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It’s surprisingly easy, really, to draw a line and say, “That’s the past and this is now”—a clean break. She’s done it so many times now that it’s almost second nature.
Easy enough for her, anyway. Convincing everyone else is another matter, particularly when her entire history has suddenly become a matter of public record.
In the wake of DC, Stark hires a team of lawyers to coach them all for Congress’ little S.H.I.E.L.D. inquisition. Rogers and Wilson are off looking for Barnes, and Fury’s still officially dead, which just leaves Natasha to answer for their actions—or, at the moment, to sit through endless briefings from Stark’s lawyers that she just tunes out, because she learned everything there is to know about plausible deniability before these junior associates started losing teeth.
One morning, she’s on her way to the conference room for yet another lecture when she spots Maria Hill in the firm’s break room, swearing at a coffee machine so high tech it might actually be Asgardian.
“Nice pantsuit,” Natasha drawls, leaning in the open doorway. It is nice, actually. The narrow slacks accentuate Hill’s long, lean legs, helped along by a perilous pair of heels. Even in stocking feet, she’d be statuesque. Today, she’s an Amazon. “Looks like the private sector is treating you well.”
Hill shrugs, and Natasha wonders what reaction she’d been hoping for, exactly. “Better than the public sector has recently,” she admits. “Coffee’s definitely better, if you can get the damn machine to work.”
She considers staying right where she is and watching Hill struggle, but instead she pushes off the door frame and eases up to the counter, nudging Hill out of the way with her hip. With a quick adjustment and a flip of a switch, she has the coffee brewing, and Hill lets out a low huff of amusement.
“Of course you’d make that look easy.”
They watch the coffee drip down into the pot in companionable silence. When it’s done brewing, Hill pours herself a cup and then looks questioningly in Natasha’s direction. She nods and Hill pours her a cup. While Hill stirs a packet of raw sugar into her cup, Natasha takes a sip.
“That is better than S.H.I.E.L.D.’s,” she says.
Hill shrugs one shoulder. “It’s a low bar to begin with.”
Natasha finds herself smiling, despite the corporate-bland decor and the anxious first-year intern who’s been sent to retrieve her for yet another briefing and the crushing sense of dread she has about tomorrow’s hearing. “True.”
Hill’s answering smile is small, wry. She nods, and it feels to Natasha like she’s acknowledging the poverty of the situation they both find themselves in, bereft of the one thing either of them had to hang onto, which, as it turns out, wasn’t worth much to begin with.
“We should—get a drink or something later,” Hill says. “God knows we’ll need it after all this.”
Natasha stops to consider her for a moment. Standing there by the Formica counter, mug halfway to her lips, Hill looks only a little like the hard-edged S.H.I.E.L.D. agent Natasha’s come to know. She’s seen this woman as the unflinching fighter cracking wise while reloading a rifle under enemy fire, and she’s seen her lie flat-out without blinking an eye, the unquestioning S.H.I.E.L.D. factotum, and she’s seen her smile the tight, polite smile of a civil servant, but now, for a moment at least, Hill seems to be just herself.
“All right,” she says, and Hill nods.
*
They wind up at some dim, sumptuous bar near the law firm’s offices. It’s full of posturing politicos in starched Winchester shirts, and the signature cocktail costs twenty dollars.
“I’m buying,” Hill says quickly—apologetically—and they take refuge down at the far end of the bar. The drinks are strong, at least, and Hill wasn’t wrong that after the day they’ve had, she’s ready to unwind a little.
“I feel like maybe I should ask you what you’re going to do next,” Hill says.
“You don’t have to ask me anything.”
Hill glances sidelong at her and then looks away. “Actually, I’m surprised you stuck around long enough to testify.”
Anyone else might consider this an insult, but she isn’t wrong. Natasha takes a swallow of her drink, savoring the burn at the back of her throat. “So am I.”
Hill’s lips twitch into a smile. “Do you want to get out of here? There’s a Shake Shack a couple of blocks away, or—” She hesitates, her glance flicking down for a second. “My hotel’s only about a ten-minute walk. We could get room service?”
She considers saying no, considers going back to the townhouse in Crystal City where she’s been staying, taking a long shower and drinking a glass or two of wine and trying to sleep.
“Only if you charge it to the Stark company card,” she says.
Hill’s smile has stretched into a full-on smirk. “Deal.”
They finish their drinks and escape into the balmy night. The twilight-blue air is hazy with heat, too warm for their office-appropriate clothes. Hill slips her blazer off and Natasha takes a moment to admire the play of her shoulders under her still-crisp white shirt.
They don’t talk much as they make their way down the street, bumping elbows as they squeeze between knots of federal employees on their way home and overdressed twenty-somethings on their way out for the night.
When they reach Hill’s hotel, the ever-present tactician at the back of Natasha’s head notes that its roof would have a wonderfully clear line of sight to the White House. The conditioned air lands cold on her skin as they step inside, making her shiver. Hill walks across the luxe lobby without giving it a second look, heading straight for the elevator. Natasha follows, taking in the exits and blind spots like second nature. Maybe for Hill that kind of hyper-vigilance is just a day job, or maybe she’s so good she just doesn’t let Natasha see it.
Hill’s room is all impersonal elegance, stylish and entirely forgettable, but Natasha can’t help noticing the little signs of her occupancy—the armchair shifted out of the eye line of the window, the cosmetics bag still open on the writing desk under the mirror.
Hill bolts the door behind herself and tosses her blazer on the back of a chair. “Make yourself comfortable. There’s a room service menu in the desk somewhere, I think. I’m just going to—” She gestures to the bathroom behind her.
Natasha nods, sinking down onto edge of the bed without bothering to look for the menu. She listens to the water running in the bathroom, to a couple passing in the hallway outside, to the dull noise of the street below.
From where she’s sitting, she can see herself reflected in the mirror—a redhead perched on the edge of a hotel bed, hair disheveled, her black pencil shirt ridden up just over her bare knees. It might be the prelude to an assignation or a killing for hire.
When Hill comes back from the bathroom, she’s barefoot and her face is scrubbed clean, her dark hair still wet along the hairline. She’s shed her white button-down and her bra, leaving only a pale undershirt, which has come untucked from her trousers. She still looks impossibly tall and dangerously lithe, but she seems maybe a little less indomitable now. Not soft, never soft, but Natasha can almost see the fresh-faced, sullen Midwestern girl she must have been at sixteen, seventeen.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do next,” Natasha says finally, the words coming out all at once like a breath being exhaled. She stretches her legs out and leans back, palms behind her on the bed. “Sort of burned all my bridges back there.”
When she looks up, Hill’s expression is raw in some way Natasha doesn’t quite recognize. “Not all your bridges,” she says.
Natasha tips her head up, watching the subtle mechanisms of Hill’s features, the slight downturn at the corners of her mouth, the way the skin around her eyes goes smooth as her expression opens. “No,” Natasha echoes, “not all.”
Hill steps closer, one leg between Natasha’s knees, and what happens next shouldn’t come as a surprise, but it does—Hill’s arm sliding around her waist to pull her up as she leans down, the cool touch of her lips.
Natasha only hesitates a second before opening her mouth and surging up to press herself along the length of Hill’s body. Her thigh between Natasha’s legs pushes her dark skirt up, and Natasha wraps her outside leg around Hill’s hips to ride the lean muscle of her, grinding against the light wool of Hill’s trousers.
Even through all their respective layers of clothing, the rough rub against Natasha’s cunt sends a shiver through her, and Hill’s answering gasp is a sweet pull of breath against Natasha’s mouth.
The other leg, the one she isn’t currently using to clench Hill to her, insinuates itself higher and higher, until Natasha can feel the warm weight of her bearing down and the jerk of Hill’s hips tells her she’s found the right angle.
They rock like that, Natasha almost entirely supported in Hill’s arms, her hips suspended above the mattress. The twitch back and forth, each of them seeking her her own satisfaction, the pressure of one’s touch increasing the other’s pleasure. It’s rough and imprecise, their kisses growing lax until they’re just gasping into one another’s mouths. Natasha’s climax breaks over her scattered and diffuse, too dull to do anything but leave her wanting more.
Hill’s legs are shaking, and they lurch backwards onto the bed. For a moment, Hill is a dead weight above her while she catches her breath. Natasha tenses to push her off or roll them over, but then Hill’s mouth descends—not cool anymore at all—sliding an unfocused kiss along the corner of Natasha’s mouth. Her lips drop to Natasha’s throat, her hands gentling along Natasha’s sides as she eases down onto her knees in front of the bed.
The searching touch of Hill’s smooth palms on her thighs goes right to Natasha’s core, and she lets Hill ruck her skirt the rest of the way up until it’s bunched around her hips, opening her legs further so that Hill can settle between them. One firm tug pulls Natasha’s ass to the edge of the mattress and then Hill’s warm breath coasts across her underwear.
Natasha stares up at the ceiling as Hill mouths wetly against dark cotton, shivers crossing her skin until she has to close her eyes. When Hill finally drags her underwear to one side, the touch of chill air against her wet cunt makes her gasp. A moment later, it’s replaced by Hill’s tongue, and she can’t help the low moan that works its way out of her.
Hill holds her in place, not letting Natasha escape from the hot pressure of her mouth, no matter how her hips rise up. It’s hard to stay still when Hill is tonguing her clit relentlessly, the movements of her mouth liquid noise in the quiet room. She tucks her face into the tight, dark safety of the crux of her elbow, struggling to breathe as she rides the ache of Hill’s mouth on her, until finally she feels herself draw inward and shudder, and her second orgasm flares bigger, brighter, and more particular than the last.
With a low, contented noise, Hill raises her head to press a slippery kiss to the inside of Natasha’s thigh, and Natasha shivers at the touch. It’s an intimate gesture, almost tender—too much, too close. She pushes herself up onto her forearms so that she can see Hill’s dark head over the edge of the mattress. Hill glances up at her, and the sight of her eyes almost black with desire makes Natasha’s cunt quiver all over again.
“Up,” she says, and Hill obliges her, rising smoothly to her feet. She looms over Natasha, her mouth and chin shining wet, her expression too soft. Natasha wants to say, Don’t, that’s dangerous, but she doesn’t. Instead, she sits all the way up and tugs Hill forward by her belt loops. She can smell Hill’s sweat, the last hint of some woody perfume, and the soapy odor of her deodorant. Beneath it all is the tang of her arousal, clear and sharp, making Natasha’s mouth water, and this, yes, this is better—safer.
She undoes Hill’s belt and works her trousers and underwear down. Hill, taking the hint, pulls her top up over her head. Her breasts fit neatly in Natasha’s palms, small but full, her nipples dark—and sensitive, judging by the full body shudder than goes through her when Natasha twists one gently between her thumb and forefinger. Natasha replaces her fingers with her mouth and Hill lets out a gusty little grunt.
“OK,” she murmurs against the curve of Hill’s breast. She says it as much to keep herself on track as to cue Hill. Lifting her head from Hill’s creamy skin, she scoots backwards on the bed again, until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the mattress.
She urges Hill forward, wrestling her gently into position until she’s got a knee on each side of Natasha’s hips. Natasha likes the look of her spread legs, and dips her fingers into the swollen heat of Hill’s cunt, tracing along edges of her labia. Hill sighs and puts a hand on Natasha’s shoulder to brace herself. The touch makes Natasha tense, but she ignores it in favor of exploring Hill’s soft, hot folds.
In this position, Natasha can bite gently at Hill’s breasts and clavicles as she works two fingers into her. Hill is so wet, thick and slipping against Natasha’s fingertips, and the sound she makes as Natasha’s fingers slide home inside her catches low in her throat.
Hill rolls her hips experimentally, groaning deep and repeating that undulating circuit again. “Oh, yeah,” she says when Natasha starts to move inside her, and then they’re both quiet for a while, finding their rhythm. Natasha occupies herself by watching the slow bounce of Hill’s breasts as she fucks herself on Natasha’s fingers.
The touch of Natasha’s thumb on her clit makes Hill huff out a strangled gasp, and she can feel her contract around her fingers. She speeds her strokes, and Hill matches her, grinding against her hand with every downward dip.
“Harder,” Hill breathes, her fingers tightening on Natasha’s shoulder. “God, just—” She whines low, fucking herself even faster, her hips losing their focus as she falls into a frantic rhythm. “Oh, God, more.”
Natasha abandons the focused pressure of her thumb against Hill’s clit in favor of pressing the heel of her hand roughly against Hill’s vulva. She drives her hand upwards, rubbing her clit and fucking into her at once, and when she starts to feel Hill clench, she closes her mouth around one dusky nipple and bites down.
Hill comes, a high shout scraping out of her as her hips jolt and her cunt closes tight and sweet around Natasha’s fingers. She heaves again, juddering wildly, the muscles in her thighs jumping. Low little moans color her breaths as she slows and stills.
When Natasha withdraws her fingers, Hill swings her leg herself off Natasha’s lap and collapses onto the mattress. “And now,” she says, still breathless, “room service.”
Natasha hums in agreement, but she doesn’t settle back onto the bed next to Hill. Instead, she gets to her feet.
Hill makes a low interrogative noise without lifting her head.
“Shower,” Natasha explains.
“Mm.” Her eyes are closed, but she stretches out one leg to nudge Natasha gently with her foot as she passes by on the way to the bathroom. It feels oddly intimate, playful but also proprietary in a way that almost sets Natasha’s teeth on edge.
She locks the bathroom door after her. Her clothes are rumpled and ripe with sweat, so she hangs her skirt and blouse up in the hopes that the steam from the shower will freshen them up. In any case, she’s gone home the morning after in much worse shape than this.
The water pressure is worthy of the hotel’s price tag, and she turns the heat up high. The barrage of the spray stings for a moment when she steps into the shower, but then it resolves into delicious pressure, and she closes her eyes and lets the water work on her.
She half expects to find Hill asleep where she left her, but by the time she’s dried off and snagged one of the plush hotel robes, she can hear Hill talking to someone in the other room, and a moment later the smell of food goes straight to Natasha’s stomach. She waits until Hill has paid the room service attendant and locked the door again before she steps out of the bathroom.
“I wasn’t sure what you wanted, so—take your pick.” Hill gestures broadly to the plates laid out on the writing desk.
She’s thrown on some yoga pants and a loose t-shit, and her hair is now in a ponytail instead of its customary bun. Natasha wonders if this is how she is at home with people she actually trusts, the casual clothes and loose limbs such a far cry from the tightly-controlled figure Hill usually presents to the world.
“Anything’s fine,” Natasha says, pulling the robe closer around her throat.
It’s surprisingly easy, to sit here with Hill, curled up on the rumpled comforter, watching a rerun of Dog Cops and eating haute cuisine French fries with their fingers. They don’t talk about tomorrow’s hearing, or about what Fury or Cap are up to, or about anything more serious than Mr. Whiskers’ antics in this episode. Natasha is grateful for that.
She knows that soon she’ll have to get dressed again and take the Metro back to Crystal City. In the morning, she’ll put on a conservative black suit and say her piece to Congress, and after the hearing Hill will go back to Stark Industries and Natasha will go—somewhere, she hasn’t quite figured that out yet. She knows that soon this moment—the blue light of the TV and the smell of their desire lingering above the smell of hotel shampoo—will be over. She’ll draw a line, and this will become “before” and she’ll step into whatever “after” turns out to be.
But she can let herself lean into the warm curve of Hill’s shoulder for just a little while longer. Just a little longer—