Disclaimer: I don't own The Avengers, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.

Like Pulling Teeth

Chapter 1: The Shadow Of A Man

A/N: I had this idea after obsessing over the Avengers with a friend over the weekend, though I'm not quite sure how far I'll take it. My initial plan was to make this rather short; around five chapters or so. Depending on how much material I come up with, and how much of it I sincerely like, it may become longer. If not, oh, well.

It couldn't be helped, the smile that appeared as the man beside her yelped, hot coffee spilling onto his lap as the vehicle lurched to a sudden stop. He swore, and she brushed the grin under the rug for a moment, leaning out of the car to howl her own profanities at the bastard in front of her at the light. The fool hadn't stopped soon enough for the damned thing, the front end of his SUV sticking out into the intersection, drawing all kinds of vulgar attention.

Natasha had thought he'd keep on going, what with the light having been yellow before. But, no, he'd been an idiot, speeding up to the crosswalk before slamming on the breaks, scaring the living hell right out of her. And Natasha had lived through hell a time or two before.

"Bastard," she murmured, drawing the sunglasses back over her eyes. She slammed a hand against the steering wheel, honking at him again for good measure. "I swear, people don't know how to drive anymore..."

Clint, she noticed, said nothing. Instead, he busied himself with glowering at her, as if the coffee spill had been entirely her fault.

"I just washed these!" he snapped, motioning to the stain on his slate gray pants. "And what the hell do you mean they don't know how to drive?! You don't know to drive!"

Her head turned slowly, the glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose enough for Natasha to glare back at him. "Excuse me?" she said slowly. "Did you just say that you did your own laundry?" A laugh. "I don't think so."

For as long as she could remember, or the last six months, at least, they had been rooming together, sharing meal and space and various other things that had come with the woman finally acknowledging her feelings of love.

"Fine!" he said, throwing up his hands. "Maybe I don't do the laundry! But I know damn well that I can drive a hell of a lot better than you!"

A painted lip curled in disgust as she stepped out of the still-running car, walking around to the passenger's side.

"All right," she huffed, yanking open the door of the convertible. Natasha waved her hands, ushering a surprised Clint right into the driver's seat. "Move!" She took his place, snapping the seat belt shut. "Let's see how well you do."

The way Clint looked at her, he expected an explanation. But she, being a first-class assassin, and a woman at that, had no intention of offering one after the way he'd so ridiculously blamed her for a mistake that had been influenced by someone else's stupidity.

The belt on his side clicked, his eyes still on her, though she did not deign to look.

Clint jumped, and rather visibly, when the woman in the car behind them leaned on her horn with a volatile expression, the fool in the SUV swiftly taking off through the now green-lit intersection with a speed that must have been, at least, ten over the limit.

Pressing the sunglasses back up against her nose, the red-haired woman stifled the start of a snorting laugh that her fool partner had coming. Through his own dark lenses, he glanced at her with rapt attention, the convertible gently sliding out and into the steady stream of the northbound street's one-way traffic.

They remained silent for quite a time, the obnoxious "hit songs" on the radio doing most of the talking. One, the woman noted, was entirely about a girl who, over time, had grown increasingly tired of her boyfriend and his idiocy, thus refusing to have anything further to do with him. With a quick glance at Clint from the corner of her eye, she empathized with the lyrics, a bit tempted, if only in this moment alone, to demand that he pull the car over, let her out to catch a cab, and have all of his things out of her home before dusk.

But, of course, disapproval and irritation were things that came very naturally with any relationship.

She snickered at the thought, recalling the first time their little hero group had collected aboard Fury's helicarrier. Had she not been caught up in the middle of the argument at the time, it would have been quite a riot. Particularly when it came to Tony Stark and his wit, insisting to the Captain that he wasn't "afraid to hit an old man."

As Clint silently changed the radio station, the vehicle veered into the right turning lane, waiting patiently for the oncoming traffic to end. Natasha leaned out of the car a bit, her eyes falling upon a covered cafe on the corner.

Were she presently talking to Clint, she would have suggested that they stop and have lunch and a bit of coffee, or perhaps tea. Rather, she entertained herself by watching the people that moved about under the awnings, sipping at their drinks and laughing in pairs or small groups.

As Clint swore again at the rush of traffic, which was not at all uncommon for a city so large, Natasha's gaze settled upon a man in familiar attire. He sat alone, accompanied by a singular cup of tea, clad in the usual white shirt, tie, and dark suit that the SHIELD agents always appeared in. He sipped leisurely at the drink, a smile coming to rest upon his thin lips as he turned to face her, mouthing something that, as they began to move, she couldn't quite make out.

Her breath hitched as an old memory made clear his face in her mind. Natasha leaned out of the car as they took the corner, her head turning on her neck to stare after him, watching in awe as he slowly disappeared from sight.

"What's wrong?" Clint murmured, pulling over. He looked back, as if to search for that which she had been staring at. "Hey, Nat."

Natasha turned right around in her seat, the image of the man's smirking face the only thing that danced before her eyes.

"Go back."

It took but a moment for the vehicle to go back around the block and pull up in front of the cafe. As they stopped, Natasha hopped out and onto the sidewalk, removing the glasses and scanning the area for the man she'd swear to have seen.

Instead, there was only a lone cup of tea sitting at that empty table, still fresh and piping hot.

"Well?"

"Forget it." She turned on her heel and threw herself back into the seat, obviously disappointed. The belt buckle clicked again, and she leaned over the stick shift to turn the key.

The convertible roared right over the sound of Clint's voice as it maneuvered out into the street again, Natasha's head resting on the back of the seat as they went.

She creased her brow and closed her eyes, replaying the scene again and again. It couldn't have been real, but she had seen him; had seen that singular, steaming cup sitting at that exact spot.

But she had seen him, they all had, taken back to Asgard by Thor and the Tesseract not six months prior. Yet, he had been there, so openly mocking her while within the city that he had been so willing to destroy.

Surely, no one would believe her. But she knew what she had seen: The shadow of a man whom the world thought only existed within legend.