**Jan 27th, 2010**

"I still don't think this is a good idea," Nat declared, her voice muffled through the closed bathroom door. "You don't have a clue what you're getting into."

"It's been two weeks, Nat. Two fucking weeks of surveillance for one goddamn target," Clint groaned, his arm thrown over his eyes as he tried not to fall asleep on the couch again. "Trust me, I'm prepared. Hell, I'm way too fucking prepared if you ask me. Wanna know the way this woman takes her coffee? What shade of hair dye she uses? Cause I'm your man."

"That doesn't tell me you're prepared. It just tells me you don't know how to do surveillance properly," Nat replied, a light note of teasing in her voice that made Clint smile despite himself. It had been a long time since he'd heard her in such a good mood. She'd been snappy since they'd landed.

He reached over to the nearby table and took a deep sip of his coffee, sighing in content. Truth be told, England was pretty fucking good so far; no one made eye contact and the weather wasn't overly hot or overly cold. What more could he ask for really?

"I know, I know. Klara Sokolov, professional lie detector, yadda yadda, I know what I'm doing." Honestly, Clint didn't half buy the 'tell your lies just by looking at you' story, but Nat seemed pretty sold so he didn't get much chance to argue.

Nat's laugh echoed through the door, light and heart-warming. "Of course you do." The sound of something being sprayed could be heard loud and clear, which was impressive because Clint's aids were fucking him about recently. He thought something or other had got into the insides, maybe sand or water, but whatever it was, it was pissing him off to no end. "We can show our faces at the party today and then do the hit next week instead. I'm not going to rush this."

"Nat, seriously. If I have to spend another goddamned week watching that bitch read magazines and drink tea all day I'll jump out the fucking window."

"Now, don't go getting ideas." The bathroom door swung open to reveal Nat in a striking, navy dress that swept down to the floor and pooled elegantly at her feet. "And I'm sure you'll survive one week."

Jewellery glittered at her neck and ears, attracting the eyes to the elegant slope of her neck and the sharp dip of her collarbones. Clint's eyes were glued there for a breathless moment, tracing that sharp curve and biting his lip. Nat had dyed her hair a few days back, now a rich chocolate brown and it fell from the intricate braid at the back of her head to brush her shoulders. It was really fucking hot in this hotel room all of a sudden, which was weird cause Clint swore the A/C was on.

Cute curls falling to frame her face and glasses perched daintily on her nose, Nat looked like a completely different fucking person. It was fucking freaky so, naturally, the first thing out of his mouth was, "Who'd you steal all that shit from?" Because Clint was smooth like that.

Nat acted like she hadn't heard him, pulling out a pocket mirror - from a purse that Clint knew she hadn't owned yesterday - and checking her makeup. "No one who will miss it, I assure you." Came the answer finally after several long seconds.

Clint couldn't keep his eyes off her, and he was glad she wasn't looking at him to notice. Awkwardly, he stood from the couch, trying to straighten out the creases in his rented suit as best he could. There was little point, he supposed, he would be standing next to Natasha all evening, after all. Anyone would look like trash when they're standing next to that.

"Sokolov likes young, attractive men to keep her company. Maybe if you can keep her distracted long enough for me to make a move we won't have to wait, but I'm not guaranteeing anything. I would rather wait," Nat stated, artfully applying lipstick between her words.

"Awww, Nat. You think I'm handsome?" Clint teased, batting his eyelashes and trying to ignore just how fucking happy the thought made him. His stomach clenched uncomfortably, an odd warmth spreading through his chest. It was probably nerves, he told himself, but even he only half believed it.

"If you squint," Nat snorted, a hint of a smile at her lips though her eyes never moved from her mirror. "Now put a tie on and stop fishing for compliments."

Clint made an offended noise but threw his tie around his neck anyway. He wrinkled his nose. He felt like the collared dogs they made jump through hoops in the circus.

In a show of dramatics, he threw himself back on the fancy-ass couch, sprawling himself across it like he wouldn't be attending an upper-class party in the next twenty minutes. Who fucking cared anyways? Not him, that's for sure.

Nat closed her mirror with a snap, her eyes, the green emphasized with dark makeup, raking over his body without pause. She hummed in approval, "You clean up better than I thought."

Clint couldn't help the satisfied smirk that curled his lips. "That so?"

She caught the look on his face and she shook her head fondly. "Don't go getting an ego, Barton. You're insufferable enough as it is."

He let out a full-blown laugh at that, his head thrown back against the couch. He clutched at his chest in faux-pain. "Oh Nat, how you wound me."

She shook her head, a reluctant smile gracing her features. Fuck, how he loved her smile. He saw it so much more often now and yet it was never enough. She moved to go back to the bathroom but he called out to her, "Hey, by the way, I've been meaning to ask. What's this?"

He held up the little yellow and white pill he'd found in his suit pocket earlier that morning.

Nat froze, the smile slipping from her face as her eyes fixed on that pill. Clint regretted asking.

"It's a precaution," she said eventually, and if Clint hadn't been looking right at her, he would have thought nothing was wrong. "Sokolov is the best there is at what she does. If she catches you, and it's more than likely she will, then you can't let her take you alive."

And wow, if that didn't kill the fucking mood.

He looked at the little capsule between his fingers thoughtfully, letting it roll down into his palm and settle there. Being an assassin, Clint thought about death a lot. How it would happen, what it would be like, whether hell would be hot or cold. But, weirdly enough in the past few months, he hadn't been thinking about how good it might feel.

Clint Barton had found something to live for. Many things in fact. And even if they were just small, inconsequential little details to everyone else, they still meant everything to him.

The satisfying rush of a clean, perfectly executed shot; the comfort of having thick clothes on his back and food in his belly; the thrill of the chase; the dozy relaxed haze that filled his mind when the adrenaline had all bled away; Nat's small, reluctant smile when she thought he wasn't looking but he was.

Clint had a lot to live for. All those little moments of bliss hidden in such a dark and chaotic life. So the thought of cutting all of that off on purpose just because of some crazy lunatics - he couldn't even acknowledge the idea. "Nat, you can't be serious."

"I'm serious, Clint," she replied, her voice having gone so cold and defensive that it threw him for a second. She stood with her back ram-rod straight, tense as a bowstring. "This isn't a game, or a joke, or whatever else you seem to think it is. The people she works for have no mercy, no compassion, no humanity. And if you let them take you away you will wish every single fucking day for the rest of your life that you'd killed yourself when you had the chance."

Clint felt completely blindsided. He didn't know what to do with that. How the fuck were you supposed to reply to that. Sadness and anger were raging war within him, ripping him apart as he tried to meet her eyes. "I uh..."

"If they got to you I couldn't -" She cut herself off and turned away before he could be sure, but Clint thought her eyes were brighter than usual.

He swallowed, trying to force his voice to sound normal but in the end, it came out too strained to be convincing. "The people she works for, are they the same ones who..." He fell silent, not sure how to finish that sentence.

She ignored him, her arms folded. Her back was to him now and he could see that her dress was backless, pale skin smattered with freckles in plain view all the way down to the small of her back. Clint hated it. He hated how vulnerable it made her look, how naked she seemed. It would be so easy to aim a knife between those shoulder blades, directly into her heart. Too easy. "It's a cyanide capsule," she said softly, her voice smaller than Clint ever wanted to hear it. "You bite down on it and it'll all be over. I have one too. It's quick at least."

Clint's eyes fell back to the little pill in his hands before he put it back in his pocket, his face solemn. "That's a big ask, Nat. You know that."

"But will you do it?"

Now it was his turn to ignore her, a heavy silence hanging between them for a few long seconds. "Look, I'm sorry for fucking around, alright?" he finally gave in, unable to stand the tension any more. "I get how serious this is and I won't fuck it up. That's all I can promise for now."

Clint had already made up his mind, he wouldn't take that pill no matter what happened. Caught or no. Nat probably knew that without him saying anything.

She let out a frail ghost of a laugh. But when she spoke her voice was steady. "Is that Clint Barton apologizing? Surely I'm hearing wrong."

"Yeah, yeah. Don't get used to it."

Natasha reached up to push her glasses up her nose, turning to face him once again. Though she looked so different, some things had stayed very much the same and Clint found himself fixated on those tiny details. He could still see the tiny, raw cuts on her knuckles, the dark shadows of bruises that marred her jaw bone under all that makeup. Their last job had been fairly hands-on and Nat still bore the marks of a hard fight, the swelling having gone down only two days ago.

The tight knot in his chest eased a little at the familiarity of it.

Nat rummaged in her purse for a minute before handing him a small plastic box. Reading the label, Clint frowned up at her, confused. "Contact lenses? What are these for? I'm deaf, not blind unless you didn't get the memo."

"The less recognizable you are, the better," she argued, reaching down a hand to pat at his hair until he batted her hand away. "Brown eyes, gel your hair a bit and a few touches of makeup. You're practically a different person."

Clint rolled his eyes with a disbelieving huff. "Yeah right. I'll believe it when I see it."

When they walked into Sokolov's stately home half an hour later, Clint had to admit, Nat had more than delivered. He felt like a completely different person.

For one, this suit was not something he would normally wear. Hell, he was boiling in the fucking thing, the trousers just small enough to cause discomfort in all the important areas. He had to pull on the collar every now and then to stop himself from melting into the carpet. The contacts, as shown on the packaging, had turned his eyes a very unattractive shit-brown and his hair was slicked back with so much fucking gel it looked wet.

No shit he looked like a different person. He looked fucking disgusting.

If Clint caught his own reflection in the mirror he was likely to throw up, or maybe die of shame, whichever came first.

"Come on," Nat said, a hand covering her mouth to badly suppress a laugh. "Stop complaining. It isn't that bad."

He raised an eyebrow at her. An eyebrow that was decidedly darker, bushier and an inch or two closer to the other one than he remembered. "Isn't it?" he deadpanned moodily. "I thought I was meant to seduce Sokolov, not break all her fucking mirrors just by looking at them."

Nat shook her head, a tiny laugh escaping her lips no matter how she tried to keep a straight face. Clint's dark mood lightened just a little. "Don't worry. You're young and rich, she'll take what she can get."

Clint snorted as they entered the room in which the party was being held. It was a huge ballroom. And he meant a huge fucking ballroom. The room was easily two or three times the width and height of the Big Top. A live band was twanging away on the other side of the room and it was so far away Clint couldn't hear a single note. The whole thing was so over the top that Clint could hardly see the stone angles at the top of the thick columns of marble keeping the roof up.

It left him speechless for a minute - the sheer wealth of the rich would never fail to astonish him. Maybe it was a shame he couldn't appreciate it. That it was hard for him to see the display as anything but a - well, a waste. It was all a huge fucking waste of money and time in his opinion.

Who needed extravagant homes and ballrooms full of art no one really looked at?

How many street kids could've been fed on this dime? How many debts could've been paid off? How many lives could've been saved?

It made him sick, how Klara Sokolov was richer than God himself, and yet she hoarded it all away for herself.

Clint supposed it was difficult for rich people like her to understand why those who wanted dinner couldn't just ring a bell.

As they mingled with the crowd of men in clean-cut suits and women in glimmering gowns, Clint started to fidget. He couldn't help it really, he'd just never felt so out of place. The fifth or sixth time he reached up to adjust his tie and tug at his collar Nat's hand stopped him.

The room was loud too. Clint's hearing aids were turned up as high as they could go so he could hear Natasha but they kept picking up other things; the clinking of glasses or the scrape of knives on plates or the obnoxiously loud laughter nearby and amplifying them instead of what he really wanted to hear. He was getting a bit fucking annoyed with it, honestly.

"Sokolov is over there," Nat whispered, the glass of champagne in her hand shaking a little as she took a sip. She'd gone ashen. Clint followed her gesture over her shoulder to a woman in her early 60s, dressed in a gorgeous white gown that sparkled in the flattering light of chandeliers. But mostly she blended in with the rest of the posh, rich crowd. Nothing very remarkable about her, in both appearance and personality, as his surveillance had proven.

Sokolov was surrounded by a sea of guests, flowing gowns and black suits and money. Clint narrowed his eyes. "How the fuck am I supposed to get her attention in the middle of that?" he hissed.

Nat rolled her eyes. "Figure it out. If you can't do it today -. But don't forget. No making a -" The rest of what she said was cut off by a piercing whine of feedback. Clint huffed in frustration but nodded anyway. He got the gist and asking her to repeat it was too humiliating to be worth the effort.

Then Nat was gone, the plan already set in motion. He needed to get Sokolov alone so Nat could come in and finish the job however she planned to do it. He could do that, no problem.

He moved smoothly through the crowd, shoulders back and chest out like he had a fucking right to be there. Rich people were confident and charming and polite to the point of parody. Especially rich English people. He could do that. He accidentally shoulder-checked a waiter on the way up and didn't acknowledge it, just walked on. Oh yes, there it was, he could feel it. He was truly entering the skin of an absolute asshole. This was going to be brilliant.

Strutting up to Sokolov like a fucking peacock would've been funny if Clint didn't feel so goddamn uncomfortable in this place. Fish out of water? That was the understatement of the fucking year. He felt that if these people found out how much was in his bank account they would leap away from him in disgust like he was a lump of dirt on their $5000 shoes.

When he reached Sokolov she was already talking to a man a head or so shorter than Clint, but easily four times more handsome. His face looked like something chiseled out of stone it was so angular and symmetrical. However, just as Clint was about to move away, realizing just how hopeless his situation was, Klara Sokolov's eyes caught his. To his amazement, her face lit up in pleasant surprise. "And who are you?" she purred, curiosity and a note of excitement in her voice.

The sharp-faced man shot Clint a dark glare as he said his goodbye to Sokolov, pissed off at being interrupted, but she didn't notice. She only had eyes for Clint, raking up and down his body in appreciation. Clint wasn't really sure how to react to such naked hunger, especially in public. With a crook of her finger, he came closer, a confident smirk on his face that couldn't be further from how he really felt.

There was nothing subtle about this. She knew exactly what she wanted here. He clinked his glass with hers when she held it up.

"Clint Barton, ma'am," he said, trying to keep his voice low and his body language relaxed. His heart pounded loud in his chest. He could do this. He could do this. He could do this.

"Hello, Clint," she said, her smile borderline predatory. "Are you enjoying the party?"

He noticed she didn't introduce herself. But then, she didn't need to. Everyone in this room knew exactly who she was, or who she claimed to be, and that was how she liked it.

"Immensely," he replied, a playful grin on his face as he decided that a balls to the wall approach was probably the best way to go about this. "But I could think of a few ways my night could get better." He thought, fuck it, and threw in a wink for good measure.

Sokolov threw her head back and laughed, loud and brash. Far too loud and brash for the people standing around her, in fact, who shot them both looks of displeasure over their champagne glasses. But they were the English upper-class, it wasn't like they were going to do anything about it. Clint ducked his head smiling like he was embarrassed by all the attention. All this fake smiling was giving his cheeks a workout.

"Oh you're funny," she chuckled, her expression a little more calculated as she studied him over her glass. "Your accent is American, correct?"

Clint had no idea how she'd caught that in such a loud room. "Yes, ma'am. Born and bred."

She let out a contemplative hum. "Then what brings you here?"

He shrugged, unsure how to answer that without lying. "I - I travel a lot. This is just my most recent stop, I guess." The pride he felt at coming up with an answer would've shown all over his face had he not looked down again in the pretense of shyness.

This was going good. Really fucking good actually.

Or at least, that's what he thought, until out of the corner of his eye he saw a security guard walk past, leading a short brunette towards the door. Her dress was navy, and her expression was ice cold fury. Nat.

Clint felt his insides freeze over as he watched her disappear through the door, a guard's hand at the small of her back.

That wasn't part of the plan.

That really wasn't part of the plan.

His internal panic was interrupted by Sokolov standing very close and wrapping her hand around his wrist. "You're interesting, Mister Barton. Would you like to go somewhere a little more...private to discuss your travels?"

She had a smug smile on her face. Fuck, that was too fast. This was way too easy, he thought, not that he wanted to push his luck here. But he shoved down his fear regardless, stretching his mouth into a big smile. "I'd love to." And then he followed her swishing skirts like so many boys had before him.

"You don't mind if I ask you a few questions, do you? Only I like to know a little about my guests and I don't recognize you," Sokolov said as she led him into her room, shooting him a winning smile over her shoulder. He couldn't see any suspicion there but Sokolov wasn't stupid. She knew he didn't have an invite, that he was a potential threat.

Clint had to admit, she was attractive. She carried her age well, a natural beauty with an oval face, high cheekbones, and startling blue eyes. Her hair was dyed black to hide the grey at the roots and her lips were plump with botox, but it didn't come off as fake. Clint knew she had put a lot of money and into her appearance and he could appreciate on an aesthetic level that it had worked.

"Sure, ask away," he replied, grinning at her, all boyish charm, while inside his stomach churned sickeningly. The way she looked at him was probing, prying. It was an uncomfortable spotlight to be under when he didn't feel the same lust she did.

"Sit," she ordered, gesturing towards a luxurious leather couch, in front of which stood a mahogany coffee table. There were several delicate china cups laid out, ready for several guests, with a pot beside them. Clint had no doubt it was filled with tea. Sokolov drank that shit by the gallon.

She saw him looking and chuckled under her breath. "I'm afraid I've gone a little native. It's honey and lemon, my favorite." She patted her cheek. "Keeps me young, you know?"

"Not like you need it with a face like yours," Clint replied, internally cringing. He'd never been the best at flirting. Sokolov didn't seem to mind, she even laughed. Clearly charmed by the compliment no matter how bad the delivery.

After a moment she sat beside him, curious eyes studying his face. "You're wearing contacts," she commented as she poured herself a cup of tea, the golden liquid stark against the white china. To Clint's surprise, she poured him one too. "Hard of hearing and of sight, are we? You really got the short end of the stick there."

Clint swallowed his shock at the observation and took the cup when she handed it, nodding. "Yeah, hard of hearing and long-sighted. I don't wear contacts really. It's only recently that I've -"

He was cut off by a knock at the door. Sokolov frowned, but invited them in anyway.

In came a security guard, dressed in a designer suit with a gun holster at his waist. "Madam Sokolov. If I could speak to you outside for a moment."

Sokolov excused herself and stood. When the door finally shut behind her Clint tried not to melt into the couch with relief. Klara fucking Sokolov. God, that woman was an experience.

His eyes darted around the drawing room, searching for anything that could be used as a weapon. Sokolov had security checks and metal detectors at her door so neither he nor Nat were carrying anything. He felt exposed without them, more defenseless than he would care to admit.

Scanning the room, none of the art on the walls looked heavy enough to knock someone out, which was a shame. They were so ugly Clint felt he'd be doing the world a favor if they were 'accidentally' destroyed. But he couldn't see anything sharp enough to do any substantial damage either. And if he hid one of those brass candlesticks up his sleeve there was a chance Sokolov might notice something was up. Maybe he could jab that teaspoon in her eye?

Clint looked down at the cup in his hand and he was just wondering whether stabbing her in the neck with pottery would work when an idea suddenly struck him.

His hand immediately went to his jacket pocket, fingers finding the tiny pill and pulling it out. He sighed in relief, holding it over Sokolov's cup when he heard the door handle rattle. Fuck she's coming back! his brain shrieked.

With quick fingers he twisted the plastic capsule apart and let the powder rain down into the golden liquid, being careful it all went in before sticking it back in his pocket once more. The door was open wide enough Clint could see Sokolov's painted nails curled around the handle. His heart pounded almost painfully in his chest.

"Oh don't worry, there's nowhere to go. I'll come down when I'm done here," she promised someone and then Sokolov was back in the room. She looked lighter, just a fraction happier, as though the guard's news had been the best she'd heard all night.

"I'm so sorry about that. Duty does call." She had an accent but Clint couldn't quite make it out properly what with his hearing aids being so fucked. She lowered herself down beside him, licking her lips, red as wine. "So where were we? Are you enjoying the tea?"

"It's good," he agreed, lifting the drink to his lips and trying to keep his cool.

"Tell me, do you come from money, Mister Barton?"

Clint was thrown for a moment, the question out of fucking nowhere. What did she want to hear? What was the right answer? Was there one? "Uh, no, I grew up surrounded by animals." He chuckled nervously. "Not the richest beginnings, I'll admit."

Sokolov nodded thoughtfully, eyes boring into his. "Honest boy, I like that. I'm afraid your suit gives you away, honey."

Clint held his breath when she picked up her cup and took a deep sip with a sigh of content. "So what brings a man like you to a party like mine? I'm sure it's not your scene."

She didn't say it in a condescending way, it was very matter-of-fact. Clint had to wrench his eyes away from her lips around the cup, hope swelling in his chest. Maybe this would actually work.

"Well...you're kinda right," he breathed, a coy smile on his face like he was embarrassed to admit it. His eyes dropped to the cup in his own hands, desperately trying to pull himself together and think. "I wanted – I kinda came looking for you, ma'am."

He kept his head down like he was trying to hide a blush while really trying to disguise the raw fucking panic that was no doubt all over his face. Why wasn't she dead yet? Nat had said that shit was quick. What if she didn't drink enough for it to work? What if the hot water canceled it out? Oh fuck, he missed Nat watching his back.

The plan was out the window and he knew they only had one shot at this. If Nat wasn't coming, and the poison didn't take effect, Clint knew he had only a few options left. He resolved to finish Sokolov with his hands around her slim neck if he had to. And he fucking hated that plan.

Barney's voice rang in his head like it hadn't in years. 'You don't hit a girl unless she hits you first, got it? You got that in your thick skull, Clint? You ain't gonna turn out like dad, are you? Are you?! Oi, are you fucking listening to me? You don't hit girls. Ever.'

Finishing her like that would make him worse than his father had ever been. Even worse than Barney, who could never follow his own advice.

A bolt of fear and nausea shot through Clint, so acute it left him dizzy. The teacup in his hand had started to tremble so he set it down before Sokolov noticed. He needed to focus.

A manicured finger snaked under his chin, the fake nail scratching against his skin as she lifted his head up to look at her. She smiled like the cat that got the cream, smug, content and ever so hungry.

"Is that so, honey? And why's that?" she asked, her voice soft and sensual, her breath ghosting over the shell of his ear. He shivered and her smile widened.

Nat had been wrong. This was a game. This whole fucking thing was a game. Flirting, seduction and sex, pleasure and pain. It was all a game to her, and he had no choice but to let her win.

"I wanted to take you out sometime," he got out breathlessly. With a long distance sniper rifle, he added mentally. "I've, well, I've heard a lot about you and I just -"

"How...sweet," she sounded just as surprised as she looked, eyebrows raised. She smelled sweet, sickly and artificial. "Don't you think I'm a little above your budget?"

He met her eyes and raised a challenging eyebrow, tongue darting out to lick his lips. "I can make it work if you can."

Her eyes followed the movement hungrily, pupils blown wide with lust. "Then let's skip the foreplay, farmboy." And then she grabbed a handful of his tie and yanked him closer, kissing him hard and rough and possessive.

Clint's surprise only lasted a moment, and then he was kissing her back. His mind was a jumbled mess. He didn't know what to do with his hands, his legs, his mouth. Lipstick smeared across his mouth and he could feel a ridiculous nervous panic building in his chest like he was a fucking blushing virgin. What was his problem? This was beyond expected. He had played into this, he wanted this from the beginning.

He'd kissed girls before, way back in the circus days, but this was so different. So, so different and he didn't know why. When her hand came up to hook around his neck and pull him closer he loathed it. It made nausea churn in his stomach. He didn't want her hands touching him. When she straddled him he wanted more than anything to shove her off, but couldn't.

He was so fucking tense, no longer able to focus on keeping his body language relaxed. If he pushed her off, then he had failed and all this work, all this time had been for nothing. But the poison wasn't working quick enough. She was warm, squirming and very alive in his lap and he couldn't stand it much longer.

Then suddenly she pulled back, breathing hard. Her lipstick was a little messed up and her hair disheveled, but it was her expression that didn't fit the rest, a frown marring her pretty face. "Now that's a shame." She actually sounded disappointed.

Her soft hands were still on his body, one curling around his forearm and the other caressing his cheek. "What- what do you mean?" Clint managed.

"I mean you're a liar, Clint Barton," she replied coolly, her eyes dark, and Clint froze beneath her. "You don't want me."

"I – what? Of course I want you! Who wouldn -"

Her nails dug into his forearm with a shocking strength, her face alarmingly close to his. He could see the offense and anger in her eyes and his heart skipped a beat. "Don't take me as some whimsical fool, Barton. Call me old fashioned but I don't fuck people who don't want it. So what is it you really want here? Is it money? Drugs?"

Clint had practically stopped breathing. Oh fuck.

He had faced men twice his height and weight and still hadn't felt as intimidated as he did right this moment.

She raised an eyebrow, any glimpse of flirty playfulness gone from her face. "Maybe I should ask little Natalia instead, hm?"

Clint couldn't duck his head to hide his emotion anymore and the shock in his expression made her laugh. A new interest ignited in her eyes like she was seeing him properly for the first time and Clint felt overwhelmingly trapped, panic building in his chest as her weight stopped him from using his hands to push her away.

"So you're the one that broke her?" she whispered, so close to his face he could feel her breath brush his cheek. "You don't look like much. I've always wondered, how did you do it?" She paused, thinking. "Torture, perhaps? But that can't be. There's nothing we didn't train her to withstand; unless you're hiding something special up your sleeve." Her hand trailed up his bicep as she spoke and his hair stood on end.

"I didn't do a fucking thing to her," Clint snarled through gritted teeth.

He jerked his head back as far as he could when he felt her nails lightly scrape the skin at his neck. "Don't worry, honey. There'll be plenty of time for me to ask you questions and you'll answer them all. I knew Natalia would have a man trailing after her but..." Her hand ran delicately along his jaw and he had no choice but to let her, his skin crawling with revulsion. "I didn't expect you."

Clint shuddered but somehow in the car crash that was his thought process he got his mouth working again. "I don't trail after anyone. Her name is fucking Natasha and you don't know anything about her. Now get the fuck off me," he spat, furious at his vulnerable position.

He tried to shove her off him but she once again kept him down with her hands and her thighs, completely unfazed by his attempts. The pure fucking strength in those slim limbs only comparable to what he'd seen in Natasha. He couldn't move.

She scrutinized him for a moment, looking far too pleased. "Oh honey, I know everything there is to know about little Natalia Romanova. I made her into what she is today."

Clint froze, his eyes snapping to her face, searching for any sign of a lie there. But all he could find was amusement, sick black amusement as her hands glided over his body in a featherlight touch. Anger, hot and acidic finally reached boiling point and he struggled harder. He wanted to scream at her. He wanted to make her bleed. He wanted to punch her in the fucking teeth and break them. But he couldn't do any of it. He couldn't move more than an inch. This wasn't possible. She shouldn't be this strong.

"Oh, you're adorable," she purred, wiping her lipstick off the corner of his mouth with her thumb. He jerked away from the touch and she pouted like he was a puppy with an attitude problem. "You know, Clint. I should be thanking you. You brought the last Black Widow home at last." Her hand patted him on the cheek and Clint glared back at her with hatred in his eyes. "I do appreciate that."

In a last-ditch effort, Clint tried to headbutt her in the face. It was an ugly jolt without finesse but it was all he had left in him. But before it could connect Sokolov's hand closed around his throat, an impossible strength stopping the movement dead. His breath was abruptly cut off, eyes widening in horror. "Now, let's have none of that," she scolded.

"What the - what the fuck are you?" he choked around her grip.

She raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Please, you didn't think they would let a human raise a Black Widow, did you?

Terror shot through him at the realization, his face draining of color. She wasn't human. She wasn't fucking human.

But if she wasn't human, then what was she?

Up this close, Clint could feel Sokolov's breath ghosting over his cheek. There was a pink tinge to her skin that hadn't been there before, almost red like a rash. He imagined it was the demon inside her fighting its way to the surface.

"I can't believe you thought I would want an ugly fucking hag like you. I can't believe I let you touch me. You're evil. You're a fucking disgusting bitch," Clint snarled, his words dripping with hatred and revulsion. She could hear the truth in them. He'd hit the nerve he was aiming for.

An expression almost akin to hurt flashed across Sokolov's features, a brief crack in composure before it hardened into an emotionless slate. An expression so familiar it made him sick.

Clint meant to use the insult as a distraction, gathering up all his strength so he could get the fucking witch off and kill her. But Sokolov must've seen the intent in his eyes because the next thing he knew a cuff had been clapped on his right wrist, the other cuff clamped around the coffee table.

She slid from his lap and batted his hand away carelessly when he lunged at her, leaving him grasping at air. The anger and desperation boiling inside of him only flared hotter when she tutted him. "Now, now, Mister Barton. Play nice."

She had Nat. Sokolov was the reason Nat could hardly fucking sleep at night and now she had her again and Clint had just let it happen. Nat was going to take that pill. Clint needed to find her, he needed to stop her. Where would he be without her? What would he do if she was gone forever? He couldn't picture it.

"You could use some of our training yourself," Sokolov continued, so unbelievably fucking calm. She fixed him with a glacial stare, those blue eyes mentally ripping him apart, watching him bleed. Clint yanked at his cuffs with a grunt. "Who knows, you may even survive the introduction."

Clint spat at her feet. "Fuck you, bitch."

She wrinkled her nose. "How charming. I think it's time I pay dear Natalia a visit, don't you? It's been so long," she whispered, smug and triumphant because she had fucking won. After everything that old hag had won out.

Clint pulled so hard at his cuffs that pain flared at his wrist and the heavy table screeched an inch across the floor. Expensive china cups rolled off and broke on the floor. She smirked. "Oh don't worry, honey. I'll be back for you."

Clint watched her with eyes narrowed at her retreating back. Something about her wasn't right. Something...

Sokolov only managed two purposeful steps towards the door before she had to pause. She was unsteady in her heels, swaying just a little. In the end, she had to reach out a hand to hunch herself over a chair. Clint could hear her labored breathing from here. She put her hand to her head, groaning through gritted teeth, still struggling to draw breath.

Her skin was cherry red.

"What - what is this?" she gasped, and for the first time that night there was no authority, no power behind her voice. It was quiet and scared; weak with fear. "What have you done?"

She twisted around, moving forward until her hands could grab handfuls of his jacket and pull him close. "What did you do you bastard?" she bit out, her voice cracking pathetically on the last word. There was a true terror in her eyes, something he hadn't expected; the familiar fear of death. Her breath in his face smelled sour, like spoiled fruit.

Her chest heaved, like a child having an asthma attack, but Clint made no move to help. He couldn't help her now. Sokolov begged and pleaded with him. A little rich girl terrified of dying wheezing out empty promises and threats, trying to bargain with the grim reaper.

She fell on top of him when her legs gave out, a deadweight twitching and seizing like she had been electrocuted.

It lasted minutes. Long, excruciating, horrific minutes. And Clint could do nothing but sit there and watch as her body convulsed and jerked and dragged in ragged gulps of air that never seemed to be enough. Her mouth hung open but she didn't say anything. She was too far gone to speak. Too far gone to beg anyone for anything anymore.

Clint found he couldn't look away from her eyes. Pale blue and full of so much terror, so much raw fucking fear that she was crying. Her mascara drawing black watery tracks down her cheek.

He had seen death before. Hell, he'd caused death before. But it was never like this. He had never had the stomach to listen while someone begged and screamed into him while they died. He had never enjoyed the art of torture like Nat seemed to. A bullet, a knife, it was all so much quicker. So much quieter. So much easier to deal with.

He watched the light leave those blue eyes.

Her vice-like grip on his lapels loosened and she was falling from the couch, the room chillingly silent without the frenzied sound of her choking on air.

By the time her body slid to the floor, Klara Sokolov was finally dead.

All Clint could think, fighting down a violent surge of nausea, was: Nat was wrong. There was nothing quick about that.