A/N: Hi guys I'm back. Sorry it took so long to write but it's the longest chapter ever! Happy Belated Valentine's Day! Thanks to Abby, queenlmno, CarlyClaireAuthor, chills10124, and Immaduckhatingpansycake

This chapter is like ridiculously long. Its 4288 words. That's more than double my longest chapter standing.

I don't own the Avengers. If I did there would so be a Budapest film in the makings.

OH MY GOD! 97 Follows! 47 Favorites! Let's try to make that ONE HUNDRED and Fifty!

Year 3

Previously

"Hey Tasha!"

I freeze with my back to the speaker and by blood turned to ice. I would know that voice anywhere. Had he seen my exchange with Bobbi? Did he know about my father? Was he here to torment me like the others? My heart is pounding in my chest but I try to keep walking and play it off like I hadn't heard him. My feet scuttle against the ground and churn up a bit of dust as I go.

"Tasha! Wait up!" He calls again, running after me.

This time I can't keep going. He's too close and he knows I'd heard him. I stop and sigh. Pivoting on my heel, I slowly turn to face him and am greeted by his blinding grin. He's wearing a dark purple shirt and black cargo pants, apparently not caring that he is supposed to look nice for the convention. I have an odd image of that old house keeper, Loraine, trying to wrestle him into a nice tunic and then finally giving up and telling him he could look like an idiot if he wanted to. I almost laugh. His blond hair is swept up in an odd messy peek to the side, like it was half styled and half windblown. He's drenched in sweat from playing in the field for the past few hours but those beautiful shinning grey eyes still look fresh and new.

Wait….beautiful?

He stops in front of me, panting slightly. There's a trail of small dust clouds in his wake from where the running had disturbed the abused and dry ground. He's grinning like a maniac as he runs his fingers through his sweaty hair, flinging small droplets of water in my general direction. I grimace in disgust.

"What do you want Barton?" I sigh

"What? A guy can't just come up for a friendly chat?"

"No. Especially not here." I mutter to myself, eyeing a group of girls as they pass by, throwing me a dirty look. They are headed to the large pavilion in the center of the garden were all the other girls are huddled, trying to stay in the shade and keep from sweating. No one has specifically said anything, but I get the feeling I'm not welcome in there.

"I saw you talking to Bobbi earlier. Aint she somethin'?" He drawles, a slightly southern accent bleeding through. "That dress she has on today is so beautiful. She just seems to shimmer were ever she goes!"

Yeah, I think, or maybe it's just sweat.

"I heard that France is home to the city of Love. Maybe she and I could go together, like on a date and stuff. We could hold hands and walk on the beach!" He rambles. " Do they have beaches in France? I think that I would like-"

"She's something else alright!" I say just to shut him up. I roll my eyes at him. Of course they have beaches in France. I think. Your future girlfriend's one of them.

He smiles at me brightly.

"You really think so?"

Before I have the chance to answer him, an annoying and slightly whinny voice calls out from behind him. "Hey purple pants! What's taking so long? I'm dying over here!"

The call came from a small group of four boys standing separate from the others of to the side.

"Just a second Tony!" Clint calls over his shoulder. He brightens as he looks back toward me. "Hey do you want to meet my friends?"

I glance over his shoulder at the small group of boys and blanch. "Um…I really don't think-!"

He grabs my broken arm and starts to pull me toward his friends. Tears well up in my eyes as I struggle to not scream out in pain. I quickly clear my eyes and school my features as we approach the group. We pull up to a stop right in front of them and I inwardly sigh in relief as Clint's grip on my arm loosens, but he still holds it fast.

Clint pulls me forward a little bit, jarring my arm. "Guys I want you meet someone. This is Na-!

"Natasha. Natasha Romanoff." I say, cutting him off with a glare. I yank my arm out of his grasp with a wince and thrust my good hand out for a hand shake.

No one takes me up on my offer so I stand there silently, waiting for someone to do something. Finally I just let my hand fall back to my side awkwardly.

"Right." Says the boy in front of me after a long pause. He has short, close cropped black hair and a chiseled face. He looks to be about Clint's age, eleven or twelve, but was wearing a small business suit, like a junior entrepreneur. He has huge sunglasses on that are way too big for his face and a pair of red sneakers that do not match his suit. All in all he looks quite dorky but his crazy grin was one to rival Clint's. Yet somehow this boy's looks more cunning, less genuine and more….sleazy. Right off the bat I can tell this boy will be a player when he is older. "I'm Tory Stark, Prince of Puerto Rico. The pleasure is all yours, I'm sure.

Apparently I am supposed to be impressed.

"Puerto Rico?" I say confused. "But you're not Hispanic!"

He shrugs. "Back in the dark ages, Puerto Rico was a territory of the United States. After the old government was disbanded, they decided to make it an independent country instead of a state. The first king of the US appointed his head adviser, who so happened to be white, as the first king of Puerto Rico. So my ancestors and Barton's were best buds!" He says nudging Clint with his elbow. "Anyway, I don't really care. All that matters is now I get to sit around on the beach all day drinking virgin Strawberry Dackerys and getting an awesome tan."

"Oh I doubt all of them are virgin Tony" The boy standing next to him scoffs. "Hi, my name's Bruce Banner, Prince of Norway." He has blackish curly hair that runs untamed all across his face and a pair of dorky square shaped glasses that make his eyes look ten times bigger. He seems like a perfectly nice boy but he also seems very timid and wrings his hands as he speaks. He is dressed more formally than Tony or Clint, in a nice green tunic and black dress shoes. I had a feeling he wouldn't have the courage to tell Mummy "no" when getting ready, as the other boys obviously had.

I nod at him in acknowledgement, before I feel a warm and solid hand grip my shoulder. The hand spins me around and I tense, ready for an attack. I flick my wrist just so and feel the handle of one of my knives slide into my hand. The movement is almost undetectable but curse Barton and his sharp eyes for he sees and moves quickly to intervene.

"Ah! Ok, um Thor? Let's give the lady some space, Yeah?" He states, nervously inching Thor's hand off my shoulder.

I relax when he's moved away, but still keep a firm grip on my knife

The boy looks nonplused and still smiles warmly. He looks older than the other boys, 14 or so, and I could understand why he hung out with boys younger than himself. The older boys would think him strange because, indeed the boy standing in front of me is strange. He wears a giant metal plate of armor and a floor length red cape that sweeps from his shoulders. A full sized war hammer hangs from his belt and he has disgustingly long blond hair that is greasy from playing out in the sun. The kid is built like a junior body builder, though, with rippling arm muscles that look like he has a past time pumping iron. Despite the hair, he would be considered dreamy. At least, he would if I notice such things, which I obviously don't.

"Greetings my lady. I am Thor, Prince of the Britians. It is a pleasure to meet you. Tell me, Lady Natasha, do people Off many Romans were you are from? I'd imagine the slaying of such people would be an act of war." He says with a strange accent.

I raise a puzzled eye brow and another boy steps up.

"Please excuse him. He's English".

Well. That explains a lot. Those Englishmen are weird. A/N: Not really

"My name is Steve Rodgers. I'm the Prince of Canada." A/N: Ha Ha, get it? Captain America is the Prince of Canada? No? Ok.

I give him a stiff curtsy and a nod. He also seems older, perhaps Thor's age, but it's hard to tell for he's only slightly taller than I am and built like a string bean. He's also dressed up like a good little boy and has a kind, honest face. His blond hair is clipped short and, his eyes shine in the day light.

"See Nat? We're all good here. Nothing to worry about so, can you please put the knife away?" Clint asks nervously.

All the others blink in surprise as I relax the grip on my knife and pull it out completely. I sigh as I push back my sleeve and slide the knife back into it sheath, secured on my arm. As I'm pushing the sleeve back down, I hear a large bell ringing, signaling the end of the meeting. The nobles start to pour out of the compound and begin collecting their children.

"Natalia!" My father calls sharply. "Приходите!" Come

I give a short curtsy to the boys. Then I hike up my skirts past my knees and sprint to join my father. He gives me a cold and disapproving glare.

"Natalia! Do not run so! It is improper."

I will my breathing to slow, fix my skirts, hold my head up high and fall in step next to my father as the wave of royals in front of us parts like the sea. The surrounding people shoot us icy and malicious glares, but one thing keeps my spirit up.

Behind me I can hear Stark let out a low whistle.

"Dang Barton. That's some girl!"

I hear the smile in his voice as he answers.

"I know."

I am directed to the small side quarters Irene and I are sharing to get ready for tonight's evening ball in celebration of the end of the convention. My father and his throngs of servants will use his quarters. We are given an hour and a half to prepare before my father comes to check Irene's work and I know she will be punished if he is not satisfied. For her sake, we work quickly.

After much debate we settle on a deep scarlet velvet dress with long sleeves and a slight train. Before I can dress, however, there is much work to be done. Irene draws a hot bath for me and I sink into the suds gratefully. It has been a long time since I have had the luxury of a bath. Showers just don't seem to have the same luxuriousness. As I work to scrub the dirt and sweat from the yard off my skin, Irene works on my dress; ironing the skirts, arranging the hair pieces, re-sewing a seed pearl button that has come off, fixing a loose seam. We work together to wash my hair and Irene is a master at gently untangling the curls and making sure all the soap washes out. She washes my hair with an extra soap that will make it fuller and shine brighter when it dries. Then she gently combs through it again as she dries my hair.

Getting into the dress is a whole other matter. To me, it feels as if my father had the seamstresses make the dress as complicated as possible, just to make me miserable. First, Irene goes to fetch me a clean shift, which is a kind of under dress, and disposes of the one I wore earlier. Next comes the skirts. It is a thick piece made of a dozen or so layers of cloth, sewn together at the top to make one large and very poofy skirt with multiple layers. The skirts are a pail cream color like the shift and heavy, weighing at least ten pounds. It's laced up at the back, near the top and I'm synched in tightly. Over that is the actual dress its self.

I have to admit. It is beautiful. The velvet is soft and supple and it hugs at the waist to drape over the skirts just the way it should. The sleeves are long and graceful. They puff a bit at the shoulders and then fall languidly down, slowly getting larger until they are about a foot long at the end. They are perfect for hiding knives under, which is certainly what the seamstresses designed them for but alas, father has forbidden it.

The neck line is not too low, else it be inappropriate. Most women would wear a bodice atop their skirts to hold their chest, but I do not need one, not yet. I often find myself hoping to finally need a bodice, for they are excellent places to hide knives, not to mention guns. The dress makes up for it though with a neck line that is heavily incrusted with jewels. There is also lovely golden embroidery at the trim that must have taken days for multiple women to sew. A trail of seed pearl buttons start at the waist and work their way up and it takes Irene a few minutes to properly do them all up. In truth, I have never worn such a fine dress.

Next is my hair. I am still too young to pull up my hair in a net, so instead Irene parts my hair in half and dose the two sides up in plaits. Then she takes one braid and drapes it across the top of my head securing it with pins and drapes the other across the base of my head to create a braided circle of red. She leaves a strand on either side of my head that she curls further into ringlets to frame my face. Finally she secures my tiara with a few more bobby pins and steps back. She smiles at my appearance and I risk a glance at toward the mirror. I gasp.

I look… incredible.

Irene pulls me away to add final touches of makeup and adds a ruby pendent to my throat. Though my Father has forbidden it, both Irene and I agree that I should not go unarmed so I slip a garrote disguised as a bracelet on to my arm.

Just as we finish, there is a knock at the door and my father strides in. Irene curtsies deep and low until my father waves a hand at her dismissively and she exits with her head bowed, her back never facing the King. I curtsy as well, then stand looking at my shoes, as is respectful. My father circles me like a shark circling his prey, taking in my appearance and nodding approvingly. His smile makes me shiver.

"This will do. Now come. We mustn't be late."

Clint POV

I scratch at my arms under the itchy fabric of the suits sleeves. I long for the comfortable clothes I wore out in the yard. Those clothes were practical and well worn. These new clothes are not.

While Loraine was in charge of dressing me this morning, she was not for the evening preparations. Instead my mother herself came to make sure I was properly dressed and such. This was unfortunate because while Loraine will eventually give up and let me go as I please, my mother is as stubborn as an ox and Queen Maria does not take no for an answer.

We enter the grand ball room and are announced to the room. Few people pay any attention though as the ball room is already almost full and the musicians have started to play. I walk with one parent on either side of me as my parents begin to mingle with the crowd. We walk from couple to couple, my parents introducing themselves and then me. My father will start to talk policies with the man and occasionally my mother will exchanges a few words with his wife and they giggle behind their fans in the demur way of court ladies.

At first I do not mind the task. I enjoy people watching and the people of court are some of the most interesting. We see a few familiar faces, boys my age, or girls from my selection. But eventually the faces begin to bore me and I drown out the conversations.

I can feel my mother glaring at me from the corner of her eye and I remind myself to stand strait and tall. With just a look she can tell me to stand straighter, stop fidgeting or stop staring if a noble has a particularly wild headdress. The crown atop my head threatens to fall into my eyes and the epaulettes at my shoulders grow heavy, but I dare not risk mother's wrath so I stand strait and tall and let my eyes wander.

I spot all my friends sitting in a corner near the entrance to the garden. They sit laughing and watching Thor's family and all the strange looks they're receiving. Indeed they look strange in this place but we chatted with them earlier and they seem like very nice people. Well, all except Thor's younger brother, Loki. He didn't seem to like me, but I didn't take it personally. Thor told me he really didn't like anyone.

I look back at my friends and try to find a way to weasel out of my mother's grasp. I look up and tug at her skirts. She glances down at me inquisitively.

"May I go with my friends?" I ask pointing in their location.

"Yes yes dear." She says distractedly. Then she plasters a smile back on her face and continues chatting with the other woman.

I grin and begin maneuvering out through the throngs of oversized dresses and black tail coats, my plan to be as far away from my mother as possible when she realizes that she has let me go. After dodging around a maroon clad lady and nearly getting trampled on by the ambassador of Poland, I reach my friends. They're situated right by the snack tables and punch bowls and I can see Tony stuffing down a large pastry. They glance up at me and smile.

"We thought you'd never get away!" Steve laughs

Stark chokes down the rest of the Danish and clears his throat. "Yeah man. Jeez your mom's pushy."

I roll my eyes at him. "You don't know the half of it. I mess up just once and she gives me this look like if she glares hard enough she can set my soul on fire or something. How'd you sneak away so fast?"

Tony shrugs. "My dad's not all that into political stuff. He kinda made a beeline for the bar and left me to my own devices."

We all fall silent. Tony's father is dangerous territory and we know to tread lightly around the subject. Suddenly Bruce gives me a harsh jamb in the stomach, effectively changing the subject.

"Hey, Clint? Isn't that the girl you were ogling earlier?"

"Wha-I was not ogling!" I sputter. "I was just…enjoying the view."

And indeed I'm enjoying it now. Bobbi is wearing her typical pink ball gown style dress with a large train. Her shoes look more comfortable than normal, with more ballet flat and less heel. Her hair is done up in a large bun like a dancer, set almost on the top of her head. A large pink ribbon tied in a bow decorates the bun and the edges of the ribbon frame her face. To me, she is beautiful.

A large, heavy black cloak is draped across her shoulders, the kind meant for travel or cold weather. At first this confuses me, until I see that she is clinging to the arm of another, older boy of about thirteen. Vitali Andreiko second in line to the Ukrainian throne. The Andreikos are a very large family with seven children and another one on the way. They stand talking on the other side of the room. The crown princess Marina stands next to her mother, Queen Eloise. The queen looks tired and drained and very pregnant. Her stomach sticks out a few feet from the rest of her body and she and her daughter stand silently next to King Mykola. Marina is almost 18 and the family makes small talk with their future in-laws. Their third child is a girl my age named Halyna. I see her over by the instruments talking and laughing with her friends. Next are a trio of identical triplet seven year old girls named Aneta, Sofia and Elena. They stand, in matching outfits and hairstyles, dutifully behind their mother pretending to pay attention. Their youngest child, a three year old boy named Maksym is positioned on Eloise's hip. He keeps fussing and pulling at the queen's hair or her crown but she hushes him and stays silently by her husband's side. Their eighth child is supposed to come in a month and it's rumored that she is a little girl they have decided to name Svetlana.

The Andreikos are not great friends of The United States nor are they enemies, but in that moment I made a vow to do anything to spite that boy. I glare at his retreating figure, wishing I had my mother's power to burn people with my gaze.

I hear the Announcer bang his stick on the ground from somewhere behind me, proclaiming another arrival but I pay it no heed, still deep in fury, until Tony sticks a sharp elbow in my ribs and Steve lets out a low "Dude".

"Presenting Their Royal Majesties King Ivan Nicholas Vladimir Romanoff the third and Crown Princess Natalia Isabelle Galina Nakita Romanoff of Russia."

The Announcer bangs his stick twice and the talking that ceased politely, if any, resumes and I whip my head around to face the balls entrance. My mind goes blank.

At first I don't recognize her, for she is so stunning it certainly can't be Natasha. But it is because that is definitely her father. The girl before me walks in step with Ivan, her head downcast slightly in a respectful and self-deprecating way, never looking at his face. The moment they reach the floor, Ivan walks immediately over to the few allies he has at this council without sparing Natasha a second look. She curtsies in his general direction anyway, as if she was a maid that had been formally dismissed. Then she walks, with her head held high and her hands clasped in front of her, toward a deserted wall. She tries to do what Natasha does best, to blend in, but it's too late for the whole ball room has noticed the scarlet angel in the corner.

I suddenly realize how blind I've been. Where Bobbi is beautiful, Natasha is gorgeous. Where Bobbi is pretty in pink, Natasha is a vision in red.

Steve looks at me expectantly. "Go! Make a move! Before they do!" he says motioning over his shoulder at the growing number of male stares directed at Natasha.

I sigh and with a few pats on the back from Tony, and words of encouragement from Steve, I make my way across the dance floor.

Natasha POV

I can feel the eyes on me. They burn into my skin like a brand and I can't help praying to any god that exists for them to go away and leave me alone, for them to ignore me like they had before.

It is childish and I know that it is. They are simple stares and I am a trained fighter. What could they do to me? But no matter what I tell myself, it takes all my will power not to run from the room screaming.

I feel the air shift beside me and I grip my garrote bracelet tightly. Please go away, please go away! But the universe never seemed to like me that much.

"Um….Hi Tasha…"

My shoulders sag in relief and I let go of my bracelet. I glance up to meet Clint's kind gaze, his familiar gaze like a balm on the burns of the others.

"Um….So!...would you like to dance?" he asks nervously, holing out a hand. I almost laugh at his expression.

"I would love to."

I curtsy and take his hand and he leads me on to the floor just as a new song starts back up. With my bad arm, I lift up my skirts so I don't trip and with the other I grasp Clint's hand. He grips a hand at my waist and we begin to dance a slow waltz.

It's painful and slightly awkward and there are the eyes of dozens of Royals, including my father's, watching us.

But as we slowly glide across the dance floor in time to the music, I can't help thinking to myself that perhaps Royal conventions aren't so bad after all.

A/N: Comment if you caught the Monty Python: Holy Grail and Agents of SHIELD reference in here. Also I desperately need Ideas so comment with some quickly. Thank you.