A/N Thank you very much for all the positive feedback. I'm glad you enjoyed the first chapter! I wrote chapter two during work today. I hope you like it!

Chapter Two

Never Drinking Whiskey Again

Hangovers were the worst. Clint had learned this over time. This one was especially bad. But then again, last night's kill was especially bad. Clint had actually hallucinated seeing her. The Black Widow. That was awful. In the past there had been agents who had seen their targets after killing them, but Clint had laughed it off. Said that they were crazy and needed a few weeks off. And now Clint was one of them. One thing Clint had prided himself on was his sensible mind. Clearly he had to rethink a few things.

"Morning," A voice interrupted his train of thought. Clint jumped, his heart thudding as he sat up. "How's the hangover?"

"Clearly worse than I thought, if you're still here," Clint spat, rubbing his forehead, not daring to look up at Natasha. The red haired girl was lounging on the chair opposite him. It took Clint a while to get his bearings. Apparently he had passed out on the sofa, clutching an empty bottle of whiskey to his chest.

"Oh how rude," Natasha replied, her voice nothing more than a wisp. She stood up, approaching him, "Although not as rude as you killing me. I told you, I can't leave."

Clint scrambled backwards, tossing the bottle at her, "Get away!"

The bottle flew through her abdomen, and the glass smashed against the wall. Natasha's form started to blur a little, before resetting. It seemed she was intangible. That both was a relief and a concern. It meant she probably couldn't pick stuff up and kill him, or try to fight him. But at the same time, it meant he couldn't hurt her if she were to attack. Clint guessed they were at a stalemate.

"You really are rather rude, aren't you, Clint Barton?" She smirked, looking down at her stomach. She trailed a finger over the spot the bottle passed through, "Death is curious, isn't it?"

Clint rolled his eyes at the rude comment. Nobody said he had to be polite to a ghost. "Yeah. It is. So why don't you scamper back off to the land of the dead? Leave me alone?"

"So you're rude, and stupid," She muttered, "I can't go to wherever I am destined to go. I am stuck! I've tried leaving this apartment, but I can't."

"You can't leave? Well I sure as hell can," He shot back, heading for the door.

"Wait! I'm not going to hurt you!" Natasha called after him, running a hand through her tangled, knotted hair. She really looked like hell. That bothered her. She wanted to appear presentable in death.

"I killed you. Of course you're going to take revenge. A vengeful spirit, right?"

"I don't want revenge, Barton," She snapped, gliding over to him. Tentatively she reached up, placing her hand on his shoulder. The sensation was weird, on Clint's part. His shoulder felt cold. He felt no pressure on it, just a soothing feeling. For once, he didn't flinch away.

"Then what do you want?" He asked carefully, looking down at her.

"Peace," She whispered, dropping her gaze, "You told me to rest when you killed me. I can't rest. It's too hard."

Clint bit his lip. He did say that, right? He had been more gentle after he killed her. Given her sympathy. Now Clint felt the same sympathy as he stared down at the girl who was stuck in the wrong life.

"I want to move on. I am miserable here," She continued, taking a step back. The cold sensation on Clint's shoulder disappeared, immediately warming to usual temperature. "I miss life. Miss the simple things. I miss being able to drink, though I don't miss the hangovers. I miss eating, like I imagine you'll be doing soon. I know it's odd but I miss showering. Water. Getting clean. I feel so dirty right now," She wrapped her arms around herself. "Filthy in life, filthy in death. Perhaps this is my punishment."

"Do you have any idea why you are here?" Clint asked, ignoring her little speech. It didn't concern him, after all, where she was placed in the afterlife.

"Like I said, it's probably punishment. I anticipated hell, but I'm not there. Not burned to a crisp. I'm just...cold."

"A punishment? Is this you doomed to eternity?"

"Oh god," She moaned, turning around, "I really hope not. No offense, but I don't want to be hanging around you for the rest of your life."

"That brings me to my other question. Did you choose to haunt me or did Mr Higher Power select this for you?" He raised his eyebrows.

"I didn't choose this. I don't know. All I want to do is rest," She sighed, walking over to the window, "I can't even go outside," She pressed her forehead against the window, and Clint watched, marvelling as the corners of the glass slowly frosted. Curious. By the time she pulled her hand away, Clint couldn't even see outside his window, the thin sheen of frost encasing it.

"I don't like this. I want to die. Properly. I don't want to be stuck halfway between this life and the next," She turned around to glare at Clint, before sweeping over. "This is your fault. You fix it!" Her tone took on a more commanding one. Clint groaned, ducking his head. When he signed up for killing the Black Widow, he didn't think it would be this hard.

"How?" His tone was careful as he stepped backwards.

"I don't know. You killed me, you figure it out."

"Well...you're clearly a restless spirit. I guess what we need to try and do is put you to rest," Clint eventually deduced. "No fucking clue how to do that though."

"Try something. Anything!" She demanded.

"I'll just go call Ghostbusters," Clint smirked in response, before humming the famous tune.

"Is that supposed to be funny?"

"God, the dead really don't have a sense of humour, do they?" He laughed, trying to clear the air of the awkwardness.

"Shut up."

"It's my apartment, I can act the way I want to."

"You killed me. Don't I get special rights?"

Clint cursed under his breath. So she had a point. He did kill her, and put her into this situation. Then again, any agent who killed her would probably have to deal with the ghost. Lucky Clint. The glory that came from killing the Black Widow really wasn't worth it.

"Fine. Well you can sit in the corner and shut up until we figure out what our next move will be," Clint sighed.

"You can't tell me what to do. You're not the boss of me. I'm dead."

"You've mentioned. Several times."

"God, you're infuriating," Natasha snapped, shaking her head a little. Her curls flopped from side to side, having lost the bounce they once had.

"I'm sorry, I'm just back from a long mission! I'm Jet Lagged, I'm hungover and there's a fucking ghost sitting in my apartment! I'm allowed to be cranky."

"I think I'm in a worse place than you. Physically, mentally, and definitely spiritually," She eventually muttered.

"I'm not sorry I killed you," Clint sighed, giving her a look, "I was perfectly justified in my actions. You were an awful person in life."

"But I wasn't. Not really. You wouldn't understand, Clint Barton," She wanted to disappear, at least be alone for a little while, but found she couldn't. Last night she tested her restrictions. She could go anywhere in his apartment really, but not the hallway or outside the building.

"I probably wouldn't," He agreed, "I tend not to understand monsters."

Natasha's dull eyes sparked a little life and she growled, before lunging for him. Clint winced, anticipating the blow. He would let her hit him, he was far too hungover to fight. The spirit simply passed through him, chilling him for a second, before emerging behind him.

Natasha screamed. It was a shrill, strangled sound. Horrific really, one of the worst sounds Clint had ever heard.

"I know you're frustrated. But-" He paused, "But I promise I'll help you. I promise to help you rest. I owe you that much."

A/N Please forgive me, the chapter is a lot shorter than what I would have liked. But yeah I hope you enjoyed! Please review. They make me happy!

Also follow me on tumblr at "Theavengingangelsarehere"