#doheyed

A smile tugs at his lips at he stares up at his ceiling. Her side of the bed is empty, but he can hear her voice trailing from the kitchen, soft and sweet as she gently pads across the tiled floor. She’s talking to someone over the phone, and he just takes a moment to listen to her end of the conversation.

His once quiet apartment is always filled with her voice, with her laughter and her singing and her excited chattered and sweet whispers, and he loves it.

He loves her.

“…can’t believe he hasn’t said anything yet.” He hears her pause as she pulls open the fridge, and then she giggles. “Well, you are pretty scary, Nat.”

He can picture Wanda’s cute little smirk, and it makes him grin.

“I would, but he’s still asleep.” Another pause, and then she breathes out a hushed, “Natasha,” that sounds almost embarrassed, even as her voice trails into a bit of a laugh at the end. “I think he tires me out more than I tire him.”

His lips tug at the corners as he remembers last night – her nails digging into his biceps, her legs wrapped around his hips, her spine arched and her curls fanning out over the pillows and her cries of please, please, please. She had barely caught her breath when she’d rolled them over, her fingertips warm and leaving his skin tingling as she dragged them down his chest, her lips hot on his and her legs shaking as she rolled her hips and –

He smirks. She definitely tires him out more than she thinks, but he doesn’t mind. Not one bit.

He groans a little as he moves to sit up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed as he rubs a hand over his neck. She’d nipped him pretty hard last night, which he only really remembers because she pressed a kiss to it, after, as she murmured his name in place of a good night. The bruise is gone, though, and he wonders if she’ll get that little pout on her lips again when she sees it. She did the last time it happened, and he peppered her face with kisses until she was giggling and squirming in his arms, halfheartedly trying to pull away.

“…just give him time. You know he just wants it to be perfect,” Wanda is saying as he walks into the kitchen. She’s standing at the stove in the same shirt of his that she fell asleep in, phone pressed between her shoulder and her ear as she pokes at the strips of bacon in her pan with a fork. Her hair is clipped up in this elegant mess atop her head, baring her neck to him, and his eyes go to the marks he’d left along the column of her throat and over the dip of her shoulder.

“We’ll talk about it later,” she tells Natasha, and she’s barely hung up and set the phone aside before he’s reached her, brushing his lips over those marks on her neck. She sucks in a soft gasp as he slides his hands over her hips, and he presses himself close, nuzzling his face into her neck. She hums, leaning back against him. “Good morning,” she greets, amusement in her tone.

“Morning,” he mumbles into her skin.

She flicks her wrist to switch the burner off, then reaches up to brush her fingers through his hair as she turns to press a kiss to his temple.

“What did Natasha want?” he asks, reaching over to snatch a strip of bacon off of the pan and bite the top.

“She wanted to know if I knew anything about Steve and a ring,” she says, and he sort of pauses mid-chew for a moment, meeting her eyes. She arches an eyebrow, this adorable, knowing look on her face as she holds his gaze, and, crap. He’d meant to tell her about Steve taking them shopping for a ring – or rather, he, Sam, and Clint inviting themselves to go with him, because Steve was a punk and thought that he could get away with going it alone – but it had slipped his mind. And it’s not as if it was his secret to give, anyway.

She doesn’t seem upset, though, so he breathes out a laugh. “Yeah,” he tells her, and her eyes brighten. “He’s just waiting for the perfect time.”

“If he waits for perfect, he’s never going to get the chance to propose.”

He grins. “Now, isn’t that the funny part?” She chuckles, and he flexes his fingers at her hip, kissing her hair. “I know where he’s coming from, though.”

“Yeah?”

He hums in reply, setting his bacon down so he can turn her to face him, his hips pinning hers against the counter. She gnaws on her lower lip as she looks up at him from under her long eyelashes, and, fuck. He just wants to kiss her. He just always wants to kiss her. “Yeah,” he echoes, holding her stare as she presses her hands flat against his chest, sliding them up, slowly, until they’re resting at his shoulders. Her thumb brushes at the seam where his metal meets his skin, and he shivers ever so slightly. He remembers when that spot had been too sensitive for anyone to touch. Now, when it’s her, his body shudders for an entirely different reason. “When it’s our turn, I want it to be perfect, too.”

She smiles at that – our turn – and clings onto him a little tighter, like she knows exactly what he’s promising. Like she’s promising to do the same.

“It will,” she tells him, stretching up to brush her lips to his.

“I know,” he repeats, and then he grasps her chin with his fingers and kisses her a little slower, a little deeper. When it’s time, he’ll know.