Guys, we've got some shit goin' down in this one. So I'm just going to get right to it, after I thank the following: Dasiygirl95, Not. So. Typical. Girl., JohnnyStormsGirl, GirlWithAWritersSoul, Ahsilaa, NanaEvans, MME, and sand-storm94. I'm so glad you guys like it! Thanks a ton for all of your kind words and awesome ideas!

Next chapter, we see how Natasha and Georgia begin to become friends after the kidnapping!

April 26th, 2013

Things with Clint were different.

"So that's Natasha, huh?"

Guess your girlfriend getting kidnapped by your partner/best friend/sister kind of fucks things up. In an effort to make up for what happened, Clint had begun to smother Georgia with affection and promised to have nothing to do with the Black Widow ever again; he even bought her a five hundred dollar bracelet from Tiffany's as a form of bribery. Georgia argued with him profusely, demanding that all of his efforts weren't necessary. "I get it, Clint. She's very protective of you. That's not a bad thing," she debated one night. "Granted, she went about things in a totally fucked up manner that borders on psychological torture and I'll more than likely be scarred for life, but…if it were Allie, I'd do the same damn thing."

Nevertheless, Clint was adamant. He had ceased any and all contact with the dangerous redhead and practically forced Natasha to take a leave of absence from the Avengers team because Clint couldn't look at her without growing disastrously violent. Steve had even been taking Natasha on missions with him for the past two weeks in an attempt to keep the peace. Georgia knew all of this. Several times she approached the idea with her boyfriend but, every time she did so, he clammed up and shut her out. Natasha's actions were cruel, reckless, and just wrong. There was no coming back from that. Not for Clint. It was very kind of Georgia to try to salvage things between them, especially considering that Georgia had every right to hate Natasha, but Clint was through. Nat simply couldn't be forgiven. And that was that.

"The hell it is," snapped Georgia. "Clint, she is the only family you have. You can't just throw that awa-"

"Why is this on me? She kidnapped you! She went too far!"

"She made a mistake! People make mistakes. Christ, she's not perfect."

"Far from it," he agreed, his jaw tensing his anger. "She's an assassin, G. You have no idea how many awful, inexcusable things she's done. She's murdered innocent people, children. She-"

"She's still all you have," Georgia cut him off, her words whispered as she shifted her weight uncomfortably. She didn't know a thing about Natasha, aside from bits and pieces that Clint confessed to her in the quiet of the night during one of those rare and beautiful moments when she managed to get him to actually talk about his life, his arms wrapped around her, his fingers dancing across her skin. She knew that Natasha had saved Clint's life on multiple occasions. She knew that the female assassin was a fan of Adele and had once wrapped up a mission early so that she could make a pit-stop in London for one of the Brit's concerts before heading back to headquarters. She knew that the redhead was allergic to peanut butter and hated Western TV shows and movies.

But, more importantly, Georgia knew that Natasha was the only family Clint had left. Clint's mother, father, and brother were dead; his grandmother, too, having passed away the year that Clint dropped out of high school. He hadn't made any close friends in the military and, aside from the Avengers, Natasha was the only person he could genuinely say knew him. The real him, not his Hawkeye persona. And her relationship with him went much further back then the New York incident.

Once upon a time he'd been sent to kill her but one glimpse of the Russian hit-woman and Clint had realized she was just a child. That's when he did some digging. His superiors hadn't told him she'd been practically brainwashed by the people who rescued her from the burning orphanage that six-year-old Natasha called home after the death of her father. Sympathizing over their slightlysimilar pasts, Clint decided to give her a chance to redeem herself. Bringing her into S.H.I.E.L.D. had been a painful process. She had fought him every step of the way. She was so fucking stubborn and had a mouth on her like damn German sailor. Agent Coulson had advised Clint to be her handler; after all, he had been the one to bring her in, just like Phil had with Clint. But Clint wasn't like Phil. He wasn't one for patience and had no intentions whatsoever of being a glorified babysitter. So as a favor to Clint, Phil had called in the Calvary. Literally. Natasha had been personally trained by Melinda May herself.

The minute she'd been officially inducted as an agent, Clint had offered to assist on her first few missions. He knew that she had always worked alone and that being part of a team effort was going to be like pulling teeth for her. Naturally, Clint had been the same way. As a sniper, he'd usually flown alone or with his spotter. But S.H.I.E.L.D. liked it when the kids played well together and Clint figured if anyone could help her overcome solo-syndrome it was him. Turns out, they were a perfect team. After they tackled Natasha's trust issues, issues the likes of which rivaled his own, friendship came easily to them. Pretty soon, they were commonly referred to as a pair. It was always Natasha and Clint, Clint and Natasha, or, Tony's personal favorite, BlackHawk, as Agent Coulson so quirkily dubbed them.

He was like a big brother to her, and she was his pissy little sister. Or she used to be, before she crossed the line. Clint saw Georgia's point but his girlfriend had to be out of her fucking mind if she thought he could forgive Natasha. Hell, she probably was out of her mind. Getting kidnapped kinda does shit to people. Especially normal ones who aren't used to dealing with fucked up shit like that.

"Clint?" His eyes lifted to her face. Georgia's expression softened. "You aren't listening, are you? Look, I don't mean to preach. I know this isn't my place but, shit, Clint, I don't want you to push her away because of me-"

"I'm not," he instantly retorted. His voice held a hard edge and he saw Georgia frown. He forced a quick smile and tried not to appear so tense. "I'm doing it because of her."

"Because of what she did to me."

Clint smirked. "Exactly. Finally, you're starting to get it."

Georgia gritted her teeth together. Damn, he was being frustrating. "Don't be a dick, Clint…" Georgia sighed and slumped back against the couch, her rigid posture finally relaxing with defeat. She saw the satisfied twinkle in Clint's eye and pursed her lips. "Don't think you're winning, douchebag. I'm not giving up. I'm just taking a respite."

Her super-secret badass boyfriend's lips spread into a wry grin. "Need a little time to think of your next plan of attack?"

Georgia narrowed her eyes. She may not be a spy or some ninja badass, but she could verbally spat with the best of 'em. "Nope. Just need some food. Have you ordered yet?"

"Take-out'll be here in fifteen to twenty minutes."

"Then consider this respite postponed. We have fifteen to twenty minutes to continue arguing. Would you care to start this round, Agent Barton?"

"By all means," Clint snickered. "Ladies first."

As promised, Georgia had let the argument die as they ate dinner, wrapped up together on the terrace, her feet in his lap, a blanket cocooning them. Though both of their thoughts lingered on the Natasha issue, the couple went about their evening as normal. They teased and jested and, when a bit of teriyaki sauce dribbled down Clint's chin, Georgia leaned forward to lick it off his skin, enjoying the way Clint shifted in his pants just-so.

They made love like they always do. Georgia didn't think she would ever get used to the feeling of him against her, their bodies sliding together brilliantly. When they came together, the centers of their bodies meeting with an often frenzied lust, it was perfection. A hazy, wonderful, scream-inducing perfection. God, he tasted delicious and he felt so damn good and just-

"Fuck!"

When they collapsed together in a sweaty heap, both parties panting heavily, Clint's forehead rested against her bare shoulder. The All-America man placed a light kiss over her smooth, tanned skin. His lips pulled into a grin, tickling her arm. "Wanna go again?" he joked, though not really, his eyebrows raised teasingly.

Georgia gave a happy hum. She fell against the pile of pillows at the head of her bed and pulled Clint's head into her chest. Stroking her fingers across his cheek, she fingered the curve of his bottom lip. She bit her lip to hold in a girly moan when Clint's tongue flicked out to caress the tip of her finger. "Do I want to? Of course. But we can't."

Clint pouted like a child. "Why not?"

She motioned the right-side nightstand. The top drawer hung half-off, an empty jewelry box peeking out. "No more condoms."

"No more condoms," he weakly repeated her words. "That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."

Georgia snickered. "You poor thing…you know, there are things we can do without a condom."

And just like that, Clint suddenly wasn't so sad anymore. Flashing a devastatingly handsome grin, he kissed his way up her chest until he was able to powerfully capture her lips with his own. "Damn it, G, I love the way you think."

Nearly three hours later, Clint Barton lay next to her on his back, the bed sheet sloppily draped across his waist and torso, one arm curled above his head. Georgia yawned softly and snuggled up to his side. The hands on the clock ticked forward with a ridiculously deliberate slowness. Her body was fighting the sleep that pricked at the edge of her consciousness. She was ready to give in. She could feel it. Her body was going to cave at any moment.

But she always let Clint fall asleep first so that she was already awake when the nightmares began.

Clint didn't know it, but he fought demons in his sleep every single night – without fail. Georgia had first witnessed the hellish assault on Clint's subconscious back in November when he'd shown up on her doorstep and had stayed for a weekend of sex, cheap pizza, and laughter. She remembered it perfectly. She'd been roused from sleep by his whimpering and the convulsions that shook her bed. She'd jolted upright in a panic, unaccustomed to waking up with someone in her bed, and definitely unaccustomed to that someone flipping their shit in their sleep.

For a moment, she'd frozen in place, terrified, her sister's voice echoing in her ear. "This is why you don't let strangers sleep in your bed, genius." Eventually, she'd registered the situation and realized that if Clint didn't stop thrashing around he was liable to hurt himself, or her. She tried to wake him. She'd shouted, shoved him, slapped his arms and chest and face, even probed him with an ice pack hoping the freezing chill might startle him awake. But nothing worked. She was forced to wait out the vicious dreams.

When the nightmares subsided, Clint's body fell limp and he was instantly peaceful once again. He hadn't woken up at all and continued to sleep through the night. Unfortunately, Georgia was not quite so lucky. She was horrified and found it difficult to rest after what she'd seen. That next morning, Clint came awake with a grin. He sent her an adorable, sleepy smile and looked a bit bashful. He scratched at his temple, embarrassed. "I don't, uh…I don't usually stay over with, um, with a woman."

"Do you stay over with a man?"

The witty retort slipped off her tongue instinctively and was rewarded with a barking laugh from Clint. The edges of his eyes crinkled mirthfully. "That's not what I meant."

Georgia was astonished. He was acting so calm, so normal. Did he not remember…? Well, he hadn't woken up, how could he? And so, Georgia had swallowed back her fear and observed him for the entirety of their day and deduced that Clint was not insane, but plagued by something evil and dark, something from his past. At the time, she had only a vague notion of what his job entailed and naturally assumed that the nightmares were the result of such. That second night it happened again. Like the previous night, Georgia sat and bit her lip and waited until his pain faded.

These foul dreams tormented him nightly. Though Georgia was prepared for them each time, she had no clue how to fucking handle something like that. It wasn't so bad at first. He was rarely there for more than one night and those nights were few and far between. But, as things gradually grew more serious between them, Clint began staying longer. Georgia decided that she had to do something. She examined her primitive tactics and started over. Rather than trying to wake him, she tried talking him through it, tried playing music and reading to him, tried drugging him, thinking that the sedatives would make him slumber so deeply that the nightmares wouldn't get a rise out of him. That one worked. Sort of. Clint did wake up but he came awake vomiting. Georgia immediately ruled out the drugs.

Then, after another handful of sleepovers, Georgia found the trick to it. When he'd have these fits of night terror, she would stroke his hair, massaging her fingers through his scalp – it was the only thing he'd respond to. He wouldn't hear her when she talked, or feel it when she'd try to shake him awake, but when she'd caress his scalp, he'd calm. The first few times she tried it, her ministrations took half an hour or longer to work. Now, Clint's body recognized the sensation and she could usually calm down his attacks in under fifteen minutes.

Another yawn tore her mouth open. She blinked forcefully and burrowed deeper into her pillow. Her fingers tapped the rhythm of Queen's "We Are The Champions" on Clint's forearm, the one she'd coiled herself around. Then, slowly, Clint began to fidget. He thrust his leg out from under the bed sheet and jerked the other one up. "No," he growled. Georgia started. In all the many months that they had been sleeping together, Clint had never spoken during one of his fits. Whimpered. Whined. Gasped. But never spoken.

Georgia snaked her fingers up his arm and went to work against his scalp. She shushed him tenderly, her fingers massaging and coaxing him back to a peaceful rest. "Shhh, shhh, Clint. It's okay. You're okay."

"No!" he demanded, his voice loud and gruff against the silence of the night. His body began to thrash violently and his elbow caught her eye. "Oh, son of a bitch," Georgia hissed, jerking away. She cupped her eye and before she could move Clint was turning on her, his body bursting to life. Her jaw fell open in shock. How the fuck had he woken up? "Clint…?"

Rough fingers locked around her neck like steel rings. Oh my fuck. "Clint! Clint!" she gasped, clawing desperately at the iron grip around her throat. He was strangling her! Clint's eyes were open but they were glazed over and Georgia knew it wasn't her face he was seeing, or her neck he was squeezing. At least, not to him. She struggled against him futilely. She slapped and smacked harshly at his face and arms and tugged fiercely at his hands. Her efforts were useless; Clint remained stoic. He was in kill-mode.

The air in her lungs was rapidly dwindling. Her skin was on fire. The pressure in her head was mounting and it felt like Clint was about to pop her head clear off her shoulders. She was going to explode. She was dying.

"Clint," she whispered. It was all her strangled voice could muster. Tears poured from her eyes and her vision began to blur. Christ, she was actually dying. Then, thank her fucking lucky stars, Georgia was struck with an idea. This was just like every other night that he was perturbed by his demons, only on a much grander scale. On those other nights he hadn't respond when she spoke or slapped him. He responded when she stroked his hair.

Her fingers shook as they reached for his scalp. With every loving feeling she could gather, Georgia gingerly ran her fingers through his hair and caressed her thumb back and forth across his temple. She whispered his name over and over as her fingers did their work and she swore she saw a shadow cross his face. "Clint, please. Wake up."

The room was turning black, the edges of her vision lost. Just as her fingers fell from his hair, Clint snapped awake. "Fuck." He jerked back, his hands freeing her neck. A great gasp tore through her. She coughed and choked and sputtered, taking the deepest breath she'd ever had. Her lungs inflated in her chest like balloons and her hands flew to her throat. Christ, it was sore. No doubt there would be terrible bruising. Rapidly blinking away her tears, Georgia was wrecked with tremors as she struggled to return her breaths and pulse to normal.

"G?"

She glanced up at Clint. Taking a shaky breath, Georgia coughed and licked her lips. She collapsed against the bed's headrest. "You have nightmares. Really fucking awful, bad, horrible nightmares. You've had them since, well, shit, I don't know how long you've had them but you've had 'em since the first night you stayed here and every night since." Her voice was warped. It was scratchy and nasally.

Clint flinched with her every word.

"Georgia…" His jaw hung open a hair and his eyes were huge, mirrored images of disbelief and terror. "Fuck, G, I'm-" He broke off, his voice and expression crumbling. His eyes moistened and he sucked in his bottom lip. Clenching his jaw, Clint was consumed with shame and self-loathing. He'd almost fucking killed her in his sleep. What kind of sick, sorry, son of a bitch does that? "Georgia, I'm so sorry. I...I can't…"

He backed off the bed and darted about the room gathering his clothes that were scattered across the floor. Georgia watched him, rising up on her knees on the mattress. She cleared her throat, a glass of water sounding like Heaven, and asked, "W-what are you doing?"

Clint gave a dark, hollow laugh. "What does it look like? Am I just supposed to crawl back into bed?" He shot her a cruel, mocking glance. "Hey, G, sorry I tried to fucking strangle you in my sleep. Guess I was just pissed that you were stealing all the covers? But you're not mad, right?"

"Don't be an asshole, Clint," she spat. She was exhausted, her body and mind drained, but she made her way towards him nonetheless. "Clint, I know you're freaked out but-"

"Huh. Freaked out?" he scoffed. "No. Strangling people doesn't freak me out. That's pretty par for the course, actually. I'm practically used to it. But trying to kill my girlfriend in my sleep…I'd say I'm a little more than freaked out, G. I mean, fuck, first Natasha. Now, this? Being with me is a fucking health hazard, G. I knew this was a bad idea from the start. I figured I'd break your heart, or get a slap on the wrist at work for letting a civilian get too close, but I never imagined I'd fucking kill you."

"But you didn't!" she argued. "You stopped yourself!"

"And what about next time?!" Clint shouted, the veins in his neck and arms straining with each word. "And don't say 'We don't know if there will be a next time.' Because there will be. I'm too fucked up, G. Don't you get it? I'm not meant for this domestic shit. I'm a trained killer. I don't belong here."

Once more, Georgia's eyes stung with tears and she bolted off the bed, her hands slapped against his chest. "Don't give me that shit! This was an accident, Clint! And it had nothing to do with what happened with Natasha. You and I both know I wasn't in any real danger with her an-"

Clint seized her by the upper arm and yanked her over to her dresser. The mirror that hung on the wall was covered in a thin layer of dust. She hardly ever used it, opting to use the large one in her bathroom instead. Her and Clint's reflections stared back at her unforgivingly. Clint pointed at her throat. "Does that look like real danger?"

Already, the dark purple impressions of Clint's fingers had formed on her throat. Georgia swallowed a sob, her lips quivering, as she met Clint's eyes in the mirror. "Don't do this."

Clint winced at the sight of her tears. "I'm no good for you, G…I've always known it but this…this was the last straw. I won't let you get hurt. Especially not by me."

He left her, then, continuing on his path of destruction through the apartment, gathering his things. She tried desperately to stop him. She cried and pleaded and all but got on her knees and begged. If you really think about it, her actions didn't make sense. She had almost died by his hand. He had truly almost taken her life. But she couldn't bring herself to give a damn. All that matter was the fact that he was going to walk out that door at any minute and Georgia was so damn terrified that once he left he wouldn't be back. She couldn't let that happened. She didn't want that to happen. She wanted him. She wanted him to stay and hold her and watch ridiculous movies with her and eat shitty take-out with her and joke and laugh and play silly drinking games and, fuck, don't even get her started on the sex.

The second he'd spotted the tears pooling in her warm eyes, Clint had shut off his emotions. He had to be strong. He had to do this. He refused to hurt her. He ignored her cries as he dashed about the apartment. He snagged his keys off the counter, found his phone stuck between the couch cushions, pulled his belt off the back of the sofa. When he shrugged on his jacket and punched in the security code on the alarm system he'd installed after Natasha abducted Georgia from the apartment, the beautiful woman latched onto his arm. Her lips were pouty from her distraught emotions, her cheeks sleek with her tears. "Clint, please," Georgia whimpered, her lips trembling. "Don't do this."

Clint swallowed. His knees literally buckled and he almost caved in. Almost.

His fingers curled around the back of her neck as he pulled her forward. Clint crashed his mouth onto hers so forcefully that he was sure they would bruise, too. He nipped and bit and tugged at her bottom lip, pulling the tasty flesh into his mouth. He poured everything he had into that one kiss. All of his rage and affection for Georgia and self-loathing and lust and undeniable fear. He gave her everything he had.

Pulling away, Clint gasped for air. He had left her lips puffy and pink, her eyes teary and dilated with lust. He stared at her mouth for a too-long moment and stepped backwards, out into the hallway. Clint cleared his throat. "I'll, um, I'll call you."

And then he was gone.

I know. Life's a bitch, ain't it? Review and tell me how much you hate what I just did!