Clint had always known that he was needed, that this Russian beauty-turned-weapon relied on him more than anyone ever would, and that had always given him a specific kind of comfort. To know that his job wasn't just taking orders and killing and fighting and occasionally basking in the glory of saving people-it was a good reminder that there were bright spots in his life. Natasha was one of them; Natasha was the only one, really.
She was the light in the darkness he'd had to pass through more times that he could count, the smile thrown his way in a somber situation he could hardly handle, the comforting hand upon his own when the nightmares dug their hooks deep in his mind. She'd never survive without him-that is, she'd never be the same. Natasha was, if nothing else, enduring, but if she lost him she'd live her life just like she'd lived it before she'd met him: empty, barely loving, barely alive, and hollow.
It was something Clint was certain of. As time went on, though, as he fought at her side and witnessed her immense capability to raise his spirits and guide him in the dark, as she saved him time and time again, he realized that as much as Natasha needed him, he needed her a dozen times more.
