A short story of how Natasha deals with death. I am a dedicated Clintasha shipper, so this could hint at that pairing if you wanted it to. Obviously no Barton family, set a little while after Clint made a different call.

I wanted to show how death can affect even those who have caused it, and the idea popped into my head after reading the paper. A lot of people have died recently, which, unfortunately, is the case most of the time nowadays. In three consecutive pages, there was one page dedicated to the three biggest tragedies in Ireland, my home country, recently. Page one was the Tunisian beach massacre. I think the total number dead was thirty seven, though I can't be sure, three of whom were Irish citizens. The next was about the five Irish students who died at a party in Berkeley, California when a balcony collapsed. The third was about a boy named Ronan, a teenager, who committed suicide a few weeks ago. There hasn't exactly been much to celebrate this past while.

Good luck, happy reading, and God bless.

'How old were you the first time you killed?'

At this, Natasha raised her head slowly. 'Excuse me?'

'You heard the question,' her interrogator stated simply.

She cocked her head to the side, letting the left corner of her mouth curl upwards in a smirk. 'How old do you think I was?' She kept her speech clear and slow and steady, not letting any emotion leak out through her words. Agreeing to work for them or not, Natasha never signed up for this much intrusion into her past.

The man - Coulson, Barton had named him as - shook his head. 'I don't know. Truth be told, Natalia, we don't know nearly as much about the Red Room as we would like to. We need your insight into their workings. That's why you're here.'

Natasha remained silent for several minutes, casually processing her options as regards the outcome of this questioning. Coulson remained calm and relaxed, simply watching her and waiting for her to continue. She had to admire him for that.

'No.'

Coulson's forehead creased immediately. 'I'm sorry?'

'No.' She met his eyes. 'I'm here because your man didn't fully complete his mission. I'm here because your Hawk decided to take a chance and bring me in. None of you actually want me here. But you don't have much of a choice, do you?' She laughed humourlessly, shaking her scarlet curls and focusing directly in the centre of the one way glass behind Agent Coulson, where she could only assume there were countless high ranking officers watching. 'A wanted assassin taken out in a struggle in the field, or in an anonymous sniper shot, sure, that's fine. The word SHIELD might never be brought up, or you could prove you were justified if needed. But what about an execution?' she pondered.

Coulson's face was grim, clearly not liking her direction of this conversation.

'You wouldn't,' she said simply. 'You wouldn't dare,' Natasha spat at them. 'I'm here because you wouldn't dare to kill me now. Because if word were to get out - and surely one day it would - how on earth would SHIELD explain that to the US government? The UN? Your own people? Death penalty or not,' she told them, 'you aren't legally allowed to kill me. Not without a trial. You'd win. Of course you would. But you won't go public with my capture. Not when it would mean revealing to the world you've known the KGB have been regrouping in such a way for so long - not when you haven't intervened in the kidnapping of dozens of little girls-' she slammed her fist down on the table '- and no chance in hell would you uncover all the disasters and murders and attacks and assassinations you've made go away just to get rid of me.' Natasha swallowed and leaned back in her chair.

'Now,' she said, in a sweet tone of voice. 'What was your question again?' Natasha noted the faraway look that came over Coulson's expression. He was getting info over his earpiece.

'Widow-' he started. 'You are right.' Natasha was surprised to say the least. Government drones admitting defeat? That'd be a first. From Coulson's distasteful look, she could tell the man behind the voice in his ear didn't like what he was doing. Coulson removed his earpiece and let it hang at his collar. 'We never accounted for the possibility of you being taken in alive,' Coulson admitted. 'We also would most definitely not go public with your capture.'

'You're scared,' she observed, allowing a hint of smugness to appear in her voice.

He shrugged in response and added, 'Not really our style either. But you could be right too.' Coulson gave a soft smile.

Natasha did not return the gesture, but allowed the tension in her features to deplete.

'But you're wrong about no one wanting you here.'

'Am I now?' Natasha quipped. No one wanted her around. Not unless it was for a job. People could appreciate her work, but they did not like her.

'Yes, Natalia, you are,' he said. 'I know of one person who firmly believes in giving you this chance. Barton.'

Natasha's lips curled into a wry, exasperated smile. 'Your best assassin took one look a me, his target, and then took it upon himself to restart my life.'

Coulson mirrored her expression. 'Clint's never been the by-the-book sort,' he commented, rising from his seat and lifting up his thin file on the Red Room. Natasha noted the strong, confident strides he took across the room before he paused with his hand on the door.

Natasha stood also, figuring it was time to return to her new quarters. A guard would be waiting outside the door to escort her.

'I'd be grateful for that, if I were you,' Coulson told her. 'It is the only reason you're alive, after all.' He gave an empathetic smile when she felt her head nod of its own accord. 'Guard,' he requested, pulling open the door. The man nodded to Coulson and waited as Natasha approached the door. 'We'll speak again later, Natalia.'

In that second, Natasha took a chance. Not a huge one, but she thought if she was to work here for the foreseeable future, she should have some people who were willing to respect her on her , and she was genuinely warming up to Coulson. 'Yes, sir.' Pleased at his slight surprise and gratitude, Natasha walked in the direction of her room, her guard following close behind as she heard Coulson's footsteps heading the other way.

As she moved off, Natasha analysed her talk with Coulson. He hadn't been scared of her. He also had given her a chance. Shit. Natasha didn't know a whole lot about favours, nor mutual respect - the you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours concept had been a foreign one in the KGB - but she figured she owed Coulson for his willingness to work with her.

Slowing to a halt, Natasha turned to her right partially, and over her shoulder, she called, 'Agent Coulson.' Her voice remained calm and smooth (mainly for the reassurance of the young agent assigned to her who she could tell was already scared out of his wits by her mere presence) as the man in question turned back towards her. Lifting her eyes from the floor, she met his, her face grave. 'I was seven. The first time I killed. You asked.'

A look of realisation and slight horror appeared in the man's eyes - she hoped it wasn't in response to herself, but more at the organisation who'd forced her to do so - before he nodded grimly. 'Thank you, Natalia,' he said, and an inexplicable relief washed over her at the sincerity and sorrow in his voice. He wasn't disgusted by her. So far that count was up to two.

'Sir,' she nodded respectfully, hoping he could understand she wasn't at all proud of her past actions. Not wanting to face anyone right now, she hurried off, her guard quickening his pace behind her. On her journey back to her room, Natasha attempted to keep the flood of memories threatening to burst through at bay.

"It'll all be okay, Tali. In the end. You'll see."

"Natalia. Kill."

Quick and fast. One quick snap. Sharp and eardrum piercing and-

'"Faster, Natalia."

"You are a natural."

"It will not kill them if you don't act fast, Natalia. You mus-"

"-kill-"

Sickening. An awful burning, revolting flavour in the back of her throat.

"Now!"

"You must serve-"

Death. That putrid sight of her own hands tightening on someone's neck-

It wasn't working. They wouldn't leave her alone - why couldn't she just forget? Get to your room. Then no one will see. just down this hall. Twenty metres.

'I'm fine from here,' she told the guard.

'I'm not to leave you alone outside your quarters,' the agent retorted, as though he was reciting information from a handbook.

'Give her a break, Ward,' came a voice from down the corridor. Barton. 'I've got her from here,' he told the man, waving his hand in dismissal. The agent nodded shortly and left.

Natasha let out a sigh as she stumbled to her door, not really caring what Barton thought of her - she just needed to get out of sight before-

"You belong to us, Natalia."

"Love is weakness."

"Childish-" The young Natalia, the one who had yet to learn, would have questioned this in her own head. Was she not a child?

"You're a survivor, Tali. Don't let them break you."

No. Those memories were worse. Give me pain, torture, murder, she thought. Don't make me remember that. She would hate you now, a voice told her as she pushed her way into her room, aware of Barton's calls after her but not responding. You're everything she didn't want to be.

Hands on her shoulder and the slam of her door jerked her out of that flash of memories. 'Natasha,' Clint said warily, 'what the fuck's going on?'

'Leave,' she choked out, falling against the small island in her kitchenette, pulling at her hair in an attempt to get the pain to stop. She let it take over. Just get it over with, she thought wearily. Finish this and let me move on. Natasha slid down the side of the island, coming to a seated position on the floor. Her knees moved automatically to her chest, head spinning and that disgusting sensation of feeling everything and nothing all at once overcame her body.

'Natasha!' Barton called, dropping to his knees beside her. 'Shit, Natasha, it's a panic attack. That's it,' he tried to assure her. 'You'll be okay.' He dropped the volume of his voice, and slowly, tentatively, wrapped his arms around her shoulders. She resisted. No one could see her like this.

Weakness. You're weak. Pathetic. The tears started by themselves, racking her slender figure in heaving sobs.

'Tasha, listen to me,' Barton said. 'It hurts like hell. I know. But you'll be okay. You're okay.'

'Can't- breathe,' she choked out, the tears streaming down her face in rivers, blurring her vision. Her hands went stone cold and her throat shrank.

'Yes, yes, you can,' Barton assured, pulling her to him. Natasha didn't stop him. 'Don't try and talk. You don't have to explain it to me. Just breathe, Tasha.'

Stop. Please just stop, she pleaded internally. Coughing and spluttering, Natasha buried her face in hands, feeling herself jerk and convulse and cried. A year ago, hell, even a fortnight ago, the idea of crying and having an attack in front of someone was ludicrous.

'Tasha,' Barton said softly, taking one of her hands in his and squeezing, 'you're okay. You aren't gonna get hurt. They can't touch you here.' His voice soothed her, and somewhere in the back of her mind she was begging him not to leave her alone right now. It was so much worse alone.

Losing all remaining energy, her torso lost tension and dropped backwards. Barton caught her before she fell against the wall, shifting his weight and laying her against him.

'I'm sorry,' she choked out. She didn't know who she was apologising to. She could here his heartbeat through his chest, slowing her breathing down until it was in sync with his heart. Natasha let her features drop, allowing some of the pain and stiffness to ease from her head.

'Don't ever say you're sorry to me. Not for his,' he murmured in her ear. He wrapped his arms around her again, hugging her to his chest.

Natasha's breathing was still ragged, but became quieter and less forced as she listened to his words. Images still flashed through her mind, but they became less jolting and hurtful. Small things, she realised, that had been triggered by Barton's presence. Smiles. Kind eyes. The more careful of the doctors at the Red Room, caring for her after a mission. Eyes that were green, like her own, though darker. Flecked with gold, and filled with laughter and life.

'Coulson,' she said, her voice hoarse. 'I was talking with him.'

'Ssh,' he said. 'You don't need to explain it.'

'I do,' she said, her voice coming out more like a whimper. Her eyes blurred as they filled with salt water again. 'I do. He asked me- about there. I knew they would, eventually.'

'The Red Room?' he questioned.

Natasha nodded against his chest. 'But about before. Before I was the only one.'

'When they trained you,' he understood. 'When you trained with the other girls before you were selected.'

A crude, bitter, sour laugh rippled from her lips. 'Before I killed them. Before I- I won.' The last word made her gag.'

'You didn't win,' Barton said defiantly. 'And you sure as hell didn't kill them. No,' he cut through when she tried to retort. 'You were the bullet,' Barton whispered. 'But they fired the gun.'

When she tried to open her mouth to correct him, her tongue was dry and she felt her lips cracking.

'Tasha, don't put their deaths on you. You didn't know. You didn't have a choice.'

'I used to try and tell myself that,' she choked out. 'After I realised I didn't want to be there. But I'm not so sure about that,' she admitted. Her throat hurt with every syllable, but if she didn't put this into words aloud for someone else to hear, she'd never recover.

'Why?' he asked softly.

'Coulson. He asked how old I was when I first killed.'

'Oh,' Barton said. 'Bad?'

'Very,' she nodded. 'Seven.'

'Bastards,' he spat. Agreed.

'My fault,' Natasha muttered. 'I think... I think I wanted to. I was angry. So angry. And they told us to kill if we could, so- so-'

'So you did,' he finished for her. She nodded, crying. 'You didn't want to, Natasha. They told you to. They made you.'

'It was a training session,' she continued, letting his words sink in. 'It was- was the first time they'd actually told us to kill. Others had before, but... this was the first time for me. I avoided it before. Death scares me,' she trailed off.

'Me too,' Barton told her. 'Dying, yes, but more than anything...'

'How easily we can cause it,' Natasha said. She shivered as the thought crossed her mind, adding to her already quivering body due to the after affects of her attack.

'Yeah,' Barton said softly, a hand rubbing her back soothingly.

'Her name was Malvina,' Natasha cried, tears spilling over her lash line and down her face as Barton rocked her gently. 'Malvina killed Koa. So I killed Malvina,' she sobbed, the tears taking over and coating her entire cheeks and running down her neck. 'She was nine,' Natasha choked. 'And I killed her.'

And so she sat there, on the floor of her SHIELD residence and let the sorrow and regret and anger and revulsion pour out of her in her tears, burying her face in Clint's chest as he held her, comforted her. He listened as she poured her heart and soul out like she had never done before; like she hadn't even come close too since she had lost Koa. Her best friend - her only friend - had been what had kept her resistant for so long in her childhood.

'Koa wouldn't hate you,' Clint promised her, after she managed to tell him about her long dead friend. 'She never judged you for what you did there. And I'm sure not going to either, Tasha, I swear,' he whispered, 'I'm always gonna be on your side.'

And strangely, she believed him.

In that day, in that short snippet of her life, Natasha formed the first true bond of trust since becoming the Black Widow. A panic attack, one of many, had opened her up more than any other occurrence in her adulthood. Within a week of knowing him, he had saved her life, spared her life, given her a new one, a job offer, and a friendship. Natasha swore to herself, as she felt her body become weightless - he had lifted her from the floor, she noticed - that whatever happened, however long he was in her life, that Clint Barton would, someday, know how eternally grateful she would become for that day on the floor of her kitchen, when he pushed away the darkest parts of her soul and showed her just how little of the sorrow she had witnessed in her nineteen years had been her fault.

He laid her on her bunk, and Natasha was absentmindedly cursing herself for how her heart dropped when he left her side. He returned, however, not two minutes later with two mugs, steam curling from the tops. Natasha propped herself up against her pillows and kicked her shoes off, curling her feet beneath her and dragging the cuff of her sweater across her eyes, removing the tears. She watched as he balanced both mugs in one hand and spun a chair around next to her bed. He dropped himself into it and handed a mug to her. She could smell cinnamon, she realised.

'Hot chocolate,' he announced, smirking at her. 'The best thing to get over a shitty day. Well, that,' he corrected, 'or alcohol, but you haven't got any of that. Sorry it's only the instant stuff, but this is faster for now. Oh, and I put cinnamon on top,' he added, seeming quite proud of himself.

Natasha smiled, her face still a little stiff from the crying. 'Thanks,' she said, as sincerely as she could manage. She took a sip, and sank back against her headboard. It felt good to relax.

'No problem,' he told her, smiling back. 'You're gonna be okay, Tasha.'

She nodded, desperately hoping he was right. Natasha then quirked a smile. 'Sorry, who are you talking to Clint? See, my name's Natasha. Don't know anyone called Tasha.'

'Ha! You are hilarious, don't you know that?' he said dryly. 'Don't try and be smart; it doesn't suit you.'

'Oh,' she exclaimed, laughing despite her residual pain, 'your comebacks are just amazing. Seriously, so original.'

His shoulders rose and fall as he laughed silently. 'Tough luck, Tasha. The name's sticking. And anyway,' he announced. 'I'm your best friend. I'm supposed to have a nickname for you.'

'You just keep believing that, Barton. And anyway, you are the only person here who calls me Natasha,' she reminded him

'I'm offended,' Clint told her, trying to keep his face straight. 'And we're back to Barton now, are we? Whaddya mean no one else calls you Natasha? It's the new name you picked, right?'

'Yeah,' Natasha shrugged, 'but everyone else still refers to me as Natalia Romanova. Or sometimes just Widow,' she informed him.

'They do?' Clint asked, confused. 'I'll say to them to change that, if you want.'

Natasha considered it for a moment, blowing steam from her cup. 'Please,' she said. If she were to leave her past behind her, it would do to have everyone else stop constantly reminding her of it.

Clint nodded, slurping from his own mug. 'Will do. So what's your deal with people shortening your name?' he questioned, obviously intrigued.

Natasha sighed slightly. 'Koa... She used to call me Tali. No one ever called me anything but Natalia or Black Widow besides her. And Tasha... Say if Natasha is the new version of my old name, Natalia,' she explained, nursing her drink in her hands, 'then it just seems like Tasha is the counterpart for Tali. I don't know,' she dismissed. 'It's stupid.'

'No, I don't think so,' Clint countered, placing his empty mug on her bedside locker. 'It's personal. No one's treated you like a person in a long time,' he said softly, looking up to meet her eyes from his rest position; elbows on knees and leaning forward.

Natasha swallowed hard, trying to dissolve the lump in her throat. 'Guess so,' she agreed. She didn't want his pity, but that wasn't what this felt like. It felt like common ground.

'So how about Nat?' he asked, jumping back to topic, eyes lighting up with amusement once again.

Natasha did her best not to roll her eyes. 'Nat's okay. But when you tell the other agents about the name I chose, tell them it's just Natasha, at least for now.'

'Sure. Nat's for when some of them become more like friends. Like a term of endearment.'

Natasha's nose wrinkled at his comparison, which seemed to be what he was going for judging by his crooked smile. 'Endearment might be a bit much,' she muttered.

'Chill, Tasha,' he told her, still grinning. 'Just joking.'

She looked at him when he called her Tasha again. She wasn't necessarily pissed at him, just... wondering why?

'Sorry,' he told her, sounding not very sorry at all, 'but Tasha's staying. At least for me. Don't freak, I won't tell anyone else,' he defended.

'I don't mind,' Natasha said, hesitant as to how to explain her thoughts. 'But that's definitely just for friends,' she summarised.

'Oh my God,' Clint announced. 'You just called me your friend! Ha!'

'Shut up,' Natasha told him, rolling her eyes once more at her "friend". That may be the case, but she didn't find it necessary to send him on an ego trip. 'Oh, for God's sake, get up and sit down.'

He had pretended to fall on to the floor in shock, clasping his hands to his face, strikingly resembling the Scream painting. At her command, he jumped up from the floor, but rather than sitting back in his chair he pulled Natasha into a bear hug before she could stop him.

'Barton!' she ordered. 'Get the hell of me.' She punched him (not too painfully) in the stomach, trying to unpin her arms from her sides. She quietly was thankful she'd finished her drink before he'd attacked her.

'So not happening,' he told her, shaking with laughter at her defiance. 'It's your own fault, Tasha,' Clint said. 'This is what happens when you're friends with me.'

Natasha groaned. 'Bozhe moy.'

And... done! Hope y'all enjoyed it. Drop a review and don't forget to check out my other fics! I guess you could say Moy Yastreb came just a little while before this, but they don't overlap or anything so if you wanted them to take place in different universes, that's up to you.

Bye, and thanks for reading. Hope you're day's awesome, Ia.