Author's Note: Just a little bit more of my take on things in the Avengers movie between Natasha and the other characters.

Chapter 2: All is fair in love and lies

The delight on Loki's face was obvious, and its presence in his voice was potent, "Is this love, Agent Romanoff?"

The word sounded wrong coming from him. He mocked it, mocked the idea of it. She had the ghost of a feeling that he had been scorned, and apparently women hath no fury like Loki scorned. Coy was the play here.

Natasha crossed her arms, offering a noncommittal shrug, "Love is for children. I owe him a debt."

One benefit of being fluent in multiple languages was that she understood love on every continent. In her native tongue, love was harsh if you were watching or listening from the outside. But from the inside, it was intense – it warmed the cold nights.

But her first love had also been arranged.

Alexei had been the most gorgeous man Natalia had ever met. He was everything a good Russian woman ever dreamed of – he was in the military, a decorated pilot. And he gave Natalia everything she asked for. He had loved her with the passion of youth, and she was consumed by him.

His proposal was expected, and their wedding was perfect. Natalia had been worried about married life, but Alexei understood her job, her position in life, and he respected that. They built a life together despite the fragile materials they had to work with. Natalia was happy.

Then he died in the wreck – or so she was told.

Her heartbreak was so severe that she didn't know what else to do but throw herself into the work that Alexei had never judged her for. She had played right into her handlers' play, and she had been none-the-wiser. Truly, she had learned from the masters of deception and manipulation.

When Alexei had resurfaced, when Natalia had learned the truth, her first reaction was to go in and take back the life that had been stolen – destroy the men who had done this to her and reunite with her husband. But he had been part of it.

So she took her revenge in the most effective way she could think to. She defected.

And for many years, she had considered that defection even from love. She had burned a lot of poor young hearts along her way to what some might call her redemption. "Love is for children," is what she would say to those foolish enough to fall for her curls, the swish of her hips, and her enigmatic smile.

It took many years before Natasha, no longer Natalia and all of the baggage that came with her, was ready to open her heart again, but she had. And when she did, she was astonished by how much room was there.

She had first learned how to love herself. Confidence was easy, second-nature even, but actually embracing who she was and what she could do, that had taken patience. And help. Then she found herself becoming fond of her fellow agents, making friends even. It was never completely easy; nothing happened over night for her, but she was open to it after many years.

Once the door was opened, it wasn't long before her capacity for fire and passion flooded out, long bottled up and kept under wraps. She could have tried to keep it that way, making the all-too-common excuse that allowing herself to let someone in again would put them in danger. But the excuse was laughable. Truly, who was more dangerous than she was? The list was astonishingly short, and with her new list of allies, she felt that anyone foolish enough to come after her through someone she cared for must obviously have a death wish.

It had been the single most rewarding change since defecting, to come full circle to reclaim a little bit of who she was before the horrors of her early days. Followed closely by the increase of travel opportunity; she was fluent in multiple languages, with the ability to understand love on any continent.

Loki didn't quite buy it, she saw. That was fitting. It wasn't entirely a lie, but there was enough of a lie for it to seem a petty test of his skills. Still, he had missed the truth in the statement, and he neglected to mention that she had dodged the question. He wanted her to feel confident.

Natasha had rarely seen her own blood, certainly not so much of it at one time. It felt sticky on her side, and the pain was excruciating. She thought that her life should be passing before her eyes, but there was already so much death in it, that she felt it a humorless joke.

Darkness was creeping in the corners of her vision, and she felt a gurgle starting in her chest. Her own training told her what was happening to her body, how it was failing her. She had tried her comm when the shot had hit her, but it didn't seem to be working. So she had resolved to die here, alone, in a dark warehouse, after a botched job. It wasn't exactly unexpected.

What was unexpected was Clint Barton's face appearing over hers, his stupid smile forced this time, "You always start the party without me."

Despite the pain, she grinned at him, "You're just too slow-" a cough erupted, and she didn't like how wet it was - "never could keep up, Barton."

He grimaced at the cough, too, and she could just imagine what came out of her mouth that time. And suddenly she felt a burning desire to make peace with the world. Shit, she thought, I really am done for. The thought must have been written on her face because Clint's focused, and he shook his head.

"No you don't, Tasha. Not today."

She shook her head, "Since when...when do you give me orders?"

It was getting a lot harder to see, to breathe. The pain was ebbing. She knew. He knew. Why should they fight it?

"Since today. The med unit is on their way; I mean they are literally down the street, and you are telling me that you are going to give in? That's not the Natasha I know."

Something stirred in her, "How well do you think you know me? What I've done?"

He leaned down and whispered to her, then. Her eyes widened, and he pulled away, meeting her gaze. Not another word was spoken then. But she set her jaw, and stared at the ceiling, and he just put his stupid grin on again...although, if she was being honest, it wasn't so stupid now. Even in her thoughts, she didn't repeat what he had said; it was a secret that they both would take to their graves.

When she awoke in the hospital, Clint was there, reading a local newspaper – well, pretending to, anyway. She knew he didn't read Afrikaans because she didn't. He peeked over the page, sensing her wakefulness, "Welcome back."

She grunted in response, pushing herself into a slightly sitting position while the pain was dulled by the drugs, "I guess you win this round, Barton."

He just shrugged in response, "You owe me, Romanoff."

"I do."

She could see the inaudible scoff in his shrug, as he turned toward the bench in his cell, gesturing with mock interest and magnanimity, "Tell me," he offered.