Natasha was used to improvising on the job. Her arrangement with S.H.I.E.L.D. notwithstanding, missions rarely went according to plan as a general rule and quick thinking was a necessary tool in any good agent's arsenal.

As far as agents went, Natasha Romanoff was the best.

Even as a little girl she'd been clever and observant. She'd watched her teachers and fellow agents closely, learning even when they didn't mean to teach. It didn't take her long to figure out that success came to those who combined their skills with a healthy mixture of intelligence and discipline, and she'd cultivated both.

Naturally, S.H.I.E.L.D. saw fit to exploit those traits to their full advantage.

When she'd been briefed for her mission in Tangier she'd anticipated a fair amount of improvisation. Her mission parameters had been vague. S.H.I.E.L.D. needed a prototype off the market. Natasha needed to intercept an illegal sale in order to retrieve it.

She posed as the buyer and took care of the seller once the prototype was safely stashed inside her bag. A mild Russian poison that would put him out of commission for a couple of hours at most. Then all hell broke loose. She managed to slip out the back door while bullets were still whizzing by, but her phone met its end in the ensuing chaos.

There was no time to mourn its loss. She had precious few minutes before the mess she'd left behind caught up with her, and she needed to change. A quick stop in the bathroom of a busy café later, she emerged in a brand new set of clothes and a brown-haired wig.

She tied her trench coat around her waist and slung her bag over her shoulder as she walked into the lobby of the nearest hotel. It was nothing fancy but it was busy, and it would do for her purposes. She made a beeline for the front desk and swept cautious green eyes over the man already asking for a room.

"I'd like a room, please," she told the clerk while rooting around her bag for her S.H.I.E.L.D. issued credit card.

"I'm so sorry," the woman replied in accented English. "There was only one available room left, and this gentleman here came in first. If you don't mind waiting a few minutes, I'd be happy to find you accommodations elsewhere."

Natasha stopped her search and looked at the man one more time. He was tall. Taller than her by a good eight inches and lean, with a ripple of solid muscle beneath his skin. His clothes were unremarkable. Chosen for comfort and perhaps blending in. Even his posture was relaxed and unassuming, as if encouraging others to overlook him. A small travel bag sat by his feet.

Then he flicked his eyes her way, sharp and alert. She couldn't pinpoint the precise shade of blue but when he swept them over her, she felt exposed. Seen. She was immediately unnerved. And the feeling was so foreign to her that for the space of a few seconds she wasn't sure what to do.

It was only the sound of hurrying footsteps scrambling across the lobby that broke her out of her trance. Natasha tore her eyes away to scan the new arrivals.

She'd only gotten a quick look at the men who'd been shooting at her less than an hour before, but she was fairly certain these were the same men. They were certainly looking for someone. She recognized the signs. Whether they were looking for her or someone else, she wasn't going to stick around to confirm.

She turned and leaned over the desk to address the clerk, but the man beside her beat her to it. "We'll share the room," he announced.

Natasha's head whipped around to look at him but the gears were already turning inside her head. His room was conveniently close and one man was easier to handle than five or six. He met her gaze as if he were issuing a challenge. Your move.

"Yeah, that's fine." Natasha replied without breaking eye contact. "First floor?"

"Of course."

"Emergency exit?"

"Two doors down."

"We'll take it," Natasha told the clerk.

Within seconds, the woman was sliding a pair of electronic key cards across the counter and pointing them down the proper hallway. Natasha swiped hers off the counter and turned instruct the man to put an arm around her shoulders, but he did so without her having to say so. Her curiosity only grew.

They kept up the act until they reached the room and then broke apart when the door clicked closed. Natasha turned curious green eyes his way. "You want something from me. What?"

He took a step back and flicked his eyes over the rest of her body. "Five," he spoke after a long pause.

Her expression gave nothing away. "Excuse me?"

"The number of weapons on your person," he clarified. "Five."

Natasha straightened her spine and loosened the belt around her waist. "Impressive. You knew I was armed and you still invited me to your room?"

His lips twitched at the corner but his gaze never waivered. "Call me curious."

"You know what they say about curiosity, don't you?" Natasha walked past him to get away from the intensity of his stare and dropped her bag on the bed. "You're a liability now. What makes you think I won't kill you in your sleep?"

"I didn't know whether or not that would be a concern when I invited you in. Will you be staying the night?" He didn't sound particularly frightened or concerned, only curious.

Natasha shrugged a slim shoulder. "It's a possibility."

"It's also a possibility you won't kill me. Balance of probability suggests you won't, but I'm not ruling it out. I've deemed the risk acceptable." He walked over and sat on the bed with almost lazy confidence, dropping his bag on the floor. Natasha risked a glance in his direction to find his eyes were as sharp on her features as they'd been in the lobby, and just as unnerving.

She looked away. "Is that trust, I hear?"

"No," he said simply. "It's knowing."

"And what is it you think you know?" She challenged.

"You're curious too."

Natasha flicked her eyes his way again but didn't deny or confirm. "Tell me what you're curious about."

"You're an intelligence agent of some sort," he began. "And a good one, too. I wasn't sure at first, but then those men entered the lobby. It's possible they were looking for someone else—Tangier has long been a safe haven for spies—but you're wearing a wig, and you're carrying a small arsenal of weapons beneath that trench coat. The evidence suggests they're looking for you."

"Or you," she interjected smoothly and tugged her wig off to reveal a mane of wavy red hair. "I noticed you were flying under the radar yourself."

"Impressive," he echoed.

"I aim to please."

His head tilted slightly. "Do you?"

Natasha ignored the question and busied herself with stuffing her wig inside her bag. "You still haven't told me what you're curious about."

"You."

"What about me?"

"Deductions with you are difficult and that's not a challenge I encounter often," he explained. "When I say I'm curious about you I mean it in a very literal sense. It just so happens that the circumstances of our meeting provided me with an opening to study you a while longer."

"That's all?" Natasha pressed.

"That's all," he confirmed and then continued after a short pause, turning his own eyes away. "Of course, we're both hoping to get out of this place with our lives and you're clearly very skilled at what you do. I'm quite good myself. It'd be logical to join forces, so to speak."

"Practical too," she agreed.

He was quiet for all of two seconds. "Was I right?"

She almost smiled. "You've made several of deductions so far and you're clearly very good. Which one are you referring to?"

"The one about you being an agent," he answered. "Thief is also a possibility. Mercenary."

Natasha zipped her bag closed and finally met his stare dead on. "I can be whatever you want me to be."

"I want you to be yourself."

His eyes moved over her features with careful calculation and still more of that same curiosity he'd expressed several times already. She could admit to herself she was curious too.

How long has it been? Natasha had sworn off any form of intimacy when she'd joined S.H.I.E.L.D., after years of using and abusing her body for the sake of the mission. Whether or not she consented didn't mean anything to the KGB. She was a weapon in the Soviet government's arsenal—a tool to be used.

She didn't feel like a tool when he looked at her. She felt like a person. Although what kind of person was another matter entirely. She certainly wasn't a very good one. But he wasn't running, was he? No, he was curious.

Natasha's lips parted in hesitation. "I'm dangerous."

"I know."

"Predatory."

"Yes."

"Lethal."

"I have no doubt." He seemed so unafraid.

She studied his face again. "You still want me to be myself?"

"Absolutely," he said without breaking eye contact.

Natasha straightened and moved to stand in front of where he was sitting on the bed. Her fingers finished loosening the belt at her waist and she pushed her trench coat open just an inch. It wasn't an invitation and he didn't take it as such. Instead he straightened his spine and settled his hands on either side of his legs on the mattress. Waiting. His expression seemed almost anticipatory.

"You said five before," she prompted.

"Yes." His gaze swept over her very briefly as if confirming his earlier deduction. "Was I right?"

"You tell me." Natasha nudged his knees apart and stepped closer, taking one of his hands and guiding it beneath her skirt. When his fingers brushed against the slim dagger strapped to her thigh, he met her eyes again and very slowly pulled it out of its holder.

He flipped it in his hand and offered it to her, hilt first. "One."

Natasha took it from his hand and tossed it near her bag, kicking off her heels. "Keep going."

He reached for her trench coat and helped her out of it with gentle tugs, sweeping his eyes over her newly revealed outfit. The cream blouse underneath was elegant but untucked. His hands slid under the fabric and brushed methodically against her skin until they reached a second knife, strapped to her ribcage.

He set that one aside with the other. "Two."

Natasha braced her hands on his shoulders and straddled his thighs, shifting just enough to leave a little distance between their slow-moving chests. Their faces were still close enough that she could count the individual shades of blue in his eyes if she so desired, but he didn't push her off. His expression turned almost thoughtful instead.

"Tell me your name," she requested quietly.

He took both her guns out of her shoulder holsters and then slipped the holster itself down her arms, fingertips just barely grazing her skin. "Sherlock Holmes," he answered as he cast them aside to join the growing pile of weapons. "Three and four."

Natasha watched in fascinated silence as he picked her apart, one weapon at a time. "And what are you doing here, Sherlock Holmes?"

He very nearly smiled as he picked up her hand and unfastened the garrote disguised a bracelet from her wrist. "Dismantling a criminal network. Currently I've hit a dead end."

"I'm sure that won't stop you for very long." Pause. "You're being honest," she observed.

"Yes." He tossed the bracelet aside and met her eyes. "And you're letting me disarm you."

"Yes."

"What are you curious about?" It was his turn to ask.

"You," she quoted cheekily.

He gave her a look that was close to playful disapproval, but not quite. "Very amusing. What about me?"

"You're not the only one who enjoys a challenge," she answered with a growing smile and cast her eyes downward very briefly before she spoke again. "Natalia. Natasha Romanoff, nowadays, but Natalia. That's my name."

"Pleasure to meet you, Miss Romanoff," he said professionally.

"Likewise, Mr. Holmes." Natasha smiled again and reached up to take a pair of small diamond earrings out of her earlobes. "And Six," she said as she placed them in his hand. "They're not real diamonds but they're a very good imitation. You drop one of these in any form of liquid and they dissolve into an odorless, colorless poison. There was a necklace to match until little over an hour ago."

Sherlock studied the shimmering studs in his hand with a keen eye. "Ingenious," he commented. "I take a professional interest in poisons myself. Do you mind if I—"

"Keep them," she confirmed. "I have others."

He placed the earrings in an inside pocket of his sport coat and looked at her. "Have you always been in the habit of wearing poisonous jewelry?"

"Ever since I was a little girl."

"Is that so?" His gaze was back to calculating. "It's not out of the realm of possibility, but I can't tell if you're being honest."

Natasha slid off his lap to gather her weapons and stuff them inside her bag. "You can't tell if I'm being honest yet."

He blinked several times. "Yet. Does that mean—"

Sherlock's words were interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. Natasha's head whipped around to look at him. "Expecting company?"

"Not at all."

They both sprung into action at the same time, Sherlock taking off his sport coat while Natasha's fingers flew over the buttons of his shirt. He tossed the garment aside to join her trench coat.

"Burner phone?"

"In my bag."

"And if there's trouble?"

"Vatican cameos." He ruffled his hair. "Anything else?"

"Bite your lip."

Natasha pushed his shirt open and eyed his chest perhaps a second too long. He'd clearly endured more than his fair share of hardship while he'd been 'dismantling a criminal net work', but he was still a beautiful man. Perhaps made more beautiful because of his hardship.

Her fingers traced the raised skin of a scar close to his hipbone. She wanted to know the story—she wanted to know every single story, and she realized with a sudden jolt of surprise that what she was craving was intimacy.

With him.

With the man who looked at her and saw her. With the man who was gentle with her even when he was stripping her of deadly weapons, as if he knew. And maybe he did. He didn't know everything. No one would ever know everything. Not about her. Not her story. But maybe he knew enough. Maybe he saw enough.

The question came whispering back. How long has it been? Years since she craved any sort of intimacy. Years since she felt quite so human.

Her thoughts were interrupted by another sharp knock on the door and a deep inhale form the man in front of her. Natasha didn't risk meeting his eyes. "Go."

Sherlock didn't hesitate or linger. He sauntered over to the door, already adapting the demeanor of a man interrupted mid-snog and putting on a hell of a show.

Natasha plopped down on the bed with his bag and searched for the burner phone. He didn't travel with much besides two changes of clothes and the usual toiletries, but she did stumble upon a box of cigarettes, a lighter and a black case. She traced the edge with her fingertips but let it go, plucking the phone out of his bag instead.

"That was Tangier police," Sherlock announced once their visitor took his leave. "Looking for a thieving redhead with a penchant for poisons. Wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"Nothing at all." Natasha zipped his bag closed and fiddled with the phone in her hand. "I'm going to call for an extraction. Shouldn't be more than a few hours before my handler sends someone, but it's probably safer to move."

He sat back down on the bed and scooted back until his back was pressed against the headboard. "Divorced. Recently. Couldn't be more than a year. No children. Took to heavy drinking after his wife left. Tried his hand at dating, but found himself hindered by erectile dysfunction. He's compensating with his job. Trying to prove he's in control of his life by exerting control over others," he spoke his deductions regarding the police officer quickly, ruffling his hair one more time. "He will be back. Especially if someone else is pressuring him."

Natasha half tuned on the bed to look at him and her lips turned up at the corner. "It never stops, does it?"

"What doesn't stop? My brain? No," he said soberly. "It doesn't."

"A blessing and a curse," she said with a thoughtful tilt of her head.

"In a manner of speaking." He dropped his hand to his lap and studied her. "What?"

"I noticed a case in your bag." Natasha noticed he became instantly guarded and scooted over until she was kneeling beside him, bright green eyes probing but gentle on his features. "I'd like to try something."

He seemed to weigh her declaration carefully. "It's not really my area," he said after a short pause.

"Doesn't have to be. It'll be an experiment," she assured him. "For both of us. We're both curious about each other already, aren't we? I have a theory about why that is. We're... similar, and that's rare." Pause. "You see me."

"You see me too."

"And you're not running."

"Neither are you." He raised his hand as if asking for permission and Natasha nodded, closing her eyes when she felt his hand curve warmly over her cheek. He brushed his thumb over the delicate skin. "We don't have long."

"I know."

"You implied before that we'd be seeing each other again."

Natasha opened her eyes. "Provided we don't die in the interim, which is always a possibility," she said, "yes, I'd like to see you again." Her lips turned up at the corner. "We can discuss poisons over coffee, like normal people."

He huffed softly. "I'll never be normal."

"Neither will I."

"Is that a promise?"

"A statement of fact." Natasha moved closer. "It's not just curiosity, is it? We both want something." Her eyes darted over his face in quiet understanding. "What do you say?"

Sherlock studied her for a long moment, sharp blue eyes uncertain for the first time. He nodded a short 'yes' after a few seconds, and Natasha leaned in slowly to mold her lips to his. They tasted like coffee and cigarettes and him.

He moved his hand to the back of her neck and the warmth of his palm mirrored the warmth of his lips, soft and inquisitive against hers. Natasha left the burner phone on the mattress and slid her hands beneath the fabric of his open shirt, pressing them gently to his chest. His heart beat quickly beneath her fingers. Then he breathed in and she tilted her head to deepen kiss, gracefully moving to straddle his lap.

They didn't go further. His hands catalogued the curve of her neck and the softness of her skin and hair, but they didn't stray beyond her hips. His goal wasn't to use her body for selfish pleasure, but to quiet his mind with the complex curiosity of her existence. Natasha's chest swelled with gratitude.

When they finally broke apart, she pressed her forehead against his and closed her eyes. He flexed his fingers on her hips.

"Thank you," he said breathlessly.

Natasha spoke in an equally breathless whisper. "Likewise."

They stayed that way for a long moment. Natasha had never been the type to fill the silence with unnecessary chatter, and Sherlock was the same. The silence was as oddly healing as the intimacy. Later they'd wonder at the chances of meeting a stranger with such a similar capacity to understand—to see. Slim, they'd both conclude as they carefully tucked the memory away.

But now they were pressed for time, and the ever-looming threat of death still hung over their heads. It was time to move. Natasha called S.H.I.E.L.D. for extraction and they split her weapons between them, hashing out the details of their escape.

Sherlock got a chance to see her working first hand when a group of five men ambushed them in an alley they'd taken as a short cut. He was impressed, but then he'd known he would be. Then it was his turn to show off his skills. Natasha relied on his deductions to navigate the sea of people crowding the streets of Tangier, smiling not because their cover as a couple required it but because her admiration was sincere.

They eventually reached the Tanger-Med, a cargo port some 40 kilometers from Tangier where a small S.H.I.E.L.D. extraction team was already waiting to take them to the Port of Algericas in Andalusia, Spain. From there Natasha would take a plane back to the States and Sherlock to Serbia. Natasha threw her arms around his neck and pulled him into one last kiss before they parted ways.

"One for the road," she announced with a playful smile once she let him go. "Until next time, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock," he corrected with something close to a smile. "And until next time, Natalia."

Natasha smiled again at his use of her name and turned to board the plane. Her lips were still tingling with his kiss, but something considerably more dangerous was brewing beneath her skin.

Good, she thought rebelliously as she watched him through the window. Danger's never tasted this sweet.