AN I really like this chapter. Not because of the content, but more because of what it all implies. Natasha has slowly been building as an entity that is willing and able to act by herself, and this just feels like a culmination of it all.

There was a time when I tried to avoid having two songs in a row by the same person. That goal is a hilarious memory now, as I have broken it twice and will probably do it again.

"No Light, No Light"

You want a revelation,
You wanna get it right
But it's a conversation,
I just can't have tonight
You want a revelation
Some kind of resolution
You want a revelation

No light, no light in your bright blue eyes
I never knew daylight could be so violent
A revelation in the light of day,
You can't choose what stays and what fades away

Would you leave me,
If I told you what I've done?
And would you need me,
If I told you what I've become?
'Cause it's so easy,
To say it to a crowd
But it's so hard, my love,
To say it to you out loud.

Florence + the Machine


once again, he makes it very hard for her to think.

Natasha tried not to think about Clint. She tried to get along with business, to walk the streets and keep her head down. She wanted to just get her money and not catch any more attention, but that worked just as well as it had last time.

She kept going back to him, going back to the shame and anger in his eyes when he tried to get her to stop asking questions. At first she hadn't been quite certain what to feel about it, torn between the novelty of seeing someone outside of her situation suffer, and the pain of seeing Clint be that someone. Now she just felt sickened by it all, by her reaction, by his denial, by the thought of some unknown terrible force making Clint hurt.

That was probably the worst bit. Natasha had days and days and days to think and wonder and theorize, but in the end, she didn't know the truth. Clint had kept that from her, and that was the worst kind of suffering she had even been through.

If she had known, at least, she might have been able to reconcile herself with it, since she most likely couldn't whip up some sort of plan. But instead, she was left to fret.

To her immense surprise, Clint called for Natasha less than two weeks later. She had figured that he would ignore her, in favor of some girl that wasn't so curious. She supposed that it was either habit or a desire to let as few people know as possible, but she didn't care. She got to see him, got to see how he was doing.

He was doing bad.

When he opened the door for her, he was as polite as ever. He had that same look in his eyes from last time, though, the flat exhaustion that sleep couldn't cure, and she knew what was coming next.

He wasn't wild like last time. He didn't claw and demand and try to wash away the pain. Natasha wasn't a distraction, she was a creature comfort, something he desperately enjoyed having. Thankfully, Natasha had just enough sense to feel the creep of dread when she realized how little that bothered her, but it wasn't much.

Clint sat down on the bed, and pulled her onto his lap. She complied, draping her arms around his neck. Natasha did not miss the way he flinched when he raised his hand to run his fingers through her hair. She did not miss it, but she also did not comment.

She did not comment on the way each movement was careful and slow, did not pay overt attention to how his breath caught when she straddled his waist, and her thighs pressed into his sides. She had a job to do, and she would do it, even if it made her want to cry.

Natasha couldn't help but hesitate when she undid his shirt, and yet again found bruises. They were right on top of the old ones, which had turned into a surly jumble of yellows, greens, and faded browns. The new ones were dark and angry, smears of red and purple on his skin. Whatever problems he was having, they had not gone away.

Clint's eyes were on her as she scanned his chest. She resisted the urge to look at him until she had schooled her expression, but she could imagine the look on his face. It was dispassionate and vaguely curious, a man trying to be disinterested as he sprawled out on a cheap motel bed with a prostitute on her hands and knees above him.

Natasha looked into his face, then carefully lowered herself so that she brushed her lips against the skin over his heart. He reached out and took hold of her leg, pulling her closer.

She closed her eyes, and tried to tell herself that this was very different from the way the Landlord had grabbed her and whispered that she had brought all of this pain upon herself. She took a deep breath, and tried to relax.

he lies almost every time she asks, and she asks five sticky notes worth. each time, more bruises.

"I hope you're not hesitating on my account," Clint croaked, and she opened her eyes. He had that same awful, flat expression on his face. She smiled and ran her thumb along his cheek.

"Of course not. Just want to make sure I'm my best for you."

She kissed him, wishing she could ease away his hurt.

When they were curled up in bed together, she couldn't help herself.

"What are the bruises from?"

He had his eyes closed, and she was almost half convinced he was asleep, but then he murmured, "I tripped over a power cord."

In a different situation, Natasha supposed that his easy, almost blase manner would have been amusing. Now it just hurt.

Every time he called for her, she asked, and every time she asked, he lied. They did this for four sticky notes' worth. Then, finally, when he wasn't able to do anything more than sit in bed with her on his lap because moving hurt too much, he gave her the truth.

"A loan shark," he muttered into her hair, the words sounding like the wicked child of a confession and a sob. "They're from a loan shark."

she asks why.

Natasha didn't pull away and stare into his face like she wanted to. She could hear the truth in his voice, plain enough. But she couldn't understand why. She knew about loan sharks, and she knew that Clint had enough money not to need one. So why was he being harassed by one?

She thought for a moment, continuing to hold him to her as she ran her fingers through his hair. She could ask. He had given her the honor of telling her the truth after all this time, so she could press things a little further.

"Why?"

Clint laughed, a short, hopeless little thing (she wasn't sure if it was short because he wasn't amused, or if it hurt too much to laugh), and then he sighed.

"He didn't like me getting a cat out of a tree."

Natasha closed her eyes. She knew she had to be patient, but dammit, being patient hurt. She wanted those facts almost more than she could bear, but Clint had given this much of his own accord. He would give her the rest in time.

...But that didn't mean she couldn't speed up the process a little.

"That's a shame," she murmured, tilting his head up so she could place the words right on his lips. Clint didn't resist, content to just let her ease away some of his pain.

She teased him like she had before, her lips hovering just above his. She could almost taste his smile, she was so close.

"Are you just gonna toy around, or what?"

"That depends on you," she whispered. Clint leaned up and kissed the side of her mouth in way of invitation.

Natasha delicately undid enough buttons on his shirt to pull it off, then grabbed hold to pull it over his head. Clint leaned forward to offer some space between his back and the headboard. His breath caught as he rekindled some of the injuries on his torso, and slowly, slowly lowered himself back once she had his shirt off. Natasha didn't say a word.

Instead, she leaned down to kiss his neck, soft and slow. It was a promise to soothe all aches imaginable, and he seemed more than a little tempted by it.

he finally lets slip the shark's name.

"We never talk anymore," she said, cleanly ignoring the fact that they never talked because their last few interactions was marred by severe physical and emotional suffering on Clint's behalf. And kind of her own, but she wasn't the object here.

"No, I guess we don't," he mumbled, sounding exhausted. He pressed his hand against the small of her back, the heat of his palm seeping in through her skin and finding its way to her very fingertips. "What do you wanna talk about?"

"Whatever you want."

Clint was silent for a while, allowing her to kiss him and allowing himself to forget. After a while, he asked, "Why...why do you keep asking? Why do you want to know?"

She pulled her lips away from his ear just enough to whisper, "Idle curiosity."

Clint didn't say anything for a long time after that. Natasha figured it was pretty much the end of their conversation by that point, but he surprised her.

She was pressed up against him, feeling each time he breathed and flinched from pain and sighed from exhaustion. She had her eyes closed, trying to hide from the sharp little boy blue eyes that had turned far too grown up for her liking, which probably made it look like she was asleep. Natasha guessed that was why he told her the loan shark's name.

"Ian Haulders," he whispered, his breath barely even stirring her hair. "His name is Ian Haulders, and I...I have no idea why I got involved."

She didn't move, didn't betray his confidence in any way. But she didn't ignore his words, either.

she finds the shark.

Natasha didn't know the name Ian Haulders, but she knew someone who would. A girl named Monique lived on the other side of the boarding house on the bottom floor. She knew everything about the customers serviced by the Landlord's girls. She had been around a little longer than Natasha, but every time someone got a regular or a notable customer, Monique found out. Natasha had no idea how the girl kept track of them, but she always seemed to remember who was who. If any of the boarding house girls had been bought by this Haulders, then Monique would know.

Monique looked thoroughly unsurprised when she saw Natasha rap quietly on her open door. But then, that might have been because Monique never looked very impressed with anything (it may also have been because she took particular pleasure in being strung out for much of her conscious moments, and many of her unconscious ones as well). She just raised an eyebrow and gave a lazy wave from her bed before drawling, "Come in, then."

Natasha stepped inside, and folded her arms. She couldn't seem nervous for any reason. She was ice, she was unshakeable, she was there for work reasons, not for selfish, desperate ones.

"Well, what do you want?"

"I was wondering if anyone had serviced a man called 'Ian Haulders' before," she said, jumping straight to it. Monique considered her a moment, then gave a slow laugh.

"Mm, why's that? Looking to cut into another girl's business?"

"The exact opposite. I don't want to start anything if he belongs to someone else."

"Okay, Russian girl." Monique shifted on her bed, which was eerily similar to Natasha's. It was piled high with pillows and blankets, enough to prop Monique almost upright. Natasha tore her attention away from the bed, and focused on the woman. She may have been exceptionally stoned, but she never forgot a thing. Whatever Natasha allowed her to see would be something that Monique remembered until the day she died.

"Ian Haulders. A few girls have been picked up by him. He never calls, never gets the same girl twice. At least, not on purpose."

Natasha gave a slight nod. So he was the kind that never remembered the face of the whores he used. Natasha's immense dislike for him deepened.

"He's from the city. That's where all of the girls meet him."

"Thanks. He's tried picking me up a couple of times, and I wanted to know if I was allowed to go for something serious. But it seems like it would really be a waste of time."

"It seems," Monique agreed, a coy smile on her face. Natasha started walking out of her room, trying to ignore the way Monique's gaze followed her.

and makes him a deal.

It wasn't hard finding out much more about Haulders after that. A few questions there, a bit of prying there, and she discovered where he lived, and even what he vaguely looked like. After that, it was just a matter of paying attention.

Natasha didn't really realize that what she was doing all amounted to some subconscious plan. Pushing Clint for a name, asking Monique about him, and then putting a name to a location, and a location to a face, it had all been following some perverse curiosity. How many times had she asked for details about the punishments the Landlord dealt out to other girls, not because the girl truly wanted to discuss it and free herself of the burden, but because an atrocious part of her reveled in people that were not her suffering. For the longest time, Natasha was convinced that her chasing these ends was just her filling in a grotesquely satisfying picture that she would put down and forget about once it was complete.

But then she was standing in front of his door, and she realized she wasn't casually looking for those missing puzzle pieces. She was actively pursuing a means to an end.

The part of Natasha that hadn't completely shut down reflected that never, in all the days she had lived, would Natasha have said she was getting involved. At least, not until she was knocking on Ian Haulders' door at ten at night, firm and ready to make things happen.

She held her breath, listening to someone on the other side stand up and walk towards the door. She pulled out her cold, unimpressed, and bored look, and waited for the door to open.

Ian Haulders didn't look like a terrible man. He didn't look like the kind of person that stole people's money on the pretense of giving them a hand. He didn't look like the kind of person to see call girls as forgettable bits of nothing. He didn't look like the kind of person that would viciously beat Clint and leave her to stare hopelessly at the pieces.

"Hello?" he said, already on the verge of scowling at her.

"Ian Haulders?"

"Yes. Who're you? Do you damn well realize it's past ten?"

"I do. This is a business matter."

"The hell I do. This isn't a charity, I didn't call a hooker, and no one likes me enough to do it for me."

Natasha ignored the flare of irritation and shame at having been identified so easily. She wasn't there to boost her pride, she was there to...

Well, she wasn't really sure what she was there to do.

"Mr. Haulders. Please, allow me to step inside before I make a scene. I want this to be as...streamlined as possible."

"Excuse me?"

Natasha gave him a look, and he set his jaw. He was about to become very difficult, rather than vaguely annoying.

"This is about Clint Barton."

He raised an eyebrow, then broke into an awful smile.

"Oh? He call you to, what, pay me off? Listen to me," he snarled, reaching out and grabbing her shoulder. Natasha's stomach seized as he snarled at her, face just a breath away from hers.

"Listen here, you damn little slut, I'm not someone that can just be gotten rid of, especially not after a night with some cheap whore. Clint Barton can either pay what he owes me, or I swear I will send you back to that little shit with your face looking like a Picasso."

Natasha gave herself a second, then pursed her lips. She gave a slow, lazy blink, because she had faced monsters before, and he was no monster. He was a bully, a coward, a man that ducked and dived when he needed to, but then took the opportunity to stab people in the stomachs once they laid down to rest. He was nothing than a rude brute, and she wasn't scared by him.

"Are you finished?" she asked, and her voice sounded like granite. "Because I would like to have done with this before tomorrow."

Haulders seemed to deflate in the face of her ambivalence, then spat, "What the hell do you want?"

"Can I come in?" she asked in a voice that took the choice out of his hands. He shrugged and acted like she wasn't kicking his ego and his threats to pieces, then stalked back into his apartment.

Natasha followed, closing the door behind her.

"Now, will you tell me why you're here?"

"I have an offer. Or a threat, but that depends on you."

"You think you can threaten me?" he scoffed, and she shrugged. Natasha surveyed his apartment. It was expensive, but it was clinical. Cold, utilitarian, all hard edges and pretension. This was not where someone lived. This was where they showed off.

"Clint Barton," she began, looking back at him. Maybe, if she said it fast enough and hard enough and cold enough, she wouldn't come to her senses and run away. Maybe he might also believe her.

"What about him?"

"Forgive his debts, whatever they are. No more payments, no more beatings. You absolve him of everything."

"I'm not even going to warrant that a bit of consideration. What could you possibly have that would make me consider? As far as I'm concerned, you're just some dumb bitch some idiot asked to get me off his ass."

"Control yourself," Natasha said, not even deigning to snarl at him. "I am on the verge of making your life very miserable. If I were you, I would listen before I started insulting me."

"What's your offer," he sighed, rolling his eyes.

"Then I will make sure that every organized prostitute in the city will refuse you service. Sure, you could go out and buy whatever real 'cheap slut' you can find, some teenager or crack addict that need a few extra bucks. Or you could ship someone in, but I can only imagine the sort of money that would cost. In terms of money alone, would it be worth riding Barton until you got every last penny out of him?"

"You really think you could turn every whore in New York City against me?" Haulders laughed. He leaned against the lethal looking counter, fairly unimpressed.

"Do you really think I would come here with hollow threats?"

Natasha wasn't lying. She could turn a large number of the higher end prostitutes against Haulders. Say the right things in the right ears, and then borderline miracles could happen. The only question would be how long until the Landlord would make her suffer, and then how much.

Natasha wondered when she had reached the point where she would defy the devil for Clint.

Haulders shifted, then shrugged.

"That's it? I forgive Barton of what he owes me, and then I get all of the paid sex I want?"

"Unless you want to start relying on your charm to get laid. Or if you want to buy yourself a vapid, greedy girlfriend to entertain yourself. But you don't look like the attachment sort of guy."

"And...you think I am that much of an addict? That I gotta get laid so often that I can't handle going without a few prostitutes?"

"Please," she scoffed, looking him up and down, "You act so mighty, but those 'dumb bitches and sluts' that you don't care about? They happen to have ears, and you happen to not have a brain when they get your clothes off and you happen to get a business call. The things that could be told are innumerable."

Haulders finally seemed to be listening.

"You mean, they heard—"

"Yes. Every skeleton to be buried, every deal to be ripped off. One word from me, and you'll have the jackals at your heels." Now, this was a bluff. There was no way Natasha could find all of the girls that had ever slept with him and heard all of his secrets, but clearly she had him going, and she would be damned if she let that slip.

He shifted, chewing on his cheek.

"Where did Barton find you," he asked after a moment, shaking his head. Natasha narrowed her eyes.

"He didn't send me. He doesn't know."

"Oh?" Haulders asked, a light showing up in his eyes.

"No. And he never will know about me, unless you want the jackals to know about you."

There were a few more moments of Haulders glowering at her, then he broke.

"Fine! Fine! He's free to go. Cheap bastard never paid me anyways," Haulders grumbled, stalking over to the liquor cabinet. Natasha watched him, then took off her coat. It took Haulders a moment, but then he turned to look at her.

"The hell are you doing?"

"Consider it an advance," Natasha said. "An act of good will."

"Excuse me? How is that?"

"I come free," she said, and his eyebrows raised in surprise.

Natasha told herself not to be sick. This was for a good cause. Plus she'd been touched by worse.


AN One thing that I find fascinating is that even though Natasha dislikes and mocks the idea that sex is a cure all, she readily uses it here. One, because that's all she has, and two, because she knows it can be a very powerful incentive. Even though I have this all planned out, and know how it's going to go, more or less from beginning to end, I love watching it all unfold. It's the little nuances, like seeing Natasha wake up to what's around her, and realize her own power that make writing a treat.