A/N: Finally, a chapter! I'm back from London, heading for a camp (but intending to write if not update this story anyway). It's unbeta'd. It has Alejo Rosario in it, though. Your reviews are welcomed and most appreciated!

Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to the Avengers, nor do I pretend to.

Silent Spider: Chapter 9

Dresden, Germany

Clint never took his eyes off her.

He scrutinized her and she would have been uncomfortable if he'd been someone else (anyone else) although she was trained to be submitted to such scrutiny and act as if it did not matter. That had changed since her disability. His resolve was his mistake, though. She watched him become undone, jaw clenching, when she removed the first item of clothing, movement slow and meant to entrap. He leaned more into the door behind him, the door that also happened to be the only visible exit of the bathroom. His adamancy to get her showered and into warm clothes would be his first mistake.

He hadn't ratted her out. Interpol wouldn't come running, (she told herself). It irked her that he knew. She hadn't inquired as to how much he knew, fearing she'd reveal rather than gather information. Had he been contacted by S.H.I.E.L.D.? If Interpol made calls to S.H.I.E.L.D. already, they were desperate, grasping at straws. Worse, they would realize who the true perpetrators were. She suddenly thought of the Leons, hoping they had left the country by now. Her thoughts fell on Belova in particular. If Interpol—or S.H.I.E.L.D., for that matter—captured her, would she talk? Would she tell them about the red-haired assassin who'd single-handedly murdered five people? Red Room didn't exactly train their operatives in the art of loyalty, only to themselves. The murder of the five people wasn't the worst thing in her ledger; it was, however, the most recent addition.

Clint tried not to be affected by her undressing when she removed the t-shirt and slipped out of the jeans. They fell into a sloppy pile, a wet mess. She stared levelly at him, a challenge in her eyes, an option to forget it all. He'd woken up to her like this this morning. He'd been pleased at it. She remembered. Clint was touchy-feely with her and it didn't bother her until she realized how good his hands on her body made her feel. It wasn't like that with other men. Her body was finely attuned to Clint Barton, and five years hadn't changed that.

It made them utter idiots, if you asked her. As an assassin, this was as much of a death sentence as a bullet in the gut. These things just didn't happen and never turned out well.

Natasha saw the desire flicker in his eyes, darkened with arousal. Was she his prisoner? It would imply that she wouldn't be successful in manipulating him. She wasn't sure she'd be capable either way. She welcomed his attention as she stripped down, stepping backwards into the shower cubicle with invitation in her eyes. Pale alabaster skin surrounded itself by ceramic tiles, clean enough to give off a dim mirror impression of her body. She turned the showerhead on and felt water splash and rays redden her skin, covering it in a thin layer of water.

She might not be vocally responsive, but her relationship with Clint had always had an, uh, physical nature. Natasha sucked on her lip as the water turned crimson, emptying her forearms of the blood, Karolina's blood. For a minute, she felt pristinely clean and innocent. As if. It was a nice sentiment, though. She'd just seen and done too much to fool herself into believing it.

Natasa heard him groan, and restrained herself from letting a smirk of victory creep to her lips. She was more than happy to take the edge off when she felt the body of another press against her, water be damned—his clothes be damned. It was an echo of their reunion. He had her pinned to one of the walls of the stall, eyes dark, breath strained with need. She waited, never batting an eye although she found herself struggling to keep her own desire unexpressed. There was less than an inch between them, and she felt her stomach do somersaults at his proximity.

She swallowed hard. This was it. Was he going to be Clint the Agent, like Sylvio had been Sylvio the Screwup, and berate her, take her into custody despite his own feelings (she hoped to God no, but deep down knew she wasn't going to think less of him for doing so), or was he going to be Clint Her Partner? They were two distinct people in her mind, and maybe that was why she was so screwed up, expecting people to be as messed up mentally as herself with her Natalia's, Natasha's, and Nikolaevna's. Compartmentalization had never failed her.

Attraction was undeniable at this point. It wasn't just that, although they could have been saner if that had been the case. It would be written off as attraction, not the remnants of a partnership reinforced by the physical and mental need to be together as if woven so. She vowed never to let him become what she'd let herself morph into. No, Clint Barton and Nikolaevna weren't compatible. He was good, despite his misdeeds. He hadn't known better, but now, she suspected, he was an exemplary agent; the agent junior agents looked up to and cursed themselves for being unable to live up to as a standard. But he'd been hers first.

He's still yours. Look at him, the voice in her head told her. She didn't have to. Everything about Clint spoke of trust. He was mad at her, angry, but underneath that, he wanted to protect her, even from herself and himself. She was a source of conflict, but didn't have it in her to show him her dark side to convince him of what she knew, because she liked having someone look at her like that, even after today. Hell, he knew her worst misdeeds of the past, the transgressions no-one should be forgiven for, but he'd pushed them aside and worked alongside her as if she'd been a fellow American with a couple of years' worth of field experience.

Maybe that's why she didn't feel so bad when his lips crashed down on hers; his hands slowly slid down her forearms, preventing her from escaping but also from letting her hands link behind his neck and drawing him closer. He was angry, she could tell. Hell, she could feel it in every vibe of his being. There was nothing soft about the collision of lips, and his teeth dug into her bottom lip in some form of disciplining, drawing blood. In retaliation, she hooked her long leg around his waist, feeling his body giving into temptation. He loosened his grip around her wrists enough to cup her face and her tangled hair, not too gentle about his treatment of her.

If this was fighting with Clint, it was as mind-blowing and disarming as vice comments. These days, she preferred him stunned speechless. It prevented him from reminding her of the reasons this would never end well. Also, it prevented him from speaking and asking questions she'd rather leave unspoken. The day he asked about her current job and employers, she'd have to lie—and she didn't want that, so she did everything to postpone the day. Right now, he was doing a fine job of doing exactly that.

"You're going to get yourself killed," he murmured against her neck as he placed hot kisses on her skin. Only halfway through his journey did she remember the scar, and by then, her body was too relaxed to push him away. Her eyelids fluttered as his fingers dug into her skin, itching for release and permission.

She let her hands—sans the prosthesis, as she'd been meaning to shower, not be sprayed with water while her ex-partner pressed her downright possessively, as if the oxygen in her lungs was the only one that mattered, against the stall's wall—leave marks across his back, equally rough, sprawled across his shoulder blades in a freakish embrace that left her breathless, heart throbbing in arousal. She felt his response to her touch, too, and soon, anger was replaced by primal desire and the need to have the entire thing postponed.

They were fucked up. She realized that they were merely delaying the inevitable. A confrontation had to be made—although she would have rather it didn't, Clint would never be able to forget what must be so clear in his mind (clear enough to accuse her, anyway, and he'd always looked to give her the benefit of the doubt)—but this was much better.

Natasha whimpered as he removed her hands from his hemline. It wasn't fair that he be allowed to remain dressed while she was uncovered. It'd be a lie to say he wanted her more than she wanted him; she had reacquainted herself with his archer body the past week and it didn't disappoint. Clint's touch was fucking addicting. He had the sexual prowess of a whore but the morals of a saint, which was contradictory, given his employment prior to S.H.I.E.L.D. She wasn't going to point that out. No, Clint might not have been the womanizing agent, but he knew how to undo her with few touches. Maybe that was why they worked so well (although Natasha severely doubted so).

She moaned in response to one of those touches. He broke free from her lips, presumably in need of the deprived oxygen. His eyes, so damn close it should unnerve her, given his allegiances, studied her face. With fragile carefulness, his hand moved to tuck away hair that obscured her face—and the developing bruise. She shrugged his hand off her. He had no right to see.

Yet he did, and his face darkened with a different kind of anger. "Who did this?" he demanded, his voice barely above a whisper.

Natasha's eyes refused to meet his. If she revealed that it had been the federal marshal who'd struck her, she'd confess to having killed him, too. Outright confessing what she'd done when she slipped off the radar wouldn't do whatever they were doing good. His hand forced her chin up, her eyes reluctantly darting to his. "Who did this, Tasha?"

Alas, she gave up. 'A dead man.'

"Dead men cannot harm the living," he stated coldly, trying to find conflict in her eyes to mirror his own.

'He's dead,' she mouthed in honest confirmation. 'That's all you need to know.'

"Leipzig," he realized, whispering. She knew better than to nod. Suddenly the passion had left the stall, leaving behind two broken shells and cold-water rain. She hugged herself, shying away, expecting him to look at her with hatred and shunning. The moment had passed.

It was he who moved first, his hand grabbing for the faucet and turning it off. The water ceased, and she felt a chill. Despite his own state of dampness, he held out a towel for her first. She was more than mildly disappointed to have been interrupted, but accepted the gesture and the item anyway, wrapping herself in it.

"Tasha," he began, realizing his mistake. Natasha shied away.

'This won't work with questions, Clint,' she said. It was true and concerned all kinds of questions—the direct ones, the protective ones, the demanding ones; she couldn't give him the answers, for her safety and for his. She hoped her eyes conveyed the emotion. I can't allow myself to do this if you want to know everything about me.

It was an old condition, stemming from their S.H.I.E.L.D. partnership. Nobody would walk away sane knowing everything she'd done as the Black Widow. Nobody alive truly knew, either. It was something she'd accepted long ago. Her trust did not depend on how much somebody knew about her, but rather, how much of that information had been relayed voluntarily from her own mouth without the intent to manipulate. So yeah, she trusted Clint because he knew and still cared.

"Let's go to bed," he said with finality, a hand softly straying her back along her spine. You can't just ignore it and it'll go away, Clint. Hell, she'd tried.

She nodded and allowed him to escort her to their shared bedroom, wondering briefly if she'd awake in confinement, then deciding she wasn't going to let him. She wasn't going to let him forget who they were, or their passion to overrule the sense they'd gathered over years of being the best spies S.H.I.E.L.D. had. And, she wasn't going to keep herself from the small joy his presence gave her.

Riga, Latvia

- The next day

"I give you a week to recover, and you come back more damaged than I shipped you off," Rosario said in disbelief. Clint was no fool, he could hear the real question: Are you kidding me?

"Technically, it was more like 'dropped off'," Clint argued, as he pulled the shirt back on. He hadn't been complaining when Natasha had scratched him up like a clawing cat in heat. Not at all. He suppressed a smirk. He hadn't expected Rosario to demand what was practically a strip search, either. At least he'd gotten to keep his pants on, he thought to himself. Suffice to say, Natasha's marks there were a whole lotta more personal, her twisted version of a parting gift. Worst part of it was that he hadn't minded.

Closet masochist, Clint's brain scolded. Nobody who'd ever live to know his inner rants would ever judge the former carnie. He didn't surround himself with people who'd pass that sorta judgment. Still, he wasn't about to tell Alejo Rosario either. No way in hell. He had parted with his ex-partner less than 24 hours ago, yet found himself missing her presence, not just physically. Rosario just wasn't enough. Before Vienna, he had been, but that had been when Clint's last memory of Natasha Romanov had been blurry and fading.

Except she wasn't Romanov. It sounded insane—most of what he came up with these days was, having 'compromised' written all over it—but when she'd returned from Leipzig, he'd meant to give her some berating speech about morals and right's and how what she'd done was wrong, but the moment he'd laid eyes on the soaked Russian assassin, he'd realized something far more profound, something far more unsettling. He didn't care. He'd said it in Vienna, but only in Dresden, after Leipzig, had he realized what it meant. Condoning murder. He'd never condoned Romanov's murders, but he had condoned hers. Whoever the mute, partially fingerless assassin was.

He should have never checked that voicemail. Romanov was trouble and conflict personified, wrapped up in marble beauty. Coulson had once said, jokingly (as much as he could joke, anyway) that whoever had Romanov, had Barton. Clint didn't want to contemplate the accuracy of the statement. Then again—he didn't want to condone the slaughter of innocents, but here he was, hours after having bedded a woman with the blood of said innocents still dripping from her. God, he was in trouble. Sure, he was used to not getting what he wanted—S.H.I.E.L.D., however courteous and respectful of seniority and his skillsets, prioritized their needs before those of their agents—but that had been different, because this time, it was part of himself that was trying to reason. His brain wanted to bring her in and do everything in his power to secure a pardon (however slim the chances of success were on that one), but his heart (and desires he'd rarely, in the past five years, allowed to rule him) begged to differ.

"Sometimes I wonder what you do for fun, Barton," Alejo told him, then, without missing a beat, added: "And then I tell myself not to ask."

Translation: I care about you, but I don't want to confirm how fucked up you are. That's nice to know, Clint sarcastically assessed. Still, he'd rather have his money on Rosario having his back than no one. So, not wanting to antagonize and offer Alejo more time to ask about his "spare time" (and more importantly, how he spent it), he deflected: "How was your week, Rosario?"

Alejo looked at him as if he was asking him to blow up the sky. Jeez. Clint almost felt bad for adding more wrinkles to that face. Then he reconsidered. He was merely keeping Rosario's sense of suspicion in shape. Alejo should be thanking him. Somehow, Clint estimated that would happen sometime around pigs flying.

Rosario didn't justify his question with a response. "I hope you're more convincing in the field," he growled, making a notation. His voice betrayed no emotion. "Fury wants to see you."

"Fury?" Clint repeated, dumbfounded. He was too much of an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. not to realize that all of his S.I.D. reports were, eventually, accessible to the director. However, he had no false perceptions of what Fury thought of him. He was a thorn in Fury's side (and that was putting it mildly) and whoever Fury had assigned monitor his S.I.D. work must've been, too. Nobody was unreachable to Nick Fury and fewer forgotten. Clint's glory days were far passed in Fury's book. Clint would be glad to never have his Hawkeye file pulled and read again. Was it a coincidence, he wondered, that Fury wanted to speak with him now?

He'd been Fury's agent too long to be that naïve.

Rosario had called him in Dresden when he'd received news what had happened in Leipzig. Apparently, Interpol, upon realizing how orchestrated the murders of three people had been, had suspected S.I.D. to be involved. They hadn't asked nicely, and by the time Rosario had asked him if he was involved, Clint had connected the pieces.

Three dead. One arrested drug lord, the officer responsible for him, and a young woman, the daughter of the drug lord. Broad daylight. It was neat and messy at the same time. The circumstances messy. Compared to how they'd been murdered, neat. By the time the authorities realized it was the work of the Leonum Tarpeius, he'd been breathing in her scent against the hot splashes of water.

"Don't ask me, Barton. You're S.H.I.E.L.D.'s former agent. You should know Fury better than me," Alejo countered, a trace of disdain in his voice. He didn't hold Fury in high regard, but so few of the S.I.D. agents Clint had met did. He might be the superspy, but he'd done things the Europeans didn't condone to attain the reputation the rumors insinuated. The "Europeans" was what Clint called S.I.D. agents. Rosario's inclusion depended on Clint's mood.

"Maybe he wants me back," Clint replied wryly. Fury hadn't contacted him in years. Coulson called sometimes, but the calls were getting less frequent. Clint was the closest thing to forgettable you could be in Fury's book.

Rosario merely snorted in reply. He was curious, but only as curious as Clint allowed him to be. As a handler, he tried hard to maintain at least the illusion of privacy. Aside from, of course, when he asked his asset to remove his goddamn shirt. Still, Clint couldn't think of a better handler in S.I.D. It was nice to not have his intentions read immediately upon arriving in Riga, as would have been the case with Coulson.

"Wait, see me? As in, face-to-face?" He waited to be proven wrong; to have a snarky reply concerning videoconferences thrown back at him, but it didn't come.

"He's here, Barton. In Riga. His Royal Majesty wants to see you in person," Rosario relayed, but did not manage to conceal the worry on his face. The words of mockery belied his facial expression. One word from Fury and they'd get split up. Considering their successes the past year, that would be a shame, and a mistake on Fury's part, but few agents had the courage to tell him, instead opting to disapprove in silence. It was pretty much a given unless your name was Hill or Coulson or had a fancy title attached to it.

Clint had not been widely welcomed by the Strategic Intervention Division, but his skillset and vast experience had been appreciated in the fresh-faced agency. That was putting it mildly. Most of the Europeans had been judgmental rookies that had never known the true meaning of grey zones and the second required to make a call that could prove devastating. Within his early tenure, he'd broken in a few of the more difficult newbies and introduced them to the dark world of espionage and sabotage. By the time a Spaniard named Alejandro Rosario had been assigned to him, he'd already become a living legend most agents avoided. Since then, he'd become a regular ghost, only checking in when he had to. Even now, they referred to him as "that S.H.I.E.L.D. agent". Clint wondered, for the first time, how much that was true.

He jumped down from the examination table and shrugged on his civilian wear jacket. Fury knows, the treacherous voice in his head told him. But how? They had been careful, they had been deceptive, using false identities and paid in cash. Except when—Clint banished the thought. Natasha would never. Yet insecurity surfaced. Would Tasha anonymously tip Fury off about their dalliance? Surely not when it meant revealing herself to be operating against the guidelines and agenda of S.H.I.E.L.D.?

"Best not keep him waiting," Clint sullenly replied.

Valletta, Malta

"I do not know if I have told you, Nikolaevna, but I am pleased with your compilation. And how you handled Koppel, of course. I'll consider your newest additional recommendations. Belova, a curious choice. Others would have excluded her due to her childishness," Desta said as the logs of the fireplace cackled.

'Childlikeness. I assure you she's not childish,' the woman whispered, no sound leaving her lips. She made the contents of the wineglass swivel before sipping the rich-flavored red substance.

Desta smiled in approval. "Ah, yes. She is one of theirs, isn't she? Oh well. No reason our organization cannot benefit from foreign programmes. You like her? She'd make a fine addition."

'Red Room barely trained her,' she scoffed, feigning disinterest, feigning superiority.

"Yet she remains trained," he pointed out. "No matter. Let's change the topic to a far more interesting one. My sister sends news of Novi Sad. She tells me the children are settling in well."

The woman went very still. 'Good. Safe, I assume?'

"Your lack of faith wounds me, Nikolaevna. Yes, the boys will remain safe, out of reach to our enemies… As long as you continue your dutiful tenure." A threat was hidden there, but it was as harmless as the idea of her treason; he knew she wouldn't betray him. Leipzig had assured that.

'I had no intention to refrain,' she mouthed obediently although she looked at him with dead eyes.

"I know, woman, I know."

'I am not your woman,' she coldly replied.

Desta gave an almost hearty laugh. "No, you are no one's. A shadow of a shade. That's how I like you. You are the night dagger. More trained than Belova will ever be. I have your loyalty, not your heart."

'Some things are not for sale. They cannot be purchased if they are long gone.'

Desta tsked. "So cynical."

She shrugged. 'Some things cannot be helped.'

"Tell me, dear, what were you doing in Dresden anyway? It's been months since you used that hotel. Found something you fancied? Someone perhaps?"

Desta looked at her intensely as if he tried to catch something unseen. He saw her inhale and turn away, her head facing towards him only so he could read her labial movements.

'Nothing of interest, Desta,' she assured him tiredly as she looked out the window to see Valletta's skyline unfold in the darkness. 'Even the wicked grows nostalgic.'

S.I.D. Base – Riga, Latvia

The sound of the door sliding apart and sliding back after his entrance was deafening. In fact, Clint's heartbeat seemed deafening, but he chose to not think about that, chose to focus on controlling his body's failing attempts to disclose no tells. "Sir, you wanted to see me."

Nicholas Fury had not changed a bit in the last two years, and if he had, it was for the meaner. Sure, he looked a little rougher around the edges, but with the world changing and getting more dangerous, S.H.I.E.L.D. had to accommodate. Clint had to remind himself that this was the man that frequently dealt with Stark's bouts of rebelliousness and instantly pitied the man. It was hard pitying Nick Fury, and maybe what he felt was more like sorry for the people Fury's jobs required him to handle.

"Agent Barton," the older man addressed (although Fury's age had always been a point of interest). The one-eyed man grimaced as if he didn't like this situation one bit better than Clint did. That alone unnerved Clint, who stood placidly by.

"Director Fury," Clint retorted obediently and routinely.

"It's not gonna take long. Stark told me to pass on a message for you," Fury said, his back turned to Clint, who could have sighed in pure relief. Obviously he wasn't out of the woods yet, but Fury would have been more direct had he been meaning to accuse Clint. "After harassing me for half an hour with foolhardy accusations, he asked me in a semi-polite way to hand you this next time I saw you."

He conjured an envelope from somewhere and handed it straightforwardly to Clint. It was a bland one, unmarked with an address. Guessing from Fury's offhanded comment about Stark, the billionaire and former teammate had been unable to track Clint's address down (seeing as he didn't have any, that might have been why). His assignments changed so fast that maybe Stark hadn't been able to keep up. Yeah, right, like that would happen.

Clint accepted it and flipped it in his hands. He knew better than to assume its contents were private; he had, after all, been handed it from the director of an intelligence agency whose methods rivaled that of their enemies. Paranoia was Fury's flavor. Within good reason, Clint thought glumly to himself upon realizing his own predicament.

"What's in it?" he asked, trying to be nonchalant. He'd cut his ties with Tony Stark and the rest of the Avengers years ago.

Fury's expression betrayed nothing. "An invitation."

Clint snorted but managed to look apologetic. "Sorry, sir."

"Nothing to be sorry for, Agent," Fury said in his best you better not be shitting me tone. "Stark's still the loose cannon. Frankly, I came because I was curious of what you'd say."

"'Say', sir?" Clint repeated, unsure of how his situation amused Fury the slightest.

The director shrugged non-committedly and left. "Lighten up, Barton. It's a birthday invite."

Natasha thinks highly of Clint, but is she right? Whose birthday is it? And what will happen in Europe while Clint's away?

And Desta's made his first appearance although a lot remains to be said. Type a review with your thoughts on your way out :)