Disclaimer: I usually don't do these, what with this being fan fiction, but for now, here you go – I do not own the characters or the movie plot.

Note: So...there has been this idea in my mind for a while that Natasha was lying to Loki throughout the conversation on the Helecarrier because, well, she was interrogating him. Why would she have been honest about anything? I have been playing with the format, but I don't know that I'm actually settled on it, so...we'll see. Hope you enjoy!

Truth is a Four Letter Word

Chapter 1: A liar in the service of liars

Clint had always been the patient one. Natasha could wait for something, as long as she was busy. She could wait for the information for days if she was playing a part, but standing in one spot, waiting, was outside of her paradigm. Fury was taking too long, trying to convince Thor to walk in and brutally torture his brother to get information. Somewhere between the gentle suggestion and the insistent plea, Natasha had stepped in and reminded Fury who she was and what she did.

Thus, she found herself outside the door to the room where Loki was being held.

She had run through the process in her mind, having spoken to Thor about his brother. He was a trickster; he was smart and cruel, and he needed to feel that he was manipulating her. Easy.

Black Widow did not interrogate unless she already knew the person she was interrogating. They didn't know her, of course, but she knew if they were more likely to respond to a rough approach or a practiced, gentle hand. Sometimes it took something drastic on her part. This was one of those times.

Silence was Natasha's second language, and here she was mangling one of the simplest phrases. She slipped out of the room while her host was in the restroom, making sure to tip over something to garner attention. She heard the mutters of the guards, then her host reemerged, a smug smile on his features, "Did you think I was fooled?"

Shame burned on her cheeks as one of the guards approached. She didn't want to make it look fake, so she put up a fight, but his obvious prowess was too much, and she found herself manhandled into a pair of cuffs.

"Take her to the warehouse," her target had muttered in her mother Russian. A black bag was swept over her face, but she already knew where they were taking her.

Under the bag, she smiled, listening to the familiar back-and-forth of camaraderie between the hired goons, each of them discussing what they would do with the scantily-clad woman. She was preparing herself for the worst, but she felt confident that she was approaching the end of her mission, then she could go home, take a real shower, and maybe even do some reading.

The vehicle stopped, and she was pulled roughly from the back seat, pushed up a staircase, and then the breeze around her was gone. She was inside the warehouse. Her legs were tied to the chair - "kinky," she had muttered to one of the men behind the black fabric – and her arms were re-cuffed behind the back of the chair. This was going to take a while, she realized.

When the bag was removed, her eyes adjusted quickly. Two lackeys and her target and hours of fun ahead. For all of the terrible things that happened to her in Russia, all of her reasons to defect, in these moments, she had to be grateful for her Red Room training.

"Here is the routine: Yuri here is going to work you over for a little while, give you a preview of what can happen if you do not cooperate with us tonight."

The ring leader walked to a shoddy table, unfurling his package of goodies. All of the typical toys were there – tongs, pokers, knives, a needle, even. She would be impressed if she weren't currently working for SHIELD; their little package was bush league compared to her list of goodies now.

"I am familiar," she responded with an air of feigned nonchalance, "with how this works. You have probably heard."

The man simply chuckled and motioned to one of the meaner-looking brutes, who walked over, making a big show of cracking his knuckles. Natasha couldn't say what happened next because in these moments, she went to one of her happy places. Sometimes it was an early memory with Ivan, sometimes a more recent one – more frequently they'd been recent ones. She found she had a lot to live for these days.

Her body cued her that the ministrations had stopped, and she gazed at the target with a look of slow resignation.

Luchkov began his spiel, and she had been filing it away in her mind...

She couldn't remember what all had happened after that. It wasn't pain; it hadn't been that they were so good at what they were doing (they were not). All she would remember about that mission for years was the phone call – Coulson on the line, telling her that Clint Barton, perhaps the only other SHIELD agent as dangerous as she was, had been compromised. It could mean any number of horrors, but it was enough to make the petty arms race between Russians seem like a joke.

"Let me put you on hold."

Natasha watched him in the cell; he appeared to be deep in thought when she approached. He seemed genuinely startled when he turned to face her, a smile on his features, "Not many people can sneak up on me."

This moment would determine how she went forward, "But you figured I'd come?"

Of course he did. She registered his response, and she had to admit that he was good at this. He was right; Fury's idea had been to send her in after the torture, and her decision to bypass that cliché was probably her saving grace now. She was already a step ahead.

A successful interrogation, Black Widow style, required a complicated dance between truth and lies. Sometimes the truth involved was torture, though in this case, she felt that particular type of truth would only be laughed at. After watching the demigod's interaction with Fury, she felt sure that coming in coy, so that he could tear her down, would get more fruitful results.

The sound of breaking bones is something that never really goes away from your mind. It's a sound that is unmistakeable, one that it took years to become accustomed to. Natasha didn't even grimace at the sound anymore. Even when the bones were her own.

They weren't today.

The mangled pinky escaped her grasp, and the man to whom it belonged, to his credit, said nothing. Tears brimmed over his eyelids; his teeth bore into his bottom lip, and he shook his head, willing himself not to give away his boss's location. It was almost endearing.

"Listen," she had purred to him, "I don't like doing it this way. Usually, I sidle up to someone in a cafe," at this she brushed against his side, kneeling down to whisper in his ear, "and somewhere between a crème brûlée and peeling out of my clothes, they always tell me what I want to know."

His eyes flicked over to her, and she almost felt bad for letting him know what the alternative could have been.

Her fingers brushed some stray hair out of his face, and she continued, "But that's not what I was hired to do this time, Лапочка. I cannot offer you the sweeter side of the Widow today, but I can promise you this," and at this, she maneuvered in front of him, stretching one slim, muscular leg over his lap and settling down across him, "if you can help me today, I can help you later."

One of her statements was true. It was up to him to decide which was which, but the way she was making up for the earlier, ah, strain on his knuckles, she had a damn good idea on which way he was likely to bet.

When she stepped out of the room, wiping the blood from her hands, she felt that familiar twinge of guilt at giving the man false hope. Clint was outside, his arms crossed in his standard pose to give her space to go through the process.

"Did you get everything," she stopped next to him, looking sideways at him. He nodded.

She walked away, "I'm going to wash my hands."

She had played the conversation out in her mind many times, but she felt the stakes were higher than they had ever been, and that put her at a severe disadvantage.

The smile on Loki's face felt faintly familiar. Oh yes, she thought, he reminds me of me. This could be very difficult...or very easy. Either way, it was time to determine which truths to tell and which lies to wrap around them. Here it was – the moment of truth.

"I want to know what you've done with Agent Barton."