ANGST.

He had been looking for her for three damned hours.

Three. Hours.

It was not even intentional when he finally did find her. It was the too familiar tone and drawl of her voice with its innocent inflection that caught his attention and it was only because he was so incredibly tuned to her that he found her at all. He could hear deeper voices – male voices – responding to whatever she was saying in such hushed tones. He hardly spared the rain soaked, orange street light illuminated road a glance as he jogged across, slipping through the minimal space left between two pickup trucks parked against the sidewalk. The moon and the stars were blocked out by the thick blanket of clouds overhead, leaving the somewhat eerie glow of the street lamps to light up certain intermittent patches of ground. It was a nearly deserted street; occupied only by hole in the wall bars and alleys and tattoo parlors – silent save for the occasional drunken shout. He followed the sound of her voice a short way down the sidewalk and paused in front of an entry to an alleyway before turning down the dumpster lined, heavily shadowed path.

Clint Barton could tell the moment Natasha Romanoff sensed his presence in the shadows; a slight tick of the muscles in her jaw, the stiffening of her shoulders, nothing particularly visible and certainly not obvious enough to make the star struck puppy dogs at her feet question anything.

Clint smirked at the utter pathetic mess of boyish men at her feet. He couldn't exactly blame them. Her looks would make better men fall to their knees.

He watched the redhead step forward, hair falling free from behind her shoulders to curtain around her face, hiding her expression from her prying partner as she breathed tempting words into her victim's ear, gripping the front of his shirt to drag him flush against her chest. His eyes dropped down shamelessly to stare at the flawless white flesh of her chest that nearly glowed in contrast to the darkness, completely ignoring the Russian's words. She did not even need the smooth talking with how desperate these boys were.

Had the archer been able to see Natasha's face, he would've stopped her then.

But because of her obstructive hair, he did not see the murderous glint in her green eyes – a glint that was through and through Red Room born and bred.

As it was, he did not see the lethal shift in her expression.

Not until there was the almost missed flash of a knife and red.

So much red; spilling, bleeding, dripping, gushing, pulsing, blinding, staining red.

And the poor boy fell into a crumpled mass of dead flesh and bones at the feet of the Black Widow.

The second man regarded the beautiful redhead with such terror that Clint was already moving towards her, cutting in between her and the stranger, gripping her wrist and twisting sharply, stopping just before bones would start to fissure. He tightened his grip and ignored the beyond furious look in her eyes until she dropped the knife.

When the trembling low life behind him didn't move, Clint's head turned suddenly to glare at him with such ferocity that the man cursed and stumbled backwards, tripping over his own feet until he was out of sight.

Barton glanced down at the dead boy lying in a pool of his own blood and scowled at his partner, dropping her hand with a little too much force. He turned away from her and took a few heavy breaths before spinning around with a look of complete anger.

Natasha was standing there, wiping the fresh blood off her knife onto the leg of her skinny jeans, with a completely unaffected look on her face. Until something much worse flitted across Barton's features, just long enough for Natasha to see it. Disappointment.

That at least made Natasha's eye twitch.

She had never cared what others thought. Until she met Barton. And then he forced her to care.

The disappointment was gone by the time he blinked again and was once again replaced by burning anger.

"What the hell was that Romanoff?" he spat, backing her into the wall. Natasha nearly flinched at the use of her last name, and then her eyes hardened; she didn't take being cornered well.

"You better back the hell up, Barton." She warned lowly. Her eyes were promising pain if he didn't.

"Answer me, dammit." He growled, slamming his palm into the concrete wall beside her head. He watched her shut down in record time after that and locked down his own expression until they were two blank faces staring at each other, challenging each other. But he still hadn't moved to let her go.

He saw the subtle shift in her eyes this time, the one that promised maiming and shoved his leg between hers, twisting it until it was wrapped around her leg, keeping it from jerking upwards and kneeing him where it would hurt. She arched an eyebrow and they stayed tangled like that for a moment before her other leg was kicking upwards and over, until she was straddling Barton's shoulders. The moment she was free of his attempted confinement, she launched her body backwards, landing on her hands, then pushing up and letting her legs drop gracefully, righting herself. Clint blocked Natasha's fist, knocking her arm out of the way, and using it as leverage to pull her off balance. She recovered before she'd even stumbled and kicked the back of his legs, sending him stumbling forward and effectively messing up his near perfect balance. Clint ducked out of her lethal hold, dropping down and kicking her feet out from under her in one smooth motion and sending her on her back. Before he could pin her, she vaulted backwards into a handstand, scissoring her thighs around his chest, bringing her partner crashing to the ground with a pained grunt. He wrapped his hand around her ankle, pulling Natasha off of his chest and down beside him. He pinned her arms to the concrete floor, only trapping her for a half a second before she got her hands between them and shoved hard at his chest, rolling out from under her partner. Clint was already on her by the time she was standing, and ducking the expected elbow aimed for his sternum. He grabbed her elbow and shoved in the direction her momentum was already carrying her and wrapped his arms around her tightly, pinning her arms to her side.

She accepted the defeat sooner than she usually did and sagged back against his chest. Worry spiked in his chest, suppressing the anger just slightly. And the disappointment that she had regressed to who she was pre-Clint, pre-SHIELD.

"Natasha," he breathed in her ear, pressing his forehead against her shoulder. Natasha was silent for a long time after that. Long enough that Clint started to think she wouldn't answer. Until she did.

"I have a daughter."

His arms went slack and his brow furrowed as she paced away from him, bracing her hands against the wall opposite him.

His silence, for God knows what reason, drove her to continue.

"Katya." She breathed, a hint of her Russian accent bleeding into her tone. Clint's chest was tight.

"She's eleven today."

Barton couldn't even swallow.

Until his brain caught up to what was coming out of Natasha's mouth.

Eleven…eleven?

That would mean…

Aw hell.

Natasha winced almost imperceptibly when she saw the understanding in Clint's eyes.

"You were twelve." He hissed. "Twelve years old." Now his chest was heaving visibly and his hand was twitching towards the concealed gun strapped to the side of his chest. "God damn it." He yelled, spinning suddenly and throwing his fist into the wall.

"Barton." Natasha snapped.

"You were a kid, dammit."

"Barton."

The sharp cracking of his finger echoed in the alley shortly after the sound of his fist hitting cement for the second time.

"They did that to a little girl."

"Clint, shut the hell up." She said fiercely, grabbing his upper arm in a death grip.

"I'm sorry, Tasha. I'm so sorry." He shook his head and leaned his forehead against hers, squeezing his eyes shut.

"For what?" she scoffed, glancing downwards to inspect his bloodied fist. "Not coming until they had corrupted me and forced me to become a killer?"

Pain flashed in his eyes and she had to fight the urge to punch the man for the self deprecation in his eyes.

"Did you force yourself on me?" she asked bluntly. Clint's eyes popped wide open.

"No." he said with a fierceness that nearly surprised Natasha.

"No, you didn't." she smiled softly and brought her hand up to the side of his face. "Alexei Shostakov did, Clint." Her voice darkened considerably with that name and Clint stiffened at the sound of sirens in the distance.

"We've got to go." He said lowly, scanning the immediate area for anything they needed to wipe down. There was nothing save for the knife and she was taking it with her.

They fell into familiar silence and made their way back to the New York safe house. Clint quirked an eyebrow in silent question, dumping his brown canvas jacket on the table along with his gun. Her eye twitched and rolled her eyes towards the ceiling, switching her jaw.

"I did to her – Katya – what was done to me." She mused blankly. Clint leaned against the table just in front of her.

"You didn't have a choice." Clint countered. But she knew that. She was a twelve year old murderer, pregnant with the baby of her KGB trainer and husband. Katya wouldn't have stood a chance.

But she was lost in the foster system now.

Family-less like Natasha had been.

And she wouldn't wish that on anyone, much less her own flesh and blood.

Either way, Katya was better off without her mother.

And Clint knew Natasha knew that.

But that didn't change the fact that somewhere there was an eleven year old little girl wondering where her mother was and why the woman didn't want her.

"You did the right thing, Tasha." He said instead. She nodded tipped her head back against the wall.

It was an hour before Clint spoke again. And when he did, Natasha had to actively work not to flinch at the return of the disappointment in his tone.

"Why did you kill that man, Natasha?"

"It's who I am Barton. I am a killer." She said slowly, as if she were talking to a much younger child. Clint scowled.

"Not it's not!" he snapped. "Not anymore. There are rules Natasha. And you violated a big one." He shook his head sharply and looked away from her to compose himself. "Unless you can tell me why you slit his throat, I can't defend you." He said quietly. "Because it will come back around. And you know it." The last consonant had barely left his mouth when she was speaking, rushing her words.

"I did to Katya what was done to me by the Red Room. I abandoned her. I am no better than them, Barton." She spat. Understanding sparked in Clint's eyes followed by utter disbelief.

"Natasha." He said slowly, upon realizing she was dead serious. "That is bullshit." He deadpanned.

The redhead's jaw clenched.

"You are lying to me." He said, voice gravelly with anger. Her eyes hardened at the accusation and Clint grabbed her shoulders in his rough hands and shook her hard as her walls came up. "Why?" he insisted louder.

"Because I missed it!" she yelled, shoving hard against his chest. Clint took a measured step back in respect. "I missed the screaming." She admitted, sneering. "I missed the innocence in their eyes." She continued, cursing under her breath and dropping her head into her hands.

And the reminder of what they forced her to do to her own daughter brought back the need to be numb again with roaring ferocity.

"Tasha,"

"Don't. Don't call me that. Not now. I'm not her. I'm not that version of me that you-" she cut off abruptly and Clint crouched in front of her.

"That I saw something different in?" he finished. Her shoulders stiffened. "Tasha," he breathed again. "You were born and raised to be the perfect weapon. It's innate, ingrained. You haven't been here long enough to adjust completely. I slipped in my first few years. It gets easier." He promised. She took a few measured breaths and when she look up, her face was terrifyingly blank. Clint's shoulders deflated as she shook him off and strutted into the bathroom.

WHAT'D YOU THINK?