A/N: Sorry for the delay! This chapter just did not want to happen. I hope it's easier to read than it was for me to write!
Natasha remained perfectly still as the gun pressed between her shoulder blades. The band finished their next piece and she joined in the clapping, the motion hiding her shaking hands as she struggled to swallow the knot of panic growing in her chest. What had just happened? Her cover was blown and she hadn't even seen it coming. When had István found out she was not Charlotte Welch. And more importantly, how?
"Put on your best smile and walk to the staircase," István instructed, still keeping his free arm wrapped around her shoulder. They moved together through the crowd, blending in with every other couple in attendance.
Natasha scanned the party, trying to take in as much information as possible in an attempt to make up for her previous mistake. Was she really that oblivious? Had she been so distracted with Clint that she hadn't seen this coming?
She wanted to glance up at Clint to try and warn him. Only hearing fragments of István's orders, he might not have caught on to what just happened. She kept her eyes focused on the wall before her, hoping not to give way Clint's position by looking up at the skylight. Instead she took the hand hanging loosely by her thigh and slowly shaped her fingers into military hands signals.
Halfway through her message, István slid his hand off her shoulder and down her arm, pressing Natasha's palm firmly against her leg. "Let's have none of that."
They turned out of the main atrium and crossed the entrance hall to the stairwell. The door swung shut behind them and István removed his hand, giving Natasha a little shove in front of him.
"I must say, Miss Welch, for an innocent art buyer, you are quite calm at gunpoint."
"Funny, for an innocent gallery owner you seem pretty comfortable holding a gun."
A radio buzzed to life with a click of static and István grabbed the clunky plastic box from its belt clip.
"Sir?" said a voice.
"Do it," István replied.
A moment later, a sharp breath and then a low groan echoed in Natasha's ear. Clint.
"Well," said Szabo as he plucked the communicator from her ear. "I suppose you won't be needing this anymore." He threw it to the floor and ground the little electronic components into the concrete with a soft crunch.
Two more guards met them on the second floor, grabbed Natasha by the arms and dragged her into the storage room. István dragged a dusty metal chair from the corner and placed it in the center of the floor. The two thugs threw Natasha in the chair, binding her hands behind it. They stepped back, standing firmly on either side of István with their hands clasped behind their backs.
István stepped up to her. "Imagine my surprise when the security team was reviewing the photographic guest list this afternoon, and one of them identified you as the fiancé of one of my brother's guards. You dined at Rózsambimbó together."
"My fiancé is a banker." And that shouldn't be a problem, Natasha though. Regardless of what's going on between Clint and I, our covers were designed to be a couple.
"Of course, of course," István continued. "That alone might raise a few eyebrows, nothing more."
Then what the hell happened?
"But tell me, if your believe your fiancé is a banker, why were you staring up at the skylights just where he was standing on the roof? Yes, Dear, I noticed. Then I sent my guards to search your office, and they found this." He waved a finger and one of the guards grabbed a small wooden picture frame off the shelving and handed it to Szabo. Natasha recognized it immediately as the picture of her and Clint in the park.
István removed the clips holding the frame back in place. He plucked the photo out and let the wood and glass crash to the floor. He showed Natasha the note scrawled across the back in black pen, then read aloud: " 'Tasha - I told you so, love Clint.' Now tell me miss Welch, what do you make of that?"
Natasha couldn't keep her eyes from going wide. She could feel her quickening pulse pounding against the course ropes binding her wrists. No. How had he been stupid enough to write that? How had she been stupid enough to keep it at her desk?
No, Clint, she thought, I told you. I told you we'd get distracted; I told you we'd start making mistakes. As much as she tried to deny it, she could feel their nice, stable facade of a life starting to slip away beneath her feet.
"I could hardly believe what I was seeing, so I orchestrated that little stunt with Mr. Deniaud as a final bit of proof." István leaned in close to Natasha's face. "And so, Natasha is it? You're going to tell me exactly what it is you're looking for."
Natasha met István's eyes and glared at him, staying silent.
"Poor choice." Szabo waved again and the two guards sprung to life and rushed toward Natasha. They each forcefully took one of her arms and dragged her backward, knocking the chair over with a sharp clatter. The thugs pinned her forcefully against the nearest of the massive shelving units. They wrenched her arms above her head and one held her still as other untied the rope and bound her to one of the vertical beams supporting the shelving. One of the thugs removed Natasha's stilettos. The loss of height dragged her down, and pain clawed at her shoulders as her feet struggled to reach the cold concrete floor.
István took her knife out of its holster and waved at the guards. "You're dismissed. Get back to the others."
"Now," said István, twirling the knife in his fingers. "Let's try this again."
Clint awoke to the musty scent of burlap draped over his face. He pinched his eyebrows together trying to banish the throbbing pain in his skull. He had been on he roof of the Galleria, talking to Natasha, and then nothing.
Before he tried to open his eyes, Clint focused on his ears. Over the whirring of a furnace, he could hear the faintest hum of music drifting down from above. I must still be at the Galleria, he thought, in the basement.
New sounds caught his attention. A door closing. Footsteps.
Suddenly a hand yanked the covering off of his head and Clint squinted, trying to keep the light out. His eyelids fluttered open as he slowly adjusted to the bright bulb hanging from a metal housing overhead.
Clint looked around. He sat zip-tied to a chair in a small room empty except for the dented table before him. Based on the look of the bare sheetrock walls, the Szabo brother had constructed it specifically for times like this.
"I hope you like what we've done with the place," said a slimy voice from behind him. Clint grimaced as Zoltán Varga circled the table and came to a stop in front of him.
"My favorite person in the world," Clint coughed. "I can't think of anyone I'd rather see less right now."
Varga smiled. "And that was when we were working together. Just think of how much you'll like me now that you're in my way."
"Not as much as you'll dislike me when I'm in yours," said Clint.
"So arrogant. You still think you're a hotshot."
"Literally."
"Well don't worry. I can fix that. Clint, is it?"
That's not a good sign.
"Yes," said Varga, "we know who you are."
"No you don't."
"Your girlfriend told us everything."
"Who?" Zoltán's palm came down hard on Clint's face, but he shook his head. "No she didn't."
"I knew there was something off about you, right from the start."
"I know. It's that I'm too good-looking, right?"
Varga slapped the other side of Clint's face. "Enough! No more games. When you came in spinning that little story to András, I thought I was going to get my chance right then and there. As it turns out, the wait has made this moment so much sweeter."
"Are you hitting on me?" said Clint. "I mean, that's completely okay if you are. I respect -"
Varga grabbed onto Clint's hair and slammed his face into the table. "I am going to kill you," Zoltán spat in Clint's ear. "I am going to kill you in a duel -"
"Wait, really, a duel?" Clint muttered against the grimy table surface. Varga ground his head farther into the metal.
"I am going to cut you down of your pedestal, and watch you fall. But first I need some information." Zoltán took out a knife and cut one of Clint's hands free from the chair. Immediately, he grabbed Clint's hand and slammed it against the table, grabbing onto one of his fingers and wrenching it backward. Clint turned away, and Varga wrenched his finger farther.
Clint shook his head. "You're going to have to do better than that, Varga."
"It is not in your interest to challenge me. But if you insist . . ."
To Clint's surprise, Varga released the tension on his hand. Zoltán pulled out his phone and opened a window with his free hand. He tossed the phone on the table with a clatter and Clint looked at the screen. It showed the feed from what looked like a security camera, mounted high up in a room Clint had never seen before. The figures were small, but Clint could easily make out Natasha's brilliant red dress as she stood tied to the massive metal shelving unit. Her head rocked to the side as a figure he assumed to be István Szabo slapped her.
Varga smiled. "You're girlfriend will sing like a canary."
"Actually she can. She doesn't do it much anymore, and I can never understand what she's saying but -" Clint cut off as Zoltán grabbed his free wrist and twisted it, jerking his elbow then his shoulder painfully out of place.
"Not so talkative now, huh? What no snappy comments about she's just your partner she's not . . ." Varga stopped. He released the pressure on Clint's joints enough that he could draw a deeper breath again. The wickedest smile yet crept over Zoltán's stringy face. "Unless she actually is. Oh that is precious. She actually is your girlfriend."
"What's it to you, Varga?"
"Besides leverage and pure amusement?" He clicked his tongue at Clint. "Tsk, tsk, not a smart move Agent . . . you didn't say."
"No, I didn't." Clint clenched his teeth as Varga wrenched his arm again.
"And here I thought you were some sort of professional."
"I care about my partner. Nothing new about that, nothing wrong with it."
"Except now I'm going to use your fragile little schoolboy heart to break you. Or her."
"Why do you people all associate love with childhood? I didn't have my first crush until I was fifteen. Granted there weren't a lot of beard-free options in the circus."
"I'm still going to kill you. And the more you talk, the slower your death is becoming."
"Are we still dueling at high noon? Because I don't see how those two can both happen."
Varga ignored him and pulled out his radio.
"István, are you there?"
"I'm in the middle of something Varga," his gruff voice crackled back.
"So am I. It seems out two little lovebirds are, well just that."
István raised an eyebrow at Natasha. "It that so?"
"Anything you'd like to say?" Varga asked, shoving the radio up to Clint's mouth.
"Hey, Tasha, how you doin?"
"Never better Honeybear," she replied.
Clint let Zoltán and István continue to taunt them. As long as they were distracted and not hurting them, he didn't much care what they said. Natasha had called him Honeybear. Natasha, who's first rule of relationships was no pet names, called him Honeybear. That wasn't a good sign. Time to get out of here.
As Varga talked over the radio, Clint slowly lowered his arm back behind the chair, holding it right where it had been tied.
A few minutes later, István's voice crackled in over the radio again. "Varga, we're running out of time. I want you to supervise transportation."
"On my way," he relied. Zoltán clipped the radio back on his belt loop and turned to Clint. "I'll be back for you."
"No, actually, you won't." Clint took the hand Varga had forgotten he never retied and grabbed Varga's shirt. The zip-tie dug into his wrist as Clint swung the hand still tied to the chair up and over Varga's head. The metal chair crashed down on his head, and Varga crumpled to the ground.
Clint knelt down and retrieved Varga's firearm and radio. With the knife, he cut his now bleeding wrist away from the plastic tie. Finding and extra tie-wrap in the corner, of the room, Clint tied Zoltán to the table and then took off out of the room to find Natasha.