Author's Note: I know that I sound like a broken record, but once again - thank you so much to everyone who left a review. I feed on all the positive comments, and I tried to keep all of the critiques in mind when writing this next chapter.

As for the chapter itself, the scene that takes place in Natasha's pre-SHIELD life is once again just completely made up by me, inspired loosely by some things that were hinted at in the movie and by some things that I read about the comic books.

Finally, I want to let you all know that I'm going to be away this week (from Monday until June 3rd), so updating might be difficult. I'm going to do my best to write and update during the week anyway, but if you don't see a new chapter until next Sunday, 1) don't worry, I didn't abandon the story, and 2) I'm really sorry for the delay. So, we'll see what happens!

Anyway, here is the next chapter. I hope you all enjoy it.

The room was large - around 900 square feet, if Natasha had to guess - but she was the only person in it. Lying in its center while strapped to the cell's sole piece of furniture (an uncomfortable metal gurney), it was clear, though, that she was a captive and not a guest. The rest of the space was empty, and despite the fact that she'd been a prisoner for months, it hadn't taken her all of that time to memorize every detail of the bare environment. Every surface she could see was gray and sterile, covered in steel, making her current chambers feel cold and unforgiving.

The starkness of her surroundings only served to add to her isolation, and she felt as if she hadn't seen another human being for years. But, it couldn't have been that long since her captors had last fed her, taken her to the bathroom, or given her water... even though they never said as much as one word to her whenever they did.

When two men in lab coats entered the room, different from the expressionless drones that normally took care of her needs, Natasha tensed. One of the men was holding a metal contraption in his hand, most likely a torture device, but it wasn't something that she'd ever seen before.

"What are you planning to do to me?" Natasha asked hoarsely in Russian, her voice sounding like rusty instrument that hadn't been played in a really long time.

But, the scientists just continued to ignore her. One of them spent a few minutes checking her vitals, and then took out a syringe, filled with some kind of brown liquid. He gave it a quick squirt to rid it of air bubbles, and relentlessly plunged the needle toward her.

Natasha began thrashing against her bindings, desperately trying to prevent the unknown fluid from entering her system, but her efforts proved futile as a vein in her left arm was ultimately penetrated.

The effect of the drug was almost instantaneous. She stopped struggling and suddenly felt docile, her pupils slowly evaporating into tiny dots. When the second scientist put the metal contraption that he was carrying onto her head, he met no resistance from her. Tightening the head gear's two screws, one near each temple so that it fit her snugly, the man and his accomplice then placed tubes up her nose and mouth.

Two dual-pronged arms from the top of the head piece began to move downward until they rested in front of her eyeballs. They then inched forward, each prong grabbing a section of her eyelids until they had forced her eyes open wide, rendering her unable to blink. Finally, two palm-sized video screens descended to a position in front of her eyes.

It wasn't long before a video began playing, at first entrancing her with moving shapes and colors, but soon evolving into something much more sinister. She heard a voice repeatedly telling her who she was, who her family was, where she lived, who she worked for, who her friends were, and who her enemies were, as images depicting each narrative flashed over and over in front of her face.

None of it was true. Yet, after being subjected to five additional brainwashing sessions, she started to believe it.

After the eighth time, she was unmade.

Natasha woke up gasping, struggling against her bindings. Strapped once again to a gurney, just like all those years ago, she was unable to free herself from her nightmare, from her memories. As full-fledged panic set in, she started to hyperventilate.

"Tasha... Natasha!" a man yelled, trying to get her attention. As he rested his hand gently on her shoulder, her head snapped in his direction, assessing him.

She recognized this man. He was her enemy. They'd been fighting moments ago and he - without another thought, she tried to bring her hands to his neck so that she could snap it, but the bindings on her arms would not relent.

It was as her eyes locked onto his gray, worried ones, though, that everything came rushing back to her. The Tesseract … Loki … his scepter … his spell. And the man she was looking at, he wasn't her enemy - he was her partner, her friend, the only person in the world that she'd ever completely trusted. He was-

"Clint," she whispered, his eyes calming her like a tranquilizer, and as the adrenaline from her "fight or flight" reaction moments ago started to wear off, she leaned back into the gurney, completely spent.

"Yes, that's right," he responded, his relief palpable. "I'm here. You're going to be okay, Tasha," he told her firmly.

That was just like Clint, always believing the best of her - even when they'd first met, when his mission had been to kill her for her crimes. Often, it was comforting, but sometimes, it was just damn exhausting. Having him act this way only minutes after she'd wanted to break his neck fell under the latter.

As he began undoing her bindings, she was filled with considerable trepidation. "Are you sure you should do that?" she asked him, afraid that she'd lose herself again, afraid that she'd hurt him, kill him. "I'm not completely myself yet."

"Oh, you're yourself, alright," he said with a chuckle, and she suddenly felt the urge to slap his smug smile off of his face. Natasha couldn't help but feel indignant that he would assume to know her better than she knew herself - the Black Widow, of all people, was hardly an open book. "And if you want to slap me right now," he continued, as if reading her mind, "don't worry. That's definitely you and not Loki's magic."

Natasha rolled her eyes. He was infuriating! And the worst part was, he probably knew how much she was secretly enjoying this playful conversation... She snuck a glance at him, and then sighed in defeat. Forget probably, he definitely knew.

The way that Clint could really see her, the way that he knew her true self - it unnerved her. Having been a spy for most of her life, ever since she was a child even, Natasha was not only used to hiding her real persona, but also making people believe that she was whoever she wanted to be. Hell, she'd been acting a part for so long that she wasn't even sure if she knew who she really was anymore. But, Clint of all people had compromised her, and as unsettling as it was, it also made her feel less alone.

"Besides," Clint persisted, unbuckling her last strap and sitting down next to her, "If Loki's magic comes back, I'll just smack you in the head again."

"Is that why the left side of my face feels like it's on fire?" Natasha asked with a wince.

Clint looked away from her, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. "It was the only thing I could think of to bring you back," he said sheepishly. "That other you? She was kind of a drag, so I couldn't just let her hang around. She'd overstayed her welcome," he teased lightly. "But, if you want to know the real reason that I did it - well, it's about time that I had a chance to be the prettier one, don't you think?"

Natasha let out a brief chortle, but even though Clint's words were jesting and full of banter, there was no trace of amusement in his eyes, as if he were doing nothing more than putting on a show for her benefit.

It was only then that she came to realize how worn out he looked, with worry lines that he'd never had before now etched into his handsome features. Before she could ask him about that, though, he cupped her injured cheek with his hand, stroking it repeatedly with an unhurried thumb. "I'm so sorry, Tasha," he murmured sincerely, the facade of levity now completely abandoned. "You know that I'd never hurt you - well, the real you..." he trailed off lamely, his eyes haunted with guilt. "Are you in a lot of pain?" he asked.

Not when you do that, she thought, letting herself indulge briefly in his delicate caresses. Fighting against her inner desires, she resisted the temptation to nestle her cheek even further into his tender palm. Using techniques she had learned at an early age, Natasha was careful to control her heart rate so that it pulsed at a normal speed, not wanting to reveal to Clint on any level how he affected her. Wasn't she supposed to be the Black Widow, after all? And yet, here she was, feeling like the prey, caught in another's web...

Pulling away from him, her eyes now blank and her tone reserved, she said, "I'm fine. Really. If anything, I should thank you."

Clint looked at his hand, now suspended in the air without a purpose, and then rested it on his leg as he glanced at her uncertainly. "I'm sorry, Natasha, I shouldn't have-"

"No, it's fine," Natasha interrupted quickly, unwilling to let him add more weight to the onus that he had already burdened himself with. "It's just that..." she started, and closed her eyes tightly as memories of her actions under Loki's spell started to taunt her mind. "After what Loki did to me... I mean, after the things I did... the things I did to you, no less... I don't deserve your kindness, Clint."

Opening her eyes again, she was taken aback by the tumultuous emotions that she found in his. For a brief second he looked completely - well, tortured - but then he quickly masked whatever he'd been thinking. "Nothing that happened under Loki's spell was your fault, Tasha," he said forcefully. "Nothing. And he'll suffer for what he did, I promise you."

"Oh yeah?" she asked. "And how is that? Clint, he's making his move today," Natasha told him, wondering how they would have time to regroup and create a plan of attack.

"We'll have to just figure it out as we go along," he said with a shrug.

For as long as she could remember, Clint had been reserved, patient, and calculating when it came to his missions. Even as cocky as he was, it wasn't like him to want to head into a war with a completely half-assed plan, at best. "Clint, what... what's gotten into you?" she asked.

The anguish she'd seen for only an instant before once again filtered into his eyes, but was soon extinguished as his expression darkened. She could see him deliberating something in his head, as if debating what to say to her.

"Tasha," he finally said, "Agent Coulson... Phil. Loki killed him."

Natasha gasped, gripping the side of the gurney tightly with her hands. "Clint, no..." she begged, her chest aching with grief. For a brief second she almost longed to be under Loki's spell again, to not care about anything or anyone, to be at complete peace...

But no, she wasn't a monster. And Phil Coulson was a good man - he deserved to be mourned.

When Clint moved to console her with his embrace, she didn't resist him this time. Under these circumstances, she'd allow herself this one comfort. "I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair, his voice filled with pain.

Yes, that's right. Clint. He also had to be hurting over what had happened to Phil. The two of them had been close, had known each other for a long time. But now their handler was dead - and it was all her fault. "If I hadn't broken into the airship, if I hadn't caused Loki's escape, then Phil would still be alive," she commented blankly.

She felt Clint's arms tighten. "I told you not to do that to yourself. I told you-"

"You told me what?" she asked, pulling away from him. "Not everything. Dammit, Clint, I'm a spy for God's sake. You don't think I can tell that you're still keeping something from me?"

"Tasha..." he said miserably, and Natasha would have given anything at that moment to take away his suffering. "You're right. There's something else..."

"Tell me," she whispered, moving her hand over his and squeezing it softly.

He looked down at his lap and took a deep breath, as if steeling himself, before he returned his gaze to hers. "Natasha... when Loki had you under that spell... did you …? Did he force you to-"

"Time to go," a voice interrupted. The pair glanced up to see Steve Rogers and Tony Stark, their expressions fierce with determination. That is, until Stark started smirking at them. The smug bastard, he hasn't changed a bit, Natasha thought, half annoyed, half amused.

"Aw, gee, Cap, where are your manners?" Stark asked. "Don't tell me that they hadn't invented knocking yet by the 1940s?"

"I'm sorry, M'am, Agent Barton," Rogers apologized to them. "Forgive me, but there's no time for manners." He then turned his attention to Clint. "Can you fly one of those jets?" he asked.

"Yeah, I can," Clint told him.

"Then suit up," Rogers commanded. The captain then turned briefly to Natasha, giving Clint a questioning look. Clint finished the silent conversation by nodding slightly.

"You, too," Rogers said to her, then disappeared back into the hallway.

The two obeyed silently, shelving their conversation for another day - assuming that they both lived to see another day, of course. The mission came first, it always did. And Loki would lose - she'd see to it, no matter what. She'd make sure he paid for what he did to her, for what he did to Phil, and for whatever the hell he'd done to Clint - oh yes, he would pay.

To be continued...

So, my streak of chapters getting longer and longer has ended, but it didn't seem like any of the Chitauri battle stuff would mesh in well with this chapter :-)

Thank you all for reading, and please let me know what you think so far.