A/N: Yes, finally, you must be thinking, an update! To compensate for how long it's taken me to type and rewrite and reedit and delete and retype this thing, it's longer than usual chapters. It's a whirlwind, I promise you that. Consider it... a, uh, Black Widow tribute of sorts.

There are a lot of clues left in this one, subtle at best. You didn't think I'd let Clint and Natasha remain alone, did you?

Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or Marvel in any way or manner. Credit goes where credit's due to the incredible people behind the franchise; the writers and directors, producers, actors, funders. I'm not Stan Lee and I certainly don't own the characters of Black Widow and Hawkeye.

Silent Spider: Chapter 14

Rome, Italy

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

The regular thumps made her stir into that terrible stage before wakefulness, and she fisted her hands in an attempt to banish the noise, so she could fall back into sleep. Unaccustomed to its regularity and presence, she grimaced, tensed and buried her head further. Something moved, another weight was placed, and suddenly, the thumping wasn't so bad.

Accompanied by cute snores, Natasha tried to fall back into a dreamless sleep, head on Clint's chest, listening to the lullaby of his heartbeat. After five minutes of trying, she just gave up and opened her eyes, staring into the abyss of darkness that was the space above the bed in her bedroom. She didn't try to get up or disentangle herself from Clint—who even in his sleep seemed to be restraining her protectively—seeing no need to wake him up just because she had terrible sleeping patterns. She listened to his breathing: Inhalation. Exhalation. As much calming as it was, it wasn't enough to expel her concerns.

Five years ago, they had stumbled tentatively into a relationship like this. In fact, it was probably closer to six years, but she wasn't about to admit to the fact that they'd actually managed to go steady for a year before everything fell apart.

They had been S.H.I.E.L.D.'s best. Maybe not morally or saintly so, but professionally, they worked, even when it got personal. It was as simple as that, at least to their supervisors and superiors. The two operatives worked as if crafted to function perfectly. Their personal partnership, if discovered (it was naïve to think there hadn't been suspicions), had been overlooked due to the incredible complementation the two agents—assassins, really, if they were being honest—achieved, especially considering their contrasting training. Sure, they were a pain in the ass to address and deal with, but they got the job done, even when it was jobs that would have left even the toughest of veterans sleepless at night, questioning precisely what S.H.I.E.L.D. did. They owed S.H.I.E.L.D.—or people at S.H.I.E.L.D—too much to complain or quit, but secretly (perhaps not so secretly, given the gossip that had ventured the lounges and mess halls of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s junior agents) depended on their jobs to remain sane. Whoever had approved the partner assignment between the Black Widow, reformed freestyle assassin and deserter, and the remarkable marksman (but questionably sane) Hawkeye had probably been laughed at in the beginning. As the years had progressed, so a partnership had grown, and they had proven their critics wrong by establishing one of the firmest and most loyal partnerships. Yet it hadn't been until the aftermath of New York that they learnt the true meaning of codependence.

She hated to think back and realize how thoroughly suicidal her partner had been after saving Manhattan from alien invasion and the subsequent narrowly averted atomic detonation of a nuclear bomb per the orders of the Council. She understood why he'd been considering the action, given his—although later pardoned—participation, indirectly or directly, of the termination of countless S.H.I.E.L.D. agents (31, she'd looked it up) as the result of his involuntary cooperation with the enemy. She normally wasn't one to assume or proclaim right to anything, unless guilt and punishment over past misdeeds, but if she stopped lying to herself, she knew, deep down, that she might have singlehandedly kept her partner from the allure of getting himself killed pointlessly in the random street fights he'd sought following the events of New York.

He'd hated himself for being weak enough to get manipulated and mind-fucked by Loki, although he couldn't be blamed (as much as some members of the Council had tried). For a while, she'd refused to talk to him about it, but then he'd accessed the reports on the incident, sending him down in a secondary spiral of guilt. She had been forced to wake up in lonely darkness and hunt him down, finding him drunken on hatred, probably alcohol induced, sore and beaten from street fighting with amateur. She'd known he'd allowed most of the punches to fall on him, probably even pulled some punches, as he was a decent combat fighter. You had to be in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s employment.

Lying next to him, she knew he'd overcome that self-loathing. Hell, she'd been there to witness it the day he'd started wanting to live again. Going from platonic friends to lovers had seemed natural, but she'd done her best to prevent it until she'd realized one day that she had begun loathing herself for being so stubbornly craven in regards to the possibility of love. They hadn't been open about their relationship, obviously. Aside from tight S.H.I.E.L.D. fraternization regulations regarding the prohibition of romantic partnerships, neither of them had been particular fond of the idea of being the target of Stark's teasing. They had gotten enough of it before they actually started sleeping together. Stark's adamant claim had been that a partnership and friendship like theirs couldn't be—or remain—platonic. Natasha could have said the same thing about the bond between Potts and him, but hadn't voiced it. They would have been split the moment the Council knew per protocols, regardless of their nearly perfect success rate. They'd kept it private then for reasons personal and professional.

What does that make this, then? She thought, eyeing the sleeping form of Clint, whose hand was draped casually across her stomach as he laid on his own stomach, drooling unattractively. She refrained from caressing his sticky forehead with her partially fingerless hand. She had removed the prosthesis, and oddly, for the first time ever, felt as though she'd abandoned a vital part of her. She refused to see it for what it was—that being with Clint had somehow made her accept it as part of her.

She'd loathed the prosthesis only a tiny bit less than being severely at a disadvantage in a gunfight. Having been ambidextrous for more than half her life—which was saying a lot without revealing anything, —suddenly being crippled had been a total loss and impact on her fighting style. Her efficiency had been cut fifty percent just because she didn't have a fucking thumb and index finger to fire a goddamn gun. It had taken her months to relearn how to fire a gun with the rather sophisticated—but still ridiculously inept—prosthesis, during which she'd utterly hated herself. The prosthesis made her stronger but her dependence of it weakened her. That, coupled with her muteness, had retired Natalia Romanova for good. Even if she hadn't destroyed Red Room for good, and they'd come looking for her, planning to retake and re-brainwash her (not that she'd allow them—she'd rather be dead than be mind-fucked all over, a slave to their whims), they would never be successful in reprogramming her. She'd be too damaged. She was too damaged. She could never be the spy she once was. She'd lost half her arsenal and adapting required effort.

Clint made her remember the Natasha who'd worked for S.H.I.E.L.D. and been part of the Avengers; the one who'd endured and systematically threatened Tony Stark, but ultimately forgiven him and protected his sorry ass in multiple battles (even taught him how to fight properly—not the honorable stuff Hogan tried to teach, but real fighting that was going to save his life one day); the one who'd sat through nightly conversations and occasional rounds of chess until she'd stopped fearing Bruce Banner like the proverbial bogeyman; the one who'd surprised herself with cooking for a Norse God, much to the others' astonishment (if there was one thing she wasn't, it was a fucking housewife); and the one who'd reluctantly befriended the soldier out of time and in turn been the one half of the most loyal friendship she'd met since Clint; the one whom she had forced herself to pack away like some shameful token when she'd left America and S.H.I.E.L.D., heading for any place where they'd be safe.

Because even though she might have had the most powerful friends in the world—friends who'd go through hell to save her—the one thing they could never promise her was safety.

… in the service of liars and killers. She banished the demon's whisperers and forced herself to think of something else—anything else. After a while, she tricked herself into falling back asleep.

The next time she opened her eyes, the clock next to her silently announced that she had slept for a bare hour, despite the sensation as if she had slept for ten. Clint had stirred from his quite possessive grasp of her, and lied next to her, his archer body draped across the bed, the sheet covering his semi-nude form from the waist down. Temptation was mild after last night's—this night's?—complete and utterly useless breakdown. She refused to have another moment of weakness like that. Problem was that most people didn't make inquiries to how she lost the fingers, or how she lost her voice—two separate occasions as it had been—but Clint would, Clint always would. He'd always been persistently gentle at getting into her head, at getting to know her.

Natasha froze mid-breath when she heard a subtle—almost noiseless, even—sound from the kitchen. It was insignificant, and normally she wouldn't have realized it, but her good ear was turned towards the room. Upon listening more attentively, she could confirm that someone was in her kitchen. She slipped out of the bed stealthily, careful not to startle Clint, and grabbed the nearest item of clothing that would suffice to cover her up. It happened to be Clint's shirt—the cliché almost made her search for her duffel bag (for her own clothes) in the darkness. Normally she wouldn't have minded facing an enemy nude, but in the case Clint awoke, it'd be hard to explain her haste to face an intruder head-on instead of getting dressed. In short terms, it was just easier to deal with.

She snuck through the condominium until she entered the room in question, letting out a sigh of relief when she saw the tall shape of the Bastard, her fellow resident for the time being. His casualness unsettled her and tarnished her sanctuary. Regardless, he was still staying in her guest bedroom, although she knew he must have returned during the night from some lovers' reunion, or maybe a trip to the local whorehouse. He hadn't even bothered to flip on the light switch, making his intrusion even more eerie. However, Natasha wasn't a frightened college student, but a capable martial arts specialist, so there wasn't going to be a horror movie reenactment anytime soon. Rather disapproving, she got his attention by poking him on his shoulder.

"Who—oh, it's you," the Bastard realized, a silhouette and a British accent everything that revealed his identity in the darkness of the Roman apartment. She gestured towards the mess he'd made with a look of exasperation. "Thought it was your boyfriend."

Well, he couldn't be accused of being unperceptive. She relied on gestures and gesticulations in the darkness, unwilling to totally banish sleepiness by turning on the lights that would rule out any possibilities of sleep beyond this point.

"What, I was hungry, 'been up all night," the larger man grunted in his defense, helping himself to the freshly (and quite expensively) purchased arrangements of cheese. He'd hastily applied it to a slice of bread without appreciation for the rich taste. Men, Natasha thought sourly and faithlessly. Then she realized what he'd said—or rather, what he had meant—and, knowing there was a fifty percent chance of being informed he'd merely gotten laid, chose to inquire.

'Where have you been?' she asked, placing herself in a patch of moonlight so the Bastard could see her face and subsequently read her lips.

The Bastard didn't even cease wolfing down the sandwich he'd made himself as he answered her question. "It turns out you're not the only one who got screwed in Germany."

The phrase was enough to make every probability of bickering (or scolding, for that manner) evaporate, and she assumed the protective duties of a leader. She'd been responsible for two groups during the past month in Germany—the last of which she'd personally escorted across the border. It left her to assume he'd meant Leipzig.

'Who, Vladislav?' she guessed, forgetting about the man who was sleeping in her bed upstairs and who might or might not be listening if he'd awoken. 'Spinner?'

The man shook his head as he resumed speaking and swallowed the bite of food he'd been chewing. "Belova. She got ambushed, passed out. She woke up in a hospital. I got her out of there before police could arrive. I brought her here." He gave her a momentarily soft look that said he'd acted on instinct rather than orders. It was gone as soon as it had arrived. "Apparently, they have video connecting her to Koppel's girl."

It wasn't necessary to elaborate on who "they" were: the Interpol team that had been following her—the reason to the Bastard's presence in her life. Or alternatively, the German task force, or maybe even Takahashi, whom Natasha still hadn't dealt with. Natasha's blood ran cold as she took in his message. She hadn't given Belova a moment's consideration since Dresden, having been too preoccupied with running Desta's missions within Germany. She remembered the world-weary face of the inexperienced teen. If the authorities had video of Belova, did they have recordings of her? The thought was unsettling, and maybe assigning the Bastard to her side hadn't been as rash as she'd originally believed.

It also meant that the odds of Clint being drawn into Tarpeius business had just increased. What was she, a boarding house? She refrained from asking the Bastard, instead softening her expression to convey the gratitude at his having dealt with what could have easily become her problem. 'Thanks.'

"She's sleeping. I'm fixing her some food," he replied, gesturing towards the plate he'd been shielding from her sight. Well, maybe not shielding as much as she hadn't been alert enough to notice it. She tilted her head at the almost fatherly tone in the Bastard's voice, and he must have realized it, because he quickly grunted. "Don't get any bad ideas, Lioness. If she starves, it's on you."

Natasha chuckled, but her mind was already trying to fix the mess tomorrow would be. She touched the Bastard's forearm to halt his movements. 'Don't get lost in her pretty face. She's as responsible for her actions as you'd be.'

He nodded in solemn, even if regretful, understanding. "Meaning you'll give her hell for getting caught. In the meanwhile," he said without a trace of judgment or threat, "I'd suggest you restrain your little friend from your guestrooms."

She let out a sigh as he disappeared around the corner, heading in the direction of the guestrooms. She suddenly felt as if she really could sleep for ten hours. She looked at the crumbles on the cutting board the Bastard had left and swiftly turned on the faucet to clean it remotely, if only to welcome the distraction the sound of the running water brought her. It was nicely cool against the heated and healing area around her wound. Knowing postponing the inevitable would do no one good, she eventually made her way back to her bedroom—the one she'd claimed as hers, anyway, as it appeared that her home wasn't exactly hers exclusively any longer, seemingly housing a random number of Leons and lovers alike, most without her permission—in the darkness. Maybe this was how Kraus felt, she mused sleepily and found far more sympathy towards the eternally whining rich man than she'd ever mustered. If this continued at this rate, she'd be demanding favors, too—although most likely not as intimate as Kraus' preference. Cleaning would be nice, she thought, recalling the mess the Bastard had made with her cheeses and kitchen utensils.

Apparently she was so distracted—by the promise of sleep and these additional worries—that she did not see the suitcase on the floor, abandoned earlier this evening, imported into her otherwise memorized furniture layout. She fell and scowled, grabbing her shin as if applying pressure would ease the temporarily blinding pain. She was angrier at herself for not having seen the goddamn thing than at the physical pain. Normally she wouldn't have bothered to be so whiny and vulnerable to injury, but she was alone and exhausted and working on single-digits hours of sleep this week. Granted, it was only Wednesday, but she was dealing with stress inducing factors. Nikolaevna was the epitome of equanimity amongst the Leons, and Natasha knew that better than anyone, but solitude allowed her to be whiny if she goddamn felt like it, even if the solitude was canceled out by people's apparent belief that she was a hostel. She would have never invited Clint if that had been the case.

Thinking about the archer, who was ultimately to blame for the misplaced suitcase, Natasha spotted the broken (and probably forgotten) lock on the suitcase, which had caused its contents to be visible, white papers a contrast to the darkness. Ever the spy, she couldn't keep herself—despite her own vow not to mix business with pleasure when it came to her relationship with Clint—from exploring, just a little bit, if only for the familiarity of S.H.I.E.L.D. documents in her hands. Her fingers slipped into the warm leather, clinging to the sides but adeptly placing index and middle finger on each side of the papers, retrieving them. She ignored the laptop in the pocket next to the papers, knowing that shuffling through some papers was far more innocent than hacking a man's work laptop. That's what she told herself anyway.

She'd lived through many eras of technology and had stolen handwritten notes, procured manila folders of data, killed for flashdrives, and fought off thugs while synchronizing deletion of skydrives. Still, paperwork remained, something for which Natasha was grateful. Perhaps outdated but not forgotten, it carried some semblance to her own condition. As her eyes, having adapted to the low lighting, scanned the letterheads, she frowned, a queasy sensation running through her, marring with disbelief.

Organisation Internationale de Police Criminelle. Another, quite frequent actually, read, Strategic Intervention Division. Upon reading the actual content, her fears were verified. Amongst them were the autopsy reports on Karolina Sobczak, Franz Koppel, Albert Braun and—she bit her lip in semi-surprise, followed by a swallow—Sylvio Sanchez.

Dread filled her. She thought she'd been careful. Why did Clint have printed versions of Interpol's reports on her? Was he hunting her? Was being back merely a charade, meant to entrap her? The thoughts were distressing but she kept her calm as she dug through, now unreluctant, the pages of information, all theorizing the moves of Tarpeius. Anger and horrification filled her. She couldn't believe she'd allowed herself to believe his goodwill so gullibly. She fisted her hands in rage. God, when had she regressed to someone who could be blinded by previous allegiances? Sure, the emotions flashing across Barton's face had been real, but regardless, he'd investigated her and her organization.

Which meant S.H.I.E.L.D. knew. Which in itself startled her. Barton wasn't good enough of an emotional liar to conceal his affections for her, was he? If he'd ratted her out, they wouldn't have allowed him to continue hunting her, would they? Her insecurities festered like an infection. Did S.H.I.E.L.D. trust him to hunt her down and remaining uncompromised? And why were there no S.H.I.E.L.D. reports when he'd so obviously brought the rest of his files?

Maybe it was a trick. The thought overcame her. Maybe he wanted her to see these. Damn that bastard! She gritted her teeth in indecision. She flipped through the pages once more. According to these, at least, it seemed she remained a ghost. Maybe she could use it to her advantage. They made no mention of Belova or a girl with similar appearance. Had the Bastard lied, or had Clint? And if so, had it been a lie by ignorance or omission?

Any wish to sleep evaporated in her anger. She knew she wouldn't be able to keep up her façade, but knew that she had to. If Clint really was trying to lure and seduce her—a task that had once been reversed, she realized bitterly—confronting him would not earn her anything.

I told you so much. I trusted you. She should be accustomed to betrayal at this point; problem was, Clint had never betrayed her—she couldn't count New York, it'd be unfair, and technically never his fault—and she hadn't expected the kind-hearted, jaded man to start now. If she'd been able, she feared she would have cried, yet desperate to remain undetected by all occupants and guests, she got up and grabbed the stack of papers with the letterheads of half a dozen intelligence agencies. Overcame by scorn, she kicked the suitcase into safety from prying eyes and marched through the house, defiance trying to victor over the hurt in her glazed-over eyes. This time it wasn't weakness, no; it was fury.

It was the vengeful ghost of the Black Widow.

SMACK.

"What the…!" Clint shouted, clutching the reddening cheek as blood rushed to the handprint-sized and shaped mark. "What the fuck, Tasha?!" he hissed, eyes thunderously confused.

Then his vision became clearer and he saw the possibly seething face of an assassin and murderess. He immediately backed off in response, nearly falling off the edge of the bed. He took in her appearance. She was wearing the black underwear she'd worn upon getting to bed, and additionally his dress shirt, which had been discarded last thing he'd known. She'd flipped on the light, and was clutching papers in her right hand—papers, he realized, which resembled the reports he'd had in his…. Realization dawned on him.

'What is this?' she demanded, each syllable spat with venom. He could practically hear them pronounced.

"It's not what you think, Tasha!" he protested. It didn't take a genius to realize that she'd found the reports and read them, considering her slap to his sleeping face.

The beast in front of him tilted her head intimidatingly as if she contemplated waiting for an explanation, or if she should just kill him already. Not wanting to take any chances, Clint started speaking. "Alright, alright! Yeah, I'm working the case. I know what happened in Leipzig. Because you refused to tell me!"

The statement wasn't entirely lacking accusation, he'd admit that, but it did nothing to quench the raging woman in front of him, who angrily threw a pillow in his direction. He slid off the bed, wanting to put some space—or furniture—between them. He knew that look. That look had killed people in the past.

'You are working with Interpol,' she spat in accusation, eyes wild and ferocious. He dodged another item.

"You think I'm here on orders?" he asked in disbelief, knowing it was the conclusion she must have drawn. "That's ridiculous! Do you really think I could look at you and… deceive you?"

Her glare wavered but was refueled. 'I don't know!' she admitted, but there was nothing innocent or vulnerable about the statement. He saw her body shake with anger, adrenaline pulsing through her. Shit, she was pissed.

"Dammit, Tasha, I could never do that. I just wanted the truth okay? I wanted to fucking protect you—you don't realize what you're getting yourself into! If you think you're like them," he said incredulously, recalling the works he'd seen in the morgues and in reports, "then you're a liar."

'Oh, and you're not?' she spat, summoning a responding fury within her, breaking his heart. 'You're the fucking enemy in this house, Clint! What the fuck are we doing?' she asked heatedly. She wanted an answer so desperately, he could tell. He reached for her, but she shied away.

"I'm here for you," he confessed, his voice softer.

'You don't know me,' Natasha spat vehemently.

"That's bullshit, Tasha. You are who you've always been. You've made some bad choices—so have I." He sighed in resignation, trying to banish the anger he felt—anger at seeing her so faithless when it came to him. "I should have told you about the files."

Her fingers twitched for a gun. He swallowed hard, thankful that there wasn't one available; he wasn't entirely sure what she would have done, had she been armed. 'Damn right you should have,' she mouthed, eyes hard as she threw the crumpled papers unto the bed. He made no move to fetch them.

"Keep them," he said. "But I guess you know most of it, don't you?" He couldn't keep the accusation out of his voice, not this time. Why couldn't she see that these people were a bad influence? That she was a bad influence on them?

Your skillset's never going to bring peace, Natasha. Only destruction. Especially with these people.

The fire in her eyes burned. 'Don't you dare—!'

"What? Tell the truth? They're criminals. They're scums. You know what that makes you? Yeah, you do. Because you used to do this job—my job. You know what Interpol thinks of you, because you've thought the same, don't deny it! But if you're not careful, it doesn't matter what Interpol thinks of you, because they'll have you."

'Get. Out.' She snarled like an animal that had been taunted too many times, and he could see she was dead serious, the promise of physical harm there in her bright eyes, darkened with wrath.

"Can't take the truth, Tash?" he asked her tauntingly. Don't you see what I'm seeing?

'You lied to me, Clint. You went behind my back and got yourself assigned to my fucking case. This?' She gestured between them, 'is all on you. So excuse me—.' He heard the unmistakable sound of a gun's safety behind shut off before he saw the cool metal aimed in his direction, '—if I'm not in a listening mood. Get out!'

He started locating his shoes and clothes. "Yeah, you're not lying to yourself. Not at all. You won't pull the trigger, we both know that." He looked at her, sincere hurt in his eyes, but affected by anger, too. "You have my shirt."

He was half expecting her to say something like "get a new one, then, fucker" (although she was always far more eloquent in her insults and obscene language), but could only watch as she expertly unbuttoned the shirt without any affection in her eyes; eyes that were cold and numb like the Russian winter during which she'd been born. She never took her eyes off him or lowered the gun. Cold-hearted bitch—except not really, because he knew she was merely shielding, and that she was only numb like this because she was too emotional; because she was afraid she might actually pull the goddamn trigger and watch his torso turn crimson with the color of her fury, or that she'd actually lower the gun and have it in her to forgive him. She was cold because she cared. And she knew that caring got you compromised, and compromised got you killed.

Natasha threw the shirt at him and pretended not to be vulnerable as he couldn't help but notice her body, clad only in lingerie. It was a weakness on his part, and momentary slip, and when he glanced up at her bright eyes, they were hard as marble, cold as ice. She chased him through the house—although he refused to run, acutely aware of the barrel of the gun and its direction—and he only said one thing as he stepped out of the porch, his eyes burning with anger and accusation. "You're making a mistake."

The answer was getting the wooden door shut in his face. He sighed and kicked his suitcase, sending it flying across the street, the Roman lampposts providing enough light for the lovers' quarrel. His body was still quaking with anger as realization sunk in.

Natasha had always been good at pretending, and maybe that was why she managed to go back to sleep and get up hours later, acting as if nothing had happened even if the Bastard and Yelena sent her curious and mildly fearful gazes. She pretended not to notice their evident curiosity, but they were wise enough to remain silent for the entirety of breakfast, and she was immensely proud of herself for not caving in. She brought the mug to her lips and sipped the tea graciously, lowering the mug delicately. She'd barely acknowledged them when they entered the kitchen, but when they hadn't left the room, she'd stubbornly refused to share.

They knew, or at least, had heard and suspected what had happened. They were behaving like children who had been caught in the crossfire of a parental disagreement. Natasha knew better than to fool herself into a comparison. These people were trained killers.

The Bastard had retired to his own guestroom—which meant the floor by the bed where Belova had slept—leaving her and the teenager alone. Yelena eyed her, assessing her, which would have made her chuckle if she'd been a lesser woman. Aside from a superficial gash that ran through her right eyebrow—Natasha wondered if it'd heal without scarring—Yelena's injuries were mostly the result of repeated kicks to her midsection. She was bruised but she hadn't suffered internal damage. Natasha knew how internal bleeding looked on a person, and Yelena moved too easily and swiftly (albeit stiffly) for such pain.

It had been weeks since she'd seen Yelena, the progeny Red Room trained to kill her, and the brunette hadn't changed noticeably—aside from the yellowish purple bruises that adorned parts of her body, making her look even younger than she claimed to be. Natasha also knew better than to underestimate her due to injuries. At Belova's age, Red Room would have trained her to not succumb to the agony of injury, even if severe. Red Room would have called her current injuries "scratches", and forced her to overcome the weakness of pain, taught her to fuel it and turn it into strength.

Finally, the girl seemed to be unable to withstand the silent torture. Impatience was a hardly earned virtue, it seemed, but then again, the girl was seventeen years old, if not younger. "What happened last night?"

Natasha gave her a solemn look. She wasn't about to tell a teenaged criminal that she'd caught her lover investigating her—nor that the lover had been a federal agent working actively to bring them down. 'Nothing.'

Yelena tilted her head in disbelief, opening her mouth, presumably to tease. "Didn't sound like nothing."

'Stop it, Yelena,' Natasha mouthed irritably.

She looked positively shocked at the scolding. "Stop what? I was simply curious."

The experienced spy tightened her hold on the tea mug before deciding to put it in the sink. 'Let's go,' she ordered mildly, walking out of the room. She refused to talk about her relationship problems with a girl who barely looked like she'd exited puberty. If she knew Red Room's training tactics well enough—which she did, having endured and assigned them for well past two decades—the girl knew nothing about relationships or proper human interaction. A relationship definitely counted as proper human interaction in Natasha's book. Hell, surviving without Red Room counted as proper human interaction.

She walked calmly into the room normal people would have used for meditation or exercise. It resembled some sort of sensei's cave. She'd kept the walls barren, the floorboards uncarpeted. Natasha, whose rage had escaped her during the night, leaving her hurt and feeling betrayed, placed herself opposite the longhaired teen. To Yelena's credit, she quickly caught unto what was going on, because her eyes widened and she tightened the muscles in her arms, ready to assume a defensive stance.

Yelena had not only had the audacity to make inquiries to someone above her, she'd also managed to forget that almost getting caught warranted punishments; something she'd be familiar with if she'd been trained by the same men who'd trained Natasha. Natasha didn't need passion to fight, didn't need to think of something to anger her, no. She was like Bruce—deep down, she was always angry, but it was a channeled anger, a concealed and incombustible one. It was a deadly one that had taken years to master, but it had been that anger and control that had crowned her the Black Widow. She'd been successful in taking all emotions and using them to achieve her endgame. Compassion, jealousy, attraction and hatred alike.

The first strike fell on Belova's cheek undefended. Natasha quirked a brow to provoke the student, and next thing she knew, she was dodging a powerful but nevertheless imbalanced kick. She grabbed the hovering angle and twisted so her opponent was sent to the floor with a loud and ungraceful (not to mention unladylike) thud. This was what she'd meant when the Bastard had mentioned punishing Belova for her failures. She almost got herself caught by not leaving Germany. By allowing herself to be singled out, she'd made a target of herself. She needed to be better than that. This was what they would have done in Red Room to teach her a lesson. All Natasha's lessons had been taught with pain, agony and occasional torment, obtained through burns, blood, tears and sweat. Never before had Natasha felt so understanding of Red Room's ways. If this was what half-finished looked like, she almost preferred the end result. Yelena was confused and semi-capable. It'd lead to arrogance, which would get her killed if someone did not teach her.

With am impressively silent groan and agility, Belova got back up. Natasha saw her assessment in those brown eyes, and knew her move the moment it began its ascension. She parried the blow and reciprocated, one that the younger operative defended and fluently responded to. She was quick on her feet, but nothing beat hard-earned experience. Belova wasn't done growing, and so she didn't have Natasha's acute sense of self and of balance. That kind of knowledge required years of injuries and rehabilitation, often forced. Belova launched forward, trying to compensate for balance uncertainty by quick movements. Natasha responded, twirling herself around so that hitting nothing almost made the younger woman breathlessly stumble.

'You exert yourself,' Natasha stated as they circled each other like pack wolves. She purposefully copied her first move, which was blunt and worked only as surprise attack, and was pleased to see Belova immediately counterattack and dodge, using the momentum to spin around and kick Natasha so that she tottered sideways. She feigned breathlessness but when Belova didn't take, she grabbed the younger woman's hand and twisted hard, hitting her with an open hand stroke in the throat.

Yelena flew back, coughing, her eyes murderous. Natasha gave her points for not grabbing her probably broken nose. 'Good, you're committing yourself to the fight,' Natasha mouthed as she parried several blows that were clearly meant to exert her. Yelena tackled her and they both fell to the ground, recovering quickly and getting up on fours.

"Why are you doing this?" she spat hoarsely, probably from a traumatized trachea. Natasha could see the real question, the wavering insecurity. What are you trying to teach me, her eyes seemed to demand.

Good, she was catching on. Natasha spun her legs around so she had Belova's legs locked. She dug her elbow into the bruised abdominal flesh, making the young one moan in pain and hiss hatefully. She flew backwards, and Belova copied the action, getting to her feet. Belova steadily blocked her blows with her forearms, placing them strategically for best posture and least damage. Natasha summoned the rage she'd been feeling towards Clint last night—not rage truly, but raw hurt was damn close, and she'd been taught to channel both. Belova was taken aback by the sudden emotion in her eyes, because she fell back at the extra power of the blow, sending her into the naked wall behind her. Based on her expression, she hadn't even realized she'd backed away in the duration of her defense.

'Keep aware of yourself.' It was a lesson she'd been taught so early in life that she doubted when it had actually been. As Belova read her lips, recognition (or at least suspicion) seemed to enter her features—but Natasha gave her no room for epiphanies. Yelena's moment of wavering gave her a perfect opportunity to breathe life into an old move that the Widow had always patented. She swung herself in an arch, her thighs locking around the girl's slender neck, knocking her to the ground.

Yelena, identifying and recognizing the telltale move, obviously having been promised it as her own, widened her eyes in fear and disbelief. She heaved after air.

'I might be mute,' Natasha started icily, mouthing Russian as she stared down at the girl with something else than—but close to—condescension, 'but never make the mistake of underestimating me.'

Yelena gasped hoarsely, admitting defeat as she'd been disarmed by the fighting style alone. "You're her." She gasped like a child faced with the bogeyman, or the second-best thing, the nightmare of every girl in Red Room—Natasha certainly had been, when she'd been Belova. "Black Widow."

'No,' Natasha replied coldly, removing her metallic fingers from the girl's forehead in a gentle caress that was anything but, and the next thing she said was far more terrorizing. 'But you're me.'

A/N: I'm so sorry about the fight sequence. I'm so bad at them unless I do thorough research, and considering how long it has taken me to type this chapter up, I felt the need to write it as fast as possible.

Did you like it, or am I dead for breaking up Clint and Tasha? Don't worry, events and stubbornness will lead them back together. It was never blissful, and now ignorance is over.