Here's an RP weeingangelofnewnewyork and I wrote a while back. I wrote Natasha, she wrote Clint.

DEVIL'S SHADOW

"Why don't you try your hors d'oeuvres, darling?" Clint asked Natasha as a waiter passed their table. "Come on, Nat, lighten up a little," he hissed. "Seriously, try your hors d'oeuvres. This is what being undercover is all about."

"Yeah, I remember Fury saying the real reason we're undercover is to sample the French cuisine," Natasha said dryly. Her eyes hovered on the room before her as she searched for their target. "Are you even watching for Degard?" she asked Clint without looking at him. "If you remember, the reason we're sitting here is so I can watch the door and you can watch through the window."

"Of course, I'm watching for Degard," Clint huffed. "But I also realize the importance of staying undercover. Relax, Natasha. Put away that spy face and seriously try the hors d'oeuvres. It's amazing."

At that moment, their waiter appeared, balancing two trays heaped with expensive-looking food. "So sorry to have kept you waiting," the man apologized in a strong French accent. As he set Natasha's food down in front of her, the waiter discreetly dropped a small white object into her lap. Natasha pretended not to notice, but she gave the man the faintest of knowing nods as she thanked him.

"My pleasure. I do hope you find everything satisfactory," the waiter said before returning to the kitchen.

As soon as he was gone, Natasha looked down at her lap. "Message," she murmured to Clint, who was tucking into his meal happily. "'Degard knows you're here. This is a trap. Leave if you value your lives.'"

Clint quickly scanned the room. "Four guards, covering each of the exits. A sniper, west balcony. And five… six… a Tactical Team, posing as waiters." He took a sip of his chardonnay. "Think we can still intercept that transaction?"

Natasha twitched the warning note into the flame of one of the candles, and set it in a saucer, where it gradually smoldered into ash. "If we act now, we're putting everyone in this building at risk," she said quietly. "We have two choices. Either do a ground check for Degard and pinch the invention off him, or we let him come to us, allow him to complete the transaction, and tail the recipient. Thoughts?" She took a bite of her salad.

Clint hesitated. "Let's wait for them to complete the transaction. While Degard is on to us, there's a chance that the buyer isn't, and I don't want to jeopardize any civilian lives by going directly after Degard, especially with the warning note." He stared out the window, waiting for a glimpse of their target. "The trade-off will be happening soon."

"Roger that," Natasha muttered taking a sip of her wine. Her eyes swept the room again, then she added, "In fact, if I'm not mistaken, here comes our inventor friend right now. Your nine o'clock."

"And here comes the buyer," Clint added. "If I'm right, he's not the head of this organization. He's probably just the go-between." Clint stood, reluctantly leaving his half-finished chardonnay glass on the table. "Come on, he's probably got a car waiting. I don't want to lose him."

Natasha stood up and took Clint's arm, and they walked leisurely in the general direction of the targets, who were sitting down at an inconspicuous table.

A waiter walked by with a tray full of champagne glasses. Natasha swiped one and took a sip. "Think we should split up?" she asked Clint, trying to keep her expression relaxed and casual.

"Of course, dear," Clint replied in a natural tone of voice, slipping back into his cover as they passed a table of chatting people. "Go ahead. I'll meet you in the car." He caught Natasha's eye as he subtly reached up to turn on his comm.

Natasha smiled at him and slipped away, heading slowly toward the exit. She switched on her comm and said quietly, "Widow to Hawk, how do you read?"

"Clear," came Clint's reply after a minute. "I'm retrieving my bow from the kitchen. There's an angry French cook on my tail."

Natasha chuckled at the mental image Clint's words inspired. "Think I'm gonna go check out the buyer's car. See if I can find anything on the organization that wants grabs on Degard's invention," she said. "I shouldn't be more than ten minutes."

"10-4," Clint responded.

Natasha caught sight of a tall, hefty man standing by the door. Not talking, not drinking. Just standing. Guarding. He wore a heavy coat, perfect for concealing weapons.

Great.

Natasha walked confidently towards the exit, hoping he wouldn't question her. As she drew nearer, she turned her head away, hiding her face from the guard. But it was useless.

"Wait, mademoiselle," the guard said in a think French accent, extending an arm to block the door. "You can't go out that way." Natasha raised an eyebrow at his triumphant look. It was obvious that her cover was blown, but she would continue the charade for now. If she acknowledged her identity and tried to fight her way out, an innocent could get caught in the crossfire.

"Why ever not?" she asked coyly, pretending oblivion.

"Because you have to use the back exit," the guard replied, jerking his head toward a wide hall that led deeper into the building. "Allow me to show you the way."

Natasha narrowed her eyes in feigned annoyance. "That won't be necessary, monsieur. I'm sure this exit is fine." She started to push her way past him, but he grabbed her arm roughly.

"No, mademoiselle," he said in a low, threatening tone. "You can't go that way."

She was about to yank her arm out of his grasp when a flash of movement caught her eye. She looked down, and saw a red pinprick of light playing of her chest. The sniper in the west balcony.

Then, slowly, the laser pointer moved from herself to a man who was sitting unsuspectingly at a nearby table, and it settled dangerously on the back of his head.

"Come, mademoiselle," the guard hissed in her ear. "Let me show you the back exit."

"So, that was right in my ear," Clint commented. "I'm just going to assume you have everything under control. You do, right?"

"Oui, fine," Natasha said, answering both Clint and the guard. "Show me the exit, s'il vous plait."

Strengthening his hold on her arm, the guard marched her forcibly towards the hall. As they grew closer to it, the guard removed a handheld radio from his stiff coat and raised it to his mouth. "I have the Black Widow," he informed his allies in French. "Keep an eye out for Hawkeye now. Try to secure him without drawing attention, if you can. If not, use whatever means necessary."

They reached the hall and began walking down it at a brisk pace. Natasha waited until they had rounded the corner, then she abruptly grabbed the walkie-talkie and hurled it at the wall, so that it shattered. Then she turned as if to make a break for it.

The guard shouted an obscenity and yanked her back towards him, and she used the momentum from his pull to throw herself onto him, intending to wrap her thighs around his neck. But her skirt tangled around her legs, hindering her, and the guard was able to drag her off him. He swung towards her head with an enormous paw, but she ducked his fist and kicked him in the stomach, hearing the material of her skirt rip from the hem up to her thigh as she did so. She aimed a blow at his jaw, but he managed to deflect it and cuffed the side of her head. She kneed him hard him the groin, and he snarled; then suddenly, one of his large, meaty hands was at her throat, and she was thrown to the wall, her toes inches from the floor. She choked and scrabbled frantically at his hand, digging her nails into his flesh, but he remained impassive. Natasha started to feel dizzy as the blood flow to her brain was intercepted. Black spots sprinkled across her vision, and she uselessly kicked towards her assailant but missed. Then, suddenly, a thought flashed through her mind. As her vision faded, she found the weapon she had secreted on her person: a slim knife. She flicked it open and sunk the blade into the man's arm.

He cried out in pain and stumbled back, dropping her to the ground. She sucked in huge gulps of air and forced herself to stand. She stepped towards the guard, who was staring in shock at the knife that protruded from his arm. Natasha grabbed the handle and pulled it out of his arm, and blood began to fountain from the wound. The man yelled again, and sunk weakly to his knees. Natasha curled her fist around the knife's metal handle and delivered a smashing punch to the man's temple, effectively knocking him out.

Panting hard, Natasha closed the bloody knife and slipped it back into the folds of her dress. "One of the guards… is down. The north exit is clear," she informed Clint over the comm.

"10-4," Clint replied. "Degard and his buyer are hassling over something. Also, I keep hearing the words 'delacroix' and 'ombre du diable.' Mean anything to you?"

"Um…" Natasha leaned against the wall and glanced up and down the empty hallway. "I think 'Delacroix' is a French surname. And 'ombre du diable' means 'shadow of the devil.'"

"Cheery," said Clint sarcastically. "I'm gonna order me some crème glacée while I wait. Keep me updated on your status. Copy?"

"Yeah, copy that," Natasha said a little breathlessly. She looked down at the crumpled form of the French guard, who was bleeding heavily onto the tiled floor. Natasha considered tying him up, but she decided against it, since she still had to check out the buyer's car. Instead, she shoved him into a nearby supply closet and headed back towards the exit, wiping her bloody hands on her evening gown.

Clint dipped into his ice cream, keeping a discreet eye on the targets. They seemed to be discussing whether or not Degard's invention would actually work. He could hear Natasha speaking sweetly in French through the comms, and the suspicious voice of a male responding in the same language. "S'il vous plait," Natasha begged. At least he knew the French word for please, if nothing else. Then he could be polite when he made Degard's buyer hand over the invention. Clint took another bite of his rich chocolate crème glacée as Natasha changed tactics. Suddenly, the man was the one doing the begging. Clint winced in sympathy when he heard the unmistakable snap of a breaking bone. Then, suddenly, Degard and his buyer were shaking hands, then standing. Degard handed the other man his briefcase.

"Transaction complete," Clint said, his hand tightening around the bow he held under the table. "Status, Widow?"

"Finally convinced the chauffer to tell me where the buyer's car is," Natasha said. "Breaching the vehicle right… now."

"Don't take too long," Clint warned her. "Degard's buyer'll be returning to his car soon."

"Roger that."

Degard left the room. The other man stayed to sign the tab, but as Clint went over his mental preparations for the last time a livid, beat-up man stumbled into the room, yelling in angry French. He lifted his gun and cocked it.

Clint felt panic penetrate the suddenly small space as anxious whispers and angry murmurings filled the room.

"Widow, we have a situation," he muttered. "You'll have a little longer than we thought to dig around that car, because Degard's men aren't letting anyone out."

A short, balding man stood from his table and looked the guard deliberately in the eye, speaking gravely in French. The guard snarled a reply. Clint was really starting to wish he understood the language. Without batting an eyelash at the guard's threatening tones, the balding man strode purposefully towards the door. He had not taken four steps when a shot rang out and he collapsed to the floor, dark red blood oozing across his crisp white shirt from his shoulder.

In that single moment, the room went from deathly silent to raging, blind panic. Chairs tumbled to the floor and delicate wineglasses shattered in fragments across tables. The beautiful, well-mannered people were suddenly pushing and shoving at each other, vainly attempting to find a way out. Screams and sobbing and gunshots filled the air.

Then somehow, Clint heard his name above it all.

"I will find you, Hawkeye!" It was the French guard, raving mindlessly.

"I've had enough of this," Clint muttered, and jumped on top of a table, shooting the guard without another second's intervention.

Suddenly, Clint was the sole focus of the remaining enemy's gunfire. He jumped behind the table and sent two arrows simultaneously into a couple of the TAC team members, then two more found their marks in the sniper and another guard.

A young girl in a royal blue gown that had been all in one piece at some point joined Clint behind the table, sobbing. She spoke in rapid-fire French, tumbling over her words and hiccupping frequently. "Aidez moi, s'il vous plait," she begged, and Clint understood. He patted her arm awkwardly.

"It's okay," he promised. "I'll get you out." He raised his bow and fired three more shots in quick succession, each arrow finding its mark.

He then nocked an exploding arrow, jumped up on the table once more, and sent it flying into one of the closed doors. The man guarding it was killed instantly, and the glass door splintered and showered into dust on the floor.

"Go!" Clint urged, pulling the girl to her feet and shoving her towards the door. As a sea of panicked people pressed towards the exit, Clint spotted the new owner of Degard's invention scrambling along with the flow, the briefcase clutched tightly in both hands.

Clint kicked himself. He still had to retrieve the invention to take back to S.H.I.E.L.D. Quickly, he finished off the remaining two members of the TAC team and sprinted after the man.

Catching up to him outside, Clint hooked his elbow around the man's neck in a headlock, and tried to tug the briefcase from the man's iron grasp with his other hand.

With unexpected agility, the Frenchman twisted out of Clint's grip and turned quickly, using the momentum to swing the briefcase full force at Clint's head. Clint staggered backwards, his head throbbing and ears ringing loudly. His vision darkened, and he pressed he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes for a second, trying to clear it. When he opened them again the Frenchman was speeding away in a sleek black car.

Frustrated, Clint hurried with lurching steps to his S.H.I.E.L.D.-owned car, fumbled with the keys and finally got the door open. He fell into the driver's seat, panting.

"Status, Natasha," he said, breathing heavily. "Our man is gone with the target and we need to track him." Silence greeted his question, followed by a waterfall of stuttering static.

Clint sighed in aggravation, turning the key in the ignition forcefully. Of course, the comms would be down. But Natasha had been searching the buyer's car, so she should have been close. Clint scanned the area with his sharp eyes. Most of the crowd had cleared, but Natasha was nowhere near the parking lot. Then a thought struck him, and he froze. The last time he'd heard from Natasha, she'd been searching the buyer's car, when he'd told her she needed to clear out. She hadn't responded to him that time, either. The last time she'd actually spoken to him was before the fight inside the restaurant had broken out. Concerned, Clint reached out again.

"Natasha? Where are you? Can you hear me?" Again, white static filled his ears. Natasha was still in the Frenchman's car. Clint floored it.

- 10 minutes ago -

"Transaction complete," Clint announced over the comms. "Status, Widow?"

"Finally convinced the chauffer to tell me where the buyer's car is," Natasha said, stalking towards the black vehicle. She stopped beside it and stuck the key she'd gotten from the chauffer into the lock. "Breaching the vehicle right… now."

"Don't take too long," Clint said warningly. "Degard's buyer will be returning to his car soon."

"Roger that," Natasha said, sliding into the driver's seat.

The inside of the car was surprisingly clean. Natasha checked under the seats, behind the visor flap, and in the console, but found nothing save a pair of non-prescription glasses and a few French coins. Then she checked the glove box.

Inside was the car registration manual, which issued the car as belonging to an A. Delacroix. Aha. So the buyer's name is Delacroix.

Just then, Clint's voice sounded in her ear. "Widow, we have a situation," he said in a hushed, rapid tone. "You'll have a little longer than we thought to dig around that car, because Degard's men aren't letting anyone out."

Good, Natasha thought. She'd have a little extra time than she had counted on, she would be able to check the backseat. Natasha got out of the car and slammed the door behind her, then opened the door to the backseat and slid in, just as frantic screams and gunshots erupted from the building.

Natasha sat on the floor, reaching under the front seats and rifling through the back console. She hadn't been searching for too long when she heard an explosion from the building, and the panicked masses spilled out into the parking lot. Knowing it would look suspicious to be rifling through the back of a car, Natasha shut the door, obscuring herself from view as people raced past towards their own automobiles. When the door closed, a slip of paper fell out of the door pocket and onto the pristine floor. Frowning, Natasha picked it up.

On the front were the words Ombre du Diable – Shadow of the Devil, or Devil's Shadow, and under the words was an image: a black tear-shaped sign with a small white circle in the center. The Yang symbol. Natasha turned the card over and found that the back was covered in French words.

Two dozen large-scale H-bombs, it read. Pay to the order of the Devil's Shadow. Natasha stopped reading and thought for a minute. 'The Devil's Shadow' again. Could that be the name of the underground organization that wanted their hands on Degard's invention, and who had been making purchases of hundreds of dangerous weapons in the past several months? Fury had wanted information on the French association, now they had some to give him.

Natasha was about to get out of the car, but at that moment, the driver's side door opened, and Delacroix slid into the seat, throwing his briefcase across to the passenger seat.

Natasha froze. She couldn't get out of the car without him noticing, and Fury had specifically told them not to let the organization – 'Devil's Shadow' – find out that S.H.I.E.L.D. was onto them. It crossed her mind that she could kill Delacroix, but once the other members of Ombre du Diable realized he was dead, that would arouse their suspicion, too. They had to think they were in the clear. So Natasha sat helplessly in the backseat of the car, wracking her brains for a way to get out, as Delacroix gunned the engine and sped out into the street at top speed.

As the car moved out into the main roads, a thought flashed through Natasha's mind. Maybe this was a good thing. Delacroix was taking her unknowingly to the heart of the organization, and once she got inside, she would have a chance to search for more on Devil's Shadow. At this thought, she relaxed a little and leaned against the side door.

Suddenly, Clint's voice came over the comm, startling her. "Status, Natasha," he said, sounding a little winded. "Our man is gone with the target and we need to track him."

The noise, right in her ear, was so clearly audible to her that it seemed impossible that Delacroix couldn't hear it. But he continued driving steadily, not hearing a sound.

But she knew that he would be able to hear her if she spoke, however quietly. So, hardly daring to breathe lest she attract the man's attention, Natasha raised her hand to her ear and tapped against the comm's audio sensor, which she knew would create a short burst of static on Clint's end. And she began tapping in Morse code.

IM HERE IN DELACROIXS CAR, she spelled out CAN YOU HEA

That was all she managed to tap out before she heard Clint's voice again.

"Natasha? Where are you?" he asked, sounding tense and worried. "Can you hear me?"

YES IM HERE DO YOU COPY

Clint didn't respond, and Natasha bit her lip in frustration. He wasn't receiving. Desperately, Natasha continued tapping, falling into a pattern.

Dash-dot-dash-dot-dot-dash-dot-dot-dot-dot-dash-dot-dash-

CLINTCLINTCLINTCLINT

Clint sped down the streets of Clermont-Ferrand, searching for the black car that he was sure held Natasha. After a full two minutes of driving around aimlessly, Clint started to lose hope. If only the comms would work. But his comm was still feeding sputtering static into his ear. Exasperated, Clint yanked it out and tossed it onto the passenger seat. He exhaled heavily, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently as he stopped at a light. Suddenly, he realized that he was subconsciously tapping out his own name in Morse code. He snorted in disbelief, stilling his fingers and pressing on the gas as the light changed to green.

Where are you, Natasha? He thought anxiously, glancing down at the broken comm in the passenger seat. Slowly, realization dawned on him and he snatched up the comm, his fingers slipping awkwardly as he hurriedly fit it in his ear.

CLINTCLINTCL –

"Natasha?" he interrupted. "Morse code. I'm so sorry I didn't realize sooner, I'm so stupid... are you okay?"

YES IM OK, Natasha replied hurriedly, relief flooding through her.

"Thank God," Clint breathed. "Nat, where the heck are you?"

DELACROIXS CAR, she answered.

"Delacroix?" Clint frowned. "Oh, the buyer. Can you give me some street names?"

Carefully, Natasha propped herself up and twisted her head to look out the window. Outside, it was dark and rainy, and the window was sprinkled with light precipitation. But she managed to catch sight of a street sign through the dimness, and noted that they were headed west. So she ducked her head out of view again and tapped to Clint: WEST ON PIERRE BLVD

"Um…" Clint glared out the window. "I have no idea where that is. Hold on." He tapped the street name into the car's GPS system and in a second, had a route to Pierre Boulevard. "Great," he moaned. "I'm seven minutes out. Sit tight, Nat, I'm on my way."

COPY, she responded simply, closing her eyes.

After a moment of silence, Clint spoke again. "Are you injured, Tash? Does he know you're in there?"

HE DOESNT, she tapped back. SCUFFLE WITH GUARD NOTHING SERIOUS. After a second, she added ARE YOU.

"Nah," Clint replied. "My head got a bad first impression from a forced introduction with Delacroix's briefcase, but it's fine. I'm fine." He turned onto Pierre Boulevard. "Got any idea what's in that thing, per chance?"

NO, Natasha answered, grinning at the description of his injury despite the gravity of the situation. BAD TIME TO MAKE ME LAUGH SHUT UP.

Clint giggled mischievously. "Hey, I can't help it that I'm a naturally funny guy. Are you still on Pierre?"

Natasha arched her back to look out the window opposite. NO AN EMPTY ROAD DONT SEE SIGN.

"That's okay, I'll keep an eye out," Clint assured, scanning passing roads carefully.

Suddenly, Delacroix's car rolled to a stop, and he rolled his window down. Natasha tensed and glanced up at him, just in time to see him flash an ID at an armed man who stood outside the window. Then, there was a grating creak as a tall, chain-link fence was opened, and Delacroix pulled through.

IM IN, she informed Clint, as she tried to figure out where 'in' was.

"Wait, what?" Clint asked apprehensively. "In what? Delacroix's organization's HQ?"

YES DEVILS SHADOW, she replied, hoping he would catch on. The faint glow of security lights faded as the car pulled into a high-ceilinged building full of cars – a garage. Delacroix parked the car, grabbed the briefcase, and got out. Natasha waited cautiously, wanting to be sure he was gone before acting.

"He's gone," she told Clint, finally breaking the silence.

"Good." Clint let out a breath of air. "I can breathe easier all the sudden. So how can I get into this place?"

"I don't know," Natasha said, turning around in the small space. She carefully pulled the doorknob and found to her distress that it wouldn't open. "Oh, dang it," she growled, tugging uselessly at it. "Door's locked from the outside."

"Hold on, I found the road, I think," Clint said, turning onto it. "I'll be there in a sec."

"Okay, good," Natasha said. "There are guards –" She broke off suddenly, seeing a faint silhouette walking towards the car.

"Natasha?" Clint frowned. "Everything okay?"

Natasha didn't answer as Delcroix approached the driver's side door. Then, a small tube poked through the slightly cracked window, and a humming noise filled the air. A small breeze entered the car, accompanied by a sweet, pungent odor – chloroform.

He knew she was there.

Panicked, Natasha kicked against the sturdy door. "Clint," she said tensely, jangling the doorknob again.

"What is it?"

A faint mist touched Natasha's face, and immediately, a wave of drowsiness swept over her. "He's chloroforming me," she managed to say, pounding on the bulletproof window with her fists. Delacroix lounged casually against the car, looking at his wristwatch.

"WHAT?" Clint almost veered off the road. "Hold your breath. Shoot out the window. Try something Nat, but you gotta stay awake! Talk to me, Natasha, stay awake…"

His voice was fading, and the edges of Natasha's vision darkened as confusion clouded her mind. She stopped hitting the window, wondering why she'd been doing it in the first place, and leaned her head against it, taking deep breaths. Unfortunately, this only served to make her more drowsy. Disoriented, Natasha slumped down on the bench.

"Clint," she whimpered. "Clint… please…" Then everything went black.

Slowly, Natasha's consciousness returned. She frowned and blinked quickly, trying to clear the fog from her brain, then lifted her head.

She was tied to a chair in a large room, the tight bonds digging into her wrists and ankles. At the other side of the room, a man stood with his back to her, sharpening a long, silver knife.

Instantly, Natasha started preparing herself. She'd been in this same situation enough times to know the signs of an impending interrogation.

Her mind finally clear, Natasha flexed her muscles, testing the bonds. They were impossibly tight. Upon further inspection, Natasha found to her dismay that her chair was bolted to the floor.

Hearing her movements, the man turned and smiled sardonically at her. "The lovely maiden awakens at last," he said in French. Natasha glared at him.

The man walked towards her, fingering the knife delicately. "What is your name, my dear?" he asked in mock politeness.

Natasha ignored him.

The man raised his eyebrows. "Nothing? Well, no matter. I'm sure I will have all the answers I need soon enough." He smiled threateningly.

"Let's start out simple. My name is Alexandre Lamont. I am the founder of Devil's Shadow. Under whose authority are you working?"

Natasha left her gaze focused on the floor.

Lamont grabbed her chin, forcing him to look him in the eye. "Under whose authority are you working?" he repeated forcefully, his nails digging into her cheeks.

Natasha stared levelly back at him.

"Are you from Shield?" he demanded. "Come now, there's no need to make this difficult." He gently ran the cold tip of the knife across her jawline.

He studied her face. "Still nothing?" he said. "Well then, I'm afraid you leave me no choice."

Lamont crouched in front of Natasha and found the rip in her skirt, then pulled it aside to reveal her leg. Carefully, he lowered the blade of the knife to the skin just above her knee.

Natasha took a deep breath.

Then, a burning pain materialized in her leg as Lamont made a shallow, angled incision. Natasha grunted, but otherwise, remained impassive.

"So, my dear," Lamont said. He moved the blade up a little and made an identical cut just behind the first. "Why were you in Delacroix's car?"

Natasha leaned her head back and closed her eyes, biting her tongue as Lamont repeated the process up her thigh.

"How did you get in his car?" he persisted.

Natasha could feel sweat forming on her brow, and blood dripped down the sides of her leg, but she said nothing.

Lamont threw down his knife in frustration. "Answer me!" he yelled, a vein pulsing in his temple.

At Natasha's continued silence, he stood up, leaning aggressively toward her. "When I ask a question," he snarled, his face contorted into an ugly scowl, "I expect to be answered."

Then, out of nowhere, his fist made contact with the side of her face; once, twice, three times… Natasha lost count as a dull, throbbing pain erupted in her head.

Finally, Lamont stopped, panting from the exertion. "A stubborn one, are you?" he growled. "Good. I like a challenge."

Then he grabbed his knife again and sunk it into her shoulder.

Excruciating pain shot through her entire arm, and a cry escaped her lips.

A satisfied smile stretched across Lamont's mouth. "Now tell me," he said. "Who sent you? Shield? Hydra? Who is interested in the doings of Devil's Shadow?" He dragged the knife down to her elbow as he spoke, and Natasha couldn't stop the groans and yells she emitted as he did so. But still, she didn't answer or tell Lamont to stop.

"Answer me!" Lamont shouted again.

Natasha didn't speak.

Lamont threw down his knife again, seething.

"You know I could do this all day," he said. "However, I have more important things to do, so it looks like I'll have to do something to speed this along. We tried the easy way," he added. "Now we'll try the hard way."

Natasha closed her eyes again.

Lamont crossed the room, and came back holding a syringe. "Delacroix, you know," he said. "He's an inventor, quite a genius. He does all kinds of experiments on the human nervous system."

He held up the syringe. "This is his newest discovery. 'The Sharpener,' he calls it. A drug that's designed to heighten the function of the receptors far past their natural capacity. So pain would be tripled, maybe even quadrupled." Lamont smiled as though he was discussing the weather at a dinner party.

"Just picked up the formula today, in fact." He nodded towards a familiar briefcase that was propped beside the door. "I had my technicians create it while you were unconscious. Don't suppose you'd like to be the first person to test it out, would you?"

Natasha rolled her eyes up to the ceiling, breathing heavily.

Lamont stepped forward and stuck the needle into her shoulder. Then he emptied the vial, and the white, cloudy liquid poured into her vein.

Lamont tossed the empty syringe across the room and watched her face closely. "How do you feel?" he asked softly.

At first, Natasha felt only a tingling sensation in her shoulder. It faded, and nothing happened for a moment. Then, gradually, all of her injuries seemed to grow worse.

The restraining ropes cut into her so tightly that they seemed as sharp as knives. The bruises on her face began pulsing. And all of her cuts seared like acid had been poured onto them.

Natasha moaned in pain as her agony increased. Sweat poured down her face, and she began thrashing hopelessly. Lamont smiled.

"Now," he said, picking up the knife. "Tell me how this feels."

- 10 minutes ago -

"Talk to me, Natasha, stay awake!" Clint commanded, squeezing the wheel in frustration. He felt helpless.

"Clint," Natasha slurred. "Clint… please…"

Clint clenched his jaw and pressed down more firmly on the gas pedal. It didn't take long for him to reach an old factory, guarded by an eight-foot chain-link fence. As it was the only building he could see, Clint assumed that this was the facility of Ombre du Diable and drove past it to secret the car off the road in some tall overgrowth a quarter mile away from the building. He grabbed his bow and a quiver of arrows from the back seat and took off running.

He slowed when he reached the fence, intending to scale it. But a low humming sound reached his ears when he stepped closer to it, and he realized with dismay that it was charged with electricity. Quickly, Clint ran alongside the fence, staying low to the ground, until he reached the front entrance. He ducked behind some overgrowth to contemplate his next move.

Suddenly, he heard the whisper of a sigh in his ear as Natasha awoke. He was tempted to ask her where she was, to make sure she was alright. But other than the slight humming of the electric fence and the crunch of gravel beneath the guards' boots, it was perfectly silent, and Clint didn't want to risk the guards discovering his presence. Clint risked a glance over the tall grass past the chain-link fence, making note of the number and position of the guards, the situation of the security camera, the location of the transformer full of important wires and the distance that it was from the fence, all in half a second. He could hear a male voice through the comms, but whoever it was was speaking in French so he blocked it out and focused on breaching the gate.

First, he quickly took out the surveillance camera. While the guards shouted in French, trying to figure out where the arrow had come from, Clint selected an arrow from the quiver, designed to be light and speedy and shoot from minute accuracy from far distances. Then he readied his bow and shot two, one right after the other, through the fence, killing the two guards soundlessly.

Clint took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The next part was going to be tricky. He selected two blunt arrows and fitted both on the bowstring. Then, after aiming carefully, he released them. They flew through the fence and hit the hinges of the electrical box at an angle. The door was knocked to the ground, displaying a confusing tangle of wires beneath. Clint squinted at the wires, then followed a red one from the box to the fence. That was the one that powered the fence, the one that he needed to target.

He pulled out another unique arrow. This specific one was designed to sense the object it was embedded in and the surroundings of that object, and set off a limited explosion that would only destroy the target. So Clint had to make sure he hit the correct wire and that the arrow would wouldn't slip and hit the transformer instead, which would take out a significant percentage of the facility's power and alert those inside.

Clint took another deep breath and let it out calmly. At the last second, he turned off his comm. Then, without hesitation, he fired the arrow through the fence. It hit the red wire squarely and after a few seconds, there was a small explosion and the fence shut down. Not wasting any more time, Clint clambered up the fence and cleared it, then ran as fast as he could towards the building. There was only one guard at the door and Clint didn't even break stride as he shot him through the head. He tore up to the door, then opened it noiselessly and slipped inside.

He found himself inside a massive hangar. Three small jets were stored inside, great metal monsters in the middle of nowhere that no one knew about, shining sleek and dark in the pooling moonlight. Ombre du Diable was bigger than he'd realized.

Clint raced through the room, heading for a small door at the opposite end. He skidded to a stop in front of it and paused, remembering that he should turn his comm back on. The sound of Natasha moaning quietly in pain filled his ears, blended with the rough voice of a Frenchman speaking angrily. He opened the door softly to an empty hallway, a wall of doors on the right side. He passed each one slowly, listening for the Frenchman inside.

Suddenly, a tremendous burst of static filled his comm and Natasha grunted in pain. The sound was repeated, over and over, right next to Natasha's comm, feeding directly into Clint's. The man was punching her face mercilessly. Clint set his jaw, hate welling up in him for the man. His slow walk changed to a quick jog as he passed room after silent room. The last door opened into a stairwell, and Clint took the steps three at a time, reaching the next level as the pounding ceased. He wanted to say something to comfort Natasha, to let her know that he was on his way, but it was obvious that she was in an interrogation, and as she had her own way of coping mentally, Clint didn't want to distract her.

The next level was laid out exactly like the first. Clint started down the hallway. His heart skipped a beat. He could hear a voice, coming from the third door down. He approached it cautiously, trying to decide if he should enter without knowing how many hostiles were inside. But at that moment, Natasha gave a cry so full of pain that Clint lost his head and kicked the door down.

Natasha wasn't inside. But she continued to gasp and groan as Clint stared daggers into the apprehensive man inside. With Natasha's pain fueling his anger, Clint strode forward, ready to crush the man's skull. But he had come to his senses and taken a defensive stance, and he deflected Clint's blow as it came crashing down on him. Natasha's cries subsided and turned into quiet, drawn-out whimpers. Clint threw another punch, this time nailing the man's jaw, hard. The man yelped as it dislocated. He crumpled, cradling his face, and Clint took the opportunity to knock him out cold. It was then that he noticed that the room was full of explosives. So, naturally, he left one of his remote-controlled explosive arrows on the floor before leaving, dragging the guard with him and locking the door from the inside.

Clint then removed the man's key ring from his belt, and shot him with a dendrotoxic arrow to ensure that he stayed unconscious for a while longer. Through his comm, the man who was interrogating Natasha seemed to be finishing up a monologue. But his voice gradually amplified in Clint's ear as the man drew closer to Natasha. There was a short silence.

Then suddenly, she was screaming her lungs hoarse. A surge of adrenaline hit Clint like a tsunami, and his jog turned into a full-out run. He had never heard her scream, really scream, in his life. It was a terrible sound, because it stood for mindless, inhuman pain. Her pain. She was screaming at the man to stop, promising to tell him everything he wanted to know.

Clint wanted to feel angry at whoever was hurting her, but numb panic consumed him and he could feel nothing else, think nothing but that he had to stop her pain. He swept the second level and cleared the steps to the third in two seconds. He yanked open the door and turned his comm off. He could still hear her. He followed her cries to another door and burst into the room.

Not quite sure how it had gotten there, Clint found himself aiming an arrow directly at the man's forehead. The only thing that stopped him from letting it loose was the fact that the Frenchman held a knife dripping with blood pressed to Natasha's neck, and she was shaking with pain as its sharp edge bit into her.

"Let. Her. Go." Clint's voice was made of steel and ice.

A slow, sardonic smile spread across the man's face, and without taking his eyes off Clint, he muttered something in French to Natasha.

Natasha winced. "Drop your weapon," she said quietly, her words slurring together.

Clint stared back, unmoving.

The man's face darkened, and he snarled angrily in French and tightened his hold on Natasha, eliciting a sharp gasp from her.

"Drop your weapon… or I'll cut her throat," she panted.

Clint's gaze hardened, but he refused to comply. "I can blow this while place sky-high in one second if you don't let the lady go."

Natasha quietly translated Clint's statement. The man spoke again, and Natasha said, "But you won't will you? Because you don't want… don't want her to get hurt." She dropped her head forward slightly against the blade in exhaustion.

Clint hesitated, and the man's smile grew larger. He put his lips next to Natasha's ear to whisper something else to her.

Natasha's head jerked back and slammed her captor in the face. Instantly, he crumpled in a head on the floor, out cold. Natasha leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes.

Clint lowered his bow and ran to her, skidding to a stop and dropping to his knees in front of her. There was blood everywhere. He couldn't see the wounds and he didn't know what to do.

"Natasha," he groaned, afraid to touch her. "Natasha…" his voice broke a little.

"I'm okay, Clint," she mumbled. She sounded weary but determined. "We have to get out of here. I need you to rip my dress and wrap my arm, my leg…" Her voice trailed off, and she rolled her head back and forth restlessly.

Quickly, Clint ripped off the hem of her evening gown and bound up the arm that looked worse, tying it as gently as possible. "We have to get you out of here," he said fretfully, tearing off another long piece of the lower part of her skirt.

Natasha winced as he carefully wrapped her limbs, turning her head away and groaning slightly. "Okay," she said when he was done. "Cut me loose."

Clint grabbed the fallen knife and sliced it across her bonds. Her hands and feet were turning purple, her captor had tied her so tightly, and she groaned with relief when he pulled the ropes away.

"Alright, let's go," she breathed. She stood shakily and took a step forward, then stumbled and would have fallen if Clint had not caught her.

"Not yet," he said quickly, helping her back into the chair. "You need to rest. Just sit still while I deal with this creep and then we'll figure stuff out."

"No, no, I'm fine, we should go," Natasha said. But she didn't sound convincing, nor did she attempt to stand again.

Clint grabbed the discarded ropes and made quick work of securing the man tightly. "What did he do to you, Tasha?" he asked at last.

"We'll talk about it later," Natasha said. She stood up again and walked unsteadily towards the door. "Come on, the guards are going to realize you're here soon." She reached down and picked up the briefcase.

"Let me," Clint said, pulling it from her loose hold. "Are you sure you can do this?"

"Yeah," Natasha said. "You know the way out?"

"'Course." Clint opened the door. "We'll go slowly. And I want to help you, Nat, but honestly I'm afraid to touch you. So you just lean on me, okay? I can help you."

Natasha nodded and put her arm around Clint's shoulder, leaning heavily on him. Then, slowly, they left the room.

The cocking of dozens of guns greeted them, and someone commanded them to surrender.

"Tell them that I have a bomb on the second floor and I'll set it off if they don't clear out," Clint murmured, lifting his bow with the detonator button on it for all to see.

Natasha straightened and shouted authoritatively in French. Fear showed in the guards' faces at the sight of the detonator, and they willingly stood down. Frantically, they scattered and began running for various exits.

"Well, that worked," Clint commented dryly. With no further opposition, they were able to make it out to the car quickly. As they drove away from the building, Clint hit the detonator on his bow without a second thought, and a second later, an explosion rocked the countryside.

"There's one less threat Shield has to worry about," Clint commented grimly.

Natasha leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. "We still have those hotel reservations, right?" she asked after a moment.

Clint cracked a smile. "Yeah. Clermont-Ferrand Hôtel. We've got a first-class suite with a great view."

"Great," Natasha said tiredly. A minute passed, then she said, "Oh, I found out what Degard's invention is."

Clint glanced at her nervously. "I don't like that that sounds like the voice of experience."

"Darn right," Natasha muttered. "So, it's this drug – the Sharpener, I think he called it – and it's supposed to…" She paused, sighed, and ran a hand through her hair. "Supposed to heighten your senses to something, so you feel everything more strongly." She looked at Clint. "And, yes, Lamont used it on me. Then he started cutting me again and…" Her voice trailed off and she gazed pensively out the windshield.

Clint set his jaw. He couldn't help feeling that he'd let her down, that this was somehow his fault. He was supposed to always be there for her, to watch her back. He'd made a promise to himself when he'd saved her life to keep on saving her life until the end of his. Well, apparently he sucked at keeping promises.

"That's horrible," he said finally. "No one in their right mind would do that to a person. We need to make sure Fury destroys that formula."

Natasha simply nodded, ending the conversation. They reached the hotel about ten minutes later. Clint parked the car and got their suitcases out of the back. Natasha started to take hers from the back, but Clint looked doubtfully at her. "I can do it," she said, grabbing the handle. They went inside, got their key, and went up to their room.

Clint flicked on the light when they entered and tossed his suitcase and the briefcase containing the files on the Sharpener in the corner of the room.

Natasha opened her suitcase and pulled out a change of clothes. "I'm going to change and wash up," she said tiredly, walking into the bathroom.

Several minutes later, she emerged, having changed into a tank top and shorts. She'd taken off her makeup, and her hair was down from its elaborate, disheveled updo.

Natasha was frowning and picking at the makeshift bandage on her arm. "Clint," she said. "This is stupid, but – I can't get it off. It hurts too much. Can you help?" she plopped down on the couch and held out her arm.

"It's not stupid," Clint replied, carefully unwrapping it to reveal a deep gash that ran from her shoulder to her elbow. He stared at it wordlessly for a moment. "I'll help you stitch that up," he said. "But you're going to need a lot of anesthetics. What with the Sharpener and all, it's gonna hurt worse than normal."

"Okay," Natasha agreed. "We have painkillers in the first-aid kit, right?"

"Yeah, I'll get it." Clint crossed the room to dig through their baggage and returned with the painkillers and the French file on the Sharpener. "Here," he said, handing it to her. "I thought you might want to take a look through this. It might help distract from the pain."

"Right," Natasha said, forcing a smile. "Thanks." She took the syringe, held her breath, and stuck it into her shoulder.

She flinched and whimpered a little when the needle pierced her skin, then administered the proper dosage and tossed the syringe away.

"Okay," she said, breathing heavily. "Let's get this over with." She picked up the file and purposefully opened it.

After cleaning the surrounding area, Clint carefully took her arm and began making small stitches along the length of the wound. "Find anything interesting?" he asked after a while, trying to keep her thoughts preoccupied.

"Um…" Natasha glared determinedly at the page in her hand. "Apparently, he – Degard – developed the drug based on the condition –" She broke off and let out a hissing noise as Clint made another stitch. "The condition Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy."

"So, even the slightest touch is intensely painful for you right now?" Clint frowned and paused in his stitching.

"Um, not necessarily," Natasha said. "This drug literally strengthens the receptors, so any pain, even a scratch, feels worse. But as long as the contact wouldn't normally be painful, it doesn't hurt."

"Oh, okay." Clint resumed, finishing up the last stitch. "So it's kind of like an amplifier. The good things feel better and the bad things feel worse."

"Exactly," Natasha said. "It just enhances whatever I'm feeling."

Clint snipped the suture. "That must be kind of horrible."

"Yeah," Natasha confirmed. She looked down at her arm. "Okay, so… I'm not sure if you'll be able to stitch up my leg, because he cut it at an angle. But we should at least change the bandage. Sucks, because the gold sparkly one is pretty," she added jokingly.

Clint gave a small smile. "Yeah, I meant to tell you that you were a total knockout in that number." He gently unwrapped the bloodied remains of the dress from the thin slices over her knee.

Natasha glared at the injury. "Guy really got creative with his blade," she commented. "Maybe he took classes." She said the last part sarcastically. It was a habit of hers, hiding what she felt behind morbid humor.

"Yeah," Clint replied absentmindedly, focused on dressing the wound. He cleaned it carefully, then applied some salve to a bandage and wrapped her leg. "There," he said when he finished. "Got anything else?"

"No. I mean, he cut my back a little, but it's not deep. And it's not bleeding anymore." She twisted her shoulders slightly and pulled her top aside to show him the mark: a cut in the shape of the Yang symbol.

Clint sucked in his breath. As time went on, he was feeling more and more incompetent, and that everything that had happened was his own careless fault. If he hadn't decided that they should track Delacroix instead of Degard. If he hadn't agreed that they split up. If he hadn't let her snoop around in Delacroix's car. If he had realized she was using Morse sooner… if he had done any of these things, Natasha would not have been so cruelly tortured.

"That's sick and inhumane," Clint said with quiet force. "I'll get it all fixed and cleaned up for you, Tasha."

"I did wash it in the bathroom," Natasha assured him. "I think it's fine now – unless you think it needs stitches?" she added apprehensively.

"Um…" Clint hesitated. "I don't see how I could stitch it if I wanted to. Maybe I could just glue it?"

"That would probably be best," Natasha agreed. As Clint went back to the first-aid kit, she turned sideways and pulled her hair over her shoulder, exposing the injury.

Clint returned with the medical glue and applied it carefully, holding her opposite shoulder gently to keep it steady.

Natasha's back tensed a little as the glue touched the cut, but other than that she held still. After a moment, she turned her head. "Clint… I can tell you're upset. But I really am fine, okay? The anesthesia helps a lot."

Clint sighed, putting finishing touches on the glue job. "I know, I just…" He hesitated, trying to formulate his thoughts, absently twisting a lock of her hair. "I just really wish you hadn't had to go through all that."

Natasha closed her eyes. "Me, too," she said quietly. "But it's all over now, so you don't have to worry about it."

"Natasha," said Clint seriously. "I promise that I'll never let you go through something like that again." He clenched his teeth, deeply meaning every word that he said. He twisted the cap back onto the glue and gently took Natasha's hand in his own. "I'm always gonna be there for you, okay? I got your back, Nat."

A hint of a smile touched her lips, and she lifted her head for a better view of his face.

"And I got yours."

Thanks for reading! And look for the sequel to come out within the next couple weeks. :)