Where Have All The Criminals Gone? (3/?)

Day Five (Saturday)

"No. No way. Not gonna happen. Nope."

"It's the best idea we've got," Natasha said in a pacifying tone of voice that she had learnt off Laura Barton. "She's a risk, but –"

"A risk?" Clint repeated. "A risk? Nat, she tried to use your face as an ash tray!"

"It was just for show," she replied, not entirely convinced that that was true. "Look – she's one of six people in here who get conjugal visits, which are our best chance of finding the Blue Moon killer. She knows everyone in here better than they do themselves, she's more powerful than the governor, she has a strong incentive to help us and she has a thing for me. Clint, come on. We'd be insane not to enlist her."

"Oh? And what are you gonna tell her, exactly?" Clint asked, folding his arms. "That you're an ex-Soviet hitwoman who defected to an American intelligence agency more secretive than Area 51, and that you're looking for a guy who could take out the President?"

"I'll tell her what she needs to know," Natasha said.

"Don't talk like a spy to me. Come on, Nat. Be professional."

Nat cocked her head to one side. "I'm sorry," she said, "what makes you think I'm being anything but?"

Clint realized that he'd made a mistake with commendable speed, although still far too late. "It's just – normally when you play up the romance side it's been premeditated, right? But this is spontaneous, it's unplanned, and you're in there on your own, and –"

"You think I can't keep it in my pants," Natasha finished for him. "And that it's clouding my judgement."

"No!" Clint retorted, guiltily. "Well… you always had a thing for dangerous men. Women. Whatever."

"Since when?"

"Since that dream with Charles Harrelson that you told me about."

"I told you about that in confidence," Natasha snapped, "and I didn't come here to be patronized. I survived perfectly well on my own before, and I certainly don't need your input now!"

"Fine! Go and Shawshank with your girlfriend, then!"

"Fine!"

Nat stormed out of the room and past the guards back to the main complex of the prison (they didn't try to slow her down; they were only worried about when people were trying to get out, not the other way around). She was so angry that she didn't notice Melanie until they collided in the entrance to their cell.

"Got somewhere to be, Romanez-Talia-Romanez?" Melanie asked. In her rage Nat could only take the woman's languid tone as mocking, and if there was one thing Natasha Romanoff hated, it was being mocked.

"Go to hell," she said, and Melanie raised an eyebrow.

"The fuck did you just say to me?" she asked calmly.

Nat faltered. Maybe Talia Romanez would let her emotions get the better of her, but the undercover agent in her certainly wouldn't. "Nothing," she said.

Melanie didn't soften. "Thought you wanted my help," she said, "but I guess not. Maybe if you ask the guard nice, she'll let you move cells, make this a little bit less awkward."

"No," said Nat, "I do. I do want your help."

Those eyes, those midnight lagoon eyes, were far more beautiful, and far more dangerous, than any Natasha had ever seen before. They held her gaze unmovingly, challengingly. "Prove it," said Melanie.

Talia – or maybe just Natasha – kissed her, kissed her so suddenly that she pushed Melanie up against the back wall of the cell and lifted her up off of the floor. Natasha felt the woman's legs wrap around her waist, felt one hand ball into a fist in her hair and pull so that her neck was exposed, felt lips press against her throat and kiss their way down it.

"Say it again," Melanie said.

"I want you. I need you," Natasha breathed, and wasn't sure how much of it was just lies and manipulation.

"You'd better not fucking forget it, Romanez," Melanie ordered, her fingers biting into Natasha's skin.

%

They were lit by moonlight, tangled together in Melanie's bunk, her hair like ripped black ribbons against the threadbare sheets. "Tell me about him," said Natasha's ally, "tell me about this guy you wanna find so bad."

"He's a hitman. He's from around here, we think –"

"Blue moon killer," said Melanie, her eyes open and staring into the middle distance. "Yeah?"

Natasha paused. "How'd you know?"

"I know everything," Melanie said, and chuckled softly. "He's our local celebrity, Romanez. And I move in similar circles – at least, I did. What you doing, looking for a guy like that? You wanna hire him? There are better men to hire."

"I wanna kill him," said Natasha, and Melanie laughed again.

"I won't ask why," she said. "Don't think I wanna know. So, you think he's hiding in here, then? Pretty sure we'd a'noticed by now."

"No. But his girlfriend is, and he visits her."

"Huh," said Melanie. "Small world." She stood up so suddenly Nat started and walked to the tiny window, rising onto her toes so she could rest her chin on the sill. "Blue Moon killer," she murmured. "You know how he got that name, Romanez-Talia-Romanez?"

"Because that's how often he takes out a hit."

Melanie snorted. "Or is that just how often you find 'em? Nah, that's not it."

"How do you know?"

"I know everything." Starlight bathed the jailbird's face, turning her skin gray and eyelashes silver. "Shit. You want me to hand him over to you all trussed up and ready for slaughter, don't ya?"

"A name will do," Nat replied, sitting up.

"Girls in here tend to be pretty protective of their men, y'know. They won't just own up if I say pretty please."

"You're not the pretty please type," Nat said, and Melanie snorted.

"Yeah," she agreed, "I ain't that." She stepped away from the window and said, under her breath, "Shawshank."

Nat sat perfectly still, waiting for the woman to make the next move. There was something more to this than a simple sell-out, she was sure of it. Melanie Chavez wasn't the type to waver in indecision, so to cause this hesitation there must have been something personal going on.

She already knows who it is, Nat thought, and as soon as she did she realized it was true. And she wants to protect the girlfriend. She felt a pang of jealousy, followed instantly by surprise. Oh, no. Don't you dare, Romanov. Don't get involved.

"There's conjugal visits on Thursday," Melanie said, eyes still lingering on the little patch of midnight sky. "I'll get you your killer, and you get me outta here, or I'll make sure you die slow and painful."

"Thank you."

"Don't fucking mention it," Melanie replied, "seriously. We'll both get killed if anyone finds out."

A/N totally on top of the update schedule with this one, lads. On the plus side I reckon I've got it more or less figured out how this story ends, and estimate about two more chapters. Thank you ever so much for your patience.