A/N: I'd like to point out that any possible offensive words used to describe the character(s) in this chapter are planted upon the character(s) themselves and not based on personal opinion. I try not to be offensive.

I believe this is the first Natasha chapter without change of POV. It's sort of a reflection of the first chapters (and the Volga mission) where we heard about Clint's current job and lifestyle. Nat's got friends—ish. They just don't know who she is.

Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel and subsequently, I don't own the Avengers, concept, characters, or remote storyline. I just politely loan.

Silent Spider: Chapter 12

Schwedt, Germany – near the Polish border

- Later that same night

It was way into the night when the stolen van's tires screeched to a halt in front of the ill-omened gates of the remote mansion in the middle of German woodlands. Mostly German, but some bordered with Polish sown trees. Natasha's eyelids felt like heavy drapes, but she leaned forward in her seat anyway and gazed upon the old fortress with its dim lights, enough so to issue the vision of the starry night above. At 2:06 AM, it wasn't particularly astonishing as it was imposing, but the promise of a shower and a safe haven for the night caused her to set aside any doubts she had as to the mansion's qualities. Most important was the fact that there were less than ten miles to the Polish border, and that the German authorities would not search for them here.

She looked over her shoulder to check up on her passengers. Aside from Patrik, whom she had sitting next to her, drooling on his own shoulder, they all sat in the back. After half an hour's travel, nobody had uttered a word and they had driven in comfortable silence. Monteverde's physical presence had seemed to calm Vita, who was sleeping lightly in his arms. Bennet was glancing at Saffel, who had busied himself playing with a lighter while Caesar slept, seemingly undisturbed. When the van rolled to a halt in front of the gates, all but two looked up.

"Where are we?" Patrik inquired sleepily. She ignored him, scrolling the window down to press on the intercom button of the gate.

"Wer ist an der Pforte? Who is at the gate?" a male asked, first in German, then in slurred English. Despite the annoyance of his tone, Natasha knew that she had not jerked him from his bed, but rather from good company.

She waited, knowing silence would be telling, unable to keep a smirk from entering her features. She tapped the door in impatience, a familiar language of sounds. Morse code. S…C…H…W…E…S…T…E…R…

The others looked at her as if she was mad. "Aren't you going to—," Saffel started, but then the gate swung open and the intercom chirped.

"Welcome, sister," the voice greeted, tension evaporated and purely mischievous. The sudden change of language alerted the sextuplets, yet they only eyed each other strangely when Natasha drove through the open gates into the proverbial lion's den.

Upon driving for three more minutes, the dirt road ended—much to the van's relief, as it was adequate for asphalt maneuvers, but not off-road travel—and she saw the barn-like design of the garage where their host kept all of his cars, ranging from Rolls Royces and Aston Martins, to a Humvee and a cheap Honda. She pulled up and heard the tires crunch across gravel.

Natasha parked the van without incident or regard to its angle, knowing it would be taking care of and discarded during the night. She then proceeded to step out of the car, enjoying having steady ground under her feet and the opportunity to stretch her legs. Eventually, the sextuplets followed suit, even Vita and Caesar, the former of which was leaning against Monteverde, and the latter of which looked like he knew exactly what was going on.

She gestured for them to follow. "Where are we?" Bennet asked, looking up at the Stuart era castle, which had later been purchased and turned into a private mansion, restored, demolished and renovated to its owners' desires. It was fairly modest now—compared to who owned it, anyway—and it laid so secluded that it would offer the perfect hideout in the cover of darkness. The projector beams that usually lit up historical monuments like this had been shut off, probably to piss off people who used it as a landmark for aerial grid logging. Natasha had to smile. She also had to cringe, because her forearm had turned an unhealthy color as blood had ceased flowing freely from the wound.

It was too dark for her lips to be read, the moon hidden behind a line of tall trees. She made no attempt to answer Bennet's question as she trekked to the main door entrance of the nearest house. They were former stables for noble steeds with pedigrees that went back further than hers, now repurposed. She walked stiffly, feigning sleepiness. When she knocked upon the wooden door, half of her company was still clumsily making their way across the gravel field.

She did not have to wait long. The door opened with a heavy sound and light beamed through, piercing the adjoining darkness like an angelic halo. "Nikolaevna. I wasn't expecting your company, but it is nonetheless happily welcomed," Kraus said, stressing the adverb and pushing the door open. "You bring friends," he commented dryly.

Natasha didn't answer him, simply entering without further ado, struggling to conceal her injury. It'd heal within a matter of days if tended properly to. She could smell it, smell the foul stench of dry blood and settling infections. She betted the knife hadn't been clean and cursed mentally. She tried to bend the wrist slightly and was surprised by the wave of pain it sent through the joint. She bit her lip and awaited privacy.

By the time the sextuplets had joined her in one of the richly furnished living rooms, the logs in the fire cackling homely, she was leaning against one of the cushioned chairs that looked like it belonged in the last century. It probably was the antiquity it appeared to be, knowing Kraus' tastes for overindulgence.

'We will stay here for the night. Tomorrow, we will head across the Polish border. In Szczecin there is a Leon who will manufacture new travel papers for you. From there, you'll split into groups of two and head for different bases,' she told them while Kraus watched. She trusted the dark-haired man with the small curls that stuck greasily to his head due to too much product and low lighting; trusted him not to sell them out. His brownish-orange eyes gleamed like orbs of expensive cognac and observed the instructions with disinterest, more interested in her passengers than their inconsequential information.

"I will find accommodations for all of you, you needn't worry," he supplied. Natasha, having seen the vast mansion's assortment of rooms, knew it to be true.

"Why wait? Why not head across the border tonight?" Saffel asked, eyes suspicious and darting between Natasha and Kraus. He seemed like the guy to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"These woods are treacherous at night, my new guest. Tragedies have been known to befall those who journey through it during nighttime, especially when the moon is as coy with us as she is tonight," Kraus informed him, ever one for dramatic flair. It was true that the woods weren't best ventured by night, but if Kraus' stories were true, werewolves, monstrous beasts and ravenous boars roamed the adjacent forest. Natasha had snorted in disbelief upon hearing them.

Kraus' eyes landed predatorily on the pretty Bennet and the statuesque Vita, and Natasha fretted. They were in her care, and paranoid as they may be, they wouldn't see the personal threat Kraus posed.

Kraus wasn't a creep. Well, maybe he was, but at least he was honest in his perversion, which made him a far better man in Natasha's book than most gave him credit for. His hands accidentally groped his guests and he was a queer for making inappropriate suggestions and invitations, but he was never truly serious about his offer if one had declined. He loved Natasha for playing along and he considered her, at least according to his boastful self, one of his best friends, although she suspected he liked his playmates better. "Not always," he'd said, "they disappoint. You never do." Natasha sated the dandy, listened when he whined and complained, willing to pretend with him when he'd scared off the rest. What he lacked in companions, he made up for with money. He came from old money and was filthy rich. One parent—his father she presumed—had vowed to disinherit him, but had died leaving him a generous amount, and the other had sent him off with an equally generous portion of money to ensure he didn't embarrass her or her reputation with his "freakish tendencies". The only attribute that phrase had described had been Kraus' early but nevertheless disapproved-of pansexual appetite. Resentful and dramatic, he'd made sure there was something to be embarrassed about, and he made it a sport to purposefully make people blush when they heard of his improper activities.

He was also a benefactor to Leonum Tarpeius, for reasons that were more than just the obvious. As any rich man was inclined to be, Kraus' faith in authority figures was ever-diminishing. He was one of obviously more benefactors, but Desta had always been grateful for his donations in particular and oftentimes sent Natasha to voice his appreciations. Natasha, accustomed to odd fetishes and having no qualms at being passed around, had gone along—not that she cam near to having Kraus' amount of lovers. However, Kraus had seen an intellectual partner in her and not a merely sexual one, although he still seemed plenty of interested on that part. She'd refrained from sleeping with him the past three visits. Still, it seemed, he welcomed her happily and unhesitantly.

'We will all welcome some sleep. What rooms are available?' Natasha asked, the last comment aimed at her host. She herself would not be getting much sleep tonight, but traveling with a cranky Monteverde was not on her list of things she did with pleasure.

"Eastern wing should provide plenty of space. I'll escort you there myself," the dandy offered, sending Natasha a questioning glance as he hurried them along like a hen mother. They followed—mostly, Natasha suspected, out of the promise of a clean bed and warm shower. Natasha used the temporary privacy to sink into the chair, groaning as she removed her gloves to inspect the wound.

It wasn't a particular deep wound; more of a graze, really, but the skin had been parted, presumably with the dirtied knife the goon had been slashing. The skin surrounding the vertical scar on her inner forearm throbbed and had swelled to nearly twice its usual size. She did not wait for Kraus to finish his tour—place was large enough to house a hundred families, and getting from one wing to another meant wandering dozens of rooms and corridors—but instead knowingly made her way to the nearest sink, which turned out to be one of the dozens of conveniently littered bathrooms, its tiles from an era before she was born. She appropriated the towel that hung by it and liberated a bottle of straight vodka from the expensive shelf in Kraus' liquor cabinet. She knew him to be able to afford a replacement, so she uncapped the bottle without remorse and poured it directly on the wound. The sting brought tears to her eyes, which she promptly ignored. She repeated the action twice before she began to clean the wound more delicately, hissing occasionally.

She heard the footsteps behind her as he entered. "Will there ever going to be a time where you do not come to me out of necessity, but desire, un-battered?" He sighed at the obvious answer and put the universal first-aid kit down next to her. "Let me see."

She shook her head fervently. He looked at her in simple disbelief.

"No? But we've shared so much in the past," he pointed out with a suggestive curve to his eyebrow.

'I'm almost done,' she promised, telling the truth. She searched his box for needle and suture. She had already done a thorough assessment of the wound; she'd need stitches.

"One should know that the likes of us are never done," Kraus said, wisely and darkly, with more truth to it than not. He sat down next to her and took the needle from her, threading it before handing it back. "Your hands are shaking."

'My hands are fine,' she corrected, pissed at being assessed as wounded. Her hands did shake, but damn if she'd let him help.

Kraus backed off, merely watching, as she systematically stitched her own arm with crude but semi-symmetric crisscrosses. He filled the silence willingly. "I trust you heard about Koppel?"

Natasha nodded nonchalantly. She wasn't about to let Kraus know the details of Leipzig; not if Desta hadn't told him. Her silence seemed to carry affirmation. "He was always rather careless, doubtful of our results," the dandy said knowingly as if he'd met the man more than briefly. Natasha, who had no knowledge of how benefactors worked or influenced Tarpeius, allowed his words to count as truth.

She grimaced as the needle dug deeper than intended. 'He got caught and saw a way out. He took a last resort he shouldn't have,' she mentioned cynically. She kept it to herself that she would have done the same, and mustered as much judgment in her expression as possible.

"His betrayal irks you, sister?" Kraus asked.

She shook her head once again. It hadn't been Koppel's betrayal that bothered her; it was Tarpeius' choice of punishment towards his betrayal that had upset her, possible due to her current dalliance with Clint. 'Koppel is dead, what does it matter?"

Kraus recognized her irritation. "You disapprove," he realized. "I know better than to debate with you when you're in such a mood. Tell me about your rewarding adventures."

'There is nothing to tell,' she growled.

"Your injury seems to claim otherwise," he pointed out, letting his eyes travel the treated wound and the uneven stitches. "You'll need ice," he observed.

Natasha shrugged his hands off the arm. It had almost ceasing throbbing. 'Don't fret on my account. It suits you ill.'

"Ah, but you know me, Nikolaevna. I do so terribly fret for what you do so recklessly to yourself. I hate it when you allow unwashable stains to tether your skin," he said needily.

'You want me in your bed, not in your infirmary,' she spat sourly, brooding. She wasn't in a mood for these games, although she usually appreciated his company.

"You wound me," he said, tone belying his words. "Although if you wish to join, I'm sure Reuben wouldn't mind…"

His suggestive words would be the end of her patience one day. It distracted her from her pain, though. 'Keep trying your luck, Kraus.'

"Oh, but my, I'm intrigued, and you know that I don't easily fascinate. What's got your mind so secretive and exhausted, and your legs so tightly twisted?" His voice became sultry, too personal for comfort, too tainted with lustfulness and something savage. "Or should I say, 'who'?"

Kraus rarely became like this, and only if something in his own life were a bother and a nuisance—a difficult lover, perhaps? Kraus shared his bed with many, but only people he deemed interesting enough. Sad for her, that usually meant people with questionable pasts and trust and commitment issues, leaving her to comfort the heartbroken richman. Kraus' lifestyle wasn't about being pansexual, no; he thrived on being different, on being odd and looked sideways at. He enjoyed being labeled a freakshow by society, or representatives thereof—his visitors. He liked to live life to its fullest without worrying about others' prejudices—hence the location.

'Is it Carlos? Ménage, perhaps, since you sent the girl gazes. Who is bringing you trouble?' Natasha pried, half in rebuttal, half in friendly concern.

She hit a sore point because Kraus looked away and the venomous scrutiny was gone from his eyes, replaced by the lost puppy look of heartbreak and unreciprocated love. "You know me too well," he hissed, no spite shining through, resentment only because she knew him well enough to see through his distractions. "It's Jeremy," he sighed exasperatedly.

'Jeremy?' she repeated, unfamiliar with the name. Then again, she didn't make visits to the Schwedt mansion a weekly routine.

Kraus sighed dramatically, making waving gestures. "And Ménage, I suppose. She wants to travel to Milan."

Natasha couldn't see the problem. Ménage was one of the few regular female lovers Kraus kept around, who endured him on a daily basis. Kraus never was particularly possessive, but few people could endure his eccentric behavior when it came to bed manners. 'Then let her go to Milan,' she suggested.

If Kraus was serious in his search for sexual additions, it mean he'd bored of his current ones. If Ménage and this Jeremy guy were bringing him heartache, she'd advise him to let them go. Problem was there was a slight chance all of these troubling scenarios were only occurring in Kraus' head. He liked the chase more than the reward. It was one of the reasons he seemed to be constantly pursuing Natasha and whatever companions she brought with her.

"Ah, you don't get it, sister," he groaned in annoyance. "When have you ever associated sex with the accompanying emotions? That's all it is to you—I've seen it. You play the game, and you might even enjoy it. You pretend well, Nikolaevna, but your heart's not in it. Who are you to understand ties?"

For some reason, his words stung, even if they were said in frustration towards his own situation. Normally, she wouldn't have let them soak in, but they hit close to home. She softened her facial expression after a while, giving him time to calm down. 'What about Jeremy? What has he done to anger you like this? To cause you this misery?'

He called her sister in hilarity, but she supposed he was the closest person she'd ever pick as a brother. His father's name, and grandfather's name, had been Nicolay. He'd been amused, and when she hadn't provided him with a first name or a moniker, he'd refrained from giving her one aside from a heartfelt sister. They weren't close, and lustful attraction on his part made the relationship close to incestuous, but she supposed it helped in the dark hours of the night where the sole comfort they had was shared between them without (mostly) suggestive comments. If Kraus had any siblings—heirs to the family name—he didn't mention them. He'd found in her a kindred spirit and she supposed Nikolaevna needed Kraus in a strange way.

"He reminds me of you, truly," Kraus admitted softly, playing with his hands, twisting and fisting the digits. The softspokenness made it a compliment. "But he's turned so coy, shying away. He prefers Ménage's bedside to my own these days. I fear I may lose them both if I allow them to travel to Milan," the dandy confided.

It must hurt to be so insecure. She put a comforting hand on his shoulder, and to her surprise, he leaned into her touch like a neglected - but perfectly sociable - cat. 'You cannot keep them as pets, Kraus. Even though they like to pretend,' she sighed wistfully.

For a man who was so deeply involved in organized crime, he seemed so gullible when it came to the matters of love—not for lack of trying. He reminded her of Clint in that way; although he now seemed jaded, based on his reactions. "Either way," Kraus sniffed, trying to compose himself, "someone will resent the other party. They'll resent me for keeping them locked here, and I'll resent them for departing, even if I permit it. Promise me something, sister," he begged woefully in an almost brotherly fashion. "Don't ever fall in love."

'You've never blamed someone for not loving you before,' she stated, watching his eyes carefully. They were a stormy mess, grieving for a love not yet lost, angered at his uselessness in the matter. The statement was true; Kraus had—previously had—no problem taking people to bed, people whose hearts did not belong to him and who might have sought his bed in sheer heartache and young misery.

"I'm not!" Kraus said briskly under his breath, nearly panicking. "They used to love me. They used to be in love with me. Falling out of love is not something I wish on anybody… especially the people whom I take to bed. It's almost as terrible as falling in love!"

'She still loves you,' Natasha concluded, surprised. 'You're complaining that she's not in love withyou.'

It wasn't a problem that she'd heard from his mouth previously. Kraus had half a dozen lovers, beloved trophies, people whom he shared generously and loved. He favored some above others, but people who tolerated his eccentric tastes were treasured and well-fed, clothed, and financially supported, their dreams offered due to his wealth and relationship.

'That's awfully selfish of you,' she stated, making sure to frown in disapproval but eventually soften her features. 'I would never demand such omnipresence and devotion.'

Kraus' head shot up, eyes narrowing suspiciously. "You never talk personally. Who's this new guy that's got you comforting me? Normally you'd whack me in the head, kiss me and be done with it, but no—you're almost monogamous. God, who turned you monogamous?"

'I never said that,' she denied rapidly. 'I merely said that, if I found myself in your situation, I would be less…'

"…Monogamous?" Kraus suggested. She rolled her eyes.

'Shut up,' she growled. 'Intolerable and selfish.'

"You wound me," he said sarcastically, seemingly having recovered from his own heartaches by distracting himself with hers. Except hers weren't heartaches, no—they couldn't be.

"Being in love is easy. Falling in love and falling out of love are the hardest parts," Kraus offered in advise. Natasha chose to ignore the comment, or rather, who it was aimed at.

'Then why not be content with Ménage's love, and not her infatuation? Most men would appreciate her beauty and intellect,' Natasha pointed out. Ménage resembled her—at least, the person she'd have become, had she not been trained as a spy, seductress, and assassin. Kraus' bed companions weren't all criminals, fewer Leons. Most of his regulars tolerated the criminal behavior occurring around him, though. It was hard not to.

Kraus laughed curtly. "I'm not most men, sister." His thumb and index finger traveled her jawline, until he held it firmly into place, his eyes longingly searching hers for something equal. "I prefer people who intoxicate me," he whispered. "People who'll love and seduce me into an early grave."

'Be careful what you wish for,' she said guardedly.

"Aren't you lovely tonight," Kraus sighed impatiently, giving up. "Why do I even bother housing you all?" he asked rhetorically. "You all leave me witless."

'Us?' she said, feigning personal offense.

"Leons. You come here causing problems, being coy all of you," Kraus whined but without passion. "Sharing my bed and leaving as if I'm some convenient B&B."

Natasha chuckled. His analogy was true; many a times Leons had been advised to seek out Kraus' fortress if they needed to lay low. He was known—within the community, of course—as their professional host, if you didn't mind being shared and paying in sexual or other kinds of favors. Considering Kraus' lack of animosity regarding the oftentimes-inconvenient arrivals, she suspected him to have once extended the offer himself. Leons made wonderful playmates. "Who's here?"

Kraus groaned and made impatient gestures. "What's his name—eh, yeah, Eric… something…?" he guessed, memory faulty or too drunk. "Big man, slender, wears fancy hats?"

'You mean the Bastard,' she concluded, astounded at the information. 'He's here?'

"Oh, yes, you people and your nicknames. What does he call you? The wildcat?" Kraus guessed jokingly, almost annoyed at her enthusiasm.

'He calls me Lioness,' she stated simply, defeating Kraus' point. 'There is a limit to my nicknames, Kraus.'

"One day I might believe you. I suspect that'll be the day you tell me your first name," Kraus told her.

'Not all people have names,' she replied sadly. Natasha didn't describe who she was anymore. It might describe the person she was when she was with Clint, but not the person currently sitting across from Kraus.

"I don't believe you," he said with a secretive, knowing smile. "However, it's always been my policy to demand nothing of you, so I won't probe…much."

His mood was improving. 'You asked one of them to stay,' she stated, making it half a question.

"The blonde," Kraus confirmed. "I asked him and he considered. Will Desta get mad?" He battered his eyelashes mischievously.

Losing Bennet to Kraus' bed wouldn't be a terrible loss. 'He's expressed interest in all six, but they may work without him. They will be split either way. I don't see why he cannot stay here. Just…' She hesitated. '… don't be selfish if the day comes where he's summoned elsewhere.'

Kraus knew this. Leons, while good playmates, could easily be taken from him if Desta ordered so. Making attachments to Leons was, in the end, futile. They all served Desta, even Kraus, who was his benefactor. "I know," Kraus said knowingly and the mischief was wiped temporarily from his face, leaving behind a grown man with adult problems.

'If that is all, brother, may I inquire to which room I'll find the Bastard in?' Natasha asked tentatively. Kraus needed his rest, and she needed answers.

Kraus smiled sheepishly and told her, tone free of envy. "I don't see what you see, sister. But something tells me I'm better off that way."

She rose from her seat and pecked him on his forehead. Yes, you're better off this way; heartbroken but of faith. She was unsure if she had a heart to break, but then she thought of what happened to the Koppels happening to Clint, and she felt a knot tighten in her chest. Loving unconditionally like Kraus meant getting your heart repeatedly broken. Loving someone with a heart like hers…

Being in love is easy. Falling in love and falling out of love are the hardest parts. Kraus had it wrong—but then again, he wasn't her. Loving someone unquestionably was just as hard as falling in love all over again upon rediscovery.

I never stopped, Clint. I merely deceived myself into believing I never did.

How did you like my Clint-less chapter? It fit better if I kept his part out of this chapter and transferred it to the next.

Don't be shy with reviews. I mean, you're following this story-some of you even favorited it, so let me hear why. Why do you keep reading this thing?