaps him in the back of the head and sees he's bitten his tongue. Fine. Should have kept his bitch mouth shut anyway. She's falling into the role now. He's her dog. Her meat. And he's been a very. Bad. Boy. He subsides, glaring at her while she finishes slicing his uniform to ribbons. She cuts it up a lot more than she needs to get him naked, but she wants his armor in tatters at his feet. When it is, she looks him slowly up and down. She cannot help it that she likes what she sees. His body is sturdy and compact. His considerable muscles vibrate with tension and rage. Actually, he's fucking gorgeous like this. She glances at his groin and raises an eyebrow. Well. Not all of him is entirely pissed off about this. She puts out the tip of her tongue, touches it to her lip. He sees her do it, sees where she's looking, and he flushes.

"My my, Barton," she purrs silkily. "What have you been hiding?" She's not exaggerating. She's a little taken aback, actually. She expected him to be….proportional.

"Please, stop this Natasha," he whispers. Her head snaps up and her eyes go hard.

"Did. I. Give. You. Permission. To. Speak. Boy?" she bites the words off and hurls them at him. His head goes back in surprise at her vehemence. She punches him in the gut, a sharp jab that forces the air from his lungs but doesn't do any damage. She turns her back on him and goes to a cabinet, one he probably thinks holds staves and nunchaku and sai, rattan blades for sparring, pads….things you'd expect to find in a dojo. But this cabinet is one she's asked Tony to stock specifically for her. For this. She flings it open and snags a heavy flogger. It's 3 feet long, the falls of heavy boar hide, but tanned soft and velvety. It's weighty in her hand when she swings it experimentally. She looks back over her shoulder to see him staring at her, wide-eyed. She strolls back to him, slowly, leading with her hips, stalking him. She sees his pupils dilate. He's confused, and he's pissed, but he's intrigued too. Well, if at least part of him wants this, it will make it easier in the end.

"Let me go, Tash. This isn't funny anymore. I don't want to play. You're pissing me off. Untie me. Now," he yells at the end. He doesn't know it yet, but he's panicked. And she thinks it's because part of him does want this. Wants it badly and doesn't want her to see it. She frowns, turns her back on him again. From the cabinet she takes a ball gag.

"If you can't obey a simple command, I'll just shut your bitch mouth myself, dog," she says. She presses her body against his and he's unable to muffle the sound in his chest when he feels her leather against his bare skin. But he glares, and he clenches his jaw. She smiles sweetly and pinches his nose, cutting off his air. He holds his breath for a pretty long time, she's got to give him that. But eventually he gasps, and she thrusts the red rubber between his teeth. It's not very big. It doesn't stretch his mouth obscenely, just presses against his teeth and tongue. He tries to spit it out, but he's so shocked by what she's doing that her reflexes are way better, and it's buckled securely behind his head before he can blink. He's making muffled sounds of rage and protest now behind the gag, but she likes him like this. She pats him on the cheek and walks behind him. Oh, he doesn't like it that he can't see what she's doing. Doesn't like it one bit. She can see it in the stiffness of his body language.

She doesn't make him wonder long. The heavy flogger whirls in the air and smacks with a thud against his tense shoulders. He jerks, and she hits him again. She knows what it feels like. It isn't sharp pain, more like a steady and thorough beating with fists. It pounds his back, his ass and thighs like a hammer. His skin reddens and he's shuddering with every blow. It's no worse than a vigorous sparring match. This won't break him. She's only softening him up. When she's nice and warm and loose, she goes back to the cabinet and takes out another whip. A different kind of flogger this time, with thin braided falls. It's lighter, but its bite is meaner. The ends of the falls are knotted. Each lash is only about as big around as a pencil. It's braided of red and black leather. She runs the falls through her fingers as she approaches him, feels the knotted ends, rolls them between her fingertips. He's breathing hard, but he's still glaring. He makes a sound of negation through the gag and she laughs.

"Did you say something?" she asks mischievously. "I didn't think so."

The beating this time is much crueler. Welts rise up on his skin like wasp stings. He's shuddering, and shouting angrily behind the gag. She puts her back into it, and the vicious little knots break his skin. She has to pause for a second and watch the blood bead up, trickle down his ridged and trembling muscles. Well shit. She's suddenly aware that she's dripping inside her tight leather pants. She leans close to him, feels the heat coming off his abused skin in waves. She licks up his spine, one long slide of her tongue, tasting salt and the bright metallic tang of blood. He freezes when she does this, motionless save for the fine tremble in his muscles. Then comes a sound from his throat. She thinks it's a whimper. She steps back in front of him, and his eyes are wild and silver-blue, his pupils dilated and glassy. He's staring at her like he's been poleaxed. She glances down to be sure and his cock stands out from his body like a ramrod. She smiles slowly, wickedly at him, and his eyes close. He swallows hard and then *looks* at her again. She readies her stance, and the whip curls back. She paints the front of his body with welts, taking care to avoid his groin. She wants to break him. Not, you know, BREAK him. She's panting now with effort and…something else she doesn't stop to think about too much. She takes a drop of his blood on her finger and puts it to her lips. He's quicksilver and sex and candy on her tongue. She licks it off, and he is unable to tear his gaze away. He's shaking, and he's aroused, and he's very very confused, but it's not enough. She turns her back on him again and approaches the cabinet. Steeling herself for what she's going to do now.

The whip this time is one sinuous tail, 18 plait kangaroo hide from Australia, where the best whips in the world are made. The handle is loaded with lead shot. It hisses and curls around her legs when she lets it unroll to the ground. It is six feet of pure mean, and it feels almost alive. He shakes his head in negation when she stalks back towards him. She stares him steadily in the eyes.

"I'm going to break you now," she says softly. "I'm going to rip you to shreds until you shatter for me. Clint. I'm going to hurt you. A lot. Don't fight me (she knows he will) or it will be worse."

She ignores the sounds of anger and pleading from the gag and takes up her position behind him again. It isn't sexy this time. It's brutal. The whip cuts him, leaves bloody ribbons decorating his back and ass. She's deadly accurate. Every lash makes him flinch, draws blood. He's moaning now. She blocks out the sound and beats him harder. His body is arched forward as though to escape, and he thrashes helplessly in his bonds. They're titanium. He's not getting loose. The welts are already purple at the edges with bruising. Every stroke now crosses a previous mark. There is blood in splatters on the floor at his feet. She hears him now, roaring in pain behind the offending gag, the muscles and tendons in his neck standing out in agony. He's covered with sweat. Then she hears what she's waited for, what she's been pushing him towards. A sob. His body sags, hanging in the cables, not trying to hold himself up on his feet anymore, and his shoulders shake with sobs. She drops the whip to the floor and goes to face him. Tears course down his face. His mouth trembles around the gag. He's broken, lost and crying like a lost child. She removes the gag tenderly from his mouth and lets it, too fall to the floor. She touches his face tenderly and he leans his cheek into her hand, gasping with his sobs, his chest hitching.

"Shh," she soothes, lifting his chin with her fingertips so he has no choice but to meet her gaze. He's ashamed, embarrassed. He tries not to do it, not to let her see him like this, but she won't let him hide now. "Clinton, look at me," she whispers. He does. "You're helpless, Hawkeye. You belong to me now. You can't escape. I own you." She stares him steady in the eye when she says it.

"….yes…." he chokes.

"Who do you belong to, Barton?"

"I….you," he says hoarsely, defeated. He is hurting, he is broken and beaten, but she notices that he is also still hard as iron.

"What will you do for me, Clinton," she purrs in his ear, flicking it with the tip of her tongue. He gasps.

"An…anything."

"Why?"

"Buh…because you own me," he says. There is the self-loathing again. Broken yes, but he's still got a ways to go til he's healed.

"That's right," she hisses. "You'll do anything I ask, because there is no escape. I beat you. I broke you. And you're mine. I can do anything I want with you now. Anything at all." She pulls back, takes his chin in her hand, fingernails digging in, and makes him look. "Can you stop me, dog?"

"No," he breathes.

"Why?' she asks. He closes his eyes and tears roll down. She licks one away and he gasps. "Why can't you stop me, Clint?"

"Because you own me," he says. His eyes open and they shine, silvered with tears. "Tasha…" he breathes. "You have always….owned me…"

Oh God. Her heart trembles at this. She longs to let him down, to clasp him to her and soothe away the hurt. But he's not done yet. He's close. But not finished.

"I own you. You belong to me and that means you're mine to do with as I please. If it pleases me to flay you alive, you can't stop me now. If it pleases me to leave you here to starve, you can't stop that either. You're helpless, and you're beaten."

"Yes….Mistress…" he breathes. Closer now. He owns her mastery of him now, takes it into his heart and lets it live there. And, she reflects with some amusement, part of him likes it very much. But then, he loved Loki while he was possessed by him too. He had no more choice then than he does now. Does he see that yet? She doesn't think so. So with trepidation in her heart, she moves into the final step. The one there is no going back from. The one she does not know if he can ever forgive.

She's going to rape him now. And then she's going to make him like it.

She steps back from him and slowly unzips her leather uniform. She's naked under it today, just for this purpose. His pupils dilate even more, and his breath falters.

"Tasha…." He breathes her name out on a sigh.

She quirks and eyebrow at him.

"What did you call me?"

"Mistress," he says tritely. She turns her back abruptly, and walks to the cabinet one more time. She takes out a harness, steps into it. A small but very realistic cock juts forward from her crotch now. When she turns back towards him with a small bottle of lube in her fist, his eyes widen in panic. He starts shaking his head as she struts towards him slowly.

"Mistress…please…don't do this," he whispers. There is real fear in his eyes.

"It's happening, Barton. It doesn't matter what you want. What you say. You're mine, you're helpless, and I'm fucking you."

She pushes some buttons on the gauntlet and lowers him to his knees. Cables hiss out of the floor to encircle his waist. He's pinned like that, kneeling before her, head down, arms raised above him, knees spread wide. He's shaking. She kneels behind him and pushes him forward so that his ass sticks out behind him. She licks him again, tastes his blood, feels his body's helpless trembling. She drizzles lube on her fingers and rubs them together, feeling it slide like satin. He's hot between his ass cheeks, sweating. She feels for his asshole and slides one finger into him slowly. His shoulders shake with sobs of fear. He's so frightened of this. He heart aches. She sees that he's not aroused anymore. Well, that will come. She twists her finger inside him, coating his hole with slick, and feel s for his prostate. She finds it, a small rough bump, and her fingertip strokes and presses. He sucks in a huge breath of surprise and she peers around to see that he's rousing to her again, though he's still shaking his head in fear. Carefully, she slides another finger in, and he whimpers as she stretches him. He's fully hard now as she manipulates his prostate gland. He scissors her fingers, pulling his sphincter muscle open and he whines.

"Please!"

"Please what, Clinton," she purrs in his ear, twisting her fingers viciously.

"Pl…ah…please…hnn….Mistress."

"You don't know if you're begging me to fuck you or begging me to stop, do you?"

"N…oh….no," he whimpers, shivering. He watches his asshole stretched around her fingers and she tries to be sorry, but it's fucking hot. She pulls her fingers out and positions the head of the cock at his entrance.

"Beg me to fuck you, Clint."

"I can't!" he cries desperately. She nudges the head forward just a fraction and he moans. She reaches around in front of him and her slippery hand grasps his straining cock. The groan she tears from his body is agonized and inhuman.

"You. Belong. To. Me." She snarls. "I can beat you again if you'd like that better, boy. I can wipe this lube off and fuck you dry while you scream for me. I can make you come so hard you see stars. I can do all of that, and you can't stop me. Can you?"

Silence.

"CAN YOU?" she snarls, and shoves in, just an inch.

"Ahh….no!" he cries.

"Then beg me."

"Please…" he whispers, and she has to lean in to hear him. "Please….fuck me…." His head drops to his chest, defeated. Slowly, carefully, she eases her way inside him while he trembles. He's making incoherent sounds in his chest. She angles herself so that the head of the cock will slide over his prostate with each thrust, and continues to invade him slowly, inch by inch, until her hips press up against his burning, welted ass. Then she reaches back around and closes her fist on his cock, pressing her thumb on the head. It jumps in her hand. She eases back out of him a little bit and then presses back, still carefully. He's crying again now, but still in her slick fingers he's raging hard and quivering with need. She fucks into him a little harder now, and he gasps as her cock slides back and forth across the little bundle of nerves up his ass that makes him want to come so bad he can hardly stand it.

"Move with me, Clint. Can you?" she says quietly.

"Wh…oh…what?" he asks in bewilderment.

"Fuck my hand, Barton. Make yourself come for me."

Hesitantly, he moves his hips a little, and hisses through his teeth at the twin sensations of his cock sliding through her fist and her cock sliding out of his ass. He hesitates at the end of that stroke, as he realizes that to keep up the rhythm on his own starving dick, he's going to have to fuck himself onto hers. She waits, patiently. There's a subtle relaxing in his body as he decides, as he surrenders to it, and then he's doing it. Fucking her hand and growling in his chest, ramming himself back onto her and shouting in pain and need.

"Barton," she whispers in his ear, though it's hard to speak calmly because the harness presses against her clit every time he backs into her hips.

"Hnnh?" he grunts, slowing a little, obedient, listening.

"What's happening?" she asks. He pauses for a moment in confusion, then his voice comes harsh with need and some pain.

"You're fucking me. You…you're making me….nnn….help you."

"Did you choose it?"

"Unh...no."

"Did you want it?"

"NO!"

"Do you love it?" She pinches a bleeding welt hard when she feels him draw breath to answer. He whimpers. "Be honest."

"Mn….goddamn you…YES," he shouts.

"Why?" she whispers, tears in her eyes that she won't let him see.

"BECAUSE YOU MADE ME," he bellows, and slams his hips back against her, and howls when his release erupts from his cock, boiling over her fingers. Hands shaking, she presses one last button on the gauntlet and the cables release him. She pulls out of him and he collapses forward to the mat, shuddering helplessly. She sheds the harness and hurls it away across the room, crawling to him, her heart clutching in her chest. She touches his shoulder.

"Clint?" she whispers. He doesn't answer, his face buried in his arms, curled in on himself. "Are you all right?" There is silence. This is to be her price then, for saving him. And she hopes, she prays she has. She has lost him. If he'll be all right, be himself again, it was worth it. Her heart fractures like safety glass, tiny cracks crazing its shell, and she reaches a shaking hand towards him. He doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge her presence. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I didn't know what else to do. I…I'll leave you alone." She gathers her knees under her to rise and leave him, turning away with pain shrieking through her body, her hand behind her, still reaching blindly towards him.

She stumbles to her feet, pain and loss making her clumsy for the first time in many years. She falls backwards and lands hard when something jerks on her wrist. She staring up at him, not able to breathe, when he pins her hand to the mat, reaches for the other one and pins it too, then rolls so he's half on top of her.

"Think you're getting off that easy, Romanoff?" he growls. His eyes are fierce and very blue now.

"I'm sorry," she whispers again. "I wanted to help you. I understand you have to hate me now. Hawkeye, I only wanted to make you see…"

"It wasn't my fault. Yeah. Got that part. Shut up Tasha."

She blinks. He covers her mouth with his own, and his teeth sink into her bottom lip. She gasps. He rearranges her hands so he's gripping both of them with one of his, and his other hand skims down her body and presses over her pussy. She's sopping, and when one finger slides over her clit and into her, she cries out for him, hips bucking.

"Like that, is it?" he whispers into her mouth.

"God," she gasps

"No," he snarls, rolling a little more and shoving himself into her brutally, seating himself to the hilt with one thrust. He's still hard? How is that even possible?

"You will scream only one word now, Tash," he says, and bites her lip harder. She feels her skin part and tastes her own blood. She notices it tastes exactly like his.

She screams only one word. She screams it over and over, raggedly, helplessly, delightedly. She shrieks it, and sobs it, and begs with it, and he uses her hard, and there is no gentleness, only need. The word she screams is his name.

At the end, they're both wrecked. Covered in sweat and blood and spit and come, battered and aching and so tangled together that she's not sure which of the numbed limbs in the pile are hers and which are his.

"Tash," he says weakly, raising his head to lay a shaky kiss on her cheek.

"Clint?" she answers.

"Thank you."