Alright, folks, this story here is a One Shot that follows up on the third part of Chimaera Chameleon's Orbitals story: Pieces. This story honestly won't make sense unless you go back and read that three parter (which i recommend you do anyway, since it's a brilliant story!). The only sad - or pathetic - thing about this One Shot is that I had this entire scene memorized BEFORE the DVD came out. Pathetic . . . or maybe awesome, depending on your take of it! Anyways, hope you guys enjoy!

The wolf prowled his cage.

Anticipation was the bane of his existence. Because waiting meant allowing his mind to rest, to think, in order to pass the time.

He could find no such peace, within or without.

Sigyn had left him once again, left him alone to his depravity and hollow pursuits. She had stayed with him through the night, giving what little comfort she had been able to . . . and what he had allowed himself to accept. But she could not remain forever.

Their parting had been bittersweet, painful . . . but no more painful than any other trial he had to endure. He had turned his back to her, placing her in his past with the rest of his empty hopes and dreams. But her footfalls fading into silence was like the departure of life itself . . .

And now, with morning rising over this miserable world, he set his mind on the task at hand. Thoughts of safety, of comfort, of turning back were drowned in his black resolve. He had only to wait a while longer to be freed of his cage –

A reflection caught his eye, freezing his steps.

He smiled approvingly.

"There's not many people who can sneak up on me," he whispered.

He turned to face the spider perched outside his prison.

"But you figured I'd come."

She was not afraid of him. Her eyes were hard, resolved.

Much like his own . . .

"After," he replied with a mocking wave of his hand. "After whatever tortures Fury can concoct, you would appear as a friend, as a balm . . . " He laughed, spreading his hands in surrender, " . . . And I would cooperate."

"I want to know what you've done with Agent Barton."

Not a question. A demand. It amused him.

Pretentious little bantling . . .

"I'd say I've expanded his mind," he teased, enjoying the anger in her gaze. As if she could ever frighten him. There were few who could . . .

He was surprised when she did not respond right away.

No taunts, no sudden flash of pathetic rage.

Just a cool, appraising gaze.

"And once you've won," she said quietly, her steps echoing in the vast room, "once you're king of the mountain," He frowned slightly, unsure of that particular insult, "what happens to his mind?"

She halted just before the glass, arms folded across her chest, feet widened in a combative stance. As if she was challenging a petty kidnapper . . .

Her eyes are shining with . . . an emotion he once recognized, in the face of another . . .

"Oh. Is this love, Agent Romanoff?"

Her smile was grim, mocking.

"Love is for children. I owe him a debt."

Her words touch a raw nerve, a piece of himself not yet scarred over by his hate. Sigyn cared for him . . . not as a child but as a friend of the deepest kind–

He squelched those memories, thoughts of a buried conscience. Sigyn was nothing to him now.

But he was curious in spite of himself.

"Tell me." He stepped back until his feet touched the cot behind him. It had remained ignored until this point, unneeded and unwanted.

But now he sat down, as he had sat before his moth – Frigga's – feet as a child when she told him stories.

Naïve and innocent . . . then, but not now.

The Widow hesitated, as if unsure of his invitation. But after only a moment, she also sat in the chair placed just outside of his cage. No doubt for this very purpose . . .

"Before I worked for SHIELD., I, uh . . . well, I made a name for myself. I have a very specific skill set; I didn't care who I used it for . . . or on. I got on SHIELD.'s radar in a bad way." Her voice became thoughtful, turned inward, as if his presence was no longer noticed. Her dark brown eyes softened. "Agent Barton was sent to kill me." She paused, shrugged her shoulders. "He made a different call."

Sigyn had also made a "different call." When all others had abandoned him, she had sought him out. When all those who had called him friend condemned him as the monster he was, she had comforted him . . .

He carefully avoided the gaze of the spider before him; he had no weaknesses.

"And what will you do if I vow to spare him?" he asked, his voice softening in spite of himself.

She had spared his own soul . . . maybe saved a piece of it, somewhere . . .

"Not let you out-"

He pierced her with an amused grin, madness drowning compassion.

"Oh, no, but I like this! Your world in the balance and you bargain for one man."

She shrugged again, dismissively.

"Regimes fall every day." Her voice was again cold, hard, unfeeling. "I tend not to weep over that; I'm Russian . . . or I was," she amended.

"And what are you now?"

What am I now . . . ?

The Widow smiled thinly, rising to her feet again.

"It's really not that complicated. I've got red in my ledger . . . I'd like to wipe it out."

That self-assured, commanding stance.

Smug.

Self-righteous.

He would show her . . .

"Can you?" he whispered. "Can you wipe out that much red? Drakov's daughter?"

Her smile freezes, eyes widening only slightly.

Not enough?

"Sao Paulo?"

Red lips part in surprise . . . and confusion.

There is more . . .

"The hospital fire?"

There it was. Fear.

"Barton told me everything." He rose to his feet, crouched like a stalking tiger. "Your ledger is dripping. It's GUSHING red, and you think saving the life of a man no more virtuous than yourself will change anything? This is the basest sentimentality! This is a child, a prayer! PATHETIC!"

Can I wipe out this much red? Thor's exile? Joutenheim? Abandoning Sigyn? My own ledger is bleeding red; how can I turn back now?

Every word now. Every word, intending to flail this hypocritical liar, was becoming an echo of his own heart.

"You lie and kill in the service of liars and killers." (It's all I know now!) "You pretend to be separate, to have your own code, something that makes up for the horrors. "(Don't say that! I'm not like HIM!)" But they are part of you, and they will never. Go. Away."

ENOUGH!

He slammed his fist against the glass, shaking his reality, rage throbbing in his ears.

She was backing away from him, horror etched in that feminine face.

"I won't touch Barton!" he hissed. "Not until I make him kill you! Slowly. Intimately. In every way he knows you fear. And then he'll wake just long enough to see his good work, and when he screams, I'll split his SKULL!"

Her back is to him, shoulders trembling.

"THIS is my bargain, you mewling quim!" he spat hatefully.

Silence.

Then, a soft, defeated sob.

"You're a monster."

I will always be a monster . . .

A dry, grating laugh was torn from his throat.

"Oh no. You brought the monster."

Too late he realized his mistake, what he just gave away –

Romanoff turned to face him. Her eyes were dry, her face clear. There was no trace of fear or remorse in her gaze.

A master manipulator, indeed.

A woman after his own sick heart.

"So. Banner. That's your play."

"What?" He feigned confusion. He might as well tell her what she wants to hear . . .

The Widow rushed away, speaking rapidly into the device at her ear.

"Loki means to unleash the Hulk. Keep Banner in the lab, I'm on my way. Make sure Thor's there as well."

Just before she reached the door, she turned, regarding him with a cool, placid expression.

"Thank you, for your cooperation."

Thank you, for being so unerringly predictable . . .

Later, an inhuman roar shattered the calm of the Helocarrier.

He smiled.

At last, it's time.