Just wanted to take the time to thank Lover's Reason for looking this over. Your helpful suggestions and beta work was MUCH APPRECIATED! :)

Warnings: Mentions of rape, language, violence, out of character fluffiness, etc etc...

Disclaimer: I don't own Avengers.

Can't Face The Dark Without You

She's in his room.

Stepping out of the shower, Clint shoots a glance towards the closed bathroom door. He's not sure how he knows it. Maybe it's some sixth sense bullshit, but he's confident that Natasha is waiting for him on the other side of the bathroom door. Grabbing a towel, he makes quick work of drying himself off while contemplating her reason for paying him a late night visit.

She's been distant lately.

At first, after he had been put under Loki's mind control, after she had confessed her love for him, after they had fought the battle with the Chitauri, he had been the one who had been distant. He had been the one to push her away. The crushing guilt he had felt had been unbearable.

He had almost killed her. He had almost raped her.

The nightmares had come shortly after they had sent Loki back to Asgard with Thor. He'd wake up in the middle of the night; images of Natasha bloodied and battered still fresh in his mind. Sometimes he'd wake up screaming, sweat covering his body, her name on his lips, tears streaking down his face. After awhile, after weeks of the same dreams haunting him, he began to wake up in her warm embrace. She'd bring him out of his dreams with cool hands and soft words. And she'd let him hold her as he whispered his apologies.

After awhile the dreams had begun to get less vivid, less intense and her late night visits had become less frequent, until finally she had stopped coming to see him altogether.

At first he had wanted to give her space. They had both been through hell and back. He knew that one wrong move could send her running. So he had kept his distance; giving her space he was sure she needed…craved.

But now…now he was just getting impatient.

He had tried to reason with himself that she had been through just as much, if not more than him. She had stared up into his cold eyes and had waited for him to deliver her death in the most fucked up way imaginable. He had tried to remind himself that she needed to heal too.

But then he would catch her eye, and it wasn't fear that he'd see there but longing…love.

They needed each other.

So now, all he can think as he stares at the closed door, knowing that the redhead is on the other side is…it's about damn time.

Of course, had someone told him a few years ago that he would be waiting impatiently for the night when the Black Widow showed up in his room willingly, he would have laughed his ass off.

"Tasha, just drop the pill in the poor bastard's drink, grab the file and let's get the hell out of here. I'm hungry." His words are clipped and frustrated. He's annoyed that she's taking her sweet time with this particular target.

"Don't call me Tasha." Her voice is barely a whisper in his earpiece, and he can see through the scope of his rifle that her lips hardly move at all as she softly speaks the words. Her back is to her target, who is fumbling to get out of his evening attire, and she's facing the window. Briefly her gaze searches the rooftop she knows he's perched on.

"Ahhh darlin' when are you going to quit denying me?" She's a stickler for going by the book. In their year and a half stint as partners, she's never once called him anything but Barton or Agent Barton. So he uses the endearment knowing that most men in his position would be sealing their death. And maybe he does have a death wish, or maybe he just enjoys riling the redhead up. Regardless he smirks, as he sees her mouth dip down into a slight frown at his words.

"Idiot," he hears her whisper as she places a pill in the glass of wine she holds in her hand. He watches her as she waits for it to dissolve before turning back to the target who has finally rid himself of his jacket and tie.

"Cara mia." Their target, a middle aged man by the name of Moretti, says in a slurred, heavily-accented voice. "Come here so I can look at you."

Clint arches a brow, amused by Moretti's awed expression. Watching as Natasha fluidly walks over to her target carrying the poisoned drink in one hand and a purse with her nine-millimeter in the other, he can't help but shake his head slightly. Her wig is black, long and wavy, her dress is tight, bold and red. It hugs her curves but still hides the knives she has strapped to her thighs. It never ceases to amaze him, the number of dirt-bag men that think they can actually have Natasha. He hates to admit it, but he thoroughly enjoys watching her put them in their place…or a bullet through their brain.

Whichever she prefers.

It's as she's handing Moretti the drink that Clint notices a grim look pass over their target's features briefly and the slight tension in the older man's shoulders.

He's on to her.

"Tasha…" Clint says, his voice is low and carries a warning.

He can tell that she's noticed too, her shoulders also tense slightly as the man takes the drink from her and places it on the table to his right.

"Mia uccellino." The man is no longer sluggish, and Clint has to give him credit for playing the drunken fool flawlessly throughout the evening.

Natasha's voice is full of innocence. "Shall I get undressed?"

Moretti chuckles. "Drop the act my bella. I should warn you, I have twenty armed guards that have been notified of your presence. But first, you and I… we're going to get better acquainted before they join us. That sounds nice, no?"

Hearing this, Clint scans the area for signs of the guards. "Quit messing around. Take care of him, grab the file and get out of there," he says, when satisfied that she's not in any immediate danger.

Turning his focus back on her, he sees her nod once. And in the blink of an eye she's on top of him. Before Moretti's mouth can open to call out to the guards he had warned her about, his neck is snapped and she's stepping over his body, making her way to the safe that is hidden in the wall behind his large desk.

They both notice the door opening at the far side of the room at the same time.

He prepares to shoot.

"Papa! Papa!" The small shriek fills his earpiece.

"Shit," Clint mutters. "Shit, shit, shit." He watches as a small child with soft brown hair runs into the room. Moretti's youngest daughter. Her room is adjacent to his and shares a door. She's afraid of the dark and is often kept close to him. He remembers Natasha telling him this as they went over the details of the mission earlier. He remembers thinking what a shame it was that the guy actually seemed to be a decent father, all the while funding one of the world's largest underground terrorists organizations and stealing the lives of innocent children in third world countries every day.

His eyes dart to Natasha and he sees that she's frozen. Her body is rigid as she takes in the sight of the confused child.

"Natasha." He speaks louder than normal when watching over her on a mission, he's trying to break her out of her trance.

She doesn't move, just continues to stare at the child, who is now directly in front of her father's fallen body, staring down at his lifeless form.

"Papa?" He can hear the hysterics in the young girl's voice.

"Natasha!" Clint practically bellows trying to jerk her out of her daze.

Still Natasha doesn't move but only stares at the child who has fallen to her knees, crying onto her father's dead body. The child's soft sobs are growing louder, and any minute the guards Moretti threatened her with will come rushing into the room.

Clint sighs and drops his gun, reaching over for another weapon, he hears the tiny whimpers float up through his earpiece.

"Why? Why? What has happened to my Papa?"

Natasha steps forward to the child and reaches out an unsteady hand. It is at that moment that Clint shoots, hears the glass from the window shatter and watches as the child collapses onto her father's chest.

Wide green eyes immediately dart to the window.

"Tranquilizer...she's just sleeping. Get the file." He says it slowly, carefully. She seemingly snaps out of whatever spell the child had put her under and in quick movements opens the safe with the combination she had lifted earlier. Grabbing the file from its place, she glances back at the child briefly before making her way to the window.

As she's swinging out of the window and scaling down the house, past the guards he's already taken care of, he speaks to her, his voice light.

"Meet you back at the car. You're buying dinner tonight."

It's his way of saying he's already forgotten about the child, about her stalling.

"Go to hell Clint."

It's the first time she ever calls him by his first name. It's her way of saying thank you.

He opens the bathroom door and stepping into his bedroom takes in the sight of her perched on the edge of his bed. She's staring down at her hands and doesn't look up when he enters the room. For a moment he simply stares at her before moving over to his dresser and opening a drawer, grabbing a pair of sweat pants and boxers. He drops his towel without any thought and pulls the clothes on. When he looks back over at her she's smirking up at him.

He shrugs, not at all apologetic for his brief nudity. "It's my room."

Her lips twitch a bit. "I know."

She looks young. The nearly ten-year age difference between them hits him hard at that moment. Her face is scrubbed clean of make-up. Her hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail and she's wearing jeans and a simple white tank top. He momentarily thinks that she could easily pass for a fresh and innocent undergraduate. But then she raises her green eyes to his and he sees a glimmer of strength and hardness in them, and his lips quirk into a small smile.

No, Natasha Romanoff could never be mistaken as innocent.

He holds her stare for a moment, before raising a brow. "What do you want Natasha?"

"Is that any way to greet me моя любовь?"

He chuckles, the sound is loud in the quiet room. She's still such a mystery to him. Sometimes he wonders how the hell he allowed himself to fall so hard. But thinking back on it…he knows he never had a chance.

She's the first sparring partner that he's had that actually challenges him. It's exhilarating training with her, and he knows she feels the same way, although she'll never admit it.

As he blocks a hit, he sees a determined glint in her eye and she comes at him in a blur of movement, her fists swinging so fast he barely has a chance to react. He grins when her eyes narrow as he deflects a blow he's sure she smugly thought would land painfully on his shoulder.

Today is particularly thrilling. It's been months since he's been able to go a decent round with her; they've both been off on their own back-to-back solo missions and have both just recently checked back in with SHIELD. Fury finally decided that they had been separated long enough and had informed them the other day their next mission would be together. When he had snuck a glance at her during that particular meeting, he could have sworn her lips had quirked up into a satisfied smile, before her face became a blank slate of impassiveness once again.

He flips her over his shoulder and takes a moment to appreciate the slightly feminine "oh" that escapes her lips before she's rolling and back on her feet again. They circle each other, once, twice, and then she's leaping at him again. It's more like a dance than a fight and he knows that he'll never find a better partner than her. When she makes a small mistake and hesitates briefly, he takes the opportunity to lunge at her and before she knows what has hit her he's on top of her smirking down into her slightly surprised face.

"You're good," she says. It's the first time in their two-year relationship as partners that she's ever complimented him on his fighting skills.

Somewhat shocked, he loosens his hold on her. "Thanks."

The words are barely out of his mouth before he finds himself pinned beneath her.

"But I'm better."

It's not the fact that she has so flawlessly gained the upper hand on him that almost knocks the breath out of him. It's not even the fact that her knee is resting dangerously close to his groin that has his pulse racing at a rapid pace.

It's the smile she flashes him.

He's never seen her smile so naturally before. Usually it's cool and calculating, or nothing more than a smirk or slight grin directed at him with a roll of her eyes. Staring up at her, it takes him a moment to register what exactly he's seeing.

The smile she's flashing him, is full and bright and stunning.

She's happy.

He always thought that cool and detached Natasha was beautiful. He'd be lying if he said that he has never noticed her physically. But the Natasha that he's staring up at now, with her eyes soft and face alight with pleasure, is practically a divine being.

After what seems like an eternity, with the redheaded goddess grinning down at him, her smile slowly fades into her signature smirk and she's jumping off of him clearly satisfied that she was able to best him.

"See you in the morning Barton," she calls over her shoulder, walking past the crowd of agents that they had attracted during their sparring match.

"Oh hell," he mumbles to himself. Not even bothering to get up off the mat, he closes his eyes and groans. He knows to anyone else he most likely just appears to be embarrassed that she had beat him. Let 'em think that. It's much better than what is really going through his head.

Natasha Romanoff has finally worked her way inside his heart.

The rest of the day he can only see cold green eyes suddenly go bright, a usually grim and serious full mouth flash into an amused and dazzling grin. Disgusted with himself, he decides to take care of the issue the best way he knows how, and finds himself at some dive bar on the outskirts of the city.

He smiles, when a pretty little blonde saunters up to him.

Her name is Sherri.

Later as he's burying himself inside of her at some cheap motel, he curses when he finds himself picturing knowing green eyes staring up at him, instead of Sherri's dull brown. He imagines the soft blonde hair a bright blood red. This only serves to irritate him more, and he thrusts into the woman beneath him even harder, much to her delight. She cries out, calling God's name and the fake name he had given her earlier. But her voice is high and bubbly instead of low and sultry and it takes him much longer than it should to finally come. When he rolls off of her and stands up to get dressed he barely pays attention to the blonde as she gushes about how he's the best she's ever had.

He knows he's a dick as he leaves the motel room without a backward glance.

The next day, he's angry with himself and furious at Natasha. Pissed off that she had the audacity to sneak up on him, to work her way into his supposedly closed-off heart. When they spar he doesn't hold back his anger, and he can see the surprise in her face as his fury comes through in his blows, his kicks, and his overall frustrated movements.

He has her pinned in minutes.

She's breathing heavily her eyes are wide and green, shimmering with appreciation at his skill, anger at being beat by him, and something else he can't quite place.

"Well…" she drawls.

"Well." He leans back a bit and stares down into her flawless face. "Looks like you're not that good."

Jumping up he walks away from her and heads towards the door. He needs a damn cold shower.

"You've been avoiding me Tasha," Clint tells her. His tone isn't accusing, he's simply stating a fact.

Natasha nods, her eyes on his are unwavering. "Yes."

He grins at her honesty before delivering the blow. "You never struck me as cowardly."

Her eyes flash at that and she's standing in the blink of an eye. "Don't," she says in that low sultry voice that drives him crazy.

Clint recognizes danger when he sees it, but he's never been particularly smart and enjoys a challenge, so instead of backing down he takes a step towards her.

"Don't what Tasha? Call it like it is?" he asks her, his eyes never leaving her face.

She frowns at that. "It's not that simple."

Clint smiles, knowing it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Isn't it?"

She sighs, the anger that had been so clear in her stance, in her eyes, vanishes. "Loki…the Chitauri …we've been compromised Clint." She whispers it. She looks almost ashamed by the admission.

His laugh is unexpected and her face hardens at the sound. She doesn't like to be laughed at.

"That's bullshit. What happened with Loki was fucked up. I'm pretty sure I'll go to my grave not being able to truly forgive myself. But it still hasn't changed a thing…not between us."

Natasha doesn't say anything at that but he sees her shoulders droop a bit, her eyes lower to the floor.

Clint stares at her, waiting until she sighs somewhat resigned and finally meets his gaze. He wants her to realize that he knows that while she may have just recently admitted her feelings for him, that she had never fooled him. He's known for a while what was in her heart, even if she had refused to speak of it out loud.

"We've both been compromised for a while now Tasha."

When she stays quiet he knows it's because she's aware she can't argue with him.

They were compromised long before Loki ever came into the picture.

The rage he feels when he bursts into the room and sees her tied helplessly to a chair in only her underwear with an armed guard standing over her is like nothing he's ever felt before. The guard never even has a chance to turn his head before he puts a bullet in it. Slowly, cautiously, he walks over to her. Her hands are in thick metal cuffs, her legs are bound to the chair with heavy chains. He notices that her breathing is labored, there's a cut above her eye, and her lip is split. Bruises are visible on her bare arms and legs. She's in obvious pain; based on her breathing he's guessing she's sporting a few broken ribs. When she lifts her head and sees it's him that has entered the room relief and maybe even slight amusement crosses her features.

"Hey gorgeous," he says, stepping over the guard's dead body.

"That was quick…I don't think I've ever known Fury to send out a rescue team so fast." Her voice is hoarse, but her tone is flat and maybe even slightly mocking.

He smiles at that and kneels in front of her. Inspecting the cuffs around her wrist, he tenderly rubs his thumb over the back of her hand.

"Fury didn't issue a rescue mission…he's still scrambling to get one together."

Green eyes meet his. "You went rogue?"

He shrugs. "I got tired of waiting."

"Damnit Clint! You could have gotten yourself killed." Her previously flat voice is now trembling; she's angry, maybe even scared.

He gives her a small grin as he begins to work on her cuffs. "But I didn't."

"But you could have!" she presses.

"Is that anyway to say thank you to your knight in shining armor?" He jokes lightly, while gently releasing her of the cuffs. Her arms drop limply to her sides, and he struggles to keep his face calm and impassive. He lets his eyes roam over body, her thighs have burns on them, most likely cigarette, and the bruises on her legs are large and purple. He feels his jaw clench at the sight.

"They touch you sweetheart?" He asks softly, working at the chains around her legs.

She chuckles. "Clint I'm covered in bruises and blood, of course they touched me."

He raises his head and meets her eyes. He know she's aware that he's asking if they had taken their torture a step further and had sexually assaulted her. She's embarrassed, he can see it in her eyes, but whether it's because she had been violated in that way or she's just upset she had been so vulnerable he's unsure, and he can see she doesn't want to tell him; she doesn't want to talk about it. They battle back and forth silently with their eyes before she sighs and shakes her head.

"I think the Black Widow was a bit too poisonous for their taste…they just wanted information."

He nods and stands now that she's free of her chains and cuffs. "You must have pissed them off pretty good Nat. You were barely gone a day."

She shrugs and arches a blood-covered brow. "They didn't ask nicely."

He grins at that. "Can you walk out of here or do I get to carry you?"

The scowl on her face tells him she'd prefer the former but most likely will have to go with the latter. He smirks at her obvious distaste for having to be carried and before he gets a chance to swoop down and lift her into his arms, she stops him by speaking his name softly.

"Clint...you've got to stop doing this." Her voice is low, and laced with barely concealed emotion.

He considers her a moment, she won't meet his eyes. "Doing what?"

She's silent and doesn't answer him right away. He gives her some time to find whatever words it is that she needs to say to him.

Finally she sighs and pins him with her green gaze. "Saving me."

He smiles softly at that and reaches out to brush away a lock of scarlet hair. "Not a chance."

She doesn't smile back at him, but frowns instead. "Clint I'm serious…I can't…if something had happened…I…you don't understand…I can't lose you."

It's the closest she's come to admitting her feelings for him, and he has to struggle to maintain the mask of indifference he usually wears on his face. "I can't lose you either, моя любовь."

They hold each other's stares for a while before she finally looks away. "We're a couple of idiots."

He laughs at that and swoops her up bridal style preparing to carry her out of the compound. The moment is over and he knows better than to press her further. Handing her a gun he sees a glint of appreciation come into her eyes when the weapon is placed in her hand. He's pretty sure she feels more naked without her weapons than she does without her clothes on.

"You think you can shoot straight?"

She looks insulted that he even asked her that. And he can't help but grin at the smug look that crosses her face when without even batting an eye she shoots two stray guards that happen to round the corner as they're leaving.

"I don't know what to do."

He's never heard her sound so lost before, and he can't help the soft smile that tenderly crosses his lips at her words. She looks so vulnerable at that moment, and he knows that she hates it. She hates not being in control. He's quite certain if Natasha were able to control her feelings she would force herself not to feel anything for him.

Fortunately for him, love isn't something so easily manipulated.

He takes a step towards her, and watches as her eyes flit up to meet his.

"I don't think there's much of a plan for this Tasha…this is nothing we were ever trained for."

She smirks as he repeats the words she had spoken to him weeks ago before going into battle against Loki.

"It's going to get us killed," she states bluntly.

He shrugs, continuing to walk over to her slowly. "Or it'll save our lives."

"Romantic." She's frowning but her voice carries a hint of amusement.

Stopping in front of her, he stares down into her porcelain face. "I'm tired of playing games Natasha."

She nods at his words. "I know."

"It's a pretty messed up world. A lot of fucked up things have happened to us…will keep happening to us."

She laughs softly at that but doesn't say anything.

"I don't want to face them alone…not without you."

Her green eyes are glimmering, and he can tell she's trying hard to keep her emotions in check. "Clint, if we…in our line of work is it really smart for us to…to act on our feelings?"

Reaching out he tugs on a lock of fiery hair, she closes her eyes at his touch, and he lets his fingers linger.

"Are you telling me if we don't…if we both walk away and pretend that there's nothing between us, that's going to stop us from acting any differently in the field?"

She sighs. "No." It comes out a whisper.

Slowly, tenderly, he wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her closer, closing the small space between them. When her body is flushed up against his and her eyes are gazing up at him, he lowers his head slowly.

"What the hell is the point of trying to stay alive, trying to save the damn planet, if there's nothing worth living for?…I don't want to deny us anymore."

He can see the inner battle going on behind her emerald gaze. There's an intense fight happening internally between the Black Widow and Natasha and he waits patiently, hoping for the latter to overpower the former.

Finally she smiles softly, almost sadly. "И я не хочу, любовь моя"

Nor do I my love.

It's not him, but her who initiates the kiss. Raising herself on tiptoes she gently places her lips on his. He had always imagined their first kiss would be during or after a mission; fiery, and passionate, hot and wild with barely controlled emotions simmering beneath it. But this, this slow and tender kiss is even better than the hot embraces he had fantasized about countless times before.

This is Natasha he's kissing, not the Widow.

As her hands snake up his chest, and she wraps her arms around his neck, he lets his lips brush over hers once, twice, before his tongue gently seeks entrance to her mouth. She eagerly allows him in and kisses him back, hungrily responding to him. Tightening his hold on her, he gathers her even closer, pressing his body into her soft and pliant warmth and deepening the kiss while appreciating the soft moan that escapes her lips.

"Clint." She breathes his name softly and he lifts his head to look down at her.

He can feel his body tense, and realizes he's waiting for her to push him away. He's waiting for her to tell him that they can't go through with it; it's too dangerous to take it any further. But when she meets his eyes, she's smiling, a soft feminine smile. A smile of a woman in love, not a master assassin coldly assessing the situation.

"I love you."

He can't say he's shocked by how apprehensive and tentative she sounds. This is not comfortable territory for her. She's unsure how to proceed. She's out of her comfort zone. He knows no amount of guns, blood, and training could have prepared her for the raw emotion she's feeling at the moment.

Smiling down at her, he lowers his forehead to hers.

"I love you too, Tasha."

She smirks. "We're a couple of idiots."

He laughs at that. And kisses her again.

He'll gladly die an idiot if that means he gets the chance to be loved by her.

Thanks again to readers new and old for reading this.

Thoughts about a third part?

Before, when I had posted this under my old name I was tossing around the idea of posting a third and final chapter with a love scene...Natasha's first time willingly having sex.

I'm still debating.

Again, I'm sorry to the readers that had favorited me under SadDaysLove. I know it's a pain when you lose track of an author or a story...but it just really stunk having two separate accounts! :)