[His heart lurches and his stomach twists, and he wants to chalk it up to some sort of deception, an illusion, his mind playing tricks on him. But the truth was that his mind could never recreate her this faithfully; the curve of her lips, the inflection of her voice, the way red hair fell against the black of her tac-suit.
Natasha is the original, is too much herself. Even his dreams are but ghosts of her.
And yet the first coherent thought to go through his brain is that he really should have shaved the beard-- he drags a hand awkwardly through his hair, unruly from exertion. He would have liked to have managed a change of clothes, or at least been in his tac suit. Instead, he'd been on his way back from the gym. Sweatpants and a tank top, like in the old days when she'd watch him spar with Clint, from her perch halfway up a wall.
Like an echo, something almost familiar that whispers between them, draws him in a step. He's never had her restraint, after all. But after how they'd parted last, he's not quite sure how close she wants him. So he orbits around her, like he always does.]
Jury's still out. I'd say split the difference, but keep your options open.
[His voice is steady, a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Because it is old hat. How many strange worlds, dimensions, magic and illusion? He wants to curl fingers against her hips, draw her close and breathe in the scent of her skin. But he doesn't. He has enough restraint to leave the ball in her court at least, like always.]
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Natasha is the original, is too much herself. Even his dreams are but ghosts of her.
And yet the first coherent thought to go through his brain is that he really should have shaved the beard-- he drags a hand awkwardly through his hair, unruly from exertion. He would have liked to have managed a change of clothes, or at least been in his tac suit. Instead, he'd been on his way back from the gym. Sweatpants and a tank top, like in the old days when she'd watch him spar with Clint, from her perch halfway up a wall.
Like an echo, something almost familiar that whispers between them, draws him in a step. He's never had her restraint, after all. But after how they'd parted last, he's not quite sure how close she wants him. So he orbits around her, like he always does.]
Jury's still out. I'd say split the difference, but keep your options open.
[His voice is steady, a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Because it is old hat. How many strange worlds, dimensions, magic and illusion? He wants to curl fingers against her hips, draw her close and breathe in the scent of her skin. But he doesn't. He has enough restraint to leave the ball in her court at least, like always.]