Disclaimer: I do not own and am not affiliated with the Avengers or Marvel, or any such characters.

*No stealing stories, thanks.*

A/N: Hiya! So I've been reading a TON of Avenger fanfiction (because the Avengers are awesome and the movie was surprisingly EPIC) and I wrote this one last night when I couldn't sleep. Black Widow is a pretty good character and, because I love Hawkeye and Black/Hawk too, I just had to throw him in as well. Btw, I'm not trying to be stereotypical here at all- in fact, I've never actually heard of Natasha drinking. I figured because I don't think she usually drinks that the story would make more sense...? And I am NOT justifying drinking, or think you should try to get drunk. At. All. So yeah. If I made any mistakes or you have any comments/tips, reviews are always appreciated! Thanks, and enjoy the story!

After long days and sleepless nights, the last thing you wanted was to be asked questions. People may care, but you sure as hell don't anymore. That's the nice thing about a bottle; they don't talk back. They just give you a quiet escape for a while and let your mind run dry, until you don't need to think and you can get a bit of peace.

Of course it's wrong to do; they say you can get addicted to the escape. But she didn't really care that much. The stuff never affected her like that. Maybe it was the famous Russian blood in her veins, or perhaps it was the fact that she was used to the taste and feel of it and the flashiness of getting drunk had worn off a very long time ago. She found some justification knowing that she deserved a night alone, after all the obscenely and dangerously useless missions over the past few nights. If anyone tried to tell her otherwise, she had a couple of newly acquired glass bottles with which to convince them.

The woman's breathing flowed heavily. The liquor on her tongue was bitter and thin, as she swung back her bottle for a swig. She really didn't know why she was drinking like this. Budapest was the last time she ever turned to the strong stuff. It was stupid- of all the people that relied on their senses to survive, she needed her reflexes most of all. If any assassin broke down her door, she was as good as a cold body. And yet she didn't care. She sucked down another gulp reluctantly just to prove it to the open air.

Setting the bottle down on the table beside her, the woman flung back her head and leaned into the chair, letting it creak beneath her. She just wanted the whole thing to be over. Life was dragging her down, pulling her away from who she used to be. Looking back, she wasn't sure she ever knew true freedom. Was that such a bad thing? Maybe. It seemed like lately, she was only a toy- a occasionally rebellious part of a twisted game. They used her to kill, because she hadn't been killed. A former target, now a hunter. And always an assassin.

Her partner wasn't helping, either. They worked together with practiced skill and efficiency, if not always on the most pleasant of terms. There were no lies or secrets between them- bluffing proved futile for two beings who knew each other's thoughts so easily. Beyond that, however, it seemed he didn't get it like she thought he might have. It was either ignorance, stupidity, or difference of opinion- he had all three to start with. But what it was didn't matter. All that was important was that she had no one who understood.

She curled her broken head forward and, her head resting inertly on her arm, she closed her eyes, letting a wave of blank thoughts sweep her mind. She needed time to forget everything. Tomorrow she would shrug off the pain of remembering again, take a shower, and go do her job. But tonight was nothing, just a wasted night.

As her eyes grew heavier and her consciousness blackened around the edges with sleep, she heard a soft knock at the door. Evidently this wasn't her night after all- someone still needed her. Of course it was too late. She wasn't going to answer the door. The woman let the unwanted visitor keep knocking.

After a few minutes, the door opened slowly, letting in outside light that cut through the dim room. The woman strained her neck around, prepared to make whoever came in loudly aware of her ultimate displeasure at their presence, when she recognized the face of the man that peered around the door frame. She turned back around, too tired to yell at the idiot for disturbing her, and deliberately ignored his presence, getting the uneasy tingling that lingered in the back of her brain when she could sense someone's eyes on her. Hopefully the idiot would go away and leave her be.

Letting herself grow limp again, she felt a strong pair of arms pull her suddenly out of her seat. Instinctively she tensed up and grabbed the arm of her attacker, but she found herself easily overpowered and inconceivably weak. The woman struggled to be free of the arms that carried her, kicking and pushing and letting out a string of frenetic, illegible curses in her efforts. The arms carried her only a short ways, gently holding her lurching body close and tight before dropping her unceremoniously on something soft. The woman stopped fighting immediately. She opened her eyes wider and found herself staring into the faded white sheets of a bed, her body lying across it after being put down on its surface and, as she felt a smooth warmth sliding up her body, covered by its blankets. Raising her head, she watched as the visitor who had carried her walked away, hunched over and stifling a yawn of his own.

The man paused at the now vacant table and stared at the bottle on top before picking it up with a sigh. Throwing his head back, he downed two large swigs and put it back down again. Wiping his mouth on his hand, the man walked back to the door and, turning off the light, closed the door behind him. Watching him leave, the woman let her head fall on the bed and barely smiled, invisible in the darkness.

Before she let sleep completely overtake her, she languidly realized two things . One, she found that, unfortunately, she was not averse to the effects of large consumptions of liquor like she thought she was. But more importantly, she felt something in the back of her mind as she lay alone on the bed. Maybe it was the bottle talking after all, but maybe, just maybe, someone knew. Maybe, someone was her comrade after all. And maybe, someone cared. Just a bit.