Clint heard Natasha put the book down without much surprise and wondered if he should tell her about his trail of thoughts, about how he seemed to remember so little about his actual mission in this country save for not sleeping much, but preferred to drop it then. Not a day for much talking about such stuff.

What she did there with her hands felt nice, and he felt himself relax a little. She was careful enough not to tickle, too, which was even more nice because he was pretty sure, he'd never hear the end of it if she found out just how ticklish he could be.

Then she was there, around him, over him, as if she had sensed his mind already starting to these damn dark places again, and he wrapped his arms around her thankfully, burying his face in her hair. She smelled faintly of salt and spice, sensations that soon enough revived the memories of the last hours that were so much better than long gone and forgotten stuff. He made sure, she was resting comfortably against him before he closed his eyes again and nestled back against the pillows, suddenly feeling tired.

"I keep on talking about myself today", he murmured. "You got a happy story for me, red? Something nice you've seen on one of your travels?"