Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or any specific plot lines of movies/comics/etc. Also, lyrics are not mine.

Author's Note: If you've never listened to Hugo, you absolutely should. After discovering his 99 Problems, I then found "Bread and Butter," which was absolutely the inspiration for this fic. Thus the chapter titles are all lyrics from said song.

Also, as I am posting this under the movie, this story will be strictly movie verse. I am playing with the idea of writing a canon piece as well...we'll see.

Chapter 1: She tastes like midnight; she tastes like wine.

Natalia, Black Widow, whatever her name was now, sat at the table, her green (for today) eyes baring into the fat bureaucrat across from her. A serene smile was plastered onto her features, and her cheek muscles hurt from the strain, but she found the ache comforting. It was like an old friend, reminding her of why, in just a few hours time, she would be walking away from this bloated corpse. The thought made her genuinely smile; the man was a corpse, and he just hadn't caught up yet.

She snaked the toe of her heel up the man's calf while she laughed at the joke he must have just said. She had to assume it was a joke, since the bastard was nearly choking in mirth. She vaguely hoped he succeeded.

He recovered. Damn.

There was a slight pull, though, a tingling sensation that she had had all night. It had been bugging her since she took to the street earlier in the evening, when the sun was just falling behind the buildings. It was like the very tips of someone's fingers tracing her spine, sending an involuntarily shudder through her.

She was being followed, she knew.

So while her date – target – was doubled over, she took a second to scan the room. Nothing amiss. Drunk men and their hired women were surrounding them. Her concern was swiftly giving way to anger at the audacity someone had to send a pup after her.

The man offered her a cigarette from a stack of them arrayed prettily inside a gold box. Her fingers wrapped around one, carefully designed to make him think of those fingers around another object, and pulled it out, sealing it within her mouth with her full red lips. The man licked his own lips, as he leaned forward, quite a task for one of his size, to light the end for her.

When all was lit, she brushed her fingers over his hand with a wink and leaned back. She took a quick look around again, now more certain that she was being watched. Still seeing nothing, she focused her attention on the time. It was nearing 1am; surely this barrel of lard was ready to get a move on.

Black Widow stifled a yawn and stretched against her chair, arching her back against the wood, making her breasts in her barely-there dress more prominent. She saw with satisfaction that tiny beads of sweat had developed on the man's brow. He stood, struggling to fight secure footing, muttered something to her, and she took his arm with a grateful smile.

Good, she thought, I can get this over with and find the stupid asshole that decided to follow me.

The pair made their way up the grand staircase in the center of the room, the man panting with the exertion, and Black Widow impatiently slowing her pace to accommodate. The hallway above them was covered in a thick carpet that silenced their footfalls, as they approached the suite that was awaiting them. There were guards posted outside, of course, but the man waved them away. One of them began to protest, but he followed orders, regardless.

Black Widow smiled at that; she was so much like this guard. She would simply bow her head and follow orders. Or at least, it had been that way. Something had been happening to her, though she couldn't put her finger on it. There had been a time when she was so focused on a mission that – oh, speaking of which, the door was open.

She stepped inside daintily, scanning the room. Sparse was not a word that came to mind. The walls were decorated with Renaissance-inspired paintings, sporting curvy women half naked. There was a sitting area with plush chairs, and the bed was a four-poster behemoth with curtains pulled away to reveal the deep crimson throw and matching pillows.

If she wanted to, she could stay in the room over night. If she wanted to. But she didn't want to. She couldn't remember the last time she had desired such creature comforts over the security of knowing every way in and out of her own quarters.

A grubby hand was snaking up her thigh. She bit back her gag reflex and looked at the man with a smile, "Need to freshen up."

He smiled back, a grotesque mask of flesh mimicking her own movements.

And then there was that feeling again. She needed a minute to find some more answers. The bathroom was no less opulent, with gold fittings, marble sinks, and a tub that could fit half the population on Monaco. And, not surprising, there was a window in here.

She knew it was a bad idea; she knew it was unprofessional, but she was feeling bold, so she stood right in the window, peering out.

"Where are you, little hound dog?" she whispered to the empty room.

With a final scan of the surrounding area, she turned and went about the rest of her job. One-on-one inside the room with no guards meant that she could wrestle the blob of a man into submission, then kill him. But she found that poison worked just as well, sometimes more quickly, and there was definitely less mess.

She hadn't been sent on this assignment to send a message, anyway. This man was not important or well known in her circles or the public, and he had no important information. He had probably failed to follow through on a bargain, or maybe he had fucked somebody's wife, though she found that hard to believe. At the end of the night, they wanted him dead, and Black Widow was the woman hired to make sure that that became a fact.

She opened her modified Widow's Bite, disguised as a silver bracelet, it had only one charge for an emergency, and a compartment for nifty things like poison. She had enough, and surely the man would want another drink. Otherwise, she wasn't above simply shoving it down his throat. The though made her smile.

She gave one last look out the window, that feeling of fingers on her spine again, and suppressing a shudder, she returned to the main room.

Sure enough, the man was seated in one of the chairs, a fat cigar hanging out of his pouty lips. She nodded toward the liquor cabinet, and he grinned in response.

With a smile, she turned to make them drinks. She poured the best vodka offered into two glasses, dropping the poison into his with the ice. She watched it dissolve as she made her own drink, then turned, walking the cool glass to him, then joining him.

While he continued his conversation from earlier, she focused on watching his physiology. His brow began to bead with sweat, as he sipped on his cocktail. He began to clear his throat. She offered him some water when he did, but he waved away her suggestion. She watched his left hand clench and open repeatedly, as if trying to hold onto something that wasn't there. His eyes started to get glassy, and his words were beginning to slur.

"Can I help you to bed," she asked in a sultry and concerned voice.

He grumbled his response and held out his glass. She obliged him with a refill, listening to his sporadic breathing and involuntarily groans. She was getting impatient.

When she returned with his glass, she slid onto his lap, brushing her slender fingers through his thinning hair. Being close to him, she could feel his heart beat rise, as well as his shirt, sticky with sweat. She felt his heart beat faster, faster, and then she felt it stuttering. He pushed her away none-too-gently to pound on his chest.

She had seen this before, and it always amused her, as if the person could jump start their heart on their own, like a self-CPR. He leaned over with a strangled, wheezing cough, and his eyes looked up her, pleadingly.

He opened his mouth to instruct her to find help, but he fell off the chair, then, struggling to breath. She sighed, finding that this was all too theatrical for her, so she climbed up the bed, found a pillow, and then helped the poor man find his peace.

He struggled for a moment, amazing her at how desperately people cling even to the bleakest moments of their lives, and then he went still. She returned the pillow to the bed, and crept to the door to check outside. The guards had stayed away, as ordered. Good soldiers, she thought, as she opened the door and slid out. Just in case, she tousled her hair, wrinkled and adjusted her dress, and slipped out of her shoes, opting to carry them.

She passed the guards at the bottom of the stairs and gave them a strained, shamed smile while looking away. The guards ribbed each other with knowing grins, and remained at the bottom of the stairs, monitoring the crowd that had thinned considerably.

Once outside the building, she returned her shoes, found her car, and slid in. It bothered her that she couldn't shake the feeling of being followed, but she could do nothing about it until she was in her secure base, so she drove off.