Title of chapter named after the song "Without You" by Oh Wonder

Author's Note: For all those who have been reading this fic for a very long time, before I went back and edited the chapters, I am finally updating a chapter of new content.

The next three chapters of this fic will be set over the course of a week. This being the first two days Natasha spends alone, it explores her character psychology when it comes to her handling her loss. The next chapter will deal a lot with the emotions / grief of the other Avengers, and will be written and uploaded soon.

I hope you enjoy, and please know the one-shot I posted called "Your Song" is actually in the same time line as this fanfiction. If you'd like to check it out, there will be maybe one small reference to it in this chapter. However the entire one-shot will be included as a "flashback" in an upcoming chapter.

As always I hope you enjoy, I found Natasha's character very difficult to write in this chapter. However with the help of some of my friends, I hope I wrote her character accurately. The next chapter will be shorter and just mainly exploring the other Avengers, but will be up soon. If you like something and want to see more, let me know.

Finally, please note there is a reference to Clint's dog from the comic books, Lucky, in this chapter.

Standing in the doorframe of the dark and silent apartment, Natasha felt as if her legs were about to give way under her. Over the course of a week she had barely survived falling from a 30 story building, had surgery twice, broke her leg, went into a coma for three days, and lost her husband. But just like after every mission, she was now home.

Turning on the blinding lights, Natasha quietly shut the door behind her and locked both of the locks on the door. These locks hadn't been used since someone else owned the apartment. She took small steps due to the brace on her leg, but also because she subconsciously didn't want to be here. She set the folded flag and Clint's ring on the counter of island in the kitchen, as she leaned up against the island, bearing her weight on it's surface. The granite felt like ice, and despite it being in the middle of June, the whole apartment was freezing.

On the counter by her hand was a pair of keys. She eyed the small silver objects reluctantly as she was forced to remember the seemingly normal life she lived a week ago. It was 5 o'clock in the morning when Fury called them in for a mission, and Natasha was the one to get up and answer the call. Clint had worked late the night before, so she let him sleep an extra twenty minutes while she packed what they would need in her car. She eventually had to practically drag him out of bed, like she usually had to do whenever they were called in for a mission early in the morning. But if she had known what was going to happen that day, she would have never woken him up.

When he was finally ready, he grabbed his car keys but Natasha told him she had already packed everything in the car. Clint made a tired yet relieved remark about how he thought for a minute he had lost his bow, and Natasha rolled her eyes at her husband's unorganized nature as she handed him a cup of coffee. Clint set his car keys down on the counter, and followed her outside, not knowing he would never return to their home. And now Natasha returned home only to face constant small yet painful reminders of what she lost.

Natasha violently pushed the keys off the counter, but the sound of them hitting the floor was followed by the rapid scrapes against the wood flooring as a large golden dog sprinted into the living room. Skidding to a halt, the dog's tail wagged rapidly as his hopeful eye looked around for his owners. Natasha lowered her head into her hands as Lucky barked, and finally rushed over to where she stood, happily trying to paw at her leg for attention. Natasha gruffly pushed the dog off her leg, as she walked into her room to change.

When she came back out, Lucky sat by the door, his eye focused on the doorknob, waiting for his other owner to return. His tail wagged rapidly as he sat there, but the dog's optimistic patience made Natasha feel almost sick, because she knew the hard truth. Walking over she took the dog's collar and lead him into her bedroom, closing the door. She didn't want to sleep in her own bed tonight, so instead she slept on the couch. Except to say that she actually slept was putting it lightly, because in reality she only stayed asleep until the nightmares began. They would always consist of what she saw on that last mission. Whether it be having to stare into her husband's lifeless face without being able to look away, or watching him die over and over again as she stood from afar, unable to do anything. The images were vivid and painful, but all too familiar. As the night grew longer, the more gory the images became. One dream even brought her back to her days in the KGB, where she saw herself shoot Clint in the head at point blank range.

She would jolt awake from these distorted memories, her hands and body shaking as she was covered in a cold sweat. Reaching from comfort, all she found were stiff couch pillows, when normally it would be Clint who would wrap his arms around her in support whenever she awoke with nightmares of her past. Finding no support in these inanimate objects, she pulled at her red hair as she held her knees close to her chest. Her hands trembled so much she could barely hold her knees close to her. She subconsciously bit at her lip so hard that she began to taste blood, but she mistook this blood as another hallucination in her nightmares. Natasha got no sleep on that first night by herself.

It was the next morning that Bruce was surprised to find the door locked when he came to Natasha's apartment. Knocking gently on the door, Natasha inhaled sharply as she willed herself to stand up and get the door. Bruce stood outside, his face suddenly filled with concern as he looked at Natasha. Her eyes were bloodshot, her hands shook, and her lip looked as if it were cut in several places. But he didn't say anything about her apparently vulnerable appearance, because he didn't want to burden her with anymore worry. He knew she was already dealing with enough.

Before Natasha could even ask why he was here, he spoke quickly, as if nervous to even say anything to her,

"Tony and I found some of Clint's stuff at the tower, and he asked me to bring it over to you."

Natasha didn't say anything, but simply crossed her arms and exhaled slowly, avoiding eye contact with Bruce. The past twenty four hours were about just getting through the day, but seeing as she managed to do that, she now had to face the fact that Clint left a life behind. And now it was up to her to face that reality, and sort out everything for him.

Staring at the cardboard box by Bruce's feet, she nodded half heartedly and Bruce brought it in.

Her eyes grew cold and emotionless as she looked at the box, and then to Bruce. She didn't mean to come across cold, but it was her only defense mechanism. Small things like keys and cardboard boxes were suddenly tearing apart her emotional strength. She stood there silently, waiting for Bruce to talk to her, but in truth he didn't know what to say.

What Natasha didn't know was that Bruce had had his fill of dealing with emotional people already this morning. He awoke to Tony frantically cleaning out Clint's temporary room in the tower at 5 in the morning. All the Avengers had their own room in the tower, despite the fact that a majority of them lived outside Tony's place.

When asking what he was doing Tony couldn't give an answer. Bruce was pretty confident Tony was drunk at the time, but it was hard to see his friend so unsettled. Bruce worked to help Tony, and tried to hint that if Tony needed to talk, he was there. But it was when Bruce tried to offer emotional support that Tony got up and left the room, yelling as he left, "Take that over to Natasha's".

Bruce pulled his car keys out of his pocket, preparing to cut the packaging tape off the box as he asked, "Do you want me to help you unpack this all…"

Natasha bluntly shook her head, turning her back on Bruce she spoke in a distant and empty voice, "I can do it."

She tried so hard to hide the choked up nature of her voice, but Bruce undoubtedly heard it and knew that the best he could do was leave. So he left without another word, and Natasha went to get Lucky out of the room she locked him in last night. The dog rushed out of the room and to his water dish, and instantly Natasha felt bad for dismissing Clint's dog so easily. Cleaning his water and refilling his food dish, Natasha gently pet the dog on the head before trying to make tea for herself.

However, it was then that her cellphone rang. Running to the phone she answered to the questioning of some unknown official from SHIELD HQ.

"Is this Natalia Barton?"

Inhaling slowly, Natasha sat down on the barstool by the counter and spoke as calmly as she could, "Yes."

She had forgotten that she had put her real name on Clint's files, as a backup incase something were to happen to her or Clint. Natalia was her birth name, and she technically decided to take Clint's last name when they married. However to the public and everyone outside of Fury, the team, and this SHIELD associate she was now talking to, she was Natasha Romanoff.

The SHIELD associate went on to talk for an excessive amount of time about SHIELD protocol and how Natasha was put down for Clint's contact. Natasha sat on the barstool, as her mind began to wander from everything the young worker was saying. As the worker went on the explain that since Clint was killed in action it was up to Natasha to decide what happened to all of his files and intel, Natasha realized it was going to be a very long time till she would not have to face reminders of everything that happened.

Rubbing her face with her hands, Natasha was silent for a moment before saying indifferently,

"Transfer a copy of everything to a disk and give it to Fury. After that you can deactivate all his records."

After fifteen more minutes of talking back and forth on regards to protocol, the worker finally said,

"Alright Mrs. Barton, thank you for your cooperation. Please note since you are Agent Barton's contact you will have to come in to talk to Director Fury on regards of his will."

Natasha wanted to audibly groan at this point, but she bit her lip and simply agreed to do so. As the worker thanked her for her patience and was about to give her condolences, Natasha hung up.

By the time the call finished her tea was cold, and so she poured it down the drain and placed her cup back up in the cabinet. She sadly smiled as she saw Clint's rather impressive collection of coffee cups. His extreme reliance on the caffeinated drink in the morning had become a running joke between the two. Whenever the two went on missions, if the mission was completed without one of them being rushed to the hospital, Clint would insist on buying a mug before they went home. Eventually Natasha got into the habit of doing this as well, because whenever she went on a solo mission, she would usually bring back a cheesy souvenir mug for him. The mugs often served as reminders of the crazy stories that came with almost all their missions.

Taking the mug they had gotten in Oregon, she exhaled slowly, trying to calm herself as she started over in making tea for herself. She often would find herself doing this as of lately, repeated things she already did, or tried to do. As she sat at the counter, hands wrapped around the warm glass of the cup, and she closed her eyes, trying to find comfort in the warmth of the steam that rose from the cup. For a moment she found relaxation, and then there was yet another knock on the door.

Lucky's ears perked as the dog leapt off the couch, tail wagging and eye filled with bliss. Natasha hung her head low at the sight of the joyful dog, before sliding of the barstool. Her bare feet touched the ice cold floor as she made her way to the door, and grabbed Lucky's collar to move him so she could unlock the door.

Opening it she honestly wasn't surprised to see Steve standing there, because she figured he was bound to come and check on her. Steve, like Natasha, wore all black. He had the same sad weariness in his eyes as she did, and he was very unkempt, which was uncommon for him. His blonde hair was messy and he appeared to not have bothered shaving.

"Hey Natasha, can...I come in?"

She couldn't refuse him, but as he walked in she saw he turned around to grab a rather large black storage trunk. Natasha suddenly regretted opening the door.

He calmly closed the door behind himself, setting the large trunk beside the smaller cardboard ones. There was a look of guilt as Steve knew the last thing Natasha wanted was more of Clint's belongings.

"Fury wanted me to bring all of this to you. It's mostly his gear and weapons that were left in lockers and on quinjets. If we find anything else we'll bring it to you."

Natasha wanted to tell Steve that they could keep anything else. She didn't want any of it. But instead she just stood there silently, tired eyes waiting for him to continue.

Steve noticed the ring and folded flag on the kitchen counter, the car keys on the floor, the unboxed cardboard boxes by her door, and realized she wasn't ready for any of this.

"Natasha do you...need help, you know, with all of this?"

She shook her head sharply, emerald eyes avoided his comforting blue ones as she looked away from him. He could have helped by not coming.

"You wanted this?" Steve said as he pulled out a flash drive, the copy of Clint's files.

She nodded wearily and took the small disk, and placed it on the counter by his ring.

The very way Natasha moved lacked coordination and energy, as if she was just walking around aimlessly, mind lost somewhere else. Of course to the normal person she would seem fine, but to someone who knew her well, like Steve, she appeared very tired and lost.

Lucky was sniffing the boxes around the door, obviously smelling Clint. Natasha wished the dog would forget who Clint was, so she didn't have to see his false hope that he would return. Steve cleared his throat to get Natasha's attention as he reluctantly placed a sealed folder in her hands. The papers were heavy in her palms and she didn't want to open it.

Tearing it open and pulling out the crisp straight papers, the edges of the papers were so sharp Natasha felt as if they were cutting her. She was holding in her hand Clint's death certificate.

Steve began to talk about information Fury told him to relay, as well as something about having her over for dinner, and a number of other things Natasha didn't care enough to listen to, so she continued to read. Her green eyes became hard and emotionless with every word she read.

"And I just need you to sign it," Steve said as he handed her a pen from his pocket.

Natasha looked at the black pen, to the papers, and then to Steve again. She took the pen from him without a word, as she quietly placed the documents on the counter. She was calm, but in an unsettling way. Steve didn't feel comfortable standing there beside her.

When she raised the pen up to sign she paused, her mouth parted as she exhaled slowly and lowered the pen without signing. Steve noticed this, and took it as she was physically tired.

"Promise me you'll try to get some sleep tonight?" Steve asked, his voice soft and filled with concern.

She looked down as she spoke in an empty voice,

"I can only try."

Steve detected the sharp bite to her speech, and was reluctant to respond. But before he could she said quietly yet in an emotionlessly desperate tone,

"I just want to be left alone."

"I know Natasha, but we have to do these things."

Natasha looked away from him. Steve wanted so desperately to help, to say the right thing, but he had never seen Natasha act so reserved and distant. He was scared to try and extend his help, but he knew he had to try.

"You don't have to do this alone," He pleaded.

"I need to be alone, to grieve by myself."

She didn't raise her voice, but the impassive edge to her voice was enough to shut Steve up. There was a long silence between the two, before Steve attempted to apologize,

"Nat, I'm so-"

"Just leave, Steve."

Her voice was deathly quiet yet sharp. She jerked her head to look at him, green eyes dull and cold. Empty of all emotion. He didn't say another word, but just nodded to her. She pretended to ignore his gesture, as he stepped out of the door and closed it softly behind him.

Natasha fed the dog, cleaned her mug, and found herself sitting on the couch once again. Staring blankly at the black TV in front of her, she closed her eyes and enjoyed the moment of silence. But the peacefulness that came with deafening silence was short lived.

Despite what she said to Steve, she really didn't want to be alone. But at the same time she didn't want to be around anyone, or talk to anyone. She didn't know what she wanted.

But now that she was alone, how was she supposed to function? The silence was a reminder in itself of all she had lost. She wasn't used to the apartment being this quiet. Usually the silence would be interrupted by Clint rummaging through things, doing house work, or talking to himself or her. Now, besides the occasional clink of Lucky's nails against the hard floors, there was no sound to be heard in the apartment.

Natasha reached for the TV remote. Her and Clint's favorite way to calm down after particularly long days at work, was to come home and watch TV together.

They enjoyed a number of shows, such as CSI, House of Cards, and Sherlock. All political, crime, or mystery shows. Even before they were married, they bonded over the intense conspiracy theories of the shows. Natasha would usually be right in her predictions, but she enjoyed hearing Clint's ridiculously crazy speculations.

However individually they also had their own shows they preferred. Clint loved The Walking Dead, because of it's intense action and he adored the character Daryl Dixon. It wasn't Natasha's favorite show, but on Sunday nights when there was nothing better to on, she would watch it with Clint.

Natasha scrolled through the DVR, looking one for a show to distract her from everything. But when at the top of the list she saw the latest episode of The Walking Dead that had recorded, still unwatched, she turned off the TV.

It was three o'clock in the morning, and Natasha still sat there. She had attempted to sleep, but when she began to drift in and out of nightmares she knew it wasn't worth it to try. She physically felt exhausted, but she also couldn't quiet her mind. Lucky laid by her feet, also not asleep, because the dog could sense how upset she was.

Her vision was blurred as the world around her grew hazy. It had gotten to the point that she was experiencing traumatic memories when she was wide awake. She heard gunshots that weren't there, which made her thin form flinch. She felt blood on her hands, even though they were completely dry. Pain swelled from the stab wound in her hand that was still wrapped.

She ran her hands through her dark red hair, and then over her pale face. She could barely feel her own touch, and she soon realized every attempt she made to find relief had failed. She felt worse than she had when she woke up that morning.

As a last resort, she stood up and wearily walked over to the kitchen. The shot glass she pulled out of the cabinet felt like it was made out of ice. It took an immense amount of energy for her to lift the glass.

She pulled out the hardest liquor she could find from her cupboards. Her back hurt as she kneeled to pull a half empty bottle of liquor out, as if her own body was telling her not to go through with this. The clang of the shot glass being placed on the granite counters echoed loudly through the empty apartment, as Natasha poured a glass.

An hour later, Natasha had forgotten how many shots she had taken. The bottle was almost empty, and she sat hunched over on the barstool. Her forearms rested on the counter, as her lost eyes looked at the now blurry kitchen ahead of her. Her hands shook as she grasped the small glass, and there was a steady sound of light clicks from the glass scraping on the counter.

Her breathing was labored, and there were now dark circles under her eyes. Her pale complexion made the circles look like she had a black eye. It was four o'clock in the morning, and Natasha struggled to keep from collapsing off of the barstool.

She couldn't concentrate enough to think about her own feelings, or worry about how she was going to go on with her life now. But despite how much she drank, she couldn't stop thinking about Clint.

She placed her hand on the counter as she attempted to stand up. But just as she was about to step off the barstool, her thin form shook and while gripping the counter desperately, she practically collapsed. Pain rushed from her abdomen, as she staggered to the bathroom.

Both the amount of alcohol she consumed and the emotional stress which was slowly taking it's toll on her body, was making her sick. She fell hard on the white tiled flooring, her knees scraped as she did. She didn't make it to the toilet before she vomited on the floor.

One of her shaking hands held back her red hair, as she continued for throw up. She closed her eyes, and held herself up with one hand. After a few seconds she just kneeled there, head low and her chapped lips were still parted and trembling. Grabbing for a towel, she attempted to wipe up the floor.

A wave of absolute physical weakness fell over her. She felt as if she couldn't even hold her hair back, let alone stand up off the ground. She felt as if her throat was on fire, and her head was crushed in on itself.

Yet through all of this, she never stopped thinking about Clint. She pulled herself off the floor and looked into the mirror, and despite being drunk and her vision blurry, she was disturbed at what she saw.

Natasha was no stranger at seeing herself bloodied and bruised. She was normally not bothered by the sight of her own weakness. But her reflection hardly looked like herself. Maybe it was her delusive state, but her eyes which looked back at her had lost their usual green hue. Her pupils were dark and dull. Her fair skin was not a delicate porcelain color, but almost grey, and purple under her eyes. Her hair was disheveled and lost its bright red highlights, and her arms shook violently as she attempted to hold herself up.

Looking away, Natasha closed her eyes and simply stood there for a moment before turning on the sink. Cupping the crisp clear water in her small shaking hands, she gently washed off her cheeks and face. The cold water almost jerked her awake, and as she looked up again her unpleasant physical features were even more clear. Her dark eyes reflected sadness as she realized, Clint would never have wanted to see her like this. He would have never let her get to this point.

Looking down as if in shame, she spoke hoarsely,

"I'm sorry."

After gaining her balance, she walked past the couch, dog, and boxes, to her room. Opening the door, the room was cold but almost in a clean and relieving way. Even with the light off, Natasha could tell the bedroom was just like it was before her and Clint left.

She didn't bother turning on the light as she staggered into her side of the large grey bed.

To her surprise the bed was made. Natasha always requested that Clint make the bed if he's the last one up, but he rarely did. However this time he did.

She coughed hoarsely as she pulled the blanket out on her side, and for a moment she just sat there. Many thoughts threatened to rage through her head, but the only conclusion she could come to, was that felt like she was going to pass out.

Lying down she felt her form comfortably sink into the mattress. The familiar feeling of the bed relaxed her, and she laid her head on her soft pillow. Despite the fact that empty space beside her was painful to think about, she soon fell asleep soundly.

Maybe it was the alcohol, her pure exhaustion, or the fact that she was resting in a comforting place, but she slept without nightmares that night.