A/N: I've been wanting to write a Clintasha fic for weeks. This is one of the products of many ideas about them. Reviews are very welcome.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from Marvel's Avengers Assemble. I wish I did.

The entire apartment was silent, save for the droplets of water that were hammering against the window. Natasha pulled herself out of bed slowly and walked towards the door, taking the black robe that had been left hanging there. She put it on and used the soft rope with it to tie it around her waist, securing it. She pulled out her red hair from the back of the robe – it was finally starting to grow again, now teasing the start of her back. She opened the bedroom door and looked across the room, seeing him perched on the arm of the small sofa with his own robe on. He had a purple mug in his hands with steam still rising from it. She looked to the kitchen top and saw her red mug filled with steaming liquid. She picked it up and then started to move towards him, looking at his back as she did. She sat down herself next to where he was perched, but he didn't move. He was watching the rain hit the glass, taking in every droplet. It smashed against the windows as if wanting some form of sanctuary, but it eventually gave up and created hundreds of tiny streams against the glass, all rolling downward. She knew he hated the rain, he always had. It was one of the first things she had learnt about him.

"Barton!" Natasha called, looking around. In the midst of the explosion, she had lost him. He had run one way and she the other, doing the one thing that Coulson had told them not to do – separate. It had been their first mission together, and it wasn't going well. She started to move in the opposite direction she had come, hoping to find him. She had lost her communicator a while back, so she would just have to rely on her eyesight to find her partner. How could he have been so stupid? He knew full well what he was doing when he had shot an arrow at the bomb. They were lucky they had both got out alive, not that it would matter if she couldn't find him. At least the bomb had been good for something – it made their job a little easier. It had taken out the people they had been sent to kill, so now all they had to do was return to base.

"Barton!" She called again, looking around. There wasn't many places he could have gone, considering he had just blown up all that there was. Rubble was everywhere; everything was crushed from giant pieces of rock that had come from the abrupt demolition of the building. Something touched her face and she looked upward, seeing the dark clouds gather. The droplets started to pour down, creating a sheet of water that came crashing to the earth. She sighed, feeling it cover her completely. She was drenched through in minutes as she searched for him, somewhere between feeling angry and feeling worried.

"Natasha?" His voice finally called back. She spun around, feeling her hair form one thick mass as it slapped against her back. There, about thirty feet away, Clint was crouched beneath a giant piece of the rubble. She made her way toward him, seeing that he was dry. The piece of rubble had formed a shelter, keeping him shielded from the downpour.
"You're an idiot, Barton." She said. She had been cursing on the way toward him, but now that she was there, she just couldn't find the energy to actually be angry with him. She was more concerned with the gash on his forearm about four inches long. He shrugged, looking up at her.
"Killed them, didn't it?"
She said nothing as she stared down at him, looking from his face to his arm. He looked at the cut himself and then back up at her.
"I got hit." He explained. "Did you?"
 "No," Natasha said. "Let me look at it."
She finally came under the shelter that he was under, crouching down to his level. She took his arm in her hands and looked the cut over, deciding that Barton would live to blow another building up.
"We need to get back to town and contact Coulson." She told him.
"Later." He replied.
"He doesn't even know we're alive."
"He can wait."
"We're supposed to contact him as soon as possible."
"It's Phil. He'll think we're still working."
"What's your problem?" Natasha looked at him.
"...I don't like the rain." Clint admitted, looking away from her. Natasha looked at him with a surprised expression, finding it hard to believe.
"You don't like the rain?" She repeated, just to make sure she had heard correctly.
"Yes." He offered no explanation for what he had said. He didn't turn back to look at her, he just kept his eyes trained on the ground near his feet. Natasha sat back against their shelter, looking up at the sky. It was going to be a long wait, judging by the dark clouds that seemed to have no ending.

His eyes were still trained on the window. Natasha held her cup in one hand and reached the other to touch his back. It was then that he moved, looking down at her. He offered her a soft smile, like it was the first time he had realised she was there.
"Morning, Tasha."
"You're up early," she commented.
"I couldn't sleep. The rain kept me up." Clint said, standing up from the arm of the chair. He took the place on the other side of Natasha, making her turn the other way to see him. Now that she had a better view of his face, he looked tired. There were bags under his eyes and his face was paler than usual. She assumed that the cup of coffee he held in his hands was not the first cup he had made that morning.
"Do you remember the first mission we went on together?" Natasha asked, studying his face.
"Yeah, I do." Clint nodded. "It was the same time I got this."
He leaned forward and rolled the sleeve of his robe up, showing her the faded scar on his left arm that she had seen so many times before. It was barely visible now, but she knew exactly where it was. To anyone else, there wasn't a scar. To her, she could see it every time she looked. He pushed his sleeve down and leaned back again, allowing her to rest her head against his shoulder. He placed his mug on the table next to his side of the sofa and then did the same with hers, so he could properly wrap his arms around her. He kissed the top of her head and she hummed contentedly, watching the rain. She didn't have to look at him to know he was still watching the window. She knew that he was not to be argued with when it came to this. She remembered when he had told her the reason why he didn't like the rain.

They were stuck in a tiny hotel room in Rome, with only each other for company. Their mission was long since completed, but they were waiting to fly back to headquarters. Someone from SHIELD was on their way for them – they had been trusted enough to go without back-up on this mission. The room was a complete mess – the carpet was ebbing away from the walls and the light was dim. The wallpaper was starting to peel, but it hadn't really mattered. They were only in it until their transport got there. It was a rule that if they were staying for more than a day on a mission, they had to change where they were staying every night and go in under different names. At the moment, they were Tim and Anna West. They were both sat on the floor, having pulled the pillows from the bed to sit on. There were two glasses between them and a bottle of Russian vodka by Natasha's side. They were still wearing their uniforms with their weapons by their sides, but right now Clint was reaching for the bottle and pouring them both a small portion so they could do shots.
 "How many did you get Tasha, two?"
 "Four," Natasha rolled her eyes at him, lifting her glass. "Five, if you count the one that you thought you'd gotten."
"I left him for you," Clint said, putting the bottle back down and lifting his own glass.
"That's very kind of you." Natasha downed the liquid and felt the burn tear down her throat, enjoying the feeling. He did the same, and then poured them another. He smiled at her as they downed them again; watching her drink the liquid like it had no effect on her.

They were halfway through the bottle when Natasha asked. He had dropped the bottle in response, smashing it and draining their last half of the vodka. She had regained her posture as he did so, looking at him curiously.
"Clint?"
"Why do you ask?" He wasn't looking at her, but at the glass that he had just broken. She moved to pick up the pieces, pushing them to one side.
"It was the first thing you told me about yourself," Natasha told him quietly. "I just wondered why."
He was still staring at the alcohol that was seeping into the carpet. His shoulders were tense and his jaw locked. Natasha decided it was best to leave it and not ask again. She settled back on her pillow and turned her gaze from him.
"My parents," he said lowly. She turned back to him, wondering whether he would say more.
"It was raining when he crashed the car." Clint told her. She knew about his parents, about what had happened. His father had been drunk behind the wheel and crashed the car, killing both himself and Clint's mother. He had told her only once; the same time she had told him that her parents were dead. Looking at him now, she didn't know what to say. Instead she just reached a hand out and squeezed his shoulder, trying as best she could to comfort him. She wasn't good at physical interaction like that, but she tried her best. He placed one of his hands over hers, looking at her. She nodded at him, understanding. The rest of the time in the room was spent in silence, sitting next to each other, squeezing the other's hand every now and again for comfort.

"Thanks, Tasha." He said quietly. She looked at him, seeing him looking back instead of focused on the window like she thought he would be. She didn't have to ask why he was thanking her because she already knew. After that mission, whenever it rained she would sit with him like this until it stopped. They would sit in silence, huddled up together. She knew that he needed that more than he needed anything else when it rained – he needed someone to be there for him. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, smiling at him softly.
"You're welcome."