It's been quite a few years since I've dabbled in fanfiction. I blame high school for making me think it was "not cool" for a while, my first year of college and a lack of great stories to work with.

I was never a comic book girl; not that I thought they were lame but they were never around for the reading as a kid. I've always loved X-men, though, and the sight of Robert Downey JR in Avengers made me give the movie a chance. I have fallen in love with the story, writing, character and actors- most of all, the Assassins who need their own movie. (Not that it wasn't awesome to see them briefly in Iron Man 2 and Thor but we all want more, agreed?)

I've read quite a few BlackEye/BlackHawk/Clintasha/Assassins fanfictions the past couple of days. While many are well written, I don't see many that have Natasha in character. Clint I could see having a soft spot, the way he can grin like he did at the end of the movie, but 'tasha...? No candle light romance, no wishes for a child, no open admission of feelings... It's fun to read to get the edge off of waiting for their own movie but it feels wrong at the same time. Absolutely no offense, I love reading the plots you all come up with.

This is my take at getting it down and it's called "5:00am" because that's when my 3 month-old kitten decided it would be a good idea to wake me up yesterday morning. Hey, it gave me the idea, I'm not exactly complaining.

Forgive typos I may miss, I use Wordpad since it's quick to open and I hate relying on spell/grammar checks. Also know it's completely movie based; I have no comic knowledge whatsoever.
This is short and maybe sweet, rather different than the long-winded plots I normally go for.
I hope you enjoy, whether you review or not~!

-once TigerShinobi, now Hitorah

" 5:00 AM "

Out of a habit impossible to break, he always slept on his back. Unless someone was so crafy that they got into the home, through the traps set in the entry way and front hall (that he could disengage with a flick of his wrist), into his bedroom and was skilled enough to place some sort of weapon or poison in his bed without him noticing, then god dammit, they could have his head. Until then he could sleep however he wanted.

He always slept on his back. Occasionally, his arms were behind his head, sometimes only one arm went below his neck and the other stretched out, helping some sort of injury ease. Other times yet, he crossed both arms over his chest and slept like the dead man he should have been so many times over. Those nights he felt most rested, however, he slept on his back with her at his side, on her side, her back to him and her body facing the window. Did it matter what city was outside that window? Manhattan, DC, Malibu, Dallas? (So long as it wasn't fucking Budapest.)

Absentmindedly, the fingers of the arm he was so graced with her laying on trailed up and down her more slender limbs, from her elbow to her shoulder, down her obviously fit stomach to the curve of her legs; nothing more, no farther, for he could not reach (and she did not want). Turning his head to peer out the two large windows (more than large enough to be easily broken and made into escape routes) he saw there was only a touch of sunlight, a pale yellow bar against the bottom of the navy blue, black gradient of the sky. Early morning hours. The clock on the nightstand could have told him so but where was the fun in that?

Based on the light and time of year, it was around five, six in the morning. The world was no longer a monochromatic map of black, grey and pure white highlights. Pale, washed out greens began to appear on the shrubbary and the city blocks began to turn brown and tan, the color of the bricks which made them. A glance down had him looking back at her, at how the first rays of sunlight brought the vibrant red back to her hair, the tan and peach to her skin. Surely, Banner and Stark would scoff at him for referring to light only as rays and give him a long winded explanation equivalent to a college lecture. It did not matter to him, whether it was a particle or a ray, what sort of energy it used or emmitted or how it was observed; all he cared about was how the lovely force of nature returned the rich red color back to her hair where the night had turned it into a pale, animal like color, like an Irish hunting dog or a sorrel eventing horse.

Dogs and horses could be lovely creatures but this woman, the even more lovely force of nature beside him, deserved to have more grace than a mere servant to man.

Since the hell that was Manhattan (and that was just considering the Chutari invasion) she had grown her hair out again. Barton liked to believe it wasn't a coincidence that she had done the same after Budapest, when they had assigned her to try and get a leash around Tony Stark. (Thank goodness her hair was flattened to being slightly wavy; if her hair wasn't short as it had been before he preferred the controlled waves, much easier to run his fingers through those few times he got the chance.) At first he was curious as to why it was he in New Mexico and her in Malibu (and wherever else Stark's exploits had been) but then it became clear; would Stark listen to the gruff man or the provocative lady? Not even a question. I want one, 'tasha had quoted with that rare chuckle meant for amusement. That was what he said after I took down the boxing instructor. Oh, the looks on the three faces, the yell of surprise from Pepper...

Get in line, Clint would say to Tony's voice in his head.

Then again, who was he to say? Did he have a leash, a sheet of paper giving him command to the wills and wishes of the Black Widow? No, of course he didn't. No one did; that lease was kept buried deep in her person to never be retrieved, signed, owned.

Did that bother him? No, not at all. A woman, let alone the one beside him, wasn't something to be owned like that aforementioned dog or horse. Proof of his point, even the eccentric Stark could do naught but listen to his beloved Pepper. The animal listens to its master. (That made Stark one strange pet.) Did that make him a trained bird, sent off to do what the assignment entailed before returning to the outstretched arm of Natasha Romanoff, or whatever alias she used? It wasn't a bad image, both the metaphorical one and the idea of her having an arm outstretched for him to step into.

What a fantasy, Clint chided himself. Was this what the early morning hours did to him? He needed more sleep.

She shifted her weight beside him. Lethargically, Clint watched as the woman lifted her head from the pillows, took a glance out the window, rolled over, and settled her weight back down in a way that wouldn't leave her with a stiff back or neck. Always so careful, even in her sleep.

There was a different feel in the air. Unlike cold switching to warm and his body adjusting to the change, it was the familiar feeling of being observed. Instead of jolting up and proceeding to stalk the condo with bow in hand, Barton simply turned his head to look back down at Natasha. She was listening, he could tell- those eyes weren't gently closed with genuine slumber though she was a damn good actress. (What else should he expect?)

The arm that was still under her curled so that he could brush his knuckles down her side, her back. Still yet, the atmosphere morphed. The room, once so free and open thanks to the uncovered windows, now began to feel closed off, the air stagnant. The umoving atmostphere brought scents to his nose that he may not have normally noticed. He knew blood and metal, dirt and death, but through it all there had always been a constant, her. Did being super human, someone like Steve or Banner, mean that senses were heightened? Did that include scents? Inhaling slowly, deeply, Barton couldn't help but think that being super human wouldn't be such a bad thing.

One of her arms moved slowly, more like a snake than a spider, and an open hand pressed against his chest as his ribs fell from the heavy exhale. That was what had caused the sudden shift, wasn't it, that wandering arm? A little more pressure, a bit of her body weight, and she could begin to restrict his breathing via his false ribs; that would have been her plan all along, had he been an enemy, a target she slept with to get information (it always worked, always worked). Instead, the palm remained on his sternum, her weight felt but nothing more. Control. The animal obeys its master. What was he but a loyal hawk bound by years of training to return to that outstretched hand?

To a normal man, the way she tilted her head beside him, her hair falling from her neck to expose the skin in waning darkness may have been seen as submission, an invitation. Such men would feel the Widow's Sting, the round of a gun, or perhaps a more physical means of death- an artery, a pressure point, the snap of the neck. Submission? No, no, this woman did not submit. If anything, her eyes, still steeled and stoic, made that clear.

She permit.

There was no shared look, no amorous glimpse into the other's eyes with a soft, secretive smile. Had there been Clint would have flashed an arm back to his nightstand and grabbed the gun hidden in a false pannel. The Widow's mask was perfection. Emotion was the sign of an impostor; trust him to know, a few had tried. Words (especially the romantic kind) were never exhanged. Like love, they were for children.

Words were so easily manipulated, misunderstood, taken out of context and turned against the speaker no matter how innocent the original topic may have been. There was no guarantee of the effect they would have on another being. Why trust such flimsy ties?

Love was no better. Emotion ate away at sanity, chipped away at one's guard. One day a man was madly in love, the next he had his teeth ground in hatred. Love always turned into hate. Love was like fire; beautiful, warm, mesmerizing but fatal in large portions. Love faded, fire burned out, hate settled in, cold took over. Now, he wasn't sure about folks who came from other parts of the globe but he wasn't fond of the cold.

Pressure from the hand lessened and he leaned to one side. Any hidden weapon on her would be fatal if drawn, he was that close. Instead, those bright (only in color) eyes lidded fractionally. She was assessing him. Her head tilted back, obscuring her eyes from view. At the same time his teeth grazed the side of her neck- only because she had graced him with the chance. While he trailed up to her jaw and back down, he dared not touch her jugular or risk a reflex attack. The hand on his sternum remained where it was; his choice had been the right one. That arm of his still under her curled, his wrist flexing so that he could string his fingers through her hair like a thick comb. For his own safety, though that phrase seemed out of place, his free hand slowly moved from where it lay by his side until the palm of his hand found the curve of her waist under the black civilian shirt. He nipped a slow line across the curve of her face, her jaw, dancing over the pit of her throat, avoiding that untouchable skin with all but his breath. Curling his fingers so they made impressions on her skin, the hand at her waist applied pressure. He did not force her on her back like a less patient man. Rather, he asked her to and she responded by sliding that hand on his chest up so it curved behind his neck.

No, he didn't want love, romance or any of that fire; for if he never loved her he could never hate her.