A/N: update! and i'm dying at chemistry. ahh help. and then i watched Bourne Legacy and i DO recommend it completely you jeremy-renner-butt-loving-people! and then i read Hush, Hush (Becca Fitzpatrick!) over the past few days and it's a really good book. keeps you flipping the pages! okay, this chapter has some third-person because i might be merging into that for later parts! enjoy!

disclaimer: zilch! :(

Dear Natasha,

I saw you today. I really thought I did. A foolish part of me made me believe that the bullet in your brain was gone, your stem was fine, and you were out of your grave. I chased you down forty blocks before convincing myself to accept your departure once more. Accept that you already left.

It had hurt like a fresh dent in my heart and a scar in my head, but I didn't mind. I'm getting used to things like that, though Tony can't drop the fact that he needs to address this issue with me seeing dead people on the street in broad daylight. He thinks I'm losing my sanity. Thing is, I'm just starting to get back on track. When I lost my head and took cyanide, he thought I was reckless. Funny how things like that work out, huh, Tash?

So I've been in bed all day, thinking about the past few weeks and wondering why I'd been so stupid. I haven't written in this book for over a month now, ever since I had made several attempts to die, though that didn't stop me from trying any harder. Tony talked much sense into me after that, and so did the team. He had also put up force fields on his rooftop and made the windows crash-proof. Had JARVIS safe-keep all sharp objects in the tower and confiscated every weapon I held.

I remember when he tried to take your knife away, the one we got in Japan, and I was almost desperate and on my knees for him to let me keep it. Told him it was the only thing of you that held any last meaning to me, that all the others were lost somewhere in the midst of everything, and so he did let me keep it. I wasn't going to let myself succumb to my own weaknesses with something so strong, just like you. If it represented your soul, then I wasn't going to taint it with my blood.

His method worked pretty well, though. Hats off to Stark; An idea, from a man of dubious plans, had actually worked. Offered no other alternatives, I could only go talk to any of them about how I felt and let them give me a thorough lashing out (Mostly from a worried Pepper.), an evaluation (Obviously by the doctor.) and not necessarily an easy conversation of shared feelings.

Listening to Tony, I knew I had to snap out of my miserable trance. I had to stop pitying myself, get back out there, and help keep the rest of the world intact from my tragic loss. He drilled sense into me. How would you feel, Barton, if you saw your wife stepping out of the bathroom with swollen eyes every night?You can't ever imagine how much sturdiness had stood in Tony's voice. That shocking rise of determination, mixed together with a cocktail of anguish, sadness and anger, was something one could never see in the Tony Stark.

It had made me realise how it wasn't just me in this devastation. Everyone in our little family was a part of it too, just that they had been stronger for me. I couldn't be selfish anymore and ignore the fact that they were accommodating my ridiculousness even when they had better things to worry about. Clint... Even though you've lost Natasha, you can't be weak. If you think her death doesn't matter to me, then you're wrong. It really does, and I hate that Pepper still sobs about it and worries about you at the same time. It's taking a toll on her and she's getting hell of a lot more thinner than she should.Tony had fretted.

I had only stared blankly at him at the time, but it made much sense. He was worried about Pepper, and about me. Looking deeper, the man was truly wise, surely more than just a playboy, philanthropist and genius. Stop acting like you're insane. You need to stop trying to kill yourself. I know you're grieving. I know how that feels, but you need to stand up for her. You have to show her that you're strong even if you hurt inside. If it takes a masquerade to prove your point, then let it be. You can't afford to be weak and breakable anymore, Clint, for yourself, for Pepper, and also for Natasha. Nobody would want to see you like that, not even her. Trust me./

Trust Tony. It sounds a little catastrophic to solidly trust a man that enjoyed a little novelty every once in a while. Unbelievable as it was, I had, because there was this genuine look in his burning eyes and experience in his voice that had weaved realisation into my head. He'd been playing that same game too. He still is.

Ever since nearly dying in the battle with the Chitauri and losing Phil (Coulson), I believe he's been struggling, trying to keep himself together with masking tape and glue. It was a convincing act he held over the many years we'd known him. But now I can't look at Tony in our common living room without a glimpse of pity or sympathy escaping me. Also, I finally understand how superficial he's being when he cracks a joke or guffaws at a novelty, as well as how thick it is. If you actually stare right into them, they're just like empty shells in comparison to the truthfulness he'd shown in our little chat. The glass that never leaves his hand, filled with all kinds of liquids that can rocket anyone into the severe lack of coherence, is the reason why nobody sees his cracks. After all, you're the safest when you're on the high, right?

Then, there was Steve and his unusually discussed love of his life. Peggy, if I'm not wrong. He told me that she'd been a very fine dame (Yes, he used that word.) and that they had a date. They had talked about it right before he hit the water. The greatest weakness of most people is our hesitancy to tell others how much we love them while they're still alive. Especially the ones we love the most.Steve said. He had been grieving for the whole of five years, up until now, ever since he'd woken up.

But you did tell her, Barton. You made her the happiest woman in the world for how long she'd been left with. It's a far cry from where I've been. I was 70 years late. Didn't even have a chance to say goodbye to Peggy. After that, I spent my days punishing myself for letting it happen. Did she have any closure? I don't know.I can't be certain, Tash, that me and the Cap shared the same pain. I do sympathise him, as he does towards me, which sits us on common ground. He never did say if he had closure himself, and it has already been years. I do hope he has though; A man of such altruism, such kindness, and nobody on the outside really knows that his life has been a living hell for years now.

Bruce. Oh, the green guy tells me things too, as if trying to relieve the pain he sees. That man always had a keen eye on sentimentality. I wonder if it's because he's always standing by the sidelines, sidestepping society and watching his loved ones from afar, scrutinising every element of emotion from a healthy distance. Or maybe it's because he's so lost in trying to find himself that he takes in whatever is around him, all except what he really seeks for. The good-hearted man, once happy, all inside.

Every time I had psycho-evaluations with him, he always talked about guns. Bruce said he knew the weight of each possible one, probably almost as well as you do, just the different way. It didn't take a genius or hours of sense-making to know exactly what he meant.

Still, formerly suicidal didn't mean he wasn't scientifically understanding. His words helped me understand every aspect of the anger, the anguish and the loss I carried on my shoulders. You lost someone you love, and nothing has prepared you for what happens next. You're reacting to intense pain by closing down and buying time to heal. You're doing it through the numbing pains of superficial wounds, thinking that within the next hour, you'll lose function.He had explained.

You still do. You still function. Your heart doesn't stop pumping and your brain doesn't stop working. You feel like you're cold and numb and dead, and that laying here might just do the trick and put an end to your misery. In fact, you're just operating on automatic now. It doesn't make you feel much because you're willing yourself to keep you withdrawn from the true bout of pain you'll have to face if you function.He thinks that it's fine. That it's perfectly alright to lose control of what you originally had - all of it - to harsh, unpredictable reality.

Then we sat in silence. I didn't bother about what he had to check over, what he had to see. There was nothing to hide, really. If he wanted fresh scars, he could have fresh scars. If he wanted evidence of any attempts at dying, he could have them all. You know what, Clint? You did give Natasha something she'd been seeking for all her life. You gave her a stable footing on your life, and you let her have that control she needed to glue herself together. I bet she left with no regrets at all. You healed her and you made her feel loved in the right ways. She was happy. You know she was.

It had hit me just like a fatal jab to the side, heated metal searing skin and acid corroding every inch of me, all of them together. So I had it. Everything took a plunge in my screwed up head, and I got mad. I stood up and left, not sparing any looks. If I did, it would have cut.

Bruce didn't try to stop me, though. He just said one more thing. Don't forget that there's no-one steering your life in a straight path anymore. But you can't drive drunk, either. Find yourself, Clint, please. Find yourself before you're so angry at everything, and that anger finds you. Find yourself before that edge of the blade finds a vital vein, before that bullet finds a place somewhere in you, and before someone you care about finds your lifeless body on the floor. Make sure of that.

I can't count the number of times that anger has found me throughout my life. All that despair, it did leave me scars. The same scars you have. Remember how we'd count the tens of thin, faded scars that told our past, and the way we would reason about why we had cut.

I swear I can't forget, no matter how much it pains me to hold on to, those twenty (or so) cuts that looked so fresh and sore on your arms. It was during our first fight when I'd seen them. Ten on each arm; each of which were your punishment for having me comatose and bedridden for two weeks.

When we talked about self-mutilation during our first month working together, you promised me never to hurt yourself. You said you were through with self-harm. I never understood why you'd still done it over me, but at that time I was too foolishly upset to even bother about questioning you about them. I guess it was because you couldn't get rid of my blood on your hands, and decided it was better to cover them with your own.

I sometimes wish that I'd just broken through that anger at that time and held you instead, because you were bruising yourself everywhere, and I was oblivious to it. It would have prevented Borneo, and the further cutting afterwards. It was when I'd witnessed its occurrence when I knew I had a role to play to keep you level. But... If you had just let me known earlier, I would've done what I did after, before. Before you'd even left to Borneo. It's the lingering guilt I carry up till today.

I guess I'm kinda sidetracking, aren't I? So... I learnt that: All we have right now, between me and the rest of the team, is a foundation of understanding amongst us. It's built on shared pain and shared grief, and it's actually very powerful. A force that attracts and binds all of us together just because we're all a little broken somewhere underneath our abilities and our armour. It isn't anything like what we had, though, so don't worry about them stealing me away from you. I'll always be yours. Be reassured.

And guess what? I found a new way to keep a part of you closer to me. It had to do with carbon or something, I forgot. It didn't cost that much, so I took locks of your hair and turned it into a beautiful diamond ring. This band around a vein that leads right to my heart, and I know I'm forever wedded to you, Tasha. Finally, I have something of you to keep closest to my heart, flushing through my veins and connecting me to you through a perfectly direct route.

You know, it feels like you've never really left on some days. Some mornings I wake up, thinking: What if no one had ever really left? What if you're still here, just different? What if you're actually someone or something around me, just not Natasha, but you're still here? Or maybe you're just a soul, wandering this earth with nothing holding you down to the life you left behind.

While you're out there being whatever you are now, I really do wonder: Do you miss this? Do you miss the team? The company? Being able to talk like there's nothing holding you back? Do you miss being loved and being in love? Do you miss the kisses? The easy conversations? I remember how you never stopped craving for that honey mousse they sold at the shop just down the street, because it reminded you of home. Do you miss that?

And in the midst of finding yourself out there, then, do you miss us? The way you'd usually nuzzle into my neck when you're cold, with a hand resting over my heart to reassure you that I'm still there. I, truthfully, still miss that.

I miss the weight of the bed when you're on it, and the way that you, such a hostile woman towards your peers, would always curl up in my side when you had a rough night. I miss your eyes, Tash, your mesmerising saltwater green irises, so ancient and unfathomable if anyone looked close enough. I miss being that deep, and I miss the way all gaps are filled up because you've become a part of me.

I miss the way you'd pounce onto the couch whenever you spotted a spider even half the living room away, ironic as it is to your name, practically screaming for me to kill it. I miss the subtle rasp in your voice, and the way your accent becomes more prominent when you're tired. The way your mood changes with the day, and how your tone changes with the people you talk to. How you're concerned about the team more than yourself, and how you're always having the strength to be there for anyone, even if there aren't any words said.

I miss how you'd never shed tears on another shoulder other than mine because the rest were an unknown; you didn't know who or what to believe, and to you, I had been the only thing that felt safe to trust. I miss you, Natasha. I do. So does it feel the same out there? Missing everything you can't have?

But whatever the case, whatever the answer, I'm always happy for you. And, though admitting this just might bruise my pride a little, Tony was right. In my last dedication, remember when I said he was talking crap about how he knew life as it was? He wasn't wrong, Nat. Things do ease away after a storm. Hearts do heal, even if the scars can't fade. They don't, but if it takes masking tape and glue to make it all better in time, then albeit the wait, I'll still do it. All I'm waiting for now is closure. Even if it's just a little.

Hmm. It's a long one today, huh. (Clint shakes his head with a hint of a smile gracing his tauter lips.) Goodnight, alright? Tony made Bruce promise that if I wasn't sleeping enough hours to make his standards, which I have a gut feeling means sleeping like a dead pig, he'd have to drug me. And I don't exactly want to be seeing pink elephants twirling in circles and going all gung-ho as they prance around in an exuberant bed of flowers. So... I'll see you soon? Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow. Maybe the day after or in a few weeks' time. Until they calibrate my head again and probably leave me severely concussed...

You know; If someone spoke of any years from now, my guess would be that you'd still be long gone from this world. Right now, I'm just thinking: What happened, Nat? What happened to all of us? How did we end up like this?

Have you forgotten that the queen always protects her king, like in your favourite game of chess?

I love you, Natasha.
As my blood turns to alcohol.

The pen bleeds ink onto the yellowed paper, just like how the little stream of red painlessly continues to trickle against the strong breeze, down his arm. In his palm is a glass filled with anything that proved to be able to silence his pain and let him laugh.

It does, and he does laugh. Watching his blood, all full of sins and anger and regret, patter like a dripping tap onto the ceramic of the ledge and staining it, Clint is glad because it feels like perfect release. The cut in his palm had been from holding the previous glass too hard, but that doesn't really matter. It is, after all, just a cut. It doesn't hurt a bit in this unresting euphoria he lives in now, in the late hours of the night, on the roof of a skyscraper. Surely, it's better than having a stare-off with Guilt all day and bruising his dignity in losing every single time.

He looks over the edge from a pleasing height. The gravity that pulls him downwards to the sidewalk is exhilarating. It's thrilling. It's so strong that the darkness beneath, that which clouds over the ground, calls for him. Arms wrapped in black fumes reach out to lick his flesh, but they can never reach high enough. Something crawling deep inside of Clint, though, makes him want to try. He wants to see if those arms will catch him as he falls and steal him away to its homeliness. The darker tranquility.

The glass slips from his hand and dives down into the darkness, flying right past catching arms and finding the ground with satisfying crash. The remainder of the expensive liquid seeps out onto the sidewalk, surrounding the shattered glass. A startled scream echoes from the street as a woman barely escapes the accelerating force of impact from the glass, stumbling away in shock. So Clint wonders: Will his bones break like that once he hits the ground?

With ecstasy twisting and winding about in him, he doesn't bother about the cold wind that slaps his bare face harshly, or about the eighty seven other glass windows that wing out under him vertically. He doesn't fear death like a man in the face of a starving lion, but embraces it instead. It's all because he's drunk. But if being coherent means feeling the full extent of the loss, Clint doesn't exactly want to be sober again until he truly heals.

He looks over the edge once more, the darkness signaling to him. Clint curls the rims of his lips. What if he just leaned... over... a little... more-

if any of you lovelies would be so kind as to comment on this chapter, it would be really nice to see some emails!(: hope you enjoyed this chapter, sorry for taking so long!