Hey everyone! Yes, I know I should be focusing on my other fics, but after seeing (and falling madly in love!) with Avengers, I needed to get this out of my system. I mean seriously, I spent this entire scene in the movie screaming "Oh my god, just make out already!" But it was still a nice few minutes of romanctic tension between two characters with great chemistry. And no, I don't give a crap about Mockingbird! I support her marrying Hawkeye just as much as I supported Cyclops marrying Emma Frost (bleh!). Anyways, I do not own anything my Marvel *tear* Enjoy!

Deserving

"How many agents?"

Natasha shook her head. He just wouldn't listen; she knew he wouldn't no matter how many times anyone told him that it was Loki who killed all those people, but he needed to hear it again.

"Clint, you did nothing." She made her voice as soft as possible.

Clint only looked down, clutching the side of the bed as if his mind would once again go under the control of the deranged god if he let go. Tasha stared at him as hard as she could, begging him to meet her gaze, but he silently refused. So many years the two had spent with utter trust and complete comfort around one another, only making all the more painful for her to see him with eyes forcefully fixed on some distant nightmare alone. He took a deep and deliberate breath.

"Nat, how many of our partners did I murder?" he nearly growled, still refusing to look at her.

"None," she persisted. He didn't need the guilt; he didn't deserve it.

In one swift move, Clint jumped up and slammed his clenched fists against the wall so hard that Natasha flinched.

"Damn it, Tasha! Just tell me!"

Sadness faded to desperation as Natasha began to panic, a feeling with which she was fearfully unfamiliar.

"No! Not on your life!" she hissed back. "Listen to me, you did not kill anyone!"

For the first time since their brawl when Loki was still manipulating him, Clint met her drilling glare with a burning fury, whether at her or something else she couldn't tell, but only for a moment. He very slowly pulled away from the wall and back to the cot. After sitting down, he dropped his head into his hands, hiding his face under his horribly tense fingers. Natasha hesitantly sat next to him. How could he do this to her? She didn't care about the bruises or the soreness from his punches, not even about the many people who had guided them through SHEILD with his arrows in their corpses. What hurt her more than anything was his refusal to spare himself, and that pain was like nothing she had ever experienced before. Yes, she was compromised, more than compromised, even; fully and absolutely vulnerable just from seeing him suffer. And being vulnerable made them dangerous.

"Why, Nat? Why won't you tell me?" he groaned quietly.

Acknowledging her next move was a mistake, she gingerly ran a hand down the side of his face. She couldn't help but notice how clammy and damp his skin was to her touch.

"Because you don't deserve having to know."

Clint's head snapped up and he stared at her blankly. Her hand lingered over his cheek even though all the color seemed to drain from his face with every passing second. She didn't know what his lack of expression meant, but she also didn't care. He needed to see that the no one in the world blamed him. She leaned in so that her forehead rested against his with his breath faintly brushing her lips. For a moment, he seemed to relax. Natasha rested both her hands against his chest to feel his steady breathing. Could she do it? Could she show him? Could she save him?

She closed her eyes as he calmed down more and more to the point of peaceful. Her breathing skipped as he traced the line of her jaw with his thumb.

"Tasha, I-" He stopped abruptly when he reached her chin and touched a small patch of dried blood around an area of darkening skin. At one he pulled back and examined the forming bruise on her face.

"Jesus Christ," he whispered with a sharp inhale. "I did this to you, didn't I? God, how hurt are you?"

"It's nothing!" she insisted, reaching for his hands, but he retracted more.

"No, it could never be 'nothing' between us! I'm so sorry…"

His eyes glazed over as he turned from her again. Without thinking, she desperately grabbed at his shoulders.

"Clint, don't do this to yourself," she commanded strictly to his face, but she heard her voice waver.

She tried to lean in to him again only to be physically pushed back. Tears began to form in her eyes. Never. He had never, ever, shoved her away, much less so… delicately. A new pain tore through her as she asked herself why it mattered so much. Why did it hurt so much?

Seeing her bite her lip, Clint gave a sad sigh and shook his head.

"I don't understand why you are so hell bent on this," muttered, but not unkindly. "I don't deserve this from you after everything I did."

She finally lost it. Tears spilled out from Natasha's eyes with her lips quivering uncontrollably. She collapsed onto his Clint's lap, fighting the sobs clawing at her throat to escape, to give voice to the violent agony raking inside her. She clutched his shirt until her fingers turned white.

"Please, Clint, please!" she begged between struggling breaths. "You're so worried about hurting me, but just open your eyes to what you're doing now!"

A new kind of fear crept into his face at the sight of Natasha crumpled before him. It was new for both of them. She felt his arms wrap around her shoulders and pull her up against his chest, where she fought with every ounce of will to bring herself back together. Weakness was not acceptable in their lives, and right now she was weaker than she could ever remember.

"Nat, you… I…"

They both knew there wasn't much of a way to put anything into words. As partners, they always had each other's backs; as friends, they were always there for each other, all until now. What could he say?

Giving up, he cradled her wet cheek in his hand while still supporting her with an arm around her waist. His eyes swam with mixed and unidentifiable emotions. Natasha prayed he'd find something to tell her.

"Natalya."

No one had called her by her birth name in a very long time. Years ago, when he first read her file, she made him swear never to use it or she would knock his teeth out, but at this moment it could not be more intimate.

"Ask me," she murmured. "Tell me."

She hoped, wished, desired, him to understand what she wanted. He leaned over her in such a closeness that is would have been impossible to identify if their lips were even moving with speech. She relished in every waking millisecond.

Almost inaudibly, he whispered against her mouth, "Help me."

Exactly and precisely on target, just like the way he shot. As soon as he loosed the words, she clasped her mouth to his, and was met the same. His lips weren't at all soft, but she knew hers weren't either. And damn it, it just felt like they were made to fit together! Every last sliver of pain in her body was replaced by sheer ecstasy with the more passion she thrust into their kiss, and the even more Clint returned.

Help me. Help me. Help me. The two words repeated over and over in a flurry around her light headed mind. Yes, this is what he deserved, and what she let herself believe she deserved as well.