A/N: Oh my, are we already this far? Thanks for all the kind words! And follows and favorites! I'll do my best to post as many chapters before I leave for Spain on Saturday. Luckily, the pre-IB prepared me for handwritten papers, so I'll probably work on it during my vacation.

Yeah, we're still in Vienna, but I promise that it'll make sense with the locations soon. Vienna needs to happen to get this fic started.

Disclaimer: Although it's a pleasant thought, do you think I'd be writing fanfics if I owned this franchise? I cannot take credit for that.

Silent Spider: Chapter 4

Vienna, Austria

Thoughts raced a million miles per hour in the mind of the mute Natasha, formerly Romanova, currently… well, any guess would be more correct than what she currently thought of herself. She hadn't soul searched for a while, if ever. She hadn't been 'Natasha' for years, although she'd used it for a pseudonym the first six months after her unconventional retirement from S.H.I.E.L.D. By the time she'd finally landed herself—although it hadn't been a goal of hers, not initially—in Desta's midst and he'd asked her name, she'd hesitated.

Hesitation got you killed. Her instructors had taught her that. Kills had to be swift and clean, no room for hesitation—no room for error. Hesitation had been something she'd tried throughout her career to avoid with blunt strokes of violence and action. She could hesitate for the sake of the mission, but it hadn't been part of her fostered nature. Not until she saw the same thing in the eyes of her accepted executioner—their hunt had practically been a casting process, telling herself she'd only go down if at the hands of an assassin that at least understood the artform instead of going down due to a rookie's lucky shot—and experienced an involuntary, intrusively so, version of it herself. To this day, she wasn't sure why she'd allowed Clint Barton to disarm the Black Widow (although she could do plenty of damage without weapons, being one herself), only that it had felt like the right thing to do. Any man worthy of eliminating her had to be worth a couple of months of consideration, right? Ultimately, she thought it had been his conviction that had decided it.

Desta had changed his question. What would you like to go by? Who do you want to be? And even years later, it was due to that statement that she remained in Leonum Tarpeius. What would you like to be? She'd picked a name off the top of her head and stuck to it, and so had Desta, even if he'd realized, before the name left her tongue, that she wasn't Nikolaevna. She might have been, in a different lifetime, but she didn't contemplate the past and what ifs. She hadn't meant to, at least.

As she'd established herself and reinvented herself, she had, weekly, found herself missing him. It had been subtle at first, as she'd prepared for the feeling, but it was small things, like being ready to argue what kind of topping that had to go on the pizza (she'd never understood why he insisted upon pineapples, but had given into nostalgia one evening in Paris). It was the sensation of movement behind her, the phantom of a person like a lost limb. She found herself expecting the man she'd abandoned to turn up at all places. It was weakness and it was purposeless. She'd thought herself ridden of the horrible habit until she'd spotted a man on a rooftop two hours ago, soiled by the rain, courtesy of Austrian weather. She'd thought herself having moved on until she'd felt that familiar tug in her chest and mental infuriation at his bold sloppiness. She had been meaning to harm him in the brawl, but not truly and it had angered her—her, who'd been told never to fight unless you were willing to end it.

Clint was an idealist, even behind his pessimistic nature and world-weary sarcasm. He was right in his eternal belief that what S.H.I.E.L.D. did help people—innocents—to an idealist's way of life. That was the problem with Clint; even at this point in his career where he'd witnessed so much suffering and scorn and civilian casualty, he believed in the best of people. He genuinely wanted to help people. He wanted to be on the right side of justice, but to people like Natasha, the whole world was too damn subjective to ever be right, and she usually ended up on the side that paid well or fitted her ulterior motives. However, after S.H.I.E.L.D., she hadn't had any ulterior motives and for a while, it had been confusing. It took her a few jobs to realize that it was no longer in her interest to play hero for whatever government would have her fake credentials.

Events had lead to her current handicap and she'd thought herself permanently broken by an even more broken world. Her expertise lied in manipulation—without a voice, her best tool of manipulation was taken from her hands ruthlessly swift (oh, she recognized the irony). Desta had been there, a beacon of possibilities and she'd despondently accepted the pitiful job.

Of course there had been other turning points in the last five years. Even to Desta and his lieutenants and their 'past doesn't matter' policy, she'd had to prove herself. Somehow, she'd accepted—and she had been surprised to one day discover it and the relief it brought along with a sense of loss—that she wasn't the Black Widow anymore. The Black Widow had functioned perfectly and used all assets to get what her employers wanted and later, what she wanted. The Black Widow had defected to an American agency and had had a partner. And then—this was where things such as lines got blurry—Natasha had run. She hadn't used the Black Widow call sign or persona since.

It hadn't been easy; hell it hadn't even seemed feasible. Physically, it had been an easy task. She'd known the weaknesses in their protocols for years. Emotionally, however, was another story. She knew agents were monitored from the moment they stepped onto the bases and especially headquarters from which she'd operated when she hadn't been deployed. She was a spy and it hadn't been hard to disrupt and subsequently remove the hypodermic tracking device. What had been hard had been the deafening silence in the familiar apartment, not because if the absent owner (she'd told herself) but due to the overwhelming memories. It was a sanctuary, a place she'd felt safe upon entering and that didn't require of her to search and spent hours easing into. It was hers and it was Clint's, and it was a hell of a lot more complicated than most partnerships at S.H.I.E.L.D. Even with her vast experience, it managed to be unique.

He managed to make her feel like the only person in the room despite numerous aliases and disguises. He managed to make her feel like the most important person in it, too.

She had known the odds and probabilities of encountering him again, of encountering S.H.I.E.L.D. again (although she'd always known their operations in Europe to be limited). It had always been at the back of her mind, ignored with a passion as if sheer willpower alone could make the odds less. She had compartmentalized it, to be honest, into the depths of her mind where the past she could not atone for and could not let distract her (as it would drive her mad upon exploration) rested. Out of mind, out of sight.

Everything in her training had told her to kill Clint Barton—then and now. Everything she'd ever felt told her otherwise. Clint's arrogance and cocksureness was so American and everything her instructors had warned her against. She surprised herself with her compliance and attitude as she defected. This time, though, it wasn't her doing the following, it was him, and it was foolish and it was comforting. She wasn't supposed to do this, but the look on his face had been devastatingly blunt.

Clint Barton had a death wish. He had also managed to track her down, more or less (god, she hoped so) without S.H.I.E.L.D.'s assistance or backup.

And she had no idea how to resolve it.

Or if she even wanted to. Because, even though she should feel furious at the powerlessness, it was kind of nice to have him.

Clint Barton, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., had many times been in situations he hadn't been entirely sure of how he'd gotten there, oftentimes due to involuntary drug use or pure talent. S.I.D. Agent Barton had been in less of those situations. Tonight was one of those times.

He didn't know how, but after numerous shortcuts and alleys that seemingly appeared out of nowhere, she stopped the firm pace, slowing down as she began to ascend the raggedy stairs to an apartment complex that rivaled the ones S.H.I.E.L.D. provided in terms of appliances (or lack thereof). She conjured a key from somewhere on her body—he couldn't determine from where, as he didn't know this fieldwear as well as he'd known the pockets of her Black Widow catsuit—although he could admit to trying out of more than professional curiosity. He observed her curiously in the low light of the hallway, opening his mouth to make some stupid joke, but decided against it, reminding himself that this wasn't a reunion; this didn't mean they'd go back to being them. In this light, she looked like a normal person having endured the hardship of the rain, perhaps taken by surprise after a grocery run. And in that moment, he could pretend.

They entered the small apartment and his eyes scanned the room quickly. He might trust her—for god-knows-what reason that wasn't clear to him at this point—but he sure as hell didn't trust her associates. While he still didn't relax, he frowned when she did, apparently embracing the fact that if he'd wanted to kill her, he'd have done it already. It was unsettling how well she knew him, even after five years—how easily she (appeared to be, at least and made him think she) trusted him and how easily he trusted her back, even knowing he shouldn't. They had never fitted into should-assessments anyway.

She turned and removed her soaked coat, hanging it on the back of a chair and encouraging him to do the same. She watched him cautiously, but he assessed it to be more out of lack of visitors (and thus, hospitality) than genuine suspicion towards him. She seemed at a loss, conflicted, but if she'd been the least bit angry, they would still have been fighting in the rain.

His inner child, aggrieved at the denial of confrontation that was as emotionally instable as he felt, rose to the surface and he balled his fists. He wanted her anger, he wanted the Black Widow, he wanted an explanation! Some evidence that she was unraveling in the same fashion. She'd provided him none of the sorts, and he was about to demand one as he felt familiar fingers traveling down his chest.

"Natasha…" he protested in one breath. He recognized the manipulation. If she thought she could simply trick him into forgetting about the last five agonizing years, she was dead wrong. Yet he couldn't control how his body responded to one touch. He hadn't meant to deprive himself of sexual relations but hadn't done anything to willingly enter a sexual relationship, either. It seemed pointless without her, and he hated how it sounded. What she could reduce him to with one simple touch. He caught her wrist and forced her hand off him, catching her eyes as well.

She stared back with a pout but also waiting for instruction and permission. She respected him enough, evidently, to cease whatever she had planned. "Tasha…" he whispered, steeping closer despite himself and embracing her in a tight hug, ready to die if that was the cost. She stiffened but didn't fight the gesture and he buried his hand and head in her auburn hair. "God, Tasha," he sobbed and hated himself for it.

She held him as he encountered the relief at seeing her alive, even if it was after beating him to a pulp. She could have killed him—would have, years ago—should have, if she had any sense of survival—but she stayed, invited him, even. Accepted him. For what purpose, exactly? He knew the way her mind worked and couldn't see an outcome. He breathed in her scent and relaxation flooded his body when his memory confirmed what his sight had already been telling him.

He was hugging Natasha Romanov. And she was hugging him back. He wanted to stop himself before adding, and she's the enemy. His mind would never accept that. That's what he assumed anyway, because he knew S.H.I.E.L.D. had trained him better than to ignore the ugly parts of an assessment. The result was downright heartbreaking (wasn't that her specialty?).

"What are you doing, Tash?" he whispered, mostly to himself, almost taking it back the moment he'd said it. "What are we doing?" he wondered out loud, offering no multiple choices.

He urged her to wisely explain herself. He held her while he asked her, wanting to show that a simple explanation—although it was getting harder and harder to come up with one that would suffice to S.H.I.E.L.D. (he had lower standards and requirements, though). Was this some part of a game created by Fury? It had been no secret that their director liked to assign her missions that she couldn't tell him about. It didn't quite fit, in his mind, because Fury had seemed as upset—except Fury didn't get 'upset', he got mad, dog mad—as the rest of them when she bailed and wasn't heard from. If things ever settled down, maybe he'd ask her how she did it. How she managed to escape S.H.I.E.L.D.'s radar and attention for five years.

She reluctantly detangled herself from the hug and stepped back. He recognized that distant look in her eyes, the fleeting gaze, the way she hugged herself as she fought a defensive stance. He watched the fingers of her right hand flex and twitch. She was withdrawing. "It's a simple question, Natasha," he lied firmly, his eyes flickering in anger.

She shook her head and turned away, mumbling inaudibly. She leaned against the chair, having put even more distance between them. Had this person really been his partner, he asked himself in wide disbelief.

"You'll take me to bed but you won't talk to me. That's rich, Tasha, really rich. Is that why you hang out with those people? Because it doesn't bother them that you won't look at them? Or do they not have that problem?" he said, anger seeping into his word. He was provoking her, using the least decent of moves and he hated himself for it. He hated himself more than he could ever hate her.

Her gaze snapped to him and her body language screamed with the promise of physical hurt. He'd hit a tender spot. It wasn't a tender spot, but it was him saying him, and she obviously held him—and his opinions—in some regard. Upon realizing she'd done exactly what he'd wanted, she gritted her teeth. Something else flashed across her face, something he'd been too stunned at seeing to register. Hurt.

He opened his mouth to take his words back and to apologize but she responded to hurt the way she always had—aggressively, accusatorily. Angrily, she grabbed the collar of her turtleneck, meaning to pull, but his hand caught hers. Her eyes—mad eyes, emotional eyes flooded with anger and regret and confusion—met his, seeking something to react to, softening upon realizing she wasn't gonna find equal rage. He'd been her touchstone in her past as she'd been his. He wondered what would have happened if they both of them had ever gone truly mad and angry, agreeing in their channeled anger. It was a scary thought, given their training.

"I'm sorry, Tash. It's late and I'm tired and confused. And I don't know what we've got ourselves into. But I don't want to hurt you. I don't want you hurt, period," he confessed, his thumb running along her forearm, and as he saw his message be accepted in those bright eyes, he rested his forehead against hers, breathing. He felt her relax after several minutes and didn't dare to move away from her. Didn't dare pose the question why.

Slowly, her hand went back to the collar of her turtleneck, pulling softly in the material, exposing the flesh of her neck and collarbone. He inhaled sharply as he saw what she'd evidently been meaning for him to see minutes ago— then as a means to justify her anger and lash out, now replaced by the unspoken agreement they'd always had as confidants, their rare brand of trust—and he battled the immediate instinct to back off in privacy. She'd interpret it differently.

The scar was… grotesque. If a doctor had seen it, it had been a poorly educated one or it had been too late. He recalled her alarmingly rapid healing rate. It looked as if the skin had melted and healed at the same time, coming up with an angry pattern of swirls and crevices. It wasn't pretty and it stretched from the bottom of her jaw—it had to have hurt like crazy—to inches above her collarbone, disfiguring the skin of her entire neck in front. It was like an artless child's play dough. He winced in response and fellow compassion. "Tasha…"

He didn't have enough medical experience to know if it'd ever heal to a less aggressive scar. Natasha wasn't vain—God no, she had scars from bullets, knives and barbed wire all over her body, but this looked like fire, and humans and fire didn't generally mix well—but evidently, the scarred area was a sore point. It wasn't an angry red anymore. The skin was pale, sickly so.

She moved away from his touch as he moved to caress her jawline, just above it, obviously expecting another reaction, disgust, perhaps. "You haven't shown that to a lot, have you? Christ, Tasha, have you even gotten it looked at? How—."

Natasha silenced him with one of her looks. She didn't answer his questions, but allowed the fabric to fall back into place. He stared at it, couldn't help himself—having avoided people had obviously made him tactless, or maybe he was easing into the habits of theirs too fast; exposed flesh had never been an issue between them, not since their early partnership where her nude bluntness had prepared him for an indifference towards tact—and subsequently forced his eyes upwards.

She gestured for him to wait as she left the living room to search for something. He was insecure enough to listen for a slamming door. The room looked like it wasn't a place used to live in, but rather, crash when sleep refused to be ignored as a need any longer. Was this her home or merely used to which she possessed a key? She'd never liked having quarters at S.H.I.E.L.D., never appreciated the sanctuary of a home, as anything that could be applied to term meant sharing sentiments about it.

What was he doing? Two hours ago, maybe three, he'd seen her exit the building where the most prominently secretive criminal organization held its rendezvouses calmly. Anger had taken him to an alley where they'd fought as if merely sparring. He knew that if he'd accepted her departure fully, and had let her go, he'd have fought harder and with more venom, but he'd seen her and the whirlwind of emotions he'd always associated with her—and their much-complicated partnership and friendship that shouldn't even have functioned as it did, given their totally opposite views and ideologies—had crashcoursed into him.

For the first time ever, the brief thought of breaking protocol had even breached him. But, no, he wasn't a traitor. As he gazed upon her, he realized he might have the capacity for it, only because he'd allowed himself to continue caring for a person as jaded and blackened as Natasha Romanov. To him, she wasn't merely that. He saw and had seen the potential good in her when others would have seen an assignment. Even after having been hurt by her, he still did that, foolishly so.

He was a fucking idiot. He could see that in her eyes. It wasn't condescending. It was simply there. Clint, you big fat idiot. Why'd you have to care? It would have been so much easier if he'd simply never strayed from his new path of hardness and execution of orders. It couldn't work out—not when he expected her to pull a Houdini half the time.

The times she proved him wrong was worth it, though, he stated when he saw her return, the red ringlets obscuring a face that was deep in concentration as she scribbled something down on the palm of her hand. It was her right one—she hadn't removed the leather glove of the left one, even though it appeared to be wet and itchy. Clint felt the need to hug her again and never let go. Was it even possible to miss someone so soon?

"What're you writing?" he asked, surprised at how his voice sounded. Per her usual fashion (at least given the past hour as information) she didn't reply. He was getting annoyed with the habit. Even though she'd never been the most verbal in their partnership (unless she was vehemently threatening to dismember him in the most crude of terms), he found himself missing her voice, the rich sound of its sultriness.

She looked up at him, apologetic and world-weary before giving his hand a firm squeeze and reluctantly leaning against him, burying her head—has she always been this small and vulnerable?—in his shirt, messing her hair up and wetting them even more. He frowned in confusion before looking down at her hand, his rough fingers beginning to peel open her fingers from the palm area as if forcing a flower to bloom its petals. It seemed wrong but she didn't protest. When he finally removed the last frigid finger, a message in her handwriting was easily read:

Voiceless.

First of all, I'd like to say that I didn't like the way it was revealed, but I wanted him to know and could not think of a better way. It's a bit dramatic, but this is fanfic and they've never been particularly normal, eh? I mean to post another piece before I leave, but I can't promise anything. I bought the first Game of Thrones book for my vacation, so I don't know how far I'll plan the future chapters.

Sorry, I am ranting. Leave a review with your thoughts on it. The fic, I mean, not my choice of reading material. I'm thankful for each and every one of them!