It was raining. A horrible, pouring rain that drenched the Widow's black satin blouse, and a matching black trenchcoat. Her scarlet hair was up in a bun; tiny strands sinking onto her forehead with each droplet that splashed her face, now scarred and expressionless. It had been ten years since his death, and she went to visit him every day since. The team understood her feelings, though Fury cast them aside and told her she needed to work. Although he always made an exception for when she came back late from lunch, and he took special care not to send her on a mission that was too far out of the country or would take more than a few days.
She stood alone now, watching cars racing by, tidal waves flooding the sidewalk as birds fluttered into treetops. She stared and waited. There was no noise, aside from the pitter-patter of water hitting her face. She zoned out on the iridescent splashes that dropped onto the end of her nose. She brushed them off quietly, and then realized there was no point. She had no umbrella, and felt no shame in being soaked through her clothes and to her skin. All she wanted was him, and although she knew that standing here wasn't going to bring him back she felt oddly comforted at the eerie calmness of the cemetery.
Staring at the rows of grey, bleak stones, she draped her arms around herself and knelt down to the one stone that meant something to her. She brushed off the dank green moss that had formed in between the letters of his name. Her fingers lingered on the alias that was in quotation marks, "Hawkeye". Her nails scratched into the stone, and dirt came underneath her fingernails. She gingerly placed one Lillie, his favourite flower, in front of his monument. She let her hands fold together and rest on her bent knees.
She was lonely. She felt empty. She didn't know what she was going to do without him.
Her heart told her that she had to be brave, and she would not cry. Not in front of him. Or anybody. She hadn't shed one bitter, sorrow filled tear through his entire ceremony. So she thought of him, and all the good times they had. When he taught her to shoot a bow with her eyes closed, when they snuck up to his nest at headquarters late at night, that mission in Budapest... They were partners, forever. Not even in death would she ever denounce their bond.
Sometimes at night she could almost feel his hands on her shoulders, brushing her hair out of her face after she lay down to sleep, holding her hand as she walked. She sighed at the simple things they used to do, how she would give anything just to have one more moment with him.
Her moment was ruined when a small girl stumbled up to her, tripped over a rock, fumbled to get back up quickly and grabbed her by the coat. Her tiny fingers held a vice grip on the edge of Natasha's jacket, unmoving. Her fragile ice-blue eyes peered up at her over her shaggy blond-brown hair.
"Mommy!" The girl tugged.
Natasha let out a perplexed sigh.
"I told you to wait in the car."
"But you said someday I could meet daddy." Her high-pitched voice mumbled in disappointment.
"How did you even slip by Jarvis? I strictly told him to keep a good eye on you."
"He said he would watch me leave, and he even helped me cross the road! He said I was ready today!"
"Today is not that day. I want you to be older."
"But I want to nooowwww!" She whined.
"No." Natasha replied sternly. She pointed to the black limousine that was just across the road. She managed to give Jarvis a good stink-eye, but he only smiled back at her and waved.
Her daughter stared into her eyes and crossed her arms. The little monkey, just as stubborn and patient as her father! Natasha couldn't stay mad at that face. Not when she looked exactly like him.
She sighed when she realized she'd been beaten.
"Alright then, today's the day. Let me show you the grave of the greatest man who ever lived."
She scooped her daughter up into her arms and walked towards his grave.
"This is the grave of Hawkeye, known to me as Clint Barton, and he is your father. I loved him, just as I love you, my precious flower."
They nuzzled noses, and the small child in her arms, the one who was the only real reminder of anything she had ever had with Clint, whispered into her ears "I love you mommy."
Natasha slipped her fingers into her daughter's hair, breathing in the soft scent of fruity shampoo and as one tear slipped down her face, she whispered back, "I love you too, Lillie."