I present to you, my only finished fanfic on this site! Only because it's a one-shot. Inspired by Sam Smith's Stay With Me, that and I was feeling very angsty (this is not a song-fic!) Let me know what you think!

Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel or any of its charters. I also don't own the beautiful cover image but kudos to whoever does! If you know who, give them my thanks!

"Hawkeye down."

"Move to position."

"It's gonna blow! We need to—"

Natasha barely registered the static in her comm as her eyes fluttered open. Dust covered her cat suit and mixed with the blood dripping from her hairline. Her body was numb. Her ears were ringing, but she had one goal in mind: 'find Clint Barton.'

She staggered through the ruins of the three story building. Tripping over rubble, clutching her broken ribs, she pressed on.

A groan, a cough, a curse. She saw his bow before she saw him.

"Clint," she desperately whispered "Clint!" This time more forcefully. A slight tremble in her voice betrayed the calm demeanor she was trying to hold on to.

Another cough and she was by his side. He was a mess. His leg was broken and a slab of concrete had collapsed into his chest. Moving frantically to pry it off his chest, she could feel her muscle being ripped off the bone from exertion. She didn't care.

He cried out as the weight was lifted off of him. She collapsed next to him, "Clint," she gasped pulling his broken frame into her lap, "Clint, look at me."

He was dazed, but he still managed to smirk, "Nat," his smile widened, "Tasha."

"The comms are down but they'll find us," she swallowed and nodded "they'll find us, Clint." She was beginning to sound desperate as she noticed a trickle of blood running down the corner of his mouth. Looking down, she saw the thick shard of metal in his abdomen. 'Internal bleeding'. She tried her best to act like she hadn't seen it, as if ignoring it would make it go away, "You're gonna be fine, Clint, we'll be okay." She said firmly, brows furrowed in determination while tears pricked her eyes.

"I don't think I'm gonna make it out of this one, 'Tasha," his last words were cut off by an overwhelming cough that jarred his ribs. Her facade faltered.

"Don't talk, Clint, you'll make it worse." She placed her hand on his cheek to steady him, smearing blood onto his already dirty face, "You still owe me dinner, remember?" She joked weakly. A tear escaped her eye.

"Rain check?" She chuckled, tears now flowing freely.

"Okay," her fingers ran through his sandy blonde hair before her hand slid down his side to his arm. She took his hand in hers and brought it up to her chest, "Okay." She repeated, smiling, never breaking eye contact.

"Good," His eyes wandered from her green orbs to where their hands were interlaced. He relished the feeling of his wedding ring, hidden underneath his glove.

His chest began to hurt much worse, his eyelids felt heavier, "Clint?" Natasha called, all traces of her smile were replaced with worry, "Clint, look at me," her voice was desperate as she saw her partner of ten years droop his eyelids. "Clint, please! Stay with me, you're gonna be fine." She dropped his hand and placed both of hers on his face, cradling his broken features.

In those last moments he couldn't help but smile. He always knew Natasha would be the last thing he saw before checking out, but when he'd first met her, he'd assumed she'd be the one to kill him, towering over him with a look of murderous satisfaction on her face.

He couldn't have been more wrong. She was kneeling over him, desperately trying to absorb every moment of life he had left, not missing a single detail. And it made him feel guilty. Guilty at the thought of what would happen to her in a few minutes once he was gone.

'She'll be broken', a voice echoed in his head. But he smiled nonetheless, because the women before him was his other half, his partner, wife, and lover. She was everything all at once. She was everything to him.

"Hey, Natasha?" He paused momentarily, relishing the feel of her nane on his tongue. He knew deep down this would be the last time he'd utter her name.

"Yeah, Clint?" She asked with a sniffle. Her features no longer hid her sorrow; she was naked before him, no masks, no tricks, 'What's the point? He's dying.'

"I love you," he swallowed deeply, "you know that, right?" His voice trembled, the realization of his current condition sinking in.

He didn't think it was possible for her to look more heartbroken, but she did, as she took in his words. She gave him another small, sad chuckle, bowing her head before looking into his deep blue eyes, "Yeah, Clint, I've always known."

She took one last look at him before she leant in and snuggled her face into the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent one last time. Turning towards him, her lips tickled his ears, "I love you, too, Clint."

In that moment, as if his heart were perfectly in tune with Natasha's last words to him, Clint Barton stopped breathing.

She didn't pull back to look at him; she only held him tighter.

He felt like he was floating. A sense of weightlessness overcame him as he registered the feeling of Natasha's soft voice against his skin. He looked around and found himself standing in the same exact rubble he'd been crushed by. Before he could question the situation, he he heard a sniffle and a small sob from behind him.

"Nat," he said when he turned around and saw her huddled figure. He heard his voice, but she didn't seem to. He reached out to touch her, to comfort her, but his hand went through her trembling shoulder, "No. Nat, look at me." He desperately tried to get her attention, crouching in front of her so she could see him fully.

She was clutching his body, his dead body, in her gentle arms. He was dead, but he wasn't...?

Surely God couldn't be this cruel. Here was his partner, his wife, his everything, grieving him, and he was forced to watch. He was powerless to comfort her, to hold her and tell her he loved her. This was beyond cruel. This was torture.

He watched as she was pried away from him, tearing herself from Steve's assisting arms, and getting up on her own. Her face reverted to its cold hard battle-ready glare. There was boiling hot fury underneath her dark emerald eyes. This is bad. He'd seen that look once before. It was her look of determination and revenge, and whoever was on the receiving end was as good as dead.

She gently closer his eyes and marched off towards the evac helicopter.

Clint watched her until she reached the chopper, Tony and a shirtless Bruce in tow. Turning back, he saw Steve and Thor still standing by him. Thor removed his tattered red cape and covered Clint's body with its fabric. Clint clenched his jaw and furrowed his brow in sadness at the small gesture. Thor reassuringly squeezed Steve's shoulder, who hadn't moved an inch. The Captain and the God gave Clint's body one last look before slowly walking off towards the chopper to take them back to base.

Natasha was wandering around the SHIELD base, absentmindedly looking for the most isolated area she could find. This, of course, led her to the morgue. Having been on autopilot since her return ten hours ago, she hadn't showered or eaten, just wandered. Hill postponed their debriefing and moved it to the following week, a small act of kindness on her part.

She found herself frozen at the entrance to the morgue, almost turning back, when the doors slid open to reveal Dr. Isaac, more commonly know as "Hoot" for his large glasses and beady eyes.

"Agent Romanoff," he said, not hiding the surprise in his voice, "I-I wasn't expecting you so soon." The old man stood at about Natasha's height and wore a white coffee stained lab coat around his plump form.

"I am here to gather his things." She said mechanically, covering up her own surprise at finding herself there. He knew who she was referring to. It was common knowledge at SHIELD that the two master assassins and Avengers were married and the moment he'd seen Clint Barton's name on his roster, he couldn't help but share in the Russian agent's grief.

"Of course, right this way." His voice had a hint of sympathy in its words but Natasha ignored it. She'd have to get used to the sympathetic words and looks she'd get once news of her husband's death spread.

'Ex-husband', she thought bitterly. She couldn't help but realize the irony. Now she really was a Widow.

Clint was sitting on one of the empty metal slabs, swinging his legs back and forth, when he heard the door slide open. Natasha and Hoot walked through the morgue. Clint's eyes lit up at the sight of her, then dimmed when he saw the stubbornly brave face she was sporting. She looked straight ahead, never glancing at the sheet covered bodies on the medical slabs.

Hoot led her to the holding room where the personal effects of all the bodies were kept. Clint followed them in as Hoot handed her a large paper envelope with the things Clint had been carrying, "That's all of it, minus his gear of course."

She clenched her jaw and swallowed, "And when can I get his bow back?" She asked in a steady voice.

"Ah, yes. That's up to the briefing committee. They'll be analyzing weapons to verify and catalogue events." He paused as she nodded.

"Yes, of course." She turned to leave.

"And, Agent Romanoff?" He called.

"Yes?" She turned back. She was struggling to keep her brave face.

"He'll be ready by tomorrow, if you want to come and see him."

"Thank you, Doctor." Natasha nodded before turning and exiting the room and morgue.

Clint followed her as she navigated the basement floors of SHIELD. He soon caught on that she was taking the long way up, delaying the inevitable of looking through the last things he carried.

After three and a half hours of navigating through SHIELD, then New York, then the Tower, Natasha finally got into the elevator and reluctantly pressed the button to the joint floor she used to share with Clint.

He watched as she stood at one corner of the elevator, arms stretched out and gripping the side bars. She was pensively studying one of the floor tiles when the elevator let out a familiar ding and the doors opened. She didn't move.

Clint studied the childishly stubborn scowl on her face, as if she was being forced to do something she dreaded. 'Which she is', he thought.

Huffing, she finally stepped onto their floor and took in the sight of the familiar living quarters.

The large skyscraper windows beside the kitchen fed unnecessary amounts of sunlight into the room. There were still cups on the dining table from two days ago when they were having a silly conversation about which member of the team most resembled which dog breed.

"Despite turning into a big green monster, I'd say Bruce is border collie. He's shy and really smart, and collies look like smart dogs." Clint said as he sipped from his cup of coffee.

She pondered his reasoning before nodding, "Okay I see that," her hand was repeatedly dipping a bag of tea into her hot cup of water, "I think Thor would be a corgi, mostly because they're yellowish."

"A Thorgi," Clint mused.

Natasha stared at him in disbelief, "Oh, Clint, you did not just make a bad pun." She couldn't help but chuckle at the thought. Thorgi.

He gave her one of his boyish grins, "Yes, yes I did, Natasha." He took another sip, clearly amused with himself, "I think you'll agree with me on hundred percent on this next one."

"Shoot."

"Cap," he paused for suspense, "as a golden lab."

"You're right, I do agree." She smiled, sipping her tea, "Stark?"

They both paused before simultaneously saying, "Jack Russell."

They never got to ask which ones they were, because moments later JARVIS notified them that they were needed at a mission briefing in the common room.

An hour after that, they were on a mission to halt the take over of a SHIELD facility at the hands of a nefarious computer scientist, last name Logan, who was after some prototype technology.

Natasha left the kitchen, not bothering to put the dirty dishes in the sink. Clint followed her to their bedroom, where the sheets were still a ruffled mess. Their clothes littered the floor. He spotted his favorite sleeping shirt hanging off the corner of the television. Setting down the envelope on the nightstand, Natasha stripped out of her battered catsuit and hopped into the shower, leaving the door slightly ajar. Clint took this time to look around at their room, actually look. There were remnants of their life together everywhere. 'Duh', he told himself.

Their king size bed was opposite the bathroom entrance, with a generously sized window to left of their bed. The only photo in room was on the clothing drawer next to the door. It was taken after one of their missions with the Avengers. They all decided to go out for drinks when Steve, who was still struggling to use his smartphone, accidentally snapped a shot of them. Clint and Natasha were both squeezed up against each other. She was laughing at something he said and failed to notice the loving gaze he was giving her. They were dressed casually; he was wearing a brown leather jacket and she wore a similar black one. When Natasha saw it she said they looked almost normal, claiming that not framing the photo would be a crime punishable by law.

After a good fifteen minutes, Clint was pulled from his thoughts when he heard a muffled sob from the bathroom. He walked in and found Natasha, who was wrapped in a white towel and dripping wet, gripping the side of the sink counter with her left hand and covering her mouth with the other, as if to muffle her cries even more. He moved behind her, letting his hand hover over her trembling shoulders. Looking into the foggy mirror, he saw only the reflection of Natasha hanging her head in grief.

"It's okay, Nat, I'm right here." He tried to comfort her, but it was useless. Suddenly, her hand was no longer gripping the counter, but flinging the toothbrush cup against the wall. The plastic clink with which it fell to the ground obviously didn't satisfy her need for catharsis as she proceeded to pick it up and shatter the bathroom mirror with it.

He tried to stop her but couldn't. He only watched as she stormed out of the bathroom, blood dripping down her right hand and threw everything off the furniture. She yelled curses in Russian, damning Logan, damning the world, and damning Clint.

"You don't get to do that Clint!" She hurled a lamp at the wall, "You don't just get me to fall in love with you and then just leave!" A shoe to the bullet proof window. Her angry tears fell from her eyes, "I hate this, Clint. How could you?" Her hands searched for something, anything in her reach to throw. All she found was Clint's pajama top. Still huffing from her outburst, Natasha's anger morphed to anguish as she picked up the faded London Calling t-shirt. She staggered backwards until her back met the bedroom door and she slid down. Small sharp objects pierced the palm of her hand as she tried to steady herself. Looking down, she found the broken glass of their only framed picture. Natasha picked it up from the remains and stared at the photo, shirt still clutched tightly in her hand. Without another thought, she held both objects to her chest and let out a tearful whimper.

Clint slowly sank down beside her and tried to rest his cheek on her shoulder, "I didn't do it willingly, Nat, I never could."

She cried beside him, drawing a shaky breath as she willed herself to get up and walk to the envelope that was now on the opposite side of the room. He watched her from his position on the floor with curiosity. Natasha emptied the contents, ignoring all other things once she found his wedding band. Putting his possessions back, she went to her jewelry box beside the broken lamp and picked out a simple silver chain. Threading it through the ring, she placed it around her neck securely. She let the white towel fall from her lean frame before she slid his oversized t-shirt over her head. Collapsing onto their messy bed, she held the photo over herself, remembering the day it was taken.

Clint stood from his spot in the floor and moved to lay next to her. His body was turned towards her so he was on his side, one hand underneath the pillow. She kissed the photo before pulling it to her chest and falling into a dreamless sleep; all the while he watched over her.

"What do you mean no?" There was clear irritation and disbelief in Natasha's voice. It had only been four days since the mission and she had been arguing with Fury for the past hour and a half.

"Agent Romanoff, you need to think clearly and rationally about what you're asking me here." His voice was firm and slightly concerned. Before him stood a determined red head eager to get back into the field. "You still have bruising and a couple of fractured ribs from the last mission. You don't even meet the basic physical requirements."

"That's never stopped you before, has it? Monaco, South Africa, Budapest?" It was a low blow and she knew it. Fury cared about the well being if his agents (to an extent) and would only send them on other missions if they were able and willing.

He let out a tired sigh, "Believe me, Agent, I know what it's like to grieve and want nothing more than to get back out there and make things right," Natasha crossed her arms in defiance, "but that doesn't mean I'm going to cut you loose and let you beat yourself up over what happened with Barton." She refused to meet his gaze at the sound of her dead partner's name. It was like a bad omen to say it. No one mentioned him out loud. It reminded her of that one British movie Clint had forced her to watch about a young man struggling against the evil of "he who must not be named".

"Fine." She got up from her seat across Fury and walked out of the the office. Clint, who was leaning against Fury's desk the entire time, quickly chased after her.

"Oh no you don't, Nat." He knew better than to think she had given given up. Just the opposite. If SHIELD wasn't going to back her on this mission, she was going to kill the bastard Logan herself.

She had the resources to find and kill Logan, of that there was no question, but the only thing she didn't have was the man power to make it out alive. And as Natasha rode the elevator to her floor on the Avengers Tower, she contemplated whether or not that was necessarily a bad thing.

She didn't have a chance to delve deeper into that thought when the elevator dinged and she found her exit blocked by the other members of her team. Steve was the first to step forward, "Natasha, we want to help."

She knew what he was referring to, and how he knew she could only attribute to Fury's bureaucratic concern, "I don't know what you're talking about." But that didn't stop her from trying to keep it a secret.

Tony's eyes followed her as she cut through them, forcing them to step aside, "Don't play dumb. We know what you're going to do, Spidey, and we want in." His voice was firm and assertive. They weren't going to let her go easily, Natasha decided.

"You've gotta let them help you, Nat." Clint offered from beside her, as if his words could make a difference. Of course, they didn't.

"I don't need your help, Stark. I don't need any of you helping me." She'd stopped walking away from them and turned to give them one of her best death glares.

"We don't want to lose you, too, Natasha." Bruce's sincerity didn't shock her, but it did make her stop glaring so intensely. She considered his words briefly before dismissing them. Her eyes met each of theirs; the sadness and hunger for revenge evident in each of them.

"Like I said," she turned her back towards them and began walking away again, "I don't need your help."

"You may've lost your husband, Natasha Romanoff, but don't forget we lost a friend and teammate, too." Clint smiled at Tony's admission, not so much because he was touched by it, but because other than Clint, Tony was the only other person to ever call Natasha out on her bullshit. He was also the only other person, besides Clint, who had long ago lost his fear of death via Natasha the Merciless.

Tony huffed with emotion as he waited for her reaction. She halted but didn't immediately turn around. Raising her chin in determination, she closed her eyes, as if to keep tears from spilling over the brim of her eyes lids. Clint watched her carefully, looking for any signs of what was running through her mind.

"Just don't get in the way," her had leveled out again, gaze devoid of emotion, "He's mine." The others didn't need affirmation to know who he was. Without another word she walked into the living room and they all followed. After three hours of debating, planning, and organizing logistics, the Avengers slipped away under the cover of night, ready to annihilate the man responsible for the death of Clint Barton.

"Natasha?" Stark's voice buzzed into her comm, "Romanoff, do you copy?"

"Copy," she replied from her crouched position behind a wooden crate, "I've got him." She loaded a fresh clip into her gun and pulled back the slide, letting it go with a familiar click.

Clint was by her the entire time, watching her back, "Be careful." He cautioned, watching as she took three steady breaths and jumped out of her hiding spot.

She took down the first two guards with ease and wrestled a particularly stubborn one to the ground before knocking him out with a crowbar. She failed to see a hidden guard as he opened fire on her with his AK-47. Clint thought it an odd weapon of choice for a bodyguard to a hacker but dismissed the speculation upon hearing Natasha grunt in pain. She made it to cover but not without taking damage. Her right arm had been grazed by a stray bullet and had thick wooden splinters embedded in the muscle. Emptying her clip, she snuck around and ambushed the last trigger happy guard by snapping his neck and allowing his body to fall to the ground; his head lolled back and forth like a cheap marionette.

She was huffing with adrenaline but quickly made her way to the steel frame of the door the guards were protecting. The high power explosives she kept in her utility belt came in handy for situations like this. Placing them around the frame, she stepped back and covered her ears, turning away from the metal debris flying out in all directions. Natasha cautiously entered the room, noting the buzz of broken computers and the smell of burnt plastic.

She found Logan cowering under a desk, burning papers surrounding him. Her mouth tightened into a firm line as she roughly grabbed his singed shirt by the collar and thrust his lanky frame against the concrete wall, "H-hey now, easy there sweetheart, I bruise easily." He stuttered. SHIELD never managed to get a picture of Logan, but his voice scrambler and big guy threats betrayed his 5'6" bone thin body. He wore thick rimmed glasses and had messy brown hair that was currently full of dust. He almost looked like a nerdy college kid, but Natasha knew better. 'This man killed your husband', a voice in the back of her head reminded her, 'This man killed Clint', her own voice affirmed.

"You took something from me," she said through gritted teeth, "something I desperately want back."

"O-okay then, maybe we can discuss this like ra-rational adults!" He squealed out his last two words as Natasha pulled out a knife from some unknown place and pressed it against his jugular.

"I'm done talking. Talking is something my bosses do." She pressed the knife's tip lightly against his skin, allowing it to follow the shape of his jawline as he cringed away from it.

"Nat, be careful." Clint warned from beside her. He recognized this Natasha, and he didn't like it.

Logan gulped, Adam's apple bobbing in the process, "What do you want from me? If you're missing something m-maybe—maybe I can help you get it back! Huh? How's tha-that sound?" His voice began to crack. He screwed his eyes shut when they met the murderous look in Natasha's dark green gaze. She stopped tracing and took in the look of pure fear in his face. It was then she felt a familiar feeling bubble to the surface in the pit of her stomach, a feeling she had buried long ago when it came to assassinations like these, ones where she meticulously dragged out her target's death.

Pleasure.

It was the familiar pleasure and sadistic enjoyment that she felt, something the Red Room had taught her a long time ago. She'd forgotten what it felt like, to be merciless and monstrous. The last time she felt like this was the day before she met Clint, before—

'If he could only see me now', she thought, oblivious to the irony. She pushed herself away from Logan, knife now replaced by the cold black material of her gun, "That's it, Natasha, you can do this." He reassured, standing behind her right shoulder that was lightly trembling in pain among other things. She had it in her to give Logan an agonizing death, but she also had it in her to see the bigger picture. This man was of value to SHIELD, simply killing him would not prevent deaths like Clint's from happening. 'No', this man had secrets and information, "Turn around." She ordered firmly.

"Wh-what are you going to do?" He questioned, hands raised in surrender. She approached him and slammed him into the wall, his back now facing her.

She pulled out standard issue cuffs and tightly put them around his wrists, "I'm taking your scrawny ass back to base. Once my bosses get what they want from you," she leaned in, "we'll meet again." Pulling back, she knocked Logan out with a swift blow to the back of his head with the butt of her gun. She dragged his limp body out of the control room and into the shot up warehouse.

Clint let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. One of the things he feared most over the past four days since the mission was the thought that Natasha would lose herself without him. It was corny, but in the past, she'd always needed him to remind her of who she was and what it truly meant to absolve the past. This was the reassurance be needed: he needed to know she'd be okay, that, although she'd be forever changed by his death, she'd be changed for the better and not the worse.

Natasha stood over Logan's pitiful form and let out a frustrated cry and kicked his midsection for good measure. Taking deep breaths, she steadied herself and called it in over her comm, "Stark, this is Romanoff. I'm taking him in. Meet me at the east side of the warehouse when you're through."

Not waiting for his confused reply, she ripped the comm from her ear and chucked it at the nearest crate. She paced and occasionally glared at Logan's body. Clint watched her, having taken a comfy seat on top of Logan, who was face down on the concrete, and studied her pensively.

Natasha ran a tired hand through her hair and bowed her head, hands on her hips. She let her guard down, for the smallest of seconds, but it was enough. She was so caught up with angry thoughts flying through her head, that she failed to notice that the big guard she knocked out with the crowbar had woken up, and in his hand, was a small hand gun.

Clint froze at the sight and jumped up, "Nat," his voice was barely audible, "Nat, behind you!" He shouted desperately but she couldn't hear him. The guard took aim, "Natasha!" He quickly ran to cover her back when shots rang out. He looked down at himself to assess the damage but found none on his torso. Clint glanced behind himself and found Natasha gasping for breath, clutching her gun firmly and firing at the last guard, landing a perfect head shot.

She dropped the gun with clunk and rolled into her back, shock beginning to unfold. The big guard hit her through the back, lodging one bullet in what sounded like her lung and another in her abdomen that was a through-and-through.

'Not good', he thought. Clint crouched down beside her gasping form. She coughed up blood and winced in pain, tightly shutting her eyes to will it away. He reached out to cradle her neck and was completely shocked when he felt her skin against his fingers, "Tasha," he gasped, "Natasha, can you see me?"

"Clint?" Another cough rattled her frame. He was blurry in her vision but he felt so real. 'I'm losing it', she thought grimly.

"Yeah, it's me Nattie, I'm here." He smiled at her, eyes lined with tears not yet fallen, "I've been here. I never left you." He reached down to brush a strand of loose hair out of her face.

"So you're that annoying chill I've been feeling the last couple of d-days." Her voice was strained but she managed to smirk. Her body began to shake.

He chuckled at her comment, gazing into her eyes, "You did right, 'Tasha. You did good." He said, referring to her decision to bring in Logan instead of killing him.

"Y-ya think?"

"Yeah, Natasha." His ears perked up at the sound of the doors to the warehouse opening with a metallic scraping.

Glancing back, he saw the familiar silhouettes of the team and heard their familiar banter, "All I'm saying is that none of that would've happened if Big Green Monster over here hadn't chucked half the building at me." Stark claimed.

"He said he was sorry," Steve defended.

"Guys?" Bruce called as his eyes fell on the feminine body in the expanse of the warehouse.

"Lady Natasha." Thor's concern was echoed in the emptiness of the building.

"Jesus, Natasha." Steve was the first to reach her and immediately began to apply pressure on her abdominal wound.

"Oops." She groaned in pain. There was a clear pool of blood beneath her that would surely stain the concrete, "Clint?" She called, noticing he was no longer by her side.

The team looked at her with pity in their eyes. That was quickly forgotten when Banner moved to raise her legs and make field dressings, "Natasha," he tried to bring her frantic eyes to meet his, "Natasha, look at me, try to stay with me."

"It's okay, Doctor," her voice was raspy, a clear metallic taste on her tongue and she was now clearly shaking, "It's okay-y." She repeated. Natasha met his eyes with softness and a kind of peace he didn't know she could emulate. Bruce hesitated, glancing up at Tony, still in his Iron Man suit. Tony simply shook his head, resignation in his eyes.

Looking back down at her, Bruce seemed to understand, "I thought we were past this. I told you to call me Bruce." He said.

"Bruce," she repeated. She seemed to be gazing at something just behind his right shoulder, but they all attributed her struggle to focus to blood loss, "That's a nice name."

"And mine?" Tony chimed.

"Pizza. Italian pizza." She uttered, remembering a particular lunch break on which Clint brought her a Hawaiian slice as a peace offering for his usual annoying whining over paperwork. Turning to Steve she smiled and said, "Loyalty."

"How does my own fair, Lady Natasha?" Thor came closer so that he was in her line of sight.

She coughed before replying "Thorgi," To which they all gave confused looks, no one having a clue as to the significance. She drew in one tight breath before going still and letting it sail through her open blood stained lips.

Her eyes remained half open and fixated on the spot behind Bruce's shoulder, a final faint smile etched onto her features.

One week later:

"How's this?" Tony offered, turning to Pepper.

"It's fine," she moved to fix his tie, "Now hurry up or we're going to be late." She scolded.

"How can we be late, the service is literally two floors down." He argued. Paper turned to him and gave him a 'stop joking and hurry up' look.

When the elevator doors finally opened, they were met with the sound of music and people chattering away. The entire team was there and so were Hill and Fury. Other agents from SHIELD were also scattered across the common room area, making the memorial service look like a casual party.

The service went from two o'clock in the afternoon to a little past six. People exchanged stories about the dynamic duo (both funny and heartfelt). The whole thing concluded with a speech by Fury about the loyalty and dedication of SHIELD's best strike team and, arguably, best agents.

"Well?" Steve asked, putting dishes in the dishwasher. He looked at his teammates for a response. His hair was no longer as neatly combed as it was earlier.

"Let us go, friends." Thor offered. Without another word, the remaining four Avengers walked into the elevator and towards the cemetery.

They all dragged their feet as they made their way to the designated plot. All signs of their earlier merriment and laughter were gone from their faces.

The tombstones read:

Natasha Romanoff

Agent, Avenger, and beloved wife.

1984-2014

Clint F Barton

Hell of a marksman and a loving husband.

1980-2014

Thor produced a bottle of Vodka hidden in his secret suit pocket that he found in Natasha's pantry. Handing out and filling everyone's cups, he raised his glass and said, "To Lady Natasha and Warrior Clint, with whom I could always rely on, both on and off the battlefield."

They all raised they glasses and drank the strong liquid. Bruce hissed as the liquid stung his throat, "Leave it to Natasha to pick a liquor that could pass for fire in a bottle."

"Remember when she drank us all under the table? Except for Cap here," Tony patted Steve's shoulder, "who claimed if she tried to beat him, she'd die of alcohol poisoning."

"And you still refuse to believe that after you challenged me and lost." Steve chucked.

Tony feigned disappointment before a smug grin came across his face, "How about Clint's bachelor party?" he offered, slightly put back by his usage of Clint's name. He always prided himself with the clever nicknames he came up with for almost everyone he met.

"We're still banned from Atlanta." Bruce said.

"But a mighty celebration indeed." Thor said, smiling, "Tis a shame Lady Natasha never bore a child," his smile faded before returning twice as big, "In Asgard, the celebration for the coming of a new child dwarves all others."

"Can you imagine, the child those two would've raised? Little rascal would've been an enormous headache." Tony mused.

"But a cutie." Steve said, staring at the grave markers.

"Enough sadness, my friends." Thor interrupted. He refilled everyone's glasses, "Here's to things not done, and to memories never forgotten. May our fallen comrades forever live in our minds and in our hearts as reminders of our imminent mortality, and the value of each, and every moment of our lives." He proudly raised his glass.

"Wow, you're really good at those," Tony's voice began to crack and Bruce took it upon himself to give his friend a reassuring shoulder hug. Tony looked down then proudly raised his glass, tears in the rims of his eyes, "To Mr. and Mrs. Smith, to Bonnie and Clyde, or as we all knew them, Clint and Natasha."

They all drank their final glass of the "blood of Mother Russia" before quietly standing around the grave markers.

From a distant grassy hill, Clint Barton smiled at the group of men that had been laughing and crying around two slabs of stone. He heard a shuffling of feet behind him but didn't turn back to see. He knew who it was, "You can get closer, ya know?" Natasha sat next to him, loosely cradling her drawn up knees with her elbows.

"I—" he started but she cut him off.

"See better from a distance, yeah." He looked at her and smirked, "What?" She questioned.

"We would've made adorable babies."

"You know I never could." She said, turning her attention to the only group in the cemetery, now huddled together with arms around each other's shoulders.

"I know, but I always secretly thought that they'd be like Merida."

She gave him a confused look laced with amusement, "You mean the curly redhead for that one animated movie? What was it called?"

"Brave." He smirked.

She laughed, "Oh god, Clint."

He chuckled as he turned back to the field, "They'll be okay." He noted, watching the men walk off together, Tony lightly shoving Steve.

"Never doubted it." She affirmed. Clint stood and began walking in the opposite direction, "Hey, where are you going?" Natasha got up and walked after him.

"It's past six." He replied.

"Got somewhere you need to be?" She questioned sarcastically.

"Actually, I do." He stopped and pulled her closely, snaking an arm around her waist and kissing her soft lips for the first time in almost two weeks. He pulled back and admired the surprise in her face, "It's past dinner time." He elaborated, "And I owe you dinner."

"Can we even eat?"

He raised an eyebrow, giving her question genuine thought, "Don't know, but I guess we'll find out." He smirked again before pulling her into another deep kiss.

Natasha broke away for a moment to breathe and leant into his embrace, "Well, since I've got nothing better to do," She trailed off.

"There's nothing you'd rather do, Romanoff." He joked, placing an arm around her shoulder as they started to walk out of the cemetery.

"And no one I'd rather do it with, Barton." She replied, meaning every word of it.

That's all folks! Let me know what you think. Were they OOC? How was my plot? Did you like it? I want to know :)

Review, review!