"It sure does." Natasha couldn't agree more. Hell, she apparently had a nice life carved out for herself when her brain short-circuited and tossed her ten years back in time, mentally. It's not the same as the shrapnel trying to inch its way to his heart, but it still fucking sucks. Just in a different way.
Considering the tension in Tony's wrist as she guides his hand to her skin, she's actually kind of surprised that he doesn't pull away. But with the way his eyes lock on her skin, she guesses that he might be as fascinated by her scars as she is by his.
The slight slickness of Tony's fingertips against her skin sparks another memory. This one longer but more disjointed than the last. The hum of an engine. The dark battle suit she's been assured is hers open as far down as it goes, her skin flashing pale and streaked with grease through the opening. Calloused fingers running down her skin-- This is apparently not the first time a man with calloused hands has left dark smudges on her skin. It sure as hell wasn't Tony though. His touch against her skin is warm and solid, and the light brush of his fingers tickles enough to send a slight shiver up her spine, but it doesn't send sparks flying across her skin. Based on the last precious flash of a memory, she's just going to go ahead and assume that it's Clint. (The circumstantial evidence is overwhelming. Like the fact that they're married and that his brief touches always leave her craving more.)
After Tony has stumbled through the words that basically boil down to no, don't, Natasha just nods. "Okay." Whether it's because touching it would hurt her or because he simply wants her hands nowhere near the device keeping him alive, doesn't really matter. The end result is the same; she's not going to touch it. She has enough trust issues of her own to respect a clearly set boundary.
Standing there, hands pressed against each others' scars (her fingers still circled around his wrist, thumb resting at the jut of bone at the back of his wrist), is oddly intimate. Which is-- scary, really. Natasha can count on the finges of one hand (and still have fingers left over) the number of times that she's been truly intimate with someone. And this? It's making the list. Her jaw tightens imperceptibly, and something dark flits through her eyes.
"How did it happen?" In casting a glance down at his abdomen for emphasis, Natasha gets caught by the road map of scars yet again and achingly slowly she shifts her hand, fingers tracing the few scattered scars lower down on his skin, careful to not touch him anywhere near the sternum.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2012-06-16 12:46 am (UTC)Considering the tension in Tony's wrist as she guides his hand to her skin, she's actually kind of surprised that he doesn't pull away. But with the way his eyes lock on her skin, she guesses that he might be as fascinated by her scars as she is by his.
The slight slickness of Tony's fingertips against her skin sparks another memory. This one longer but more disjointed than the last. The hum of an engine. The dark battle suit she's been assured is hers open as far down as it goes, her skin flashing pale and streaked with grease through the opening. Calloused fingers running down her skin-- This is apparently not the first time a man with calloused hands has left dark smudges on her skin. It sure as hell wasn't Tony though. His touch against her skin is warm and solid, and the light brush of his fingers tickles enough to send a slight shiver up her spine, but it doesn't send sparks flying across her skin. Based on the last precious flash of a memory, she's just going to go ahead and assume that it's Clint. (The circumstantial evidence is overwhelming. Like the fact that they're married and that his brief touches always leave her craving more.)
After Tony has stumbled through the words that basically boil down to no, don't, Natasha just nods. "Okay." Whether it's because touching it would hurt her or because he simply wants her hands nowhere near the device keeping him alive, doesn't really matter. The end result is the same; she's not going to touch it. She has enough trust issues of her own to respect a clearly set boundary.
Standing there, hands pressed against each others' scars (her fingers still circled around his wrist, thumb resting at the jut of bone at the back of his wrist), is oddly intimate. Which is-- scary, really. Natasha can count on the finges of one hand (and still have fingers left over) the number of times that she's been truly intimate with someone. And this? It's making the list. Her jaw tightens imperceptibly, and something dark flits through her eyes.
"How did it happen?" In casting a glance down at his abdomen for emphasis, Natasha gets caught by the road map of scars yet again and achingly slowly she shifts her hand, fingers tracing the few scattered scars lower down on his skin, careful to not touch him anywhere near the sternum.