A/N: By the time tenth chapter was posted, I had already written more than a share of this, but that's okay. I'm glad you liked last chapter, even if it was short on Clintasha. You got to see Natasha's everyday assignments and her doubts.

The phone Clint's using in this chapter is similar to the one Tony Stark used in Iron Man 2. By 2015-2018, at which point this story takes place, I imagine the technology has been released to the public, or at least, made accessible. This is not a sci-fi story; technology, unless relevant, won't be explored in a detailed manner.

Before you, possibly, criticize any weird connections, keep in mind that I'm no comic book reader. I'm working on it in regard to Black Widow, but I'm pretty much clueless as to canon continuity, so please forgive me my mistakes. I'd like to point out that this is fan fiction.

Disclaimer: I'm not Marvel. I don't own the Avengers or any rights.

Silent Spider: Chapter 11

New York City, New York, United States of America

He had woken up in a fairly cheap hotel room alone the day after Stark Junior's party by the buzzing from his vibrating smartphone. There were several things about the statement he was content with—one of which was that he didn't have a hammering hangover and that he was unaccompanied. There was only one person he'd want—and trusted—sleeping next to him, and she was on another continent. Maybe. He tried not to think about where Natasha's employers could have sent her, and what she could be doing. It seemed too early for such horrors at… 9:26 AM. He grabbed for his phone, fingers sleepily tracing the partially holographic buttons across the glass surface.

"Barton," he grunted unceremoniously. He half expected to hear Rosario telling him to get his ass working, until he remembered that he was in America and didn't need to check in.

"Robin Hood!" the voice on the other end beamed, and Clint rolled his eyes. There was no room for mistakes as to its owner's identity.

"Stark?" he asked in vague disbelief. He honestly had no idea why last night's host would be calling him right now.

"You bet, mister. Look, I know I didn't get to speak much to you last night," Tony Stark began and, to his credit, almost sounded genuinely apologetic. "Me and the guys thought that maybe you'd join us for, eh, early lunch?"

Clint hadn't expected that. "The guys?" he asked sleepily, uncertain about whom Stark was referring to. It was best to be certain when Stark was involved.

"Yeah, the old gang. Me, Steve, Bruce, and Peter, if that's okay," Stark revealed reluctantly. It had been too many years for Clint to call him 'Tony' again; hell, it had taken time the first time. He had been—and was—accustomed to referring to and addressing people by surname at S.H.I.E.L.D. so befriending the other Avengers and being asked to call them by their first names had been beyond what he called an oddity. He wasn't planning to stick around long enough for it to get comfortable this time. That was one of the reasons he'd booked a cheap hotel instead of housing himself in one of Stark's for-that-purpose-owned hotels.

Clint still felt bad for his behavior towards them the past five years; it hadn't been their fault, and his anger had been misdirected. But he wasn't big on ceremonial apologies. "Sure, why not."

"Great!" Stark chirped, his voice laced with mischief.

"Stark, no surprises," Clint warned. From what he'd witnessed yesterday, Tony had changed, but that didn't mean his entire personality had been replaced. Back in the day, Stark had been their resident trickster, and he hadn't changed in that capacity.

"Don't be a bore," Stark whined, then sighed dramatically. "Fine. But I decide the meeting place," he bargained.

Clint saw plenty of opportunities on Stark's part to twist his words but relented. "Sure."

"Fantastic, I'll see you in an hour in the lobby…" the millionaire said as if he hadn't just yesterday hosted his firstborn child's birthday party, the grandest the hall had seen in a while, and probably the best-financed, too.

Clint calculated the amount of time it'd take to get to the Avengers Tower, conveniently located where it always had been. It seemed as if some things had remained the same, even if it now housed dozens of superheroes. "Okay."

"We'll see you," Stark said, having learned the proper way to end a phone call in lieu of simply hanging up, as he'd done in the days before Natasha and Clint had left respectively. Clint suspected Pepper and Steve had something to do with it, as manners rarely taught themselves, let alone imposed themselves on the genius.

"I'll be there."

Now everything he needed to do was convince the people who'd known him best that he was totally uncompromised and that he hadn't stumbled across and entered a questionable relationship with Natasha.

Berlin, Germany

"Tell me this is a joke," the man said in vast disbelief, his eyes angrily searching Natasha's body as if he was expecting her to don the appearance of a three hundred pound man with sweaty armpits.

Natasha gritted her teeth. She'd just saved their asses from getting shot to pieces by the (granted, stealthy) undercover syndicate member who would have busted them mid-sabotage. The goon had been an unknown factor she would normally have let the sextuplets deal with on their own—reality was like that, unpredictable—but they had already had the taste of victory on their tongues, dazzled by its intoxicating presence, that they would have been dead on the ground by the time she could congratulate them on their success and demoralize them for their utter mistakes. They had impressed her with their cunning and subtlety. One hadn't watched the door as he'd been told, and the goon had slipped in, tracing their escape route to the rendezvous point.

The goon had had a knife and been good with it, too.

Not good enough, Natasha thought wryly as she stepped over his body. She no longer had the option of whispering a seductively spiteful and frightening message in his ear, but his dead body would be enough of a message to his syndicate. She'd become quite good at communicating that way since her vocal cords became damaged. Her satin cocktail dress became soaked by blood at its hem, her suede boots darkening with crimson moisture. The neckline of the dress was covered by lacey veil, so for all intents and purposes, she was identity-less, just like the lieutenant, Smiley, who'd briefed them beforehand. He'd said nothing but warnings about their examiner, but then again, Smiley had gotten his nickname because of the smiles he liked to carve on his victims. He'd offered to adorn Natasha, too, but she'd declined and suspected it had been an honorary offer.

Fools, the whole lot. Well, maybe she was being rash. The man currently questioning her—and demeaning her—pissed her off slightly, along with the man who'd made the mistake of ignoring his task, nearly costing the lives of potentially three of his crewmates. She forced herself to betray no emotion, slipping into the nameless auditor she was supposed to be.

'Your names?' she demanded, not really wanting to continue the useless work with the notepad, which had resulted in the man's impatience as well.

The man blinked and fumed, but a smaller man, more slimly built, stepped forward, putting a warning hand on his friend's arm, guiding him back and urging him to reconsider his physical aggression. "She's asking for our names, Monteverde."

Natasha tilted her head slightly to the side, stuck between curious and impressed. 'You read lips,' she stated.

"My sister was deaf," he said, his hands beginning to sign. At least he didn't outright ask her the question—are you deaf, too? She kept her eyes levelly on his face for an answer, but she could have read his lips, too. She wasn't going to answer, but it seemed he wasn't going to ask. "She taught me," he added, but his eyes seemed to have an entirely different conversation. "I'm Caesar."

Natasha's eyes left him and traveled the crowd, sans the dead syndicate member. Eventually they remembered their names, even if she didn't offer her own. Her ominous presence seemed to indicate whom she belonged to. Offering a name at this point would be futile.

"Bennet," the blond man who'd been standing next to Caesar said. His eyes traveled expectantly to the man they'd called Monteverde, the one who hadn't been satisfied with having a mute female assassin save him.

"Monteverde," he grunted curtly.

"Patrik," the one who wore the blue shirt said with a slight Scandinavian accent—Norwegian, perhaps? His bright gray eyes inevitably locked with the woman's.

"Vita," she said reluctantly, equally as skeptic as Monteverde. Skeptic was good, difficult wasn't. She eyed Monteverde. Was she as skeptic towards Monteverde's actions, or was she looking for support?

"You'll call me Saffel," the last man said, and received wide looks of disbelief from the others. Evidently, his name wasn't Saffel, but her name wasn't Nikolaevna, so she didn't blame him for not entrusting her with his real name. She recognized the tattoo that adorned his neck, one that had seen no parlor. He was a former Spanish gang member. He was also the one whose job it had been to watch the door.

'Well, now where that is solved, let's get onto business. You succeeded partially. The real trouble will be getting out of Berlin,' she said, making sure her lips were visible to Caesar. He relayed the message without any additions, rephrasing only slightly.

"Trouble?" Saffel repeated arrogantly, tsking. "Lady, you haven't seen our getaways. We're good and swift."

Natasha remained unimpressed. Although it was summertime, Interpol still searched fervently for groups of departing people in airports and major train stations since Leipzig. 'Not so fast, hotshot. You haven't passed yet.'

She took off her blank mask for a second, grinning a feral grin. Saffel paled slightly and gulped, but tried to cover his momentary fright. He reminded her of Spinner, but just a little bit. He'd gotten in line, too. It was her job to get them to safety. They had passed the test somewhat, and Tarpeius was always in need of eager hands.

She addressed the woman, who was the last she'd seen with the target. 'Is Jäger alive?'

Vita nodded unsurely. "Wasn't he supposed to be?" Her eyes darted to Monteverde.

Natasha felt like sighing. 'Is he aware his things have been corrupted?'

"No," the man called Bennet said. "I made sure he won't know it until daybreak. If he finds the virus before it consumes and incinerates his skydrive."

Ah, so Bennet was their tech. Not that the information changed much. If he couldn't keep up, she'd leave him to the German authorities that would be on their tails in minutes upon finding the dead man's body. She hated herself for complicating things, but she didn't dwell on would-bes and what-ifs. 'Good. Let's go.'

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell us who you are, lady," Monteverde stated defiantly. Vita had joined him, but Bennet, Saffel, and Caesar remained fairly docile. Patrik looked confused.

'They call me the Lioness,' Natasha merely said, adopting one of half a dozen monikers she'd been bestowed. Alfredo's "Russia" wouldn't get her anywhere with this group, but she saw recognition flash across their faces. 'You will, too. Once I get you out of Berlin.'

Monteverde didn't look too pleased, but he had enough sense to drop his criticism—somewhat. "They sent you? A mute?"

Natasha wished looks could kill, but if she'd allowed herself to be irritated every time Alfredo had thrown a comment about her disability, she wouldn't have lasted as long as she had in Tarpeius. Her eyed landed ruthlessly intense on Monteverde. 'Yes. Do we have a problem?'

"Are you going to be our contact?" Vita asked. She suddenly looked a whole lot less beautiful in that dress than she'd done an hour ago. Maybe it was the cold wind of the back alley. Her hair no longer looked like ringlets of silk. Maybe it was because people generally didn't look beautiful up close when pissed.

Natasha shrugged. It was hard to define the inner arrangements, interaction and relationships of the Leons, and they didn't have time for a lecture. Most likely, they wouldn't have to deal with her again. 'No.'

The reply made Monteverde relent, or at least temporarily cooperate. She made a mental note of that knowledge. Patrik stepped forward. "The other one said we'd be tested. Will this be a test, too?"

'Not a graded one,' she admitted. 'But yes, everything you do from here will be watched and passed judgment on.'

Patrik seemed the most innocent of the lot, but world-weary, too. It seemed contradictory, but she could see him as a future Leon or as a baker's assistant. His past was not for her to question, but he still had the option of backing out. You don't know what you're getting into, son. Not really. He looked like an innocent bystander and not a mastermind. It was the trickiest.

Yet the sextuplets, however different, followed her as she weaved through the darkness to liberate a car that could hold them all. She did not want to separate them while they still posed a threat, especially not put Vita and Monteverde together without supervision. They seemed like flaky types. Patrik seemed so easily convinced that she wanted him close. Saffel had his words, but ultimately he wanted to be a part of Tarpeius and feared the punishment his mistake would issue.

She knew the perfect place to take them, and so she headed for the city of Schwedt once they'd purloined a van, the hand not holding the steering wheel throbbing from the cut of the blade. She almost looked forward to seeing their host for the night.

Café Oliver, Manhattan, New York

"… and we haven't seen him in a while," Steve finished, looking momentarily dejected. Clint noticed the others were wearing similar expressions—for the first time during the get-together—but thawed fairly quickly, seemingly having accepted Thor's absence upon receiving no word from Thor's homeworld, hoping they'd be told if something bad had happened to the mighty thunderer.

From what Clint had gathered during the past hour of surprisingly enjoyable lunch and company, his former teammates carried no resentment towards Clint, not even Stark, who tended to be blunt with his personal feelings, regardless of the collectively assumed opinion. With the exception of Thor's unexplained and prolonged absence and lack of communication, they all seemed to have thrived during Clint's venture in black ops and assignment to S.I.D.

Bruce was a prominent and frequent speaker for a campaign on environmental changes and eco-friendliness, and what could be done to decelerate the polar melting, now plural, and other consequences of global warming. He'd called a truce with the Other Guy and given a new meaning to the phrase "going green". He had also established several small centers for teenaged and grown mutants—or, as he called them, "genetic minorities"—where the volunteer patients dealt with anger triggered issues. He still worked in physics, but his research was limited and focused on medicinal and medical usages of the regenerative aspect of his condition.

Steve Rogers, a beacon of American patriotism in his star-spangled outfit, voluntary or not, had finally adjusted to the twenty-first century, as much as someone born in the 1920s and laid in ice for seventy years could, anyway. He was currently dating a historian who had briefly acted as a war correspondent in the Helmand region. From what Clint understood from the subtle (okay, not-so subtle, at times) prodding from Tony, they had been dating for a while, as he hinted towards marital engagements for the couple in the near future. Steve blushed and dodged the question, explaining that he and Meredith were taking things slow and that was fine for the both of them. "Fine, suuure," Stark had said with a grunt that belied his words, but after a not-so random bump from Bruce and an accompanying glare, he'd gotten unto more casual manners. Aside from his personal relationships, Steve was currently leading the main team of Avengers, there being three, although one was shared, sourly, with S.H.I.E.L.D., to Clint's surprise. Steve participated in battles, as often as was required of him, but often he had to resort to one team when fighting occurred simultaneously.

Stark's tag-along turned out to be mostly Bruce's tag-along; not that Clint had anything against the grown Spiderman, but Peter Parker, his subtler alter ego, had recently accepted a job at one of Bruce's centers, photographically chronicling the kids' developments and telling about his own experiences with the radioactive spider. Parker had been a recent addition to the team—more like a ward, really—when Clint had left. His offhanded and repeated mention of spiders reminded Clint of Natasha's codename, and he had to conceal his sudden downheartedness and feeling of homesickness. Had Europe and its many cities really become home? A place to miss, sure—more like places—but something that invoked homesickness? It's her you're missing, you idiot.

"What about Jane Foster?" Clint asked curiously. Last time he'd heard—which, granted, had been a while—Thor and the attractive astrophysicist had been an item. "Does she know about…?"

Bruce took the word. "Dr. Foster has been in Greenland the past two months documenting spectra and readings for her theoretical and factual work on the Einstein-Rosen bridges," he stated. "She doesn't know."

"What you're hearing is the sound of him trying to say they were off—again," Stark clarified. "Foster grabbed her gear and that lab assistant of hers and skedaddled out of America as fast as wings could take her."

"Darcy?" Clint's mood lit up at the mental image of the perky college student in an anorak, growling at polar bears that looked at her iPod the wrong way. "She's still with Jane?"

"Miss Lewis was one of the conditions in Foster's contract," Stark admitted, receiving gazes. "What! She is brilliant, and if all she wants is some space and a peppy assistant, who am I to deny her that? I saw a situation and I handled it."

It shouldn't come as a surprise that Stark had hired the astrophysicist and financed Foster's research. He did always have soft spot for scientific minds, as evidenced by his strong friendship to Bruce, regardless of his former anger management issues. What did surprise Clint was that Darcy had accepted the harsh, cold environment of the Arctic zone. Then again, those girls had witnessed—and been through—unimaginable events, and coped well, too, when taking into consideration that they were civilians; tough-as-nails civilians, but not trained agents or adequately gifted superheroes. Jane's relationship to Thor hadn't been one that Clint would have anticipated failing. Thor adored and loved Jane—what had gone wrong? Seemingly, things hadn't been as easy as they'd appeared to be. Then again—dating a Norse god wasn't exactly on Clint's resume. Having him commune between realms couldn't give a steady long-distance relationship. Thor's devotion to his duties had perhaps been too great for the previously doting woman.

"We thought it better not to inform her," Steve said awkwardly, and it surprised Clint because he'd always been the advocate for truths. "Considering we only know what we don't know. Until we've received confirmation, he's simply gone as he always is when he's in Asgard."

"You mean, telling her won't make a difference," Clint supplied. He understood their approach (or lack of), but if it had been he and Tasha, he'd have wanted to know. He'd have wanted to know the moment they lost contact.

"Asgard has never been communicative," Parker supplied. "Until Jane Foster's thesis works, we can't go there to see for ourselves. We're relying on their word."

You can't change inevitable, Clint. It's still going to happen, but relying on its happenstance is like giving up, like taking the batteries out of a toy, a voice said. He remembered the conversation and had to look down to gather his thoughts.

Don't give up on us.

S.H.I.E.L.D. Landside Headquarters

Undisclosed location in the state of New York

The sun was setting over New York by the time both men met, one having requested the meeting, the other having allowed himself to be summoned out of a tedious meeting with underlings to see why his presence had been requested.

"Agent Barton. I'd say always a pleasure, but it's not, so let's skip the pleasantries," Director Fury said, eye landing on the blond in front of him. "What are you here for?"

They looked at each other's faces from across the desk, wearing stern masks. "Extension of my Europe assignment, sir," Clint informed him.

The one-eyed director raised a single skeptic brow at the suggestion. "You want to stay with S.I.D.?"

They both knew the assignment had been a joke in the first place—a way to punish Barton for his constant insolence and a way to relieve S.H.I.E.L.D.'s junior agents from the semi-constant and ever-looming threat of harm. "I feel I've really blended in," he lied, citing the standard load. He couldn't keep the smirk out of his voice.

"Bullshit. They dislike you every bit as much as people here dislike you. 'Cept for this Agent Rosario. He seems to think you're worth the trouble."

"Trouble, sir?" Barton said with feigned naiveté. He was aware that his record for the last year was cleaner than it had been in a while, free of stupid stunts and insubordination. Remove the authority, you remove the problem, it seemed. He wasn't about to share that thesis with the proclaimed problem in question, though. No, S.I.D. had taught him compliance.

"You're a pain in the ass, Barton. You've always been," Fury said bluntly, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose.

Yet I've always been useful to you, Clint thought. Useful until I brought too much trouble. Is that what Tasha discovered, too? Did you scare her off, Fury? He kept the thoughts to himself, letting none of the suspicion flash across his face. Expressing hostility towards the director himself wouldn't result in anything he wanted. No, he realized. He just wanted to go back to Europe, to the fairly easy ways of the sometimes two-man team he and Alejo had been. "I've found working with Agent Rosario to be recommendable."

Fury gave him a look of disbelief as he snorted. "He bat-shit crazy, too?" he asked rhetorically, because he continued when Clint opened his mouth to speak. "Barton, I'm not gonna lie. You're a damn good agent, but you've got issues."

He left it at that although they both knew that it was Natasha he spoke of. "That doesn't mean the first statement should be ignored. I read your report on the brief stunt you did on Leonum Tarpeius, our friendly European group of organized goons," Fury said, his voice sarcastic.

"Vienna, if I recall, sir," Clint added, trying to be disinterested as if nothing of importance happened on that mission. Not—at—all. "None of the targets showed."

"Nevertheless it was good intel. You wrote that we'd underestimated them in our assessment. Why?" he demanded to know.

Because they've got Natasha Romanov, sir. He didn't say that. Damn, this was bordering on insubordination and half-truths. "A… gut feeling, sir. They outnumber our estimation of members. An AISE agent was found tortured to death in the same lair. If the Italians got their noses in Austria, enough to issue a threat, maybe we should be worried."

Fury looked semi-satisfied with his explanation. "Would you be willing to pursue a confirmation of your 'gut feeling'?"

Was he? It'd mean directly working against Natasha—something he'd already failed at. It could also mean obtaining a chance of bringing her in as a contact, an informant. Her cooperation could grant her a pardon. S.H.I.E.L.D. had done it before. It'd mean being part of her everyday life. It'd mean lying to her if she didn't want to do that.

Don't give up on us.

"I'd like to try," he finally said, hardening his eyes and straightening his back, folding his hands behind his spine.

"Something tells me when you've got your eye on something, Barton, you don't just 'try'. You succeed, and I want you to. That something—it's called experience. You've got loads of it. Now show me you haven't corroded during your European vacation. If the Leonum Tarpeius are as dangerous as you say they are, I want your eyes on it. Yours, and that handler of yours."

"Agent Alejandro Rosario," Clint supplied. It felt weird saying his whole name. He'd always just been Rosario, or Alejo, and rarely "Rosie". That moniker had not boded well.

"Yeah, I remember. I'll have your orders waiting for you by the time you're back in Riga," Fury promised. "And, uh, Barton?" he called out as the conversation was ceasing.

"Yes, sir?" he replied, hoping to keep the strain of panic out of his voice.

"Hope you enjoyed Hadley Stark's party," he said offhandedly, but the archer knew him better than to assign the tone 'offhanded'. Fury, unless put in a chaotic situation, chose each word carefully, based on assessment he'd made in his head. He said nothing without reason to. Problem was finding out what he was fishing for.

The knot in his chest loosened somewhat, but it still stung, the pain of near-discovery panic. "I did, sir."

"Feel any twisting sensation in your gut to have one of your own?" Fury asked, only half, Clint suspected, kidding.

Clint swallowed, believing himself to have found Fury's insightful response. "Kids are not my style, director."

"Somehow, I knew that. Dismissed, agent."

Clint's legs felt wobblier with each step, but he made it out of the office and into the elevator before exhaling deeply. What had he just done?

Yes, what have you done, Clint. And how badly hurt is Natasha? Who's she going to visit? And what did Fury imply with his comment?

Feel absolutely (forced) free to leave a comment and reply on your way out :) ! I'd like to point out that this story has now reached 50,000 words in less than a month.

- L.