A/N: Here we go after lovely responses! I don't know if it lives up to expectations, though. I hope you like it. There are probably some typos that'll annoy the hell out of me later, but considering how many times I've read this through and edited it, you'll have to deal. Or at least, forgive me my mistakes. Nah, I demand nothing of you! Although it'd be nice if the reviews kept going at this rate! Now, to Silent Spider!

Disclaimer: I don't own these wonderful characters or the awesome that is Marvel and the Avengers.

Silent Spider: Chapter 2

Vienna, Austria

Elias hadn't just one day woken up and decided to become a criminal, let alone a mercenary of his current caliber. It had been a gradual process that had occurred as the result of tragic events in his young but already colorful life. He came from a family of drifters, which (fortunately) for most parts translated to the occasional worrying pattern of unemployment, but had manifested as an aversion to lawfulness and legality in Elias and his older brother. Fate (or more precisely, goons) had stripped Elias' brother of his prowess and subsequently his life early in their tenure as frauds and robbers and whatever fitted their target group, and it had been a great loss to Elias and his family, but he'd mourned his brother and invested himself in the tempting, up-and-coming ways of the Leonum Tarpeius, an organization that relied upon young merchants and mercenaries such as himself to thrive and remain undetected from the prying eyes of the law by constantly moving its bases across European cities and capitals.

Elias had never been one for travel, but his brother had, and so, when Moritz came to him and told him of the charismatic ways of Tarpeius' leaders, he figured why not. He joined the group in Marseilles, and traveled, honoring his brother, through Europe during his missions, getting glances of cities he'd never had the pocket change to visit. Sure, not all of the approaches they used were nice, but Elias had always been a very versatile person with loose morals. It helped in his line of business, and Tarpeius and its members taught him better than any single mentor could. His family, having shunned and disowned him by the age of fifteen, became a distant memory as some of the more likeminded (and often, like-humored) thieves, murderers, and explosives experts befriended him in an almost brotherly fashion. Soon, home became the wickedness of Tarpeius, and Elias developed skills that would have awed his brother, had he not been stupid enough to indebt himself to the mob after losing his primary means of income.

Elias didn't pretend to understand the inner workings of Tarpeius, and, as so many others, chose to look the other way when representatives arrived and relayed news of success or (rare) failure. He noticed the pattern and schedules, but never with ill intentions and the purpose of further distribution. He'd heard enough stories from the members to know exactly what find of fate befell a traitor. He'd never claim to understand why she was in charge of the little band of social and legal misfits, for instance, although he had been among the people that cowered if her scrutiny strayed him too long or intensely. He might have been curious but he wasn't that curious.

She wasn't a nice person; none of them were. The organization housed villains, criminals, murderers, and kidnappers and people nifty enough to whip up explosives strong enough to level city blocks from toiletries—anybody with a useful skill to the ruthless people at the top. The recruitment game was all about recommendation and knowing the right people. Moritz had thought him a nice addition, and so he'd been welcomed—eh, somewhat. It was always about proving oneself to these people, which was why Elias had been puzzled as to why she got to be top dog of the small portion of the worst. He had no idea how or exactly when she'd entered the game of the Tarpeius, but she seemed a skilled player already as if she'd been its funder, supporter, and co-creator.

He'd been here for eight months so far and although he wasn't the most frequently used Leon—as they were called—in the operation, he wasn't getting the rookie tasks anymore either. He had a good head on his shoulders—one had to, to have been a fraud, although Elias had now broadened his skillsets to participation of every vile act imaginable—and had admittedly never been the most silent of objectors. He'd occasionally voiced his puzzlement, only to be shot down by a growl, or a look that questioned his overall loyalty in one mere glare. He couldn't help it—he had just been unable see how one woman (and it wasn't the woman part that bothered him although, admittedly, he might have been less bothered had she been a man) could obtain so much power by doing frankly nothing. It was infuriating when everything about Tarpeius was based on earning your position.

She frequently visited the compounds. It happened a lot, as anything but would incite mutiny in a band with as vague alliances as this lot, but there would always be this tension in the air, this anticipation. Some waited for her to fail and be able to pinpoint her utter incompetence (it hadn't happened yet), some worshipped her with admiration (which Elias couldn't see the point of) and then some feared her with a passion usually reserved for the true predators of their world. Elias had been called too green to not pick up on and know of the real danger she posed, which he'd taken as an insult to his attentive skills. That was before he grew to notice her.

When she arrived in the Viennese temporary base to overlook progress and shortcomings, Alfredo was the first to start mocking her, per usual fashion. Lately, he'd been one of the only ones, as she'd gained quite the reputation. Alfredo had a big mouth and it clearly bothered him that she possessed the same rank as him when he'd fought to be a lieutenant of Desta's and hadn't witnessed her do an equal portion of work to receive the same. Perhaps her reaction—or lack thereof—was part of why she had been awarded the position. She was unflappable to disdain and mockery. Despite his insults and his insinuations, she never struck out, as many would have. She merely smiled a wicked smile that promised cruelty, but never made a claim to undo him. It was enough insinuation to how damn dangerous she could be, but without proof, many—Elias, too—chose skepticism. Alfredo used it to fuel his teasing as it only proved his point.

What leader without a voice could truly lead?

It had originally taken Elias three visits and several rumors to learn of the woman—Nikolaevna, or the Lioness, although she had many names, few of which were complimentary or flattering—and her disabilities, because she performed her job well enough and he had thought her lack of speech and individual verbal greetings simply part of her cold nature and calm attitude. She walked the thin line of having obtained the trust of the Leons and still being untouchable, something sacred that was above the rest of them in the filthy outposts. She endured catcalls and Alfredo's words of mockery, but she held the support of the boss, so most were smart enough to back off once her glare turned individual.

That was, however, until he one day by chance sat down next to her whilst eating takeout. Upon realizing his mistake at his proximity, he became uncertain of whether to move or stay completely still in an attempt to hide his presence, but she had known—of course she'd known. Reluctantly and unsurely, he'd offered some of his Thai food and been astounded when she'd accepted. She'd eaten in silence and he had stayed, watching her as unsurely as a schoolboy with a crush. He'd been stuck between fascinated and scared righteously out of his mind.

"Hey…" he'd tried, gesturing towards the half-devoured food that he'd picked up from a local shop. "Not half bad."

She looked up once and shrugged nonchalantly. In the flickering and sparse light, she looked so… human, exhaustedly human. Her lips moved and only halfway through the sentence did he catch on. '–worse places, I suppose.' He must've screwed up his face—and encountered her one of her patient days—because next thing, she chuckled at his dumbfounded expression. A soundless chuckle but it brought a temporary light to her face. A brief smile to crack the façade of a numb warrior.

Ever since that, he'd bravely sought her out. The ones that noticed called him insane—befriending a Lioness, especially Nikolaevna! A sure way to die an unpleasant death! Those were the words of his peers, not the supporting ones, but the realistic ones. He supposed she was considered attractive, he confessed to his comrades. She must've read it on his face the next time they 'talked' (for the lack of a better word, as he usually ranted to fill the silence)—she read faces as others read words on the page, as fluently as the best storyteller or poet—because she was frank and said that she was not interested in romance or taking him to bed.

The way she carried herself was downright scary and so it fitted in with the rest of her companions. Elias and his fellow Leons didn't doubt that she could do harm, alright, she reeked of potential deadliness. After watching her face—being allowed to watch her face, he began to understand her perfect mask. She didn't have trouble expressing herself; she did, however, possess the gift of having been bestowed the perfect control of every feature. She never used Elias as her interpreter—although he was one of few that didn't have to stutter through broken sign language, and he chose to interpret it as a sign of respect towards the friendship they'd established and as a means not to tarnish it.

Nikolaevna was an enigma wrapped in a puzzle of insinuations. The fact that she'd chosen to settle down with the Leons should be flattering (and was) if it hadn't been so goddamn unnerving in the first place. She moved like something otherworldly—given her deadliness, perhaps 'underworldly' was a more adequate description, Elias had mused with a grin as she arrived.

That was, until he heard the loud crack that silenced the room, followed by an inhumane scream and cry of pain that was drowned in gurgles, which puzzled Elias as he knew there to be no water in the makeshift office from which it came. The Lioness had entered few minutes ago along with a guy that specialized in cleanup (a weird choice of partner, considering the man they had captured had not said a word despite heavy persuasion). Elias scanned the room, watching the same expression he possibly wore himself copied on the faces of his oftentimes-roommates and colleagues. Some were disinterested, others horrified, some had eyes gleaming with anticipation and sadistic smirks while some looked like they were battling the urge to vomit, white as sheets, while others resorted to swallowing hard and resuming their tasks to the symphony of a man's pain.

As far as Elias knew, this wasn't usual business but none of that seemed to matter, as seconds later, muffled but rapid Italian flowed from the man's lips and shadows moved behind the frosted glass door. Nobody dared to interrupt whatever horror took place—although some looked like they were more than eager to participate (and it made Elias queasy to be uncertain of which part they wanted to replace). The mystery of the man had been solved: Italian, probably AISE, but he would not live to give away any intel although Elias pitied him and admired him for his attempt. The Leons regularly captured prisoners, and those who could not be turned and used as double agents or defectors were quietly (or in this case, not so quietly) and quickly dealt with.

The discreet thump of a body hitting the floor, a wooden chair being dragged across the floor and the doorknob being pressed down announced the finish of the brief but informative and deadly interrogation. Elias didn't doubt his decision to be on the side of Leons—to be on the side of her—when she exited the room, looking ever bit of frigid as she'd been upon entering, not even a droplet of sweat broken on her skin—a skin that he knew to be littered with uneven scars. Her face was barren of emotion, void to the point where Elias was uncertain if he should flee or give her a standing ovation, and luckily he didn't have to make the choice because with curt movements, she declared herself ready to be leaving.

Part of him—the part that had befriended her, undoubtedly—was disappointed that there would take no conversations place between them and he would not get to see emotion pass her face this time, but he remembered what she was first and foremost, despite her friendship to him.

She never acted like she owned the place—which she didn't, as people far higher in the organization dropped by as often as she did—yet blended in unnaturally. Elias knew her as a leader and hopefully as a reluctant friend—but nobody could know their mute queen of nightmares. Maybe that was why she was such an excellent messenger—even if caught (even as her former critic, he found that unlikely just by looking at her, the dead man's screams still echoing in his mind) she wouldn't be able to reveal the secrets and probably escape charges. Nobody could prove her allegiance. Who'd be stupid enough to use a mute as a vault?

A vault, Elias mused. Yeah, perhaps that was an adequate word to use and describe the darkness behind her otherwise light-colored eyes. She never spoke but she also never shared unless inclined and ordered to. Not even when Alfredo became particularly pointed with his comments. Only once had Elias caught her snicker at Alfredo, but she'd morphed into the personification of indifference so fast that it'd been pointblank terrifying to be in the same room.

He knew two sides of her. One of them was rarely shown, expressed only when they were obscured by darkness or privacy, where he could be lucky to catch a glimpse of the person behind the stoic mask of the Lioness. He hoped to one day get to know that half better than the half that had so easily just broken the Italian man.

United States of America, 4 years and 9 months ago

There was something satisfying about a shower following a workout where every muscle and knot had been properly exercised and released. The kind of soreness that accompanied such exercise was downright soothing and a reminder of why exactly he could endure what he did on a daily basis. It was these thoughts that ran through Clint's head at 4 AM in the morning as he tiredly entered his personal space in the crammed darkness after an exhausting lesson in the gym.

Knowing the exact location and position of the furniture, he spared himself the startling brightness of flipping on the light switch, making his way throughout the room easily. He was an assassin, stealth was sorta his thing. Suddenly feeling hungry, he remembered Tasha's offhanded comment about homemade (store-bought, she couldn't cook to save her life—although knowing Tasha, she probably could and had) jam. He groaned as the light from the fridge hurt his eyes and terminated his night vision but overcame the momentary ache as he reached for the jar of the shelf. It wasn't hard to locate it, as it was mostly empty. Not only the shelf, but the entire refrigerating unit. Downtime wasn't exactly spent on grocery shopping. Even if Tasha insisted upon such.

He found some vaguely edible slices of bread in one of the cupboards, sniffing it before determining that he wouldn't get sick from ingesting it. He smeared the jam over the bread like he hadn't just spent three hours in the gym and chunked it down, halting the grinding and chewing once the unfamiliarly pleasant taste was registered by his taste buds.

"What the…?"

Warily, he swallowed, furrowing his brows and walking back to the refrigerator to use its light to illuminate the jar from which it came. Upon finding no label informing him of its contents, he paled. This is it, he thought sarcastically, she finally found a way to kill me. He knew it! Well, he had suspected it ever since he made that comment by the pool yesterday and received a hell-hath-no-fury glare from his partner. Surely Natasha wouldn't…

"Whatever," he decided, raising his voice. "I'll die with a smile on my lips in sheer defiance!" he vowed with a grin, before deciding that the jam, be it poisoned or not—you really couldn't tell with Natasha—was darn good, unlike every attempt of cooking on Natasha's part he'd seen and, dreadfully, eaten. Maybe she'd stolen it from the S.H.I.E.L.D. lunch refrigerator. Upon second thought, he didn't want to know. People stored all sorts of weird things in there. Anyway, he was more than happy to help her destroy the evidence from the heist.

He maneuvered through the arrangement of furniture, opting against television as he dumped himself on the couch, moaning in instant relief and pleasure as his sore muscles sunk into the soft cushions. Based on the lack of response to his quite eloquent promise, he figured she would be home soon. She generally tended to inform him of upcoming missions out of experience of how he acted when she went off the radar without his knowledge. He still owed Sitwell for that one, he thought with a grin as he licked his lips, getting the last bit of jam smeared on his face and soon drifting off to sleep.

The next morning, he woke with a grunt and proceeded to (manly!) roll off the couch and directly into the glass coffee table. Given his excellent skills of deduction and vast intelligence, it took him a couple of seconds to open his eyes and actually register the position of the sun streaming in through his windows and utter a, "Wha-?"

Evidently, Tasha hadn't returned in the wee hours of dawn. He frowned, thinking she would have. Not counting the phone call, he hadn't seen her for two days. Which, given their profession, wasn't anything unusual, but he couldn't help but shake the feeling that something was off.

"Tash?" he called out, wanting to be sure she wasn't hiding somewhere, silently laughing at his expense (he wouldn't think it below her). Upon receiving no confirmation, he sorely got up and quickly searched the apartment. She was nowhere to be seen and in her closet hung both of her catsuits and traditional missionwear. Frowning, he finally registered the source of his awakening and jogged to the phone in question.

"Barton," he said.

"Is Romanov with you?" the no-nonsense voice of Nick Fury demanded. Clint gulped and prepared himself for a sassy reply when the stray thought of defending her came to mind.

"No…?" he reported hesitantly. Fury rarely lost track of his agents—especially Romanov, for more reasons than Clint cared to account for, simply choosing to interpret it as concern for one of their damn finest agents. His answer was followed by a grunt of frustration and a list of profanities.

"Why are you looking for Agent Romanov, sir?" Clint asked, trying not to make it an inquiry.

"Because, Agent Barton," Fury possibly growled, fuming, as Clint's eyes caught unto something on the kitchen table that he hadn't noticed in the cover of darkness last night. "—she skipped her debriefing last night after a last-minute mission. Everybody assumed she went home."

Clint ignored—not purposefully—the way Fury's words were laced with contempt and accusation as his eyes zoomed in on the offending item on the table, zoning out. A cut-off lock of crimson hair, left with a purpose, delicately planted against the gabbro countertop.

Think of Greece.

"Agent Barton…?"

By the time he regained speech, he stuttered a reply, surprise written in the tone he couldn't conceal or control. "She's gone, s-sir."

Vienna, Austria – Present

She had forced herself to continue after the impact of seeing Clint Barton again. At the same time as her body had been telling her to find the best escape route and alert her fellowmen and in a detailed manner, find the part of the plan where S.H.I.E.L.D. had received intel, her mind had been berating him for his recklessness as if she'd still been his partner.

She quickly shook her head at the notion. Clint hadn't been her partner for five years. It was beyond foolish to even consider the notion. She hadn't been Clint's partner for as long as she hadn't been Natasha Romanov or Natalia Romanova or the countless derivations of a name that hadn't even been hers from the beginning. A name someone had chosen to give her in the irrational hope that she'd be safe. She gritted her teeth in sheer disdain at the notion, letting none of the emotion seep through.

As her mind usually did, it assessed the risk and threat level while she briefly greeted her peers, some with warmer smiles than others. She couldn't deny being distracted, but chose to formulate it as intel rather than something to prevent her from functioning. She might not possess Clint's—Agent Barton, she corrected herself in the hope that it would distance herself from the man she'd left drooling on a couch five years ago—hawkeye eyesight, but she had spotted the edge of a riffle and the subsequent gaping face of the man she'd protected and been protected by for years.

She swallowed, trying to remind herself that Barton was an obstacle, not a knight in shining armor. He was obviously here on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s orders—his gawking appearance had told her as much, and she didn't know why that made her feel remorseful.

Previously, it had been easy to confess she held the possibility for being a bitch, outrageously selfish and uncaring. Her departure from S.H.I.E.L.D. said as much and the moment her eyes had locked with Clint's, it had been like a mental revision of every bad thing she'd ever done. Clint had never looked at her with scorn or disappointment or contempt, but here, five years later, it was evident in his features—she'd seen it because he'd even considered masking it.

It hurt. For a brief moment (she told herself). Because (she told herself) he was Clint, and he'd starred as her conscience for so long that seeing him again had made her scrutinize him for his reaction. It was instinctual and it had taken more than a second to recover and block the rummaging thoughts.

Dammit if she'd allow him to do this to her. She had reinvented herself, she'd escaped S.H.I.E.L.D., she'd gotten to choose her own damn life, and a single sighting of him was not going to be the brick in that foundation to tear the building down. Natalia shined through and purred wickedly in her mind at the prospect of initiating another hunt, reminiscent of the one that had ended in her recruitment into S.H.I.E.L.D. all those years ago. Why, Clint?

She putted on her game face and continued her visit into the outpost that Desta had deemed most adequate for expansion. Evidently not, she mused, if S.H.I.E.L.D. knew about it. It had to be S.H.I.E.L.D. if Clint was here, wouldn't it? She recalled the Clint she'd worked with for several years and confirmed the doubt. The Clint she knew (had known, she corrected with a wince) wouldn't change sides.

Because you're not me.

Things went about as well as was to be expected. Alfredo, a competent Leon of the organization and fellow lieutenant to Desta—who incited more fear and respect than Fury ever could without ever raising his voice, partly due to his habits of keeping secrets close to the chest—spat his vice comments and she silenced them, mostly, without incident.

"Russia!" Alfredo called and there was no fondness to be traced in his voice. Boredly, she turned her head, bracing herself for another halfhearted insult to her incompetence. She was more than content that he was unaware—that the Leonum Tarpeius were unaware—of her past as the Black Widow. In her current condition, she wouldn't be able to parry with the reputation of the Black Widow and she surely didn't want her enemies hot on her tail. Even if Clint was one of them.

She gave him a dirty look. "In the back," he whispered in a hiss, and she restrained herself from shivering as his sour breath made her skin rise in goose bumps. She followed him into the office section of the old chemical plant and makeshift base, unsurprised to see a beaten man gagged and ziptied to a wooden chair.

'How original,' she thought—and mouthed—but made no effort to inform him that she was communicating due to its sarcasm. She surveyed his—or some other goon's—work with scrutiny. Alfredo was smart but he wasn't particularly creative. The man's head hung with exhaustion and exertion but it was the work of an amateur that was uneducated—but not inexperienced—with the art of torture. In the back of her mind, Natalia, sadism imported by Red Room, positively beamed. It wasn't enough to rattle Natasha, but so soon after seeing the disappointment on Clint's face, she had to bite her lip in resolution.

"The man was caught lurking. A thorough search provided enough insight to confirm he was following us, but—as I'm sure you must know," Alfredo hissed, not doing one thing to keep the disdain out of his voice upon addressing her, "Desta likes to know and keep informed of who are of the conviction they know about our movements," he said sourly and she knew that he obviously didn't like that it had been his group that had been under surveillance and even less that he now had to resort to her to solve the problem.

'Lovely,' she mouthed, knowing that Alfredo was still testing her and it wasn't out of dear friendship and trust that he was letting her do this job. No, these games of his annoyed her, but not enough to confront him—that was what he wanted.

"Anything you need," the lieutenant said, too sweetly to be genuine.

She thought for a moment. You need him afterwards? she gestured. He shook his head in a childish act of displeasure. 'Send Claudio, then.'

Claudio was a man whose number one quality was that he had no problem discarding corpses or personal qualms about having a dead person pressed against him for hours. That, and he didn't talk much. If she had to think really long for a third quality, she'd have to say that he was also remarkably quick to catch on. It had been his idea to use the I'll spare you when she speaks approach with an arms dealer who tried to sell the same merchandise twice. Suffice to say, she hadn't spoken and the arms dealer hadn't been spared. Well. That was untrue, he had been spared, but not before promising the souls of all his future grandchildren in exchange for his life along with a profitable future donation to Leonum Tarpeius every month. Truth be told, she hadn't been told to kill him and that had been why he'd lived. When dealing with vague orders, always go with the one whose alternative can always be performed later.

The Italian—as it turned out—had been trained fairly well, but she'd had decades to perfect her deadly touch, and with a few punches, the Black Widow within had been reawakened and the man had confessed to every bad deed he'd done since the age of sixteen. Mercifully (reminded that a certain archer would be aware), she killed him quickly to the dispassion of Claudio who nodded affirmatively. No pulse.

She pulled out a sleek notepad from her coat and quickly scribbled down the most important of what the man had said, excluding the anecdotes of his childhood desires, before smirking to Claudio and exiting the office with the body of a dead man lying in his own drool.

As she fled into the dark night, she restrained herself from looking up, needing only to close her eyes to revise the utter hatred that had flared along disbelief mere hours ago. Yet as she drove, breathless without reason, heart galloping in her chest, she heard a tap on the window and looked to find a helmet-less motorcycle-riding man keeping up next to the car at the current speed, not offensive but intensive. She recognized the eagle insignia on his uniform immediately and swallowed hard, damning herself for the day she chose to go to Vienna for Desta.

The thunder would have been subtler than the look on his face and she pressed down the accelerator in response.

Oh-oh. Now you know... well, some of it, anyway. Fictional penny for your thoughts?

- L.