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WARNING: this chapter contains a depiction of attempted non-con and some minor violence. Proceed with caution.

Clint had been in town for a month by the time the boss was promoted to corporate, and as chairman of the Sunshine Committee, it fell to Sally to organize a party.

Natasha had to admit that the woman knew what she was doing. It looked like the entire office had turned out, despite it being held after work on a Friday (she suspected that a lot of that had to do with the open bar Sally had put together).

Natasha and Clint had arrived separately, but she'd been eyeing him surreptitiously all evening, wishing she could just walk over to where he was laughing with two warehouse guys. It would be so simple to go and stand with him, to flirt with him, pretend she was bored secretary Rose Nelson looking for a good time with new warehouse guy Frank Thompson. They'd had lunch a few times since he'd started working here, and it would be easy to explain why she was hanging out with him at the party. So, so easy …

Which, of course, would totally defeat the purpose of having two agents here. They needed to cover as much ground as possible, talk to as many people as they could, and spending time together would really limit that.

Not that they were spending much time together. They hadn't talked much at all in the past month, not really, not about anything other than work, and even that had been merely perfunctory, both of them acting gun shy. It was like they were all the way back at square one again - partners but not friends, people who happened to work together, but had separate lives.

None of that meant that she didn't spend far too much time thinking about him and what had happened at her apartment that night. Or, rather, what had almost happened that night. She kept replaying the scene in her mind, over and over, all damn day, and every time she thought she finally got him out of her head, something else set her off. Thoughts of Clint were pervasive, coloring her every thought, and she wanted to tear her hair out with frustration.

She cleared her throat when the handsy salesman, Mark returned from the bar. She had to get her head in the game. The sooner they could figure out whether this place was a HYDRA front, the sooner they could get the hell out of this dump and back to civilization. Maybe she could get a job in Eastern Europe next. Somewhere cold and gray that reminded her of her childhood. The idle hope was motivation enough to force a smile to her lips when Mark handed her a drink.

"You can't seriously be interested in the new guy," he said like he thought he was competition for someone like Clint. She repressed the urge to roll her eyes.

"You've been looking over at him all night," Mark finished.

Well, shit. Apparently she wasn't being as subtle about her interest as she thought.

She shrugged, not wanting to lie (she tried to stay as close to the truth as possible when undercover), but she didn't want to put Mark off either. He was high enough up on the totem pole here to have access to areas that were off limits to her as a secretary. He might even get the promotion to take over for the boss, and she didn't want to jeopardize her relationship with someone like that. She wanted that access, she could use that access, and she wanted to do everything in her power to get it.

"Besides," Mark continued, "He told me he has a girlfriend."

Well, that was a bald-faced lie. Neither one of them would give personal information like that on a mission. Offhand comments like that could require them to drum up a formerly-fictional significant other, bringing yet another person into the line of fire. No, Clint wouldn't have said anything like that. No need to let Mark know that she knew that, though.

She sipped her drink, grimacing slightly at the cloying sweetness of the beverage. Jesus, how did people drink stuff like this? She smiled up from underneath her eyelashes at him, perfectly certain of the picture she was painting.

"That's too bad," she said, her voice pitched low. "But I'll get over it."

Mark grinned, slipping his arm around her back. She told herself not to shudder. She knew she needed to encourage him, but there was no way in hell she was going to let this slimebag feel her up just to gain better access to …

Oh, god, she thought she was going to pass out. What the fuck was wrong with … ?

She wobbled on her feet, stumbling forward, and Mark reacted easily, too easily, grabbing her cup before she spilled the last remnants of her drink.

"You okay?" he asked, but there was something strange in his voice, something curious that she couldn't quite put her finger on through the haze in her mind. What was going on with her? She never felt like this, not from one drink …

"Maybe you need to get some air," he said, and he started to guide her toward the door. "Let's head outside for a couple minutes."

She wanted to resist, but she could barely find the wherewithal to stay upright. What the hell was in …

Oh, fuck, her drink.

She knew with sinking certainty that she'd been drugged, that the overpowering sweetness of her drink had covered up whatever Mark had slipped in the drink. She hadn't even thought about that, hadn't considered that someone would try that in the middle of a work party, but he had and oh, fuck, they were almost to the door now and she wanted to scream, but all she could manage was a muffled, "Nngh."

Mark's fingers dug painfully into her upper arm as he walked her away from the party, and he shushed her.

"Now, c'mon, doll face, you'll feel a lot better once we get outside."

She rolled her head, trying to get someone's attention, anyone's attention, but Sally and Beth were in deep conversation and Clint was nowhere in sight. Goddamn it, where was her backup when she fucking needed it?

They were outside now, and the rain was coming down in sheets, soaking her dress through in a matter of seconds and setting her teeth to rattle. The downpour didn't seem to phase Mark, though, and he guided her across the parking lot with sure steps.

She knew she had to get out of this situation right now, before he managed to get her into his car. Once he did that, her chances dropped significantly. If she weren't mostly incapacitated, there were any number of things she could do, from stabbing him with her shoe to simply punching him in the face. This wasn't the kind of thing that happened to people like her, it just wasn't. She was shaky and pliant and Mark could do whatever he wanted and she couldn't stop him and this wasn't her, dammit.

Concentrating all of her rage into one last push, she shoved away from him, but even though he released his vice grip on her arm and moved away, she was too unstable in her shoes, too unsure on her feet. She made it two steps before he grabbed her again, this time around her middle, crushing her back against him with such force that she felt something in her chest give.

"How's about we take a little drive?" Mark said, when he reached his car, and the ease with which he propped her against the side of his car while he unlocked the door made her shudder. She hated feeling helpless, hated feeling scared, but she was both right now, and her ribs hurt so bad. Fuck, fuck, fuck …

He opened the door and put her inside, and it chilled her heart to see him smile at her as he buckled her in. He closed the door, walked around the front and …

Landed with surprising force against the hood.

What?

Mark struggled back to his feet, but someone grabbed the front of his shirt and his head snapped to one side with the force of the blow that glanced across his face.

She knew the hand that threw that punch.

Clint.

She breathed a little easier now, panicked just a little less.

Clint hit him again, and Mark spun around, landing on the hood of his car. The rain was coming down in force now, and it mixed with the blood coming from his mouth and nose.

Good, she thought. I hope it's broken.

Mark didn't get back up, just slid down the hood of his car until he was out of view.

Clint came around the side of the car, trying the door handle.

"Shit," she heard him say, his voice muffled through the glass. "Nat? It's locked."

She was fading, fast, and it was getting harder and harder to concentrate on the sound of his voice. What was locked?

"I'm going to get the key," he said, but she couldn't remember why he needed a key. Where was she, anyway?

Clint disappeared briefly, but then he was back and the door was open, and even though there was suddenly water beating down on her face, she felt calmer, better.

"Hey, stay awake for me, okay?" Clint said, and she thought he might be carrying her, but why would he be doing that? She could walk on her own, she could handle herself …

The next thing she knew, she was in an unfamiliar truck, but it was warmer in here, and she was in a lot of pain and she was so tired …

She fell asleep with Clint's hand warm on her shoulder.

He kept to the speed limit on the way back to his extended-stay, but it was a near thing. He wanted to take her to the ER, he wanted to make them run tests and to call the police to arrest that sack of shit he'd left in a heap by his car, but he knew Nat wouldn't want that. That kind of thing would jeopardize the mission, and she'd been here for too long already. She'd be pissed as hell if he blew it now.

Still, it felt great the kick that asshole in the ribs. He'd think twice before he tried anything like that again. That said, Clint would be sure to keep close tabs on the lowlife until they could break cover.

"Hey, we're here," he said softly when he pulled into the spot outside his motel. "Time to wake up."

Natasha was slumped in the seat beside him, but she was still responding to the sound of his voice, so he took that as a good sign.

She perked up a little more when he got her out of the truck and onto her feet, and by the time he got her inside, she was almost talking in complete sentences.

He locked the door behind them and led her further into the room. She had started to shiver in earnest, looking so small and helpless and not at all like Natasha that his heart broke a little.

"Come on, sweetheart," he said, tugging on the edge of her dress. "Let's get you out of this and into something dry."

She crossed her arms firmly over her chest, blinking owlishly at him through the haze of drugs.

"No, I'm not … Not like this …" she mumbled, slurring her words almost to the point of incomprehensibility. It scared him to see such a lack of control in her, and he wondered just how much the guy had slipped into her drink.

Letting go of her dress, he touched her chin with his index finger, tilting her face up toward his. "Nat," he said softly, but firmly. "Nat, look at me."

He repeated her name and dropped his hands to her shoulders, trying to calm her, focus her.

"Nat, come on, sweetheart, it's me."

She frowned, finally looking at him. Her eyes were too wide though, her pupils too large, and he wasn't sure if she realized it was him.

"Clint?" she asked, her voice small and uncertain.

"Yeah, Nat, it's me," he said, nodding.

She swallowed, then looked away, and he could see her attention wander, see the moment he lost her again. "Only Clint calls me Nat," she said. "Do you know where he went? I think I saw him a second ago …"

Jesus, it was worse than he thought. Approaching her now like he would a spooked cat, he said, "I'm right here, Nat. I'm right here."

She blinked again, more rapidly. "I'm cold."

She shivered, sounding so much like a petulant child that, despite his concern, he couldn't stop the grin that stretched his features.

"Can I put you into something warmer, then?" he asked, tentatively reaching behind her, feeling for the zipper on her dress.

She slapped his hands away, beating at him ineffectually.

"Stop."

He did.

"Okay, Nat. Honey, I know you don't want to be touched right now, but if I'm going to get you warm, I need you to let me take this dress off you. It's wet and gross, and I'm sure it's uncomfortable, right?"

She nodded uncertainly.

"Can I put you in some warmer clothes?" he asked, carefully not touching her.

She frowned. "I'm not wearing a bra."

Yeah, he'd noticed. Problem was, she wasn't wearing much else either, and she was shaking, and he really just wanted to get the wet polyester off her skin. Not for the first time, he'd wondered how much she'd had to drink to convince herself to put this monstrosity on in the first place.

"I won't look," he said.

She snorted. "Everyone always looks at me," she said, and his heart broke a little for the pain and disbelief at war in her voice. "Everyone says they want to help me, but they only want to fuck me."

"Nat, I …"

He didn't know what to say to that. What could he say to that?

She shook her head, tilting more than it might have with the force of the drug.

"Are you going to hurt me?" she asked, turning to look at him again.

"Never," he swore roughly. "I'll never hurt you, Natasha."

"Nat," she said.

He blinked. "What?"

"Nat. Call me Nat. I like it when you call me that," she said, a little more lucidly than before. "No one's ever given me a nickname before. Not a nice nickname, anyway."

And then she lifted her arms in the air, looking like a small child waiting for her mother at bedtime.

"Put me in warm clothes," she said, then raised her eyebrow, almost looking like herself again. "But no peeking."

He nodded seriously at her. "No peeking," he agreed.

He scooted behind her studiously keeping his eyes on his hands as he unzipped her dress. He kept up a monologue of his actions as he went, hoping that it would keep her calm.

"I'm going to pull this over your head now, okay?" he said once the zipper was all the way down, and she nodded. He gathered the wet fabric in his hands, helped her stand briefly to pull it over her hips, and fuck, she wasn't wearing any underwear at all. No wonder she was shaking so damn much.

She hissed when he accidentally brushed one of her ribs, and he could see the telltale signs of a nasty bruise forming there. She yelped when he experimentally touched it, wanting to make sure that it was nothing more than a bruise.

"Ouch! Stop!"

He grimaced as he pulled away. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I gotta check and see if you broke anything," he said, bringing his hand back to the spot he'd brushed and pushing lightly on her. He was relieved when she only cried out a little - if her ribs were broken, she'd be making a hell of a lot more noise when he poked at the discoloration.

He heard a sniffing sound and looked up. Shit.

"Oh, god, Nat, I'm sorry!" he said, feeling terrible for making her feel worse than she already did. He pulled his hands back from her ribs. "We're going to have to figure out if these are cracked or just bruised …" he trailed off at the doe eyed pout she gave him, the way her lower lip trembled. " … but we can put that off until the morning. When you feel better."

She nodded and swiped at her eyes.

"Hang on a sec," he said, standing up and going for his bag, digging around until he came up with a clean t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that would fit her. He turned back around to find her shaking more violently, looking forlorn and a little lost with her arms folded over her chest.

"You okay?" he asked quietly, moving closer.

She started to nod, but stopped midway. "I don't understand …" she said.

"C'mon, let's stand up," he said, then asked, "Don't understand what?"

She stood shakily, still keeping one arm pressed across her chest, even as she dropped her other hand to his shoulder to balance herself. She was leaning too heavily on him, though, much more heavily than she should be, and he could tell that she hadn't really metabolized the drug yet.

"Where am I?" she asked as he helped her step into the sweatpants. From there, it was a quick job to cinch the waist and help her back to a seated position on the bed.

"We're at my hotel," he said. "It was closer, and you were …" He trailed off, not really wanting to get into any of that right now. He was just glad that he'd gotten to her before something happened, that he'd realized that something was wrong and he'd gone looking for her. He couldn't wait until this whole stupid job was over and that fucking weasel paid for what he'd done.

He shook off the sudden, overwhelming rage that bubbled up inside of him. More important matters at hand, he grabbed the shirt he'd brought over.

She shook her head when he tried to move her arm away from her breasts, his earlier promise apparently forgotten.

"I need you to move your arm if I'm going to get this shirt on you," he said lowly.

"I don't want you to look," she said, not meeting his eyes, and he didn't understand her shyness because he'd seen her naked before. Then again, the drug was clearly affecting her pretty hard.

"I won't, I promised, remember?"

Her face crumpled, and she dropped her head into her hands. "Why can't I think straight?" she sobbed. "What's wrong with my head?" She sounded desperate, panicked.

He dropped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her against him, hugging her as best he could from the awkward angle.

"It's okay, Nat," he said. "It'll wear off."

She turned her face into the side of his neck, and he could feel a few hot tears land on his shirt. "I just want to feel like me," she moaned.

"You will," he said, bringing his hand up to her head and running his palm over her hair. He held her quietly for a while, resisting the urge to rock her, knowing that she might not react well to the motion.

She sniffed after a while, and he felt her shoulders still under his arm.

"So," he started. "How about that shirt now?"

She did lean back then, let him pull the shirt on over her head, tug her arms through the holes, and when he was done, he helped her shift backward, helped her move up the bed until she was at the head of it. He reached under her, pulled the blanket up on top of her, and he was about to get up when her hand shot out and clutched his wrist.

"Nat?" he asked quizzically.

"Stay," she said. Her eyes were closed, but he knew she was still awake. "Don't go."

His heart stopped for a minute, and feeling like all the air had been sucked out of the room, he said, "Okay."

He slid into the bed with her, trying to keep some distance between them, but Natasha didn't let him. She shimmied over to him the moment he was under the covers, wrapping herself around him, throwing her leg over and in between his, her arm across his chest.

He could feel her growing warmer by the second, her skin heating up where it came into contact with his, and even though he knew it could be awkward in the morning when she was herself again, he wouldn't regret climbing in here with her.

"Thanks for not putting the moves on," she said, and he knew she meant it, could feelNatasha behind those words. He hoped like hell she would be back to herself after she slept. He didn't think he could handle much more of this, more of her looking and feeling and acting so damn helpless. It wasn't her.

"Nothing I haven't seen before," he said because he didn't know how to say the other things, wasn't sure they would be well received anyway.

"In your dreams," she mumbled teasingly into the side of his chest, and his heart skipped a beat.

"I sincerely hope so," he muttered back. He kissed the top of her head.