bakerstreet | (no subject)

(no subject)

Hurt/Comfort - Hurt/comfort is a fan fiction genre that involves the physical pain or emotional distress of one character, who is cared for by another character. The injury, sickness or other kind of hurt allows an exploration of the characters and their relationship.

- Post with Character Name | Series in the subject.
- Others respond.
- Roll 1-10 at RNG for a scene, play it out and have fun!

1. INJURY. You've been injured. Broken bones or bleeding out or maybe just a tiny little papercut. The choice is yours.
2. SICKNESS. You're sick and laid up in bed, at home or in a hospital. The severity is up to you.
3. FEAR/ANXIETY. Something is happening and you're scared beyond belief.
4. LOSS OF SENSES. Sight, touch, taste, hearing, smell, etc. You've lost some important sense or ability and now you're left to deal with it.
5. DESPAIR. Nothing is good or right anymore and you can't shake the depression. Maybe that friend of yours can help though...
6. BREAKUP. You've been dumped. You need someone to comfort you, possibly by the one who dumped you.
7. MAKE UP. Fight or break up, it's time to makeup.
8. RESCUED. You've just been held captive and/or tortured for however long and finally, someone has come to the rescue.
9. BAD ROMANCE. Fight, cheated on, abused, whatever the case is, someone else can clearly see you need comfort from someone who isn't your terrible lover tonight.
10. LOSS. You've experience a loss of some kind and need help getting through it.
11. INSANITY. You're seeing things that aren't really there, hearing voices, or you're just convinced you're at your wit's end finally and you're going to crack. Maybe someone can give you a helping hand.
12. TIRED. You've had a heard life recently and you're just worn too thin to really care anymore. There's no fight left in you anymore. Can someone help change your mind?
13. ADDICTION. Drugs, alcohol, sex, gambling, or any other type of addiction has got you in its grasp. First time or relapse. Will someone be able to save you?
14. INSOMNIA. You can't sleep anymore, no matter how hard you try. Maybe someone can give you company.
15. NIGHTMARES. Or, on the other end of the spectrum, you can't sleep without gruesome, horrible nightmares. Either someone is stuck in your dream with you, witnessing it or they're just waking you up, soothing you out of it.
16. BLACKMAIL. You've been caught doing something you shouldn't and you were blackmailed because of it
17. SEPARATION. You're going to be separated for awhile or were separated for a long time. Either make up for lost time or try to spend every last moment together.
18. VIOLATED. You've been violated in some way. Can include sexual overtones or not. Can someone help you through it?
19. STRANDED. You've been stranded somewhere remote, with no help of anyone finding you for awhile. Can you survive this together?
20. SINS. You're feeling the weight of your sins and guilt clearer than ever. Can someone give you absolution or lessen the ache any?
21. SECRET. It's difficult having to keep that secret of yours, be it a relationship or something you just don't want to share with anybody else. Maybe it's okay to talk about it now though...
22. ADDITION. Babies should be joyous things unless you're in a situation where you know you won't be able to care for them. Either you've adopted or found out you're pregnant.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only | Expand All

|| Hahaha I love you, you're gr8. I've got three ideas but I'm probably going to go with the A-Typical B.s, but hey, I'm sure I'll be tagging you again in the very near future ||

It's funny, this towering monument to (what Clint presumes) is a clinically insane billionaire has soon become home. Oh, of course he has little places stored in several countries in a couple of different continents but each one of them feels empty to him apart from here.

He likes being high, it allows him to level out when he needs to. When he can't sleep he gets to spend hours at the ceiling-to-floor windows watching the lights across the city flicker, watching the stars die in the black.

But even those sights didn't help him, couldn't help him. There was noise filtering up to the roof from the innards of the monument, celebrations still, amongst the chaos.

Clint guessed Tony was just lonely, even though Pepper did a good job of keeping him entertained Clint could understand loneliness. For a man who searched for a stable home for years he didn't expect to be segregating himself away from the joy of a victory. Yet here he was, cradling a half-empty bottle of beer in one hand and perched on the very edge of the cement lip of the building.

Thinking.

It was dangerous, it wasn't that long ago that he was buried so deep not even a buoy could help him float to the surface. Mere days and Clint had counted every hour, no, he'd watched them tick by on various clock faces. That ice cold grip kept coming in waves, filling him partially then leaving just as quickly. It sent him reeling and even though he'd had endless hours in psych trying to explain his problems to no avail it was still there. A hand clutching his heart and squeezing. Missed opportunities, missed freedom. A missed life.

He didn't lament it, more so he was angered that it kept creeping back into him like a disease supposedly in hibernation. Cancer. Loki had been Cancer, pure and simple. A dark tumor filled with hate and revenge and promises he couldn't for fill.

She gives him ten, maybe fifteen minutes before following him out.

They're celebrating, tonight, which isn't as common as some people think. It's the fourth of July, for one, which means that it's also Steve's birthday, and they got out of Latveria undetected today. It's a step in the right direction for everyone. Natasha knows the feeling, because sometimes all she'd really like to do is listen to the audio feed streaming live from the bug she planted in Doom's office with a glass of wine while in the bathtub, but. Beggars, choosers, etc.

Ten, fifteen minutes. That's all the time Natasha decides to give him before following Clint out, wiping crumbs from the leg of her jeans. She comes without any peace offering, just wordlessly sits there next to him — she doesn't fear heights, loves the adrenaline rush of the fall even more, and she doesn't imagine he'll let her fall anyway. That's not romanticism. That's fact.

She's sitting close enough that her shoulder touches his, up on the ledge. Gently, her fingers close around his wrist, take the bottle from him. She doesn't drink it, not yet, but maybe that's because she's feeling charitable. Whether she gives it back depends a little on how self flagellating Clint's feeling tonight.

Natasha exhales slowly, takes in the cool night air and lets her head fall to rest on his shoulder.

It shouldn't cease to amaze him how she predicts his gait before he can even walk it but it does. Or maybe he's just jumpy and so unlike his usual demeanor that he's not really paying attention.

He kicks his feet, stares off into the distance and watches the sparks light up the nights sky, if he shudders when her shoulder brushes his he'd deny it, just like he'd deny the wince of her fingers around his wrist.

There's no awkwardness between them, they've faced too much together. Clint's learned how to paint her toe nails, zips her into dresses and watches on a freezing cold roof while she charms and flatters. When her head comes to rest against his shoulder he twitches, snakes an arm around her back and tentatively rests his fingers against her spine. He's not afraid to have her in his aura, he's just worried she's going to feel the roll of emotions he's going through.

"You should be downstairs enjoying yourself.." He trails off, glances at her out the corner of his eye and resumes watching the fireworks in the distance.

"You're not there."

Natasha doesn't mean it romantically, because that's not the type of person she is. But that doesn't mean she doesn't love him, doesn't think of him as her best friend, can't tell when he needs someone there to make sure he doesn't lose himself. It's easy to, when someone's been in your head, messed things around. Natasha gets that.

The fireworks pop into the air, green and red. She's not wearing a dress, this isn't a job; it's just jeans and a shirt, the cotton thin enough that she can feel his hand through the material. It's not a bad feeling, having him there with her.

"What's wrong."

She phrases it like a question because that's easier. Easier for him to say something else, lie, both of them knowing that now's not the time to talk about it.

Clint makes a sound, half-way between a grunt and a scoff, taps his fingers in a rhythm against her back. Maybe she was telling the truth. They work together practically all the time, counterpoint and counterpart, there's no Romanoff without Barton trailing somewhere behind. And yet he still scoffs as if she's told a joke, one he doesn't have the heart to laugh at.

He avoids the question like the plague, spends five minutes staring down through the open air to the streets below before he changes the subject completely.

"Used to call fireworks 'Sky Flowers', back in the carny days. There was this girl, no older than 8, used to beg me to sit her on my shoulders so she could get closer to them..." He half smiles at the memory and looks back over to her. "Can I have my beer back?"

They don't talk about problems, they don't.

They don't talk about their problems, and for the most part, it's fine. It's nothing that can't be solved by a spar or a pin on the mat, and if it was something that really mattered, they'd share it. But Natasha knows him, arguably better than he knows himself, and she knows a forced brush-off when she hears one. Natasha, in response, just tips her head back and drains the rest of the beer. The long column of her throat catches the glow off a firework, golden light across skin, catching at the red strands of her hair that sit at her shoulders.

Wordlessly, she hands him his beer back.

She doesn't rest her head back on his shoulder again, but their arms are still touching. She doesn't seem to be in any hurry to pull away.

"You should tell me," and it's a suggestion, not a command, spoken soft and quiet. "Or it'll eat you alive, Clint."

Regrets. Ledgers. Debts. Natasha knows about them, knows that she owes Clint for more than just having spared her life when she didn't deserve it, but this isn't about that. This is concern for a friend.

It's better that way, surely. Easier sometimes to shoulder the vile parts of the job on your own than share the weight. Clint just doesn't want to drag her into every moment he's felt low, not when she has her own hidden issues she won't share. It's not childish, it's more to do with those ledgers and debts and above all regrets for things you can't change.

You can't go back and change what you've done previously, so why bother discussing it?

He stares at the now empty bottle, there's barely a mouthful left in the bottom, just drops that sit and swirl when he tilts the glass. He sighs, sets it next to him on the ledge.

"You know..." Natasha knows everything through calculated guesses and the way she scrutinizes his movements, his body language. "... Having trouble sleeping, feel like I'm slipping away. Bullshit." Clint's fingers flex, curling tighter around her waist as if letting her go would make him float away, or fall to his death.

"Thinking on things that shouldn't be, just y'know... brooding."

Maybe that's the way they work so well— she does know. She knows what it's like, has been there however many times before. Her own memories have been played with so many times that she doesn't know which version of her childhood is real, if she ever did get married, if she has a child somewhere that believes they're an orphan.

Gently, her elbow nudges him in the side. Just enough to get his attention.

"So stop it." Her voice sounds soft, kind, despite the way the words sit. She's not surprised that he's not sleeping, and when she sighs it's only because she's frustrated at herself — she could have been better about this. Should have acted sooner. But she didn't want to spook him, didn't want to offer something that would have overwhelmed him.

Slowly, Natasha reaches for his hand, loosely curls their fingers together.

"I can help with the sleep."

It is. That's how they're the best. They know each other inside and out and even if Natasha doesn't speak about every single thread of her past lives (however many she has crammed inside her head) he still knows when to push her to spill her secrets and when to leave her alone.

His head turns, eyes staring in her general direction, but he's avoiding full eye contact so she doesn't read things in him that he's uncomfortable admitting to.

"I know," He knows he has to stop, that's the crux of the matter. He knows, but just when he thinks he's emptied himself of the doubting it catches him at odd moments.

He laughs, it's a deep chuckle, loosely squeezes her fingers clasped in his hand.

"Okay," he offers a smile, averts his eyes back to the world and shuts out the white noise threatening his ears.

She leans in then, a shift of her weight so she can place a kiss to his cheek. It's not romantic, just soft, caring in a way that she isn't with other people because there isn't much of a reason to be. He's avoiding — no, hiding — and that's okay, that's fine. Sometimes, that's the only thing you have if you want to keep yourself intact.

"Come on." Natasha nudges his shoulder with hers, slowly pulls her hand away so she can stand. She stretches, just a little, and there's a soft crack as the line of her back arches. Behind her, another firework goes off. Gold, this time.

"I have more beer on my floor," she offers, and it's an invitation as much as it is a request. Softer, she adds, one hand gently sliding through his hair, "You're not going to get better by staying out here."

She must know, surely she knows the effect she has on him. Natasha is anything but oblivious, she has the ability to manipulate and twist someone's affections and emotions around her little finger. The kiss to his cheek makes him side-eye her and he can't stop the perk of the corner of his mouth.

Loki had told him he was a fool when Clint spilled his secrets, when he'd told the God that he loved her. Clint had been buried just shallow enough to feel disheartened by his laughter before the cold took him back over.

He follows, stands so he's balanced near the very edge, he thinks one good, solid gust of wind and they'd both be able to see how his wings are holding up.

"You rarely drink beer, so does that mean you've been hoarding my beer?" Clint stops himself when he's face to face and looks her over, one hand comes to rest on her hip, fingers barely touching the fabric of her shirt. If anyone can fix him it's Natasha, but at the same time he figures she's also going to be ripping him apart. That's another crux, Clint's been in love with her for a long time, he can't pretend he's indifferent and she can't pretend she doesn't know. Loki made it pretty damn clear.

He leans down, catches her lips softly and this time when he pulls away it's to walk himself back towards the fire escape door, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Damn it.

Natasha can't say she's never manipulated him, lied to him in some way. That's just how life works, how love works, but that doesn't mean she doesn't feel for him. It makes sense, in some cosmic ironic kind of way, that he's the one to surprise her first. She can read his expression as clear as day, his moods and his thoughts; she's learned to be affectionate with him, but not wanting. Not this.

It's a soft kiss. Gentle. It's— what she needs, but not what he needs, and she fights with herself for a moment because it would be so easy to just watch him go. Pretend like this never happened, like they don't need to talk about it, like they never talk about other things. As if he isn't the only one in her life she could see herself staying with even if it's not forever.

So her reaction is delayed, if only a little, but her hand reaches for his arm anyway. She sounds amused. Underneath that, maybe she's a little scared, too, but Natasha Romanoff doesn't function when she's afraid. You push past it. You move on. You learn.

"Where are you going?"

Then, quieter. "Tell me you want to go, and I'll let you go." It's not an ultimatum, but it is a choice. That if this isn't what he wants, if it's too much right now, that she'll understand. She always does.

Natasha perfected the art of manipulation years before he met her, back when she was built and put high on a pedestal, the standard for the so called 'red rooms' soldier. It's a shame that the packaging is beautiful because underneath the contents are dark and confusing and Clint finds the lines blur more and more since he came back into his own body.

They can't talk about the part of his problems, Clint doesn't need to be cut down even more and although she knows exactly what he's thinking of when he turns to look at the hand on his arm he still can't start that conversation. She's the closest thing he's ever had to family and since Phil the only other real friend he has. He can't spoil it, not when there's no Coulson to kick back with.

"I don't know, I don't know if I want to be with you or if I need to cut you off." It's brutally honest and he raises a hand up to brush a curl of hair away from her face, let's his fingers play with the soft tendrils.

Clint's silent for a while, distracted by the blossom of colour behind her but when the lights die he shifts his gaze back to her face. "I want you to leave me alone while I work this out, but at the same time I want to take you back to your room and make you understand." Shoulders shrug, hands find her hips and smooth her shirt down. "What do you want?"

She doesn't flinch at his answer. It's a good one, the honest one, and in other situations it's easy to see how she might have given him the same reply. Instead of hurt there's something tender in the way she looks at him, one hand still curled around the dip of his elbow.

"Clint—" And Natasha rarely ever stops herself, always has a game plan and a purpose to the way she does anything. But right now she needs to stop, pause, gather her words. She does love him, but maybe not in a way that's easy to talk about or to understand. She doesn't know what that means — whether it means she needs to try harder, to open up something between them so that he feels it, even if she can't say it. Or if it's a sign that they shouldn't be doing this at all.

"I want you to be happy."

Natasha doesn't mean with me. It's a simple want but it's the truth, the easiest way to distill all her feelings and sentiment about him down into a singular phrase.

"Say the word and I'll go," She doesn't sound sad, just determined. Raw. For a sliver of a moment she lets herself turn her head into his palm, exhaling quietly. "You don't have to decide right now."

There in lies the rub. The concept of love to her is something childish, maybe it is. The meaning of love gets lost in easy conversation, you can love a pair of shoes! a favourite actress or actor! a song you hear on the radio. But Clint not had the joy of being programmed to not feel it or educated in anything different.

He's loved and lost so many times he promised himself he wouldn't get into that situation again yet here he was, pining for a woman he'd saved so long ago.

He laughs, he can't work out if it's cold laughter or indifferent, pulls her hips into his softly and he thinks maybe this is a pretty good setting to just say it. But he's too much of a coward. If saying those three words changes their dynamic well, he couldn't live with that. "I'm happy when I'm with you... That's the problem."

He does have to decide though and the decision could affect so many things so he shakes his head, leans down to kiss her again and it's stupid, like this is a scene from a movie, with god damn fireworks in the background and unrequited real love hanging in the air like cheap perfume.

And yeah— that's the problem, isn't it? That she makes him happy but she doesn't know if she knows how to love, if she could return that gesture in a way he'd understand. It's tough, because giving it a shot, a real shot, means that they could lose everything else. All the years of history, lost into something that never stood a chance.

Natasha sighs when he kisses her again, the kiss almost sweet, like they're not talking about something that might turn everything on its head.

"I want you to come to my room, Clint." And she doesn't mean it flirtatiously; it's not a come-on, not like that. "And I want you to—" Her voice catches, barely audible, like she's not used to saying the words. "I want you to make love to me, but you don't have to. One night, that's all. And we can give each other our answers in the morning."

Because if it's one-sided, if either of them decide it's just not worth it—

They'll at least have had this.

Natasha doesn't realise just how much his gut coils at her words. Doesn't know how his skin prickles and his breathing patterns shift ad suddenly he's scared. He stares at her like a rabbit caught in headlights and pulls himself away far enough to be out of her aura. "You're asking me to make that shift? Jesus Tasha, so in the morning, if you regret it, it all comes down to me?" There's been so many times he could have told her, whispered words during missions gone bad, that moment when he'd came to in the med bay after Natasha gave him an order of cognitive re calibration, every time they'd had sex whether they'd broken a ton of furniture and ripped each other to pieces or not.

He's never said it because he'd be the one to break them.

But this is a sticking point, and something has to be resolved. Clint can't go on doing this to himself and he can't keep pretending that things are alright.

He turns his back on her, watches some fireworks, lets things tick over while he fights with his morals and feelings.

Eventually he cocks his head, looks at her over his shoulder and nods, "might need a couple of those beers you mentioned first."

He'll, if this breaks them then it's just going to be a repeat of every other car wreck in his life. He's all ready lost Phil, he's got no family left and the only friend is asking him to make love to her. "Promise me something though... If this... If this doesn't turn out to be the best idea you've ever had, don't cut yourself off from me."

That's the problem, right there. All the ways Natasha knows how to manipulate and forge her words and lie, she doesn't— that's not what she means. It's his choice, because she'll never force someone to do this, not this, but that doesn't mean the blame is on him. That doesn't mean she doesn't care. Her brow furrows slightly in frustration, and his back is turned from her, and in all honesty she needs a moment too. To think. To just— breathe.

She loves him. That's not the question. The question is whether that love is the same love that he feels. Whether it'll ever be the same.

Natasha waits and waits, and when he looks at her, she nods, just the slightest incline of her chin. "Not unless you tell me that's what you want." Carefully, like she's afraid too, she cups her hand around his elbow again.

"Kiss me again?"

It comes out like a question. Like maybe even Natasha's afraid that he might say no, take whatever slice of emotional vulnerability she's bled out for him and just run.

It's what he wants, but at the same time it's not. But the latter is more about the reprocess ions. If this doesn't work Clint won't be the same man he is now. He won't be able to pull her down into whatever bed in whatever shithole they've found themselves in, he won't be able to accost her in the shower after a rough mission while they're both still riding high on adrenaline. But it's not just about sex, he'd also lament their movie nights when they act like children, reciting Die Hard to each other.

He turns and nods, hands move to cradle her face, catching her eyes and holding her gaze, "I want it," and he does kiss her, soft, slow, lazily nipping at her bottom lip while thumbs stroke over her cheekbones.

Internally Clint makes sure this won't change them. He won't let their dynamic be ruined because if this doesn't turn out to be love, if neither of them can understand the others concepts then they need to make sure they can push past it. After all, there's no Barton without Romanoff.

"I want this, I want you Natasha."

She's absolutely still by the time he pulls away. Her eyes are closed and she just— breathes, his palms warm against the side of her face. It feels so impossibly like the eye of a storm, like something's going to happen that they can't take back. It feels like the moment before you fall, but that's a problem, too, because there's nothing Natasha likes more than that feeling of completely letting go. Of just— letting the world get closer and closer.

"I want you too." And she's being honest about that, because there's no reason to lie about it now. Love is difficult, always has been, but she reaches down and links her fingers through his, gently tugs until he follows. She leads him to her room, through all the darkened parts of the tower where nobody's left celebrating, occasionally passing a floor-to-ceiling window that sees a firework explode with color behind their silhouettes.

As soon as her door closes, she presses him against it. It's not firm, not rushed, just— present, her hands on his chest.

"I've never been so scared."

And her voice sounds small. Small, like that young girl who was still getting used to America, who didn't understand why Hawkeye had saved her. But she sounds strong, too, because it's Natasha and she's afraid and so what? That just means it's the right thing to do.

"But whatever happens, I'll be here."

He walks with her, squeezes her hand in his every time they pass by a window and his gaze gets distracted. Clint can't teach her how to love, but he can explain what he's feeling through touch and motions. Love; it's more than chemicals and emotions, it surpasses words because love is rounded, it swallows you whole and leaves you breathless.

It makes you lost and yes, it leads you to do silly things but they're both old enough and wise enough to push that aside. They're assassins after all. They can't afford to let love get in the way of that.

In the dark of her room it becomes more and more imminent that Clint won't be able to hold himself back, when she admits her fear he tilts his head. The only other time he's heard her say that word is when he first brought her in, when she was smaller than she is now, when she was fighting something greater than this.

He raises their still joined hand to his lips, presses kisses to her knuckles and pulls her closer into his body, "you don't need to be scared, I'm here, don't plan on backing out.." No, his minds made up.

He starts by leaning down enough to catch her lips, hands drop hers to curl around her waist and he uses the door behind him for support. Clint's going to take her apart, he's going to rush headlong into every wall she's built around herself and rip them apart.

She barely smothers a sigh before his lips catch hers. It's just— it's not a heated kiss, the stolen ones post-ops while they wait in a safehouse, bleeding and still high off adrenaline. It's not something that's rushed and dirty. Natasha, she rarely lets herself have this, this drawn-out, timeless feeling where all she does is kiss, learn the taste of him and sigh his name into his mouth because she wants to. Because she enjoys it.

It's the kind of thing that lovers do, and that's never been something Natasha thought of in relation to herself. Her hands slide up, rest looped around his neck, one hand threading through his hair.

He's kind to her. She tries, despite everything, to be the same to him.

Wordlessly, she pulls back just far enough to lift her arms over her head. Invites him to undress her, take as much time as he — they — need to. Maybe they've earned that much, at the very least.

It's not just kindness, it's patience and understanding. Clint's always had the patience of a saint and maybe it's a game for her to test it, especially when they work missions where he's stuck on a high vantage point and is forced to watch her work.

Those missions usually end up in trashed hotel rooms and safe houses.

He watches her, pushes himself away from the door as hands grip the bottom of her shirt and he slips it up her body, inch by inch, walking her backwards at the same time until her calves hit her bed and he uses his mass to push her back softly, following suit until his lips could meet the flat on her stomach.

He plans on taking his time. To really take in every detail of her skin, to rub his stubble against sensitive flesh and watch her as she squirms. He finally pulls her shirt off, let's it fall to the ground and tries to let his worries and doubts go with it.

Clint's said it a hundred and one times, that she's beautiful from head to toe, but this time he looks at her as if he's never seen her before. Like she's something unique and precious and to him, se is.

He works his way up, placing kisses against patches of skin unexplored, up to where dark lace covers her breasts, swipes his tongue along the top and nips along her neck. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen Tasha.."

She lets him walk her back. Sighs when she hits the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight, and the softness of his lips at her skin makes her tense, just slightly. She used to have problems with this, with this much attention, this much reverence to her person. It's— better, now days, but Natasha still has trouble making it genuine, not faking it so it'll make him happy.

She sighs again, maybe a little in frustration. Her shirt falls on the floor and she lazily hitches a leg over him, arches into his mouth when he trails over her body with his mouth, his teeth, his tongue.

But she just— stops, when he tells her that. A hand, gentle, comes around to lift his head so she can just look at him, cup his face in her hands. She's silent as her thumbs trace the rise of his cheek, gently, back and forth.

"Thank you."

Natasha's not thanking him just for this — there are so, so many things to be thankful for — but it's now or never. Slowly, she pulls him in for a kiss, licks past the seam of his lips as one hand travels, rests her palm at his hip, underneath the fabric of his shirt.

Just there. Just present.

She says thank you but Clint knows she's taking it in her stride, the words lost their meaning years ago but he still says them. Somewhere he hopes she gets it,melts it sink past the walls because this is Clint. Not some nameless guy, Clint's in awe of her all the time, it's painfully obvious with how easily he parts his lips for her when she kisses him.

He breaks away from her long enough to sit back, to pull his shirt up and over his head. Tilting his head, leaning back down and resting his weight on one elbow and carding fingers of his other hand through her hair, he's just staring at her, watching the play of emotion through her eyes, on her face.

He's hit this awkward sticking point, somewhere between wanting to make love to her like originally planned and doing what they always did and just fucking her.

Old habits die hard.