Clint shivered when Natasha's lips hit his skin, but unlike most of the times, it wasn't out of pleasure or excitement. For a second he could see it clearly, knew where this one, very faint scar came from. But as soon as he tried to concentrate on it, it was gone, with only the stale metallic taste of blood left in his mouth, and that dreadful cold feeling of past horrors in his gut.

"Right there."

He reached back, relieved to feel that it worked a lot better after Natasha had had her hands on him, and rubbed that bright, insensible patch of skin he so seldom remembered, simply because it was right in a blind spot.

"That's where I can't piece it together. This doesn't come from a fat incompetent mafia dealer. Hell, that guy probably shat himself when he saw me for the first time and left for Tansania or another safer place. Never heard of him again. I know I've stumbled into something else here, something where Hill didn't want me in from the start, and you even less, but I can't grab it. Not yet."

He leaned back into her embrace with a sign and ran his hands softly up and down her thighs, letting her know how good it felt to have her close after such a night. To have someone to confide in.

"Give me one or two nights of sleeping shitty more and maybe I can come up with the rest, I guess. I just know it wasn't pretty."

He turned his head to kiss Natasha's temple and sighed quietly.

"I'm good, red, thanks. I need to remember more often how good a therapist you are."