AN: THANK YOU to all that read and favorited the first chapter and extra special thanks to those who took the time to review. They are appreciated and read and loved. If you hadn't gathered the time frame of "Before" on each chapter is before the events of Avengers.

That said, I went back and re-read chapter one and oh, dear. The tenses were all over the place, which was completely unacceptable; so I've replaced it with a new, corrected chapter that isn't all split-personality. I apologize and hope it doesn't dissuade you; usually I'm a better writer than that.

I wish I never looked, I wish I never touched
I wish that I could stop loving you so much
Cause I'm the only one that's trying to keep us together

When all of the signs say that I should forget her
I wish you weren't the best, the best I ever had
I wish that the good outweighed the bad
Cause it'll never be over, until you tell me it's over

These battle scars, don't look like they're fading
Don't look like they're ever going away
They ain't never gonna change
These battle(And just leave then)
You shouldn't have but you said it
(And I hope you never come back)

It shouldn't have happened but you let it
Now you're down on the ground screaming medic
The only thing that comes is the post-traumatic stresses
Shields, body armors and vests
Don't properly work, that's why you're in a locker full of hurt
The enemy within and all the fires from your friends
The best medicine is to probably just let her win

Chapter 2 - Possession

Berlin – 2 years before

The second time they have sex it's because of possession.

Clint had been forced to watch her seduce a damn mark. Again. This time at a fancy gallery opening where said mark was the artist. From the outside the guy seemed innocent enough, starving artist and all that.

Except while he was an artist he was certainly NOT starving. Not from the coin he was pulling in running guns and other assorted military-style weapons across Europe. The artist crap was just a method to move the weapons; someone bought a painting and got an extra something in their shipment.

At first SHIELD could have cared less, until Evengi Markham had started selling to their enemies. Then they took interest and sent their best team out to eliminate him. By all accounts Markham worked alone (well, mostly, he always had rather large bodyguards following him around) so one shot and they would be done.

SHIELD wanted this one done quietly, so poison was the method of death on tap for the evening. Natasha was supposed to slip the substance into his drink and simply walk away.

Except the idiot hadn't had a drink in his hand all night. If he wasn't talking to someone he was on the phone with someone else.

Or he was leering at Natasha in a way that sent the hackles up on the back of Clint's neck. She had played hard to get but was finally standing at Markham's side, smiling, flirting, and pulling out her long dormant Russian accent.

And he…well, Barton was stuck on the roof of the building across the street, rifle set up next to him as a last resort. He watched stock still as Markham put his hands all over his partner.

All over her.

At first it was fairly innocuous, a hand at her back to guide her around the gallery, a brush of the hands, but slowly he got a little too familiar. Not that Clint blamed him. Natasha was dressed to kill that night in a form fitting, knee length emerald green dress. It was flowy and clingy all at the same time and with the matching stiletto heels she was quite a sight to be seen. Clint had had to hide his reaction when she'd stepped out of the hotel bathroom earlier that evening by suddenly finding his rifle absolutely riveting.

Right now Markham was grabbing her ass, kneading it firmly with one hand. Any other occasion and she would have broken that arm clean in half, but now she was smiling seductively at him.

It took all Clint's willpower not to talk to her through the comm, they had a standing understanding that unless death was imminent or something critical needed to be relayed (and what constituted critical had been thoroughly hashed out after Clint wouldn't shut the hell up a couple times).

So he remained silent while the slimy bastard got a nice ass grab in before kissing her neck gently.

And he stayed silent when Markham guided her to a quiet, dark corner and pulled her body flush against his, kissing her deeply.

But when the jackass went for her breast and got a generous, lengthy handful Clint hissed out an irritated "What the fuck".

If she heard him, Natasha made no outward sign of it, instead leaning into the touch and moaning appropriately. Though Clint could tell it was completely and totally fake.

Fire was rising in him and he couldn't explain it. Well, maybe he could but Clint chose not to dwell on the reasoning behind his sudden possessive behavior. This was not the first and certainly not the last time she would seduce a mark, so his feelings were borderline irrational. Except the difference between this time and the dozens of other times she'd done it was their own encounter in Budapest.

This was exactly what they didn't need, he thought and instantly cleared his head, focusing back on her and the mission and somehow tuning out what was going on between his partner and the mark.

"Have a glass of champagne with me?" she whispered seductively and licked her lips. Markham nodded stupidly and she walked off with an extra swing in her hips, easily finding a waitress with a tray full of glasses.

Clint watched as she took two and carefully dropped a pill into one, swirling the drink so it dissolved in a matter of seconds. Then she was back with him in the corner, and they toasted and each took a long drink.

Then another and quickly the glasses were drained. It would be maybe five minutes before the supposed artist would suddenly drop dead of an apparent heart attack.

With a promising kiss Natasha excused herself to the bathroom, but took a turn on her way and instead disappeared out the back door while Clint watched Markham drop to the floor twitching, the other guests screaming in horror.

In no time he had his rifle packed up and was moving across the closely spaced rooftops and away from the gallery.

It took him all of ten minutes before hitting their small hotel and he shimmied down the back wall near the empty truck delivery entrance. Then walked around the building, slinging the bag that held the gun onto his back and simply walked in the front entrance.

He beat her to the room as expected and went about his post-mission briefing with Coulson. They would be on the first flight out in the morning and the handler was pleased they had gotten through the mission quickly and without incident. Barton heard the sarcastic tone in Coulson's voice; it actually was unusual for Strike Team Delta to manage a mission without complications. They somehow seemed to invite disaster.

Ending the conversation Clint realized it was taking Natasha longer than it should have to get back to the room. At this point he wasn't overly worried, but it was giving him entirely too much time to replay the night's events in his head while he unlaced and removed his boots.

The way Markham had touched her, had whispered in her ear, and had kissed her.

Sudden possessiveness reared up in him, moreso than it should have. Despite one night, he had no claim on her, and yet that caveman part of his brain insisted that yes, yes he did. They had spent just over three years as partners, they didn't "date" other people, had few friends outside each other and Phil and shared things with each other that they wouldn't with anyone else.

So yeah, he did have a claim.

And when the door opened and she walked in, Clint felt compelled to mark his territory.

As she finished locking the door he pushed her against it (what was it with them and doors?), his lips attacking hers, tongue forcing its way into her mouth.

Clint was well aware that if she didn't want to do this, Natasha could easily stop him, but she didn't. Instead she kissed him back, her tongue dueling with his.

Then his hands were pulling ruthlessly at the front of her very expensive dress, exposing her lace clad breasts.

Her nails scraped his neck, most likely leaving marks and that just fueled his passion even more and he yanked, ripping the dress clear down the front, exposing her to the top of her matching lace underwear.

One hand worked its way under the dress, up her thigh before rotating to grab her ass; and his other arm snaked around her back, lifting her into the air so she could wrap her legs around him.

The entire time his lips never left her skin, exploring her shoulders, collarbone, the tops of those breasts. Anywhere he could find.

At some point he pulled her away from the door and carried her to the bed, tossing her rather carelessly onto it.

That possessive feeling reared up again at the visual of her lying there, dress ripped, chest heaving, lips swollen, desire rampant in her green eyes. He'd done that to her. He'd brought the Black Widow to this state. Him.

Faster than even he thought possible, Clint shed his clothes and pushed the dress up to her waist. Natasha had been silent and for a moment that gave him pause, until she wrapped one long leg around his waist and pulled him closer to the edge of the bed.

He leaned over her and kissed hard again, biting not so gently at her lower lip. She let out a low moan of approval and he placed his hand between them, easily tearing the barely there lace underwear off her body.

Then he entered her, fast and hard and oh, God, she was already wet and ready for him.

Standing, he gripped her thighs hard and set a pace that was just shy of brutal, she would certainly feel it the next day.

She moaned and started panting harshly, her hips moving in time with his, eyes flitting closed with pleasure, lips forming an "o".

When her fingernails dug into the skin of his outer thighs he knew she was close so he eased the pace just barely and lifted her ass off the bed, providing a better angle. It wasn't long before she was letting out a keening moan and arching herself off the bed, falling apart under him.

As he came, Clint bent over and bit her shoulder hard, hard enough to certainly leave a distinct bruise for the next couple days. She let out a small cry of not pain but surprise.

Then he collapsed on the bed next to her, panting as well.

Again she was the first one to get up, but instead of disappearing into the bathroom right away she propped herself up on one arm and looked down at him, slightly amused.

"Next time, Barton? No marks."

"Who said there's gonna be a next time?" he asked as she disappeared into the small bathroom. At his words she stuck her head back out and stared at him pointedly.

Yeah, of course there would be a next time. It was too good between them for there not to be.

As long as they just kept it about sex and nothing more.

Tbc….

Anyone guess the song lyrics at the beginning yet? Anyone?