The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.

Clint~

I fell in love once, with the most beautiful of women. Her name was Natasha, or as she was more commonly known, 'The Black Widow'. Her name was given to her because of the desire and heartbreak she caused among both men and women. She was a dancer, a showgirl, at The Moulin Rouge. She was the star. A courtesan. A prostitute. A whore. Men from all around the world would give anything to spend just one night in her welcoming arms, bringing a lot of business to the night club and to the beautifully dangerous creatures of the underworld.

The woman I loved is dead.

This all started one year ago. It was 1899, the summer of love. I had travelled to Paris for experience so I could write. It was also to get away from my father's bitter voice. He had always wanted me to be a medical man like himself, because a writer was too fanciful for a man. I could not go one day without him raving at me about my career choice.

"Clint, it is a woman's job to write, it earns no money and is not respectable, especially when a man writes about love. Arthur Conan Doyle is only so popular because of his mystery and suspense; there is no place for love in his work!"

That was always my father's general tune. Don't do this, be a proper gentleman, so on and so forth. He never approved of my writing, even my mother's writing he ignored. When I was child I had hoped it was because he missed her too much to read it. She died when I was very young, and father never really forgave himself. She discovered him having an affair and I was only 3 years old when her broken heart killed her. Ever since my father hasn't been as fond of ladies of the night as he had been.

But, I digress. We don't always get what we desire.

When I arrived in Paris, I made my way to the city of Montmartre, where I was to live a penniless existence with the bohemian revolutionaries. I paid the landlady a suitable amount that I had earned in London working in a circus that had come to town. After they saw how handy I was with a bow and arrow, they signed me on and called me 'The Miraculous Hawk Eyed Man.' I couldn't tell my father though, I managed to convince him I had gotten a job in an Apothecary near Fleet Street. My time at the circus wasn't my best, the Ring Leader not being the most pleasant of men, but it was a job that paid quite well. Well, just as long as I didn't shoot anyone.

I sat down after unpacking my- very few- belongings and stared at my type writer. I had come to write about Freedom, Beauty, Truth and something I believed in above all things- Love. ("Always this ridiculous obsession with love!" my father once began another of his rants.) There was only one problem. I'd never been in love. Luckily, whilst I sat puzzling over how to begin, an unconscious American fell through my roof. I had barely jumped out of my seat in shock when he was joined by a man dressed as a nun.

After apologising profusely, the nun (or rather, man) introduced himself.

"Why hello my dear! How do you do? My name is Anthony Edward Stark, but you can call me Tony. We were just upstairs rehearsing a play, you know."

"What?" I was still rather dazed where a piece of ceiling had fell on my head and was finding it hard to keep up with the speed in which he was speaking. I had a vague idea what he was talking about because of the actions he was using, pointing at his unconscious companion and resting his own head on his left shoulder sleeping. Apparently his friend suffered from a sickness called narcolepsy and would often doze off during rehearsals (as dinners, appointments, conversations and backstage.) The unconscious man was known as Steve, and was staring in a show called "Spectacular, Spectacular". But, as he was currently hanging upside down, Tony needed a willing volunteer to play his part.

And so, within the first hour of moving to Paris, I had been fell on, dressed up as a Swiss man and forced up a ladder in unconscious Steve's place. I was flicking through the script when I heard the most awful sound. Looking down on the set, I realised it was Tony, drunkenly prancing about and singing along to the strangest compilations of bangs and squeaks I'd ever heard. I wasn't the only one who couldn't stand the noise, as a man ( I assumed he was a man, he was wearing too much make up to tell) named Justin- or the Hammer as Tony called him several times- ran angrily over to the 'musician'.

"Oh stop! That insufferable droning is drowning out my words."

To which the 'musician' replied:

"I don't think a nun would be singing about a hill."

"Perhaps the nun should say-"

"No, no, no, the hills quake and shake-"

Just then, inspiration hit me. I tried to make an input, but everyone was drowning each other out. I tried waving my arms, throwing a nearby paintbrush (which hit unconscious Steve, who was woken and too tried to input) but nothing would work. So, I sucked in a large breath of air and sang as loud as I could:

"The hiiiiiills are aliiiiiiive, with the sound of muuuuuuusiiiiiiiiiic!"

I grinned down at the men, who were staring up at me in surprise. Even not-so-unconscious-anymore Steve had sat up.

"The hills are alive with the sound of music?! I love it!"

I leant down towards them, one hand gripping the ladder tight, and continued my song.

"With songs they have sung, for a thousand yeeeeeeeeaaaaars!"

This was followed by excited gasps from both Tony and Steve. Tony turned to Justin.

"Perhaps you and Clint here could write the show together?"

Which, apparently, was a suggestion Justin did not want to hear, because he stormed out of the apartment with a yell and a slam.

"Well, I never really liked him anyway…"

"I think the boy has talent! I like him." Steve had gotten up and waltzed over to my ladder, where I found a slight pressure had found my crotch. I gasped and looked down, seeing Steve hastily pull his hand away.

"Nothing funny. I just like talent." He laughed awkwardly.

It was suddenly dawning on me that I was being voted into this production as the writer. Half of me was screaming 'Finally!' whilst the other part was yelling 'Shit, shit, shit run away, Clint and don't turn back. Think of what your mother would think, you writing a show for the Moulin Rouge.'

All I could hear was my father's voice in my head.

"You'll end up wasting your life at the Moulin Rouge with a cancan dancer!"

This moment of blind panic sent me straight down my ladder, past the excited bohemians and half way back to my apartment.

"I-I-I can't write the show for the Moulin Rouge! I don't even know if I am a true bohemian revolutionary!"

"Do you believe in Beauty?" Tony spoke up.

"Yes."

"Freedom!" Steve chipped in.

"Yes, of course!"

"Truth?" Tony again.

"Yes."

"Love?" The musician spoke up. I believed his name to be Happy.

"Love? Above all things I believe in love! Love is like oxygen! Love lifts us up where we belong, all you need is love!"

I felt three pairs of hands reach down and pull me back up the steps, where I was held in a tight embrace filled with laughter. Tony pulled away, kissed my forehead and yelled:

"Then you can't fool us!"

I was pulled back into an even tighter embrace whilst Happy headed over to a counter, and I was to have my first taste of… Absinthe.

After one glass, my chest and throat were burning, my head was spinning and I small man in a green sparkling outfit seemed to be dancing around in front of me. I couldn't help but laugh, how could our plan go wrong when we were all feeling so right?! So, I got dressed up in one of Tony's finest suits and was to be passed off as a famous English writer.

Tony was right, I couldn't ruin a thing.

Natasha~

There was the hustle and bustle of the show business world around her, but she sat still. She stared at her own beautiful reflection, her red curls that fell past her smooth shoulders, her plump red lips that had known so many men, and her pale skin that looked the most delicate of marbles. No one cared or noticed that she hadn't a stitch on her body, and she wasn't the only nude woman in the building. This wasn't just a show, after all. There was always pudding. She was so far away in her own mind that she didn't notice the well-dressed man that appeared behind her. Not until he rested a hand on her smooth shoulder. She was snapped out of her reverie, but smiled up at his face.

"Yes, Nick?"

"Oh, my little strawberry, I forgot to mention. The Duke is coming tonight. He'll also be attending the show. Don't forget, he may want to invest if you give him a run for his money, so big smiles. You're good at using those lips to get men onside!"

He patted her shoulder and kissed the back of her head before walking hastily away. The show had begun.