bakerstreet | A Picture is Worth... Meme.

[ They've never really talked about it since then. There hasn't been much need to — S.H.I.E.L.D is an elite agency and it makes sense that Strike Team Delta along with their handler, individually or otherwise, are in high demand. It's three weeks in Yemen, then four in Iran; following that, an intensive three day solo-op for Natasha in the Atacama desert, tracking down a crashed satellite before MI-6 get their hands on it.

As it turns out, genetically enhanced super spies don't get sunburn. When she touches back down in New York, she sends him a quickfire text (dinner, my place?) along with the passcode to disarm her security system. He'll find her dozing in her bed, curled up on her side with a half-finished book, face-down and spread open beside her, spine cracked and a little dusty. Natasha's fallen asleep on-top of the covers in nothing much but a bathrobe and her underthings, hair damp across the spread of her pillow. A red slate of sun beams in through the windows as the day slowly sets — it paints the inside of her wrist, arm tucked under her head, in a relief of blue veins and pale skin and sharp, sharp red.

She stirs, only a little, but not enough to truly wake. ]

[Super soldier spies may not, but regular old humans do, and Phil was a little peeved to find the bridge of his nose is still tender and red, his cheeks and forehead flushed with an unhappy red as his skin tries to repair itself from the damage he inflicted on it for two months.

He gets her text while he's still in his office, wading through reams of paperwork, and he ends up staring at it for a little while, the string of numbers mocking him in their starkness.

Suddenly, his work looks less than appealing.

He packs up quickly, locking his paperwork away in his desk, shrugging into his coat and grabbing his keys to head out. He taps out a quick affirmative in response and sends it her way as he ignores the incredulous stares of some of the junior agents (yes, he's leaving before nine pm on a weekday, what of it) as he heads down to the garage to get his car. Getting into her apartment is surprisingly easy, and Phil doesn't even need to check the numbers she sent him before he taps them in. It's quiet, the lights off, and Phil allows himself a moment to hang up his coat and step out of his shoes by her front door before he goes looking for her.

When he finds her, his chest tightens sharply, and it's suddenly almost hard to breathe. He'd pushed aside his impulse to touch for two whole months, not wanting to compromise her reputation in the field, and now the prospect of being able to hold her, to kiss her, seems almost overwhelming.

He shifts away her book and settles himself on the bed beside her, lifting her wrist and gently kissing the filigree pattern of veins hiding under her skin, his eyes tracing her sleeping face.]

[ It's blink-and-you'll-miss-it, the way her hand twitches, the slightest tense of her fingers as if threatening to curl. But they don't because he's given her plenty of warning — the shift of her book, the dip of the mattress — and when Natasha sleepily blinks awake it's with a relaxed expression, alertness coming to her slower than it usually would because she'd know those hands anywhere. ]

Hello. [ She settles a little further into her pillow, cheek a little damp from the wet of her hair. Her hand curls to fit the curve of his jaw, careful to avoid the tell-tale red spots of his skin; Natasha's smile grows a little crooked, a quiet hum following. ]

Too much sun, [ she murmurs. It's obvious she's glad to see him. ]

Hi. [He turns his face into her palm a little, leaning into her touch like a cat being petted. His smile curls against the heel of her palm and he chuckles softly, lifting his eyebrows a little.] Just a bit. It'll heal.

I didn't mean to wake you. [He knew he would anyway, so it wasn't like he had been trying to prevent it, but he liked how she looked when she was sleeping; quiet, peaceful, so achingly beautiful he had to fight the urge to take a photo of her with his phone to keep with him at all times. He presses a little kiss to the meat of her thumb, his hand settling at the dip of her waist, his fingers curling in the fabric of her robe.]

You came home ahead of schedule, I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow. [It's a half-apology for...not having anything planned to welcome her back, no dinner, no present, he hadn't even been around. Not that he thinks she'd particularly care, but still.]

[ The curve to her smile turns a little soft, like she knows what he means when he says it. ] Lucky, [ she says in explanation, but it's a half-joke, as if her timely arrival had everything to do with a good hand rather than the careful way she'd maneuvered through the desert, listening to the sound of coyotes not wolves. (She likes the heat more than the snow; not very Russian of her, she knows.)

Natasha's sleepiness curls in on her at the edges. It's part of what makes her responses so sparse, but she doesn't seem in any hurry — like just this is homecoming enough. She wiggles her toes, stretching out her legs and just smiles at him. Now that she lets herself — she's missed him. ]

Stay with me? [ It's phrased as a question. It's still early, so she amends that with: ] Do you like Thai?

You often are. [A quiet acknowledgment of her skill and her propensity to finish each mission objective to the t.

He hesitates to use the phrase "adorable" when describing her because he knows she could kill him in any number of extremely imaginative ways with the most innocuous objects, but right now, the way she blinks slowly and smiles as she stretches is frankly, rather cute. He leans in to kiss the corner of her smile, humming a little in the affirmative.]

Of course. [Like she even had to ask. Phil keeps a spare change of clothes in the office, he doesn't mind sleeping here and then changing when he gets to work.] I do, yes. But there's no rush. [He's happy just to lie here, his arm curled around her, practically whispering into the narrow space between them.]

Okay then. [ It's a pleased kind of exhale. She looks up at him through the dip of her lashes, curling a hand into the collar of his shirt as if to keep him there, fingers a light press into the warmth of his neck.

She doesn't do anything except just breathe, for a little while. Natasha's getting better at cataloguing small moments for herself rather than to use; Phil is good for her that way. Eventually, she closes the distance until she can kiss him, the kind that's slow and languid and thorough, like Natasha's relearning everything she can about him.

When she pulls back, there's a quiet, sated sigh to her exhale. ]

[He hums softly, feeling her fingers press against his throat, almost surprised by how warm they are. For some reason he'd expected hands as slim as hers to be cold; as if having delicate fingers meant she had to have poor circulation as well.

He spends a good few minutes just watching her, a small smile playing about his lips as she leans in close.

When he speaks, it's in a mumble against her lips.] You look beautiful.

[ Just because she's heard it before doesn't mean that it isn't different. Maybe the words lose their meaning but Natasha understands the sentiment — it makes her smile show more in the set of her eyes than her mouth, his hand a warm weight on her hip even above the silk of her robe.

Her thumb trails up the line of his jaw. (Cold hands, cold heart, that's how the saying goes but Natasha's never as detatched as people think she is.) ]

I missed this. [ It's not I missed you, but maybe it's a start. ]

[He has to kiss her again, his lips lingering against hers, their breath mingling in the scant space between their mouths.]

Me too. [It's an I missed you from him, though he's not going to force that on her. But it's there for her to read if she cares to, in the slant of his smile, the way his hand rests gently (almost possessively) on her hip, the hushed whisper in his voice. It shouldn't come as a surprise that he's letting her dictate the terms of their relationship, whatever those may be, but that doesn't mean he isn't invested. He is.]

What are your plans tomorrow? [It's a Saturday; he doesn't technically have to go in to work. He's going to, but he might be able to convince himself to have a late morning if she felt up to it. The prospect of lying in bed with her as the sun crawled across the sheets is startlingly appealing.]

Staying in bed with you. [ Her tapered fingers reach out to barely trace the shape of his mouth. Maybe she's never been the most tactile person, but there are ways to overwrite some memories faster than others. Touch works quickest. Then, taste. (Like coffee and the whiskey he drank at the bar weeks ago, like good night's and I made you breakfast's and something wholly unfamiliar. )

It's strange, the kind of laziness that settles into her bones. It's not just sleep inertia or a lack of awareness — it's wanting to stay here, like this, self-contained and otherwise happy to just share breath. (Compromised doesn't come close.)

Her mouth quirks, like she's inviting him in on the joke. Like the answer's not obvious: ]

What about you?

What a coincidence. [His mouth twists in a smirk as he replies, his lips brushing her fingers lightly.] That's what I'm planning too.

[He reaches between them and plucks at the drawstring of her robe, quickly undoing the knot and pushing the silky fabric away so he can look his fill, sliding his hand across her milky skin in a slow caress, nimbly avoiding the place that made her twitch last time. He wants to touch, not tickle, and the very fact he's allowed to makes his smirk settle out into something a little more relaxed, quiet.

Natasha isn't the only one who's surprised by how easy it is to just lie here; Phil hasn't allowed himself this kind of non-action in a very long time.

His fingers trace the lacy band of her bra, just touching lightly, watching her.]

I'll make you breakfast again.

[ Phil's fingers skate that edge of lace, skimming over the hills and valleys of her ribs. Natasha sighs comfortably, pitching forward so her forehead rests against his; her chest rises and falls slowly, visibly relaxing into the touch where it would have been so much easier to do the reverse. ]

That feels good. [ It's a murmur as she shifts, settling in. The open invitation that says yes, that says you can, that says I want this with you. Her eyes are clear when she looks at him, not sleepiness but a quiet kind of calm making her smile soft. Or maybe it's a look just reserved for him. ]

We might have to go and pick up a few things.

[His heart swells a little when she shifts closer and leans up against him, overcome with a fond sort of feeling for this woman who holds herself so aloof from everyone — everyone but him, it seems. His hand skims over to stroke up and down her spine, his fingers trailing slowly over each and every vertebrae like he's counting them. He's not. He's just enjoying the feel of her skin beneath his hands.

He just smiles in response, tilting his head — his nose brushes against hers in a slow caress, and if Phil were anyone else, he'd chuckle at Eskimo kisses with the Black Widow — and pressing his lips to the corner of her mouth in a chaste peck of a kiss.]

We'll find a way to survive, I'm sure. [Late-night bodega runs never hurt anybody.]

[ The expanse of her back tells a better history than Natasha ever would. Broken glass, a notched scar at her shoulderblade, a thin line that trails down her side — her flesh heals faster, her lungs can work out splinters of bone but the scars are still there, fading quicker but still present.

Her smile grows a little into an exhale of laughter; maybe at the way she feels, like someone young, or the way Phil reacts, quiet and close. Maybe it's simpler than that — maybe it's just happiness after all. ]

It shouldn't be too hard. [ A hum, then her fingers are curling into the collar of his shirt once more. ] Kiss me again?

[Phil has more than his fair share of scars as well, each telling their own story. He can't throw any stones on the damage front, and he wouldn't even want to. They may mar her perfect skin, but Phil is glad for each and every one — they're testaments to her surviving, and for that he's grateful. She wouldn't be here with him if she didn't, and the thought of losing her, losing this is shockingly painful to him.]

We're highly-trained operatives. I think we can handle a milk run. [A literal milk run, not a figurative one. It's...a little odd not to be talking in metaphors right now.]

Gladly. [It's more of a sigh than a spoken word, but Phil's already pulling her in closer with the arm around her back, his other hand sliding beneath her cheek to cup her face as he slides his lips against hers, his eyes closing.]

[ She presses into the kiss. It's the kind of thing that could build, she knows, slotted into the rare parts of their lives that could be named regular; maybe it is already. The rhythm of her life has depended on S.H.I.E.L.D and Clint and Phil for a steady number of years — maybe not as anchors but as roadmarks. Maybe it's so easy because it's only building on what's there.

Natasha's tongue glides sweetly against his, and without breaking the kiss she slowly rolls them over until her hands are braced on either side of him. The robe stays half-on, a drape of silk across the dip of her back, baring the curve of her shoulders (no scars, no sunburn, no freckles), just that smooth expanse of skin.

(She thinks that it would be easy to love him. It's a truth that makes her cautious.) ]

[He lets her push him onto his back without fussing, his hand sliding down to rest at her hip again, the impulse to help steady her hard to resist. His thumb strokes slowly against the swell of her cheek as they kiss, her still-damp hair coiled around his wrist like it wants him to stay close too. Well, he's not going to argue.

Normally Phil doesn't like being on his back — it's inherently vulnerable, as positions go, makes him feel helpless — but it's barely a thought with Natasha, perhaps because even his unconscious mind knows that he can trust her to look after him. She's patched him up in the field before, he's relied on her to cover his exit, they've kept watch over each other during long, cold nights... Phil mostly trusts those he works with out of necessity, but he trusts Natasha out of choice.

The silk of her robe is at once cool to the touched and warmed from her body, and he likes the contrast of it as it pools over his hand, getting tangled around them both, keeping them close.]

[ (And that's the point, isn't it? The choice to trust, the choice to give and take — the choice to love, by however much you're able.)

Her weight shifting back to her knees, the dip in the bed makes her hips slot neatly against his. Natasha bites one last kiss before her attention shifts down, a hand looped around the fabric of his tie and she lightly tugs at it, encouraging him to sit up with her. ]

I think, [ she says, her hands carefully undoing the neat windsor knot of his tie. For all that it's easy between them, there's a playfulness in her eyes. ] People traditionally have homecoming sex. I could be wrong.

[He groans a little when she sits back against his hips; he's not hard, they've only been trading lazy kisses, but his body remembers very well what happened last time she did that, and he is eager for a redux. The way she tugs on his tie makes him think he's going to get it, and if they were anyone else, he'd laughingly suggest using it in some kind of vanilla bondage. But they've both had more than their share of being tied down against their will, and he's not sure he'd be able to step away from the sense memory of losing control like that enough to enjoy it.

So instead he sits up and slides his hands down her back, curling them over the swell of her ass and squeezing gently as he gives her a ghost of a wink. She wants playful? He'll give her playful.]

I do believe it's considered customary, yes. Do you think we should attempt this hallmark of normalcy?

Well, [ she says with a tip of her shoulder, pulling the tie out from his collar and slinging it loosely around her own neck (some things should stay crease free, after all). Natasha's expression changes into one of almost coquettish consideration, her hands drifting down to pop open the first button of his shirt. ]

That depends. [ She tips her chin, her smile ruining the ruse. ] Do you think we're ready for it?

[He's seen her pull this kind of act many times before, and each time he scoffed a little internally at the idiot schmuck who fell for fluttered lashes and husky whispers, but now... Well, he may be reading into things, hoping to find details that may or may not be there, but it feels more— real. Like it doesn't quite come naturally, but she's trying.

And that's all he really wants from her.] I think... [He pauses, a grin curling his own lips in response to her smile; his hands squeeze her ass again.] Let's go for it.

[ He never asks and neither does Natasha, but she knows; can guess, sometimes. These things aren't easy, a neat balance of work versus will and she knows that however far she's willing to push, Phil will follow. An extension of their partnership from one to the other and it's that ingrained ease that makes her laugh quietly, half-squirming in his lap. (There's a part of her that's determined to overcome this, this barrier of something. Natasha has never dealt well with her own frustrations.) ]

Breakfast was a success, [ she agrees, popping open another button. She dips her head to mouth at that spot of open chest, smiling into his skin. ] We should aim two for two.

[Phil's willing to give Natasha anything she wants, anything at all. When he commits, he commits fully, whether it be to his work or when he falls in love, and if that's what Natasha decides she wants, he'll hand over his heart without blinking an eye. For now, though, they're still working around each other, figuring out the best way to slot their lives together, and he's more than content to simply take it day by day. Especially when his days include Natasha perched in his lap, slowly divesting him of his clothes.

He hums in agreement, combing his fingers through her hair as she ducks her head, carefully separating a tangle that snags on his finger and arching a little into the touch of her lips.] I don't think we'll have any problems there.

[ For all that Natasha is, it's rarer that she surprises herself: rarer still that others do. The gentleness in Phil's hands, the way his touch grips and skims is in stark counterpoint to the things she's seen him do; the brisk efficiency and economy of movement replaced with something slower, more bated. (Phil Coulson is a romantic; Natasha isn't sure why she's so surprised.)

Her fingers work the final button free and her arms shift to slide around his neck, like she's not in any real hurry just yet, the robe hanging half-off her elbows. It's nice to be able to drag out something as simple as an easy flirtation. ]

Anything else I should know about this tradition? You'll have to remind me. I'm new to America.

A Picture is Worth... Meme.

c: just as planned!

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