Agent Young's hands wavered but she kept the gun trained on Clint.

"It's good to see you Clara. How've you been?"

"Clara?" Natasha yelled over the radio. "Your ex girlfriend? Clint what the hell are you thinking? You -"

Clint pulled the tiny radio from his ear. "We've got some catching up to do."

Down on the ground, Natasha fought to make her stunned muscles move. "Damn it!" she shouted and crashed her fist gracelessly into the nearest wall. Of all the stupid, irrational, impulsive things he'd done over the years. . . What the hell was he thinking?! He probably believed he had some kind of plan up his sleeve, probably though this was a brilliant move on his part. So kind of him to let her know what he was up to. Or at least let her know whether or not he was planning on meeting her any time soon. Had he really just ditched her? That didn't seem like Clint. But without more information, without a timeline or even a radio link, what could she do but assume the worst and move forward?

Natasha reached into her belt again, pulled out the case, and removed the contacts from her eyes. No room for distractions, she thought. You're on your own.

Natasha pulled herself up on a nearby windowsill and dropped down quietly onto the dark, deserted street. She made her way quickly across the remaining blocks to Varga's warehouse, dipping from shadow to shadow and slipping easily past Varga's much less sophisticated security equipment.

The warehouse loomed before her as she crouched low across the street. It was a dumpy building, long and rectangular with a rusty, pitched roof. She could see at least six large loading dock doors set into the nearest wall, each one sealed with a ribbed white metal door. Natasha darted across the street and slid to a stop on the gritty ground. Coldness bled through her uniform as she pressed her back to the concrete foundation beside the first loading bay. Natasha placed two fingers to the ground. In the dim light bleeding out of the high warehouse windows, she could just make out tire tracks. Fresh ones. Something left this warehouse recently, something S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't or couldn't stop. In that case it might already be too late.

Natasha scanned the building for a way in. Now even if she wanted to wait for Clint she couldn't risk it. Her eyes caught on a fire escape hanging haphazardly off the side of the warehouse. With the bottommost ladder tucked up inside it, the lowest platform was almost a story off the ground. Natasha rubbed her gloved hands together and took a running start. Just before the platform she launched up with one leg. She threw her arms and her body followed, spinning around in a half circle. Her fingers brushed the bottom steel bar and she grabbed on tight. Flakes of peeling black paint crunched beneath her glove. Natasha brought her other hand up to meet the bar. She touched her ankles together and swung her feet back and forth. On the third back stroke she tightened her abs and lifted herself up into a handstand of sorts. The top of the fire escape's railing dug into her back, and she lowered herself down, feet first, onto the landing.

The platform rattled with a metallic clink. The hazy forms of two broad-shouldered men whipped their heads toward the window. Natasha pressed herself against the building, escaping their gaze in the shadows.

She worked her way slowly up the fire escape, careful to avoid any more unnecessary sounds. At the top, she studied the inside of the building before slipping in the window. A magnet pulled from her tool belt kept the cheap alarm silent.

Natasha came out at the end of a narrow hallway four stories up in the warehouse. Bare wooden doors lined the side toward the wall. On the opposite side, a short railing dropped off into the cavernous expanse of the warehouse. Huge lifting chains hung from the ceiling. Industrial fans spun beneath the sharp peak of the roof and crates waited along the far wall. Overall the building was empty, with huge swaths of it gray cement floor broken only by a few portable tables strewn with parts. Creeping closer to the railing, Natasha could see the familiar plastic sheeting of a radiation tent tucked below the zigzagging staircase leading up to the rooms and offices on this wall.

A door clicked shut far below her. A tiny, stringy figure strode into view, accompanied by another man. Varga.

Natasha Romanoff was not a hateful person. When completing missions she was cool, calculated. Sometimes concerned or even frightened, occasionally even amused. Mostly she would describe herself as empty, void of emotion, at least as much as she could be. She always had a reason for her actions, one equally void of emotion. But this little ball of fire that she'd been trying so hard to ignore, it could be described as nothing less. The longer she watched Varga, the more the hatred seemed to grow. Natasha grabbed on to the railing to steady herself where she crouched. Maybe Clint had been right to warn her.

But as she watched Varga walk across the warehouse floor, another feeling crept into her mind. Something's not right. That limp. It's wrong. Close, but . . .

The air currents shifted around her. Natasha snapped around caught the black baton coming from Varga's hand. Natasha's lips pulled back into a grimace and she looked at Varga in the eye. "And here I though you'd learned something since out last encounter."

"I could say the same of you."

Taking its cue from an unseen trigger, the baton lit up with arcs of electricity. The current froze Natasha's muscles, keeping her hand helplessly caught on the baton. She tried to shout in pain but found her vocal chords paralyzed along with the rest of her body. Natasha gritted her teeth, straining to lift her hand away, to reach her gun, to breathe.

"Ah ah ah." Varga increased the charge and everything went black.

Natasha awoke tied to a chair on the warehouse floor. No, not tied, chained. She squinted under the bright halogens hanging from the ceiling. Heavy metal links jangled against her skin. When her vision cleared, she could see the full extent of her imprisonment. Her ankles were shackled to each other and to the chair, as were her wrists. More cool metal chain was wrapped around her torso, binding her shoulders to her body and her back to the chair. In four places, the chains stretched down to eye hooks bored into the concrete.

Varga leaned easily against the table where he had collected all of Natasha's weapons and tools. His familiar slimy face was worse even than in Natasha's nightmares. The right side was pocked with the twists and ridges of a horrible burn. As he held one of her throwing knives on its end against the table, she could see his hands marked the same way.

When he noticed her stirring, he straightened slightly. "As you see my dear, I have learned. I learned quite a bit after our last soiree. Namely that you are not to be underestimated. And neither is your boy toy. Tell me, where is Robin Hood tonight?"

Natasha didn't move.

"You would not believe my disappointment when I saw you two on the news last summer. I thought he bit the dust there on the street. What is it you call yourselves? The Avengers? I suppose I should offer my congratulations, after all you're playing with the big league now. Real life super heroes - who'd have thought? And yet . . ."

Varga came close, close enough that Natasha could smell his foul breath and see his white but crooked teeth. " . . . here you are, devoting your time to little old me. It's flattering really." Natasha's face remained solid. Varga took her chin in one hand and pursed her lips together. "It's really not much of a conversation if you don't talk back dear."

Varga's false smile fell to a sneer. Natasha's arms flinched in their chains as his hand flew to her face. It stopped inches from her skin, and Varga carefully cupped her cheek in his hand. "That was a warning."

Natasha batted her eyelashes and curled her lips into a smile. In one swift motion she jerked her head forward and dug her teeth hard into the skin of Varga's thumb.

He shouted and wrenched his thumb from her grip, shaking it out to ease the pain. Natasha curled up her tongue and spat. "Tastes like coward."

"You little bitch!" Varga shouted and swung at her. His palm hit with a loud clap. Natasha could feel the heat as her skin reddened under the blow. She smiled and Varga struck again, this time with a fist. Her lip split as it swelled.

"You claim you've learned so much, Zoltán, but all I see here are your bosses same mistakes. You never were very smart, were you? Always playing the leader, but you were just another lackey."

"Quite the opposite. The oil paintings, that was my idea. András had the muscle and István the connections, but the brain was always mine."

"Speaking of muscle, where are all of your goons?"

"One of the many lessons I learned. I didn't want them in range so you could maim them again. But I assure you, they're close by. The one's who survived last time, well, let's just say they're biting at their cages for a rematch."

"Untie me and I'll gladly give them one. You first."

"Much as I would love to give you a scar to match your beau's, it will have to wait. I'm a very busy man."

"Got a grand plan, do you Varga? Or just recycling old ideas? After all, the Szabo boys -"

"They were idiots! Brutes with no real imagination!"

"And you?"

"It's a shame you won't live to see it, what with your appreciation of the arts. It will be a masterpiece. Unless of course your eye for art was as fake as your identity."

"Don't feel bad. I know gods who can't tell if I'm faking."

"You'd be surprised what I can tell."

"Really? What can you tell?"

"Only this. You're too late to stop it."

"I've heard that before."

"Yes, and you failed so spectacularly the first time, I can't wait to see how you outdo yourself. It must burn to come so close not once, but twice. To try to save so many lives - is that, by the way, what you tell yourself you do, or do you admit on those cold lonely nights that you enjoy killing, enjoy watching the life drain out of another? - and lose so many more in the process."

"We saved the city."

"Merely postponed its fracture, a patch on the arteries just waiting to burst. My dear you can't use a bandaid to stop a heart attack. Nor will it do much good against, say, a stab wound to the abdomen. Tell me what is it like to watch your lover bleed to death on a foreign street?"

Natasha couldn't stop the twitch from reaching her face. Varga cocked his head. "Struck a nerve there, have I? How about little school children unfortunate enough to find you as their rescuer. So young, how could they know you're only an angel of death?"

The little ball of hatred burned brighter in her chest. Varga's very presence before her enlarged it, his touch enraged it and his words fanned the flames. She could feel the cracks in her mask, feel her rational self struggling to contain the anger. Natasha had only given in to that wildness once before: here, on the streets of Budapest. The memory of that release, that feral rage only incensed her further.

He could see her struggling. "You killed them Natasha. Every last one."

One last drop of kerosene on the spark.

"You bastard!" she screamed. Natasha jerked up as far as she could, throwing herself against the chains.

"Struck a nerve indeed. Part of me wants to leave you here to hear the cacophony on your final failure. It won't be long now." Varga strode to the table and picked up one of Natasha's small black handguns. "The other part wants to grant me the satisfaction of putting you out of your misery."

"So do it!"

He tucked the pistol in his empty hip holster. "But you forget, I need one last thing from you."

"Just one?"

"I'd ask who sent you, but I've no doubt it was that wretched S.H.I.E.L.D.. How many more people know of its existence after New York? Very few, I presume. But that's for another time. I would ask if there are more where you came from, but I assume even you wouldn't be so stupid as to go after me alone a second time. No, all I need from you Agent Romanoff is one little fact." Varga took a step toward Natasha and paused. His foot shot out from under him and his heel dug into Natasha's stomach. The chair rocked back as she fell into it, threatening to tumble over if not for the chains. She coughed for breath but Varga slowly leaned his toe into her sternum, pressing the remaining air from her lungs. He leaned as close as he could without breaking posture.

"Where is he?"

"Who?" Natasha choked. Varga threw another punch to her face.

"The soldier, the archer, the hawk. Look! Look at what he did to me!" Varga screamed, brandishing his mangled hands. "Tell me where he is, and I'll send out the order to stop the attack."

". . . Liar . . . Desperate . . ."

Varga rushed forward. As his foot let her torso Natasha gasped for air, but it didn't do much good. In a second his scarred hands were wrapped around her throat, lifting her out of the chair as far as she would go and squeezing her windpipe as she rose. "Where is he?! Here? Outside waiting to take me down? Hiding on some rooftop like a coward? I know you brought him with you. TELL ME!"

Varga pressed his snarled mouth and bared teeth inches from Natasha's face. He studied every muscle on her face, every blink and quiver of her eyes. Natasha studied him back as she begged her eyelids not to fall shut as her body screamed for air. She blamed her oxygen-deprived brain for how long it took for her to realize what had just happened. Clint, you beautiful son of a bitch.

Varga dropped her and staggered away. Natasha gasped in her seat, letting the fear drain away and the air return. He had read her. Varga had read her face here, at her worst, as an emotional sandstorm kicked up all sorts of dirt inside her chest. And he found nothing, because Clint left him nothing to find.

Clint Barton, you beautiful beautiful clever son of a bitch, she thought again. He had done this. He had known minutes, hours, years ago how she would react. He had ensured that if her mask cracked, nothing important would show through. He knew she was compromised, and he used it for all it was worth. Natasha fought a smile. But that left only one question. Clint, where the hell are you?

Varga braced himself on the table. "You don't know. You really don't know."

"Sorry to disappoint."

"Not to worry," said Varga as he wiped a bead of spit from his lip. "I'm sure he'll hunt me down for killing you." He drew the pistol and aimed it at Natasha's head.

"Varga . . ." Even after so many years of training, so many kills, so many times staring down that empty abyss that hides down the barrel of a gun, Natasha wasn't calm. Collected, controlled, yes, but certainly not calm. Her heart began to race. The chains were too tight, the shackles too strong. There was nothing she could do but wait and see if the madman before her pulled the trigger. That or hope that Clint had her back. Of course he would come for her if he could, Natasha had no doubts about that. But if he couldn't? If S.H.I.E.L.D. hadn't let him go, if he didn't make it in time, if he wasn't sitting on the roof of an adjacent building right now? As Varga had proven so spectacularly, she had no idea at all.

Natasha opened her eyes to see Varga's finger bearing down on the trigger.

Thwack.

The gun clattered to the floor. Varga screamed. He fell to his knees, clutching his hand. Equal lengths of a long black arrow shaft stretched from each side of his palm. Two more arrows whizzed past from behind her, pinning Varga's pant legs firmly to the floor, though as he gaped at his hand, he seemed to have no plans to move.

Natasha let out a shameless sigh of relief.

"What," Clint said as he crashed through one of the large windows on the back wall and rolled on his shoulder to a stop. "Did you think I wouldn't have your back?"

"Not for a second," Natasha replied, looking over her shoulder to watch him brush off the glass. "It's the 'couldn't' that had me worried. Want to explain what just happened?"

"I think you got the picture." He turned toward Varga, notching another arrow. "Stay down." Clint search Varga and pulled out the key to Natasha's chains.

"So. How's Clara?" Natasha asked as Cling knelt behind her. The chains clinked together as he worked to weave them free.

"She's good. Turns out she'd getting married to Agent Shepsfield."

"The combat training instructor?"

"Yup. Wedding's next June."

"Good for her. I'm glad you two got to catch up."

The last shackle rattled free and Natasha stood and stretched.

"Listen, Natasha, I'm sorry I had to do that."

She shot a punch at his arm. "I understand. No wonder you were studying that personnel file so intently."

"As soon as I saw Clara's name I knew she'd help us."

"Really? Because as I recall, things ended pretty abruptly between you two. She wasn't pissed at you? At both of us?"

"Oh she was, at first."

"So what, you used your boyish charm and she softened right up?"

"Of course. And then I told her the story."

"How much?"

Clint wiped a trickled of blood from Natasha's split lip. "Enough."

"Idiots!" Varga said from his place kneeling on the floor. "All your games are useless - it's too late!"

"Save it. We heard every second of your conversation with Natasha through the bugs S.H.I.E.L.D. had planted in this place. There are teams headed to the bridges, the subway, the rail stations, airport, parliament building, Galleria Szobor. Three trucks were intercepted in transit and there's a scuba team searching the river. I'm sorry, am I missing any? Also, your little band of thieves has been neutralized."

"But . . . how?"

"You think you're so clever Varga, but you fell for the same tricks as your old bosses."

"Never underestimate the power of the disadvantage Varga. You told me everything."

"That's impossible!"

"And yet it works every time." Natasha glanced at Clint. "With a little help."

Varga hung his head.

"What now?" asked Clint.

Natasha picked up her gun in reply. "One more loose end to tie up."

"You . . . you can't do that! You work for the government, don't you?"

"Governments do some shady things Varga. Isn't that why you've been trying so hard to take this one down?"

Clint put a hand on her shoulder. "Tasha, S.H.I.E.L.D. can hear and see everything we're doing."

She shot him a glance. "They've seen worse."

Clint walked forward and stepped in front of Varga. At his angle, he could easily pull the two arrows from the concrete. From there he hoisted Varga to his feet and stepped back beside Natasha.

"You two can't be serious."

Natasha hoisted the black handgun in her shaking hands. Clint drew his bow with a trembling shoulder.

"You or me?" Natasha asked. With one glance at each other, they knew the answer.

Bang.

Thwack.

Zoltán Varga collapsed on the ground, an arrow through his chest and a bullet through his forehead. Natasha holstered her gun and stood silently over Varga's body.

"Fell better?"

"Did you seriously think we would?"

"Let's go," Clint said, but Natasha didn't move.

"You bastard!" she screamed and slammed her boot against Varga's limp thigh. "You have no idea what you stole from me!"

Clint caught her arms and pulled her back. "Tasha."

He held her for a moment before she crossed her arms and turned away. Clint took a step toward Varga. Natasha looked back over her shoulder. He lifted his foot and rammed it into Varga as well. His kick caught Varga's hip bone and sent him rolling over onto his stomach, exposing his back.

That's when Clint saw it, in the tattered hole the arrow tore in his jacket. The sizzle of electricity. The flicker of a timer . . . a shattered timer.

"Run!"

Without a second though they turned on their heels and sprinted for the oversized doors behind them.

Beep.

Beep. Beep.

Beeeeeeeeeeeeep.

The warehouse exploded in a blinding flash. Clint and Natasha reached out for each other, grazing fingers as the blast engulfed them. The pressure wave lifted their feet from the ground and sent them slamming hard into the side of the building.

A/N: Collect your thoughts, organize your feels and keep an eye out next week for the final chapter of Poor Girl: All We've Got!

As always, thank you so much for reading. I hope you're enjoying the ride!