AN I have been WAITING for this story, because it is so perfectly human. It was heavily inspired by the story 'Mental' by Lea Benoit, because it is just fabulous. The idea that a person can fall so low is absolutely intriguing, but even more important is the quest for them to claw back out. I hope that I properly convey this with my story.

General warning: allusions to/scenes of domestic abuse of various, brief allusions to/scenes of sexual and physical assault, mentions of child prostitution, mentions of drug use, all scattered throughout. Warnings posted as necessary.

"Just One Dance"

Don't know why you play hard to get
I'm here to kiss away any thoughts of regret
A silk tie from Siam shows elegance and class
Handsome as the heavens that a film would never cast

But underneath the mask I see the skin of a man
Smooth and seductive who's really got a plan
It's drawing me in, magnetically to you
You haven't got forever, but I got that too

I'm like the smoke on your fire
Smoldering endless desire
How long will your flame burn

All it cost is just a minute now
For one dollar you can show me how
I'll take your hand and then your worries too
In just one dance I'll make your dreams come true

Caro Emerald

it is a system and she is screwing it up.

It was still cold this time of year. Yet she soldiered on with the short skirts and the low necklines, because that was what lured them in, and they were what paid the bills. Better a few hours of discomfort in a week than entire days of it.

It was a clean operation she helped run, she had to admit. The Landlord housed all of the girls, and then handed out their names and details whenever a customer asked for something they could provide. Natasha was higher up on the list than most, because she was cold and straightforward. She did her job, smiled when she was supposed to, and obeyed the Landlord's every word.

That was how she had met him. She was street walking, slinking up and down, hoping to catch someone's eye. A voice behind Natasha caught her attention, making her turn. There wasn't much special about it, and normally she would have tuned it out along with all of the other noise that infested the streets at this hour, but at the same time, he was...totally different from everything else.

"Excuse me," he said, and his voice had actually sounded like he cared about the way he addressed her. Like she deserved respect like every other human being.

Natasha eyed the man, unsure of what he wanted. Usually men just called at her, rude considering they were enlisting her services and most of the time didn't even have the excuse of being drunk.

His suit was well cut, and the watch on his wrist probably went along with a sleek, expensive car he didn't dare drive around this neighborhood. His face was worn and serious, and his light blue eyes were dark and far too pretty for her own good.

"Uh, yeah?" Natasha immediately wanted to kick herself. She had been surprised into speaking,and her accent had bled through. She sounded like some poor illegal immigrant that had been dragged out of her country and forced into the trade, as opposed to some stubborn idiot that had dug her own grave and was casually sleeping her way into it. "What do you need?" she tacked on, trying to sound a little more refined.

"Are you on the job?" he asked, and she blinked in surprise. She was expecting him to be one of those naive do-gooders that asked her if she was lost, or if she had enough money for the bus or a new coat. Natasha was always good at shouldering them away, and had her response half on her lips by the time she understood the question.

"N-yeah."

"You sure?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow. She pursed her lips, trying to keep from saying something rude and scaring him away, because she really needed the cash. Natasha put her hands in her coat pockets instead, trying to push away her irritation.

"Yes," she said testily, embarrassed at how she was fumbling all over the place. Years she'd been in the business, and yet she was acting like some absent minded kid.

"Well, alright then," the man smiled, grin easy and promising that Natasha wouldn't have to work too hard tonight.

she is a prostitute, he is her customer.

Despite the fact that he was a bit unorthodox in the way he went about actually picking her up, it was clear to Natasha that this man had done this all before. Some men bumbled about, but he was to the point. He didn't toss her around the room, though, which was something she was grateful for. The Landlord got upset when one of the girls came back with bruises all over them. It put the other customers off, and sometimes they even refused to pay full price.

The hotel room was nice enough. The men that rented out hotel rooms for her generally found dumps that just offered walls to hide behind and a mattress to fall onto, but not this one. The clean walls and neat bed were blank, offering no condemnation or encouragement..

She glanced over at him, watched as he pulled off his coat and suit jacket.

"Do this often?" she asked, noting just how relaxed he was, like they were chatting over coffee at a diner.

"A few times," he said, raising a teasing eyebrow.

"Me too." His laugh was low and actually amused, a good sign.

"What's your name?" he asked, and she paused in the act of pulling out her earrings. Natasha gave him her best street walker smile and purred, "Whatever you want."

He smiled and nodded, looking at his hands as if to say he should have expected that answer.

"Alright. What's the name your parents gave you? Or the one you go by, which ever."

"…Natasha. What's yours?"

The man raised an eyebrow and looked her in the face as he pulled off his shoes. Most girls didn't ask questions about their customers, unless it had to do with work. As a general rule, the customer's name, age, and relationship status was off limits unless they brought it up themselves. She made her face blank and unassuming as she waited, even though she was a little uncomfortable with his clear gaze. He was searching for something in her, and Natasha had no idea as to what so she could hide it from sight.

"This a new policy I haven't heard about?" he asked, yet again proving that he had done this so many times. She shrugged, leaning against the table and trying to play it cool until she got an answer. His question didn't sound bothered in the slightest, and if anything, was a little joking. Hope nudged its way into her chest, because men that were in good moods to begin with always paid better.

"Just a question. Seems a bit more proper, don't you think?"

He looked at her a moment, weighing her in a way she knew she didn't like. His blue eyes seemed to look straight through her lies and facades, right to her mangled and uncertain core.

"You're one of Calvin Hughes', yeah?"

"Yeah, I'm one of the Landlord's," she said, voice tight. None of his girls called him by his name. It didn't fit him.

(and he would never allow such familiarity from the girls.)

"I heard that he has a good set of girls that handled their own details, but I don't think I really believed it before," he chuckled, allowing Natasha to finally breathe again. He had moved a little closer, leaning against the wall by the door and acting every bit as casual as she was.

"We've moving forward with the times," she said, a coy smile on her lips. "Makes things a little bit more personal, but not too cluttered and confusing."

He grinned back, something far too bright and happy for the situation, though underneath there was the exact same dark undertone that hers had. It heightened the lines in his face, but rather than make him seem older, more worn out, it only made his little boy blue eyes seem brighter, taking delight in such a forbidden, immoral act. Natasha liked that spark, no matter the reason. She blinked and focused somewhere else as he kept it up, convinced that she was about to go cross eyed if she kept staring at him as he moved closer.

"Alright, fine. Clint Barton. Want my social security and PIN next?" His voice was low and lovely, and for a moment, Natasha wasn't sure who was supposed to be seducing whom. She grit her teeth, snapped at herself to get a hold, and get to work.

"No. A name will do," she smiled. He cocked an eyebrow. By now, he was so, so close. His hands were on her hips, his lips practically on hers. His voice was rougher, now that he was testing his restraint.

"Do I get a last name, to make us even?

"Romanoff." She always found it odd to tell these men her name. Most other girls had fake ones, ones that seemed exotic and exciting for the bored, horny men hiring them. With the Landlord, though, no stage names were used, no special pretenses or false identities. They were the same creatures on the streets as in cheap motels and in their own, private rooms. He was also careful to pick up stray girls with no connections, no ties back to the 'real world', people cut out of the system. It was cleaner that way, apparently.

"Natasha Romanoff?" he asked, voice a murmur as he ran his hands along her sides. His words were kisses on the air just before her mouth, tempting her, taunting her, daring her to make the first move. "That's a pretty name."

She gave a smile that he probably couldn't see, but could certainly taste as he gave in and kissed her, fierce and desperate.

she doesn't care about him, no way she could. he isn't even interesting.

The room was still rather dark, that strange time between dawn and night. Natasha sighed, and closed her eyes. She could pretend to be a sleep for a little while longer, then it was out and about once more.

Clint shifted beside her, though he didn't make any noise. He had turned out to be the same as every other veteran to adultery. His smiles and kind words had been a front, just as hers had been. She shouldn't have considered them being anything else.

Natasha didn't know what was wrong with her. This never would have happened a few months ago. She had kept her head down and done her job, like she was supposed to. She couldn't afford something more.

not even when he wakes up, and doesn't touch her.

Clint shifted again, and by now, Natasha was sure that he was awake. He sighed like she had, sounded like he ran his hand over his face. She waited, waited, waited.

Natasha could feel the heat of his hand as he reached over to her. She expected him to stroke her back or arm or something, which was pretty typical for the morning after. Sometimes it made her skin crawl, and sometimes it felt so wonderful she didn't want them to ever stop. She hadn't decided how she felt about Clint yet.

Natasha frowned, realizing that he hadn't touched her yet. His hand was just...hovering there, right above her left shoulder, like she was a flame and he was trying to lure some heat back into his fingers.

She shifted, testing him. As soon as she moved, he pulled his hand back, narrowly avoiding the brush of her skin.

Natasha waited a little longer, wanting to see what he did next. Somehow she had the feeling that he would do something unusual, despite her self reprimands.

it also isn't interesting when he gets up a few minutes later and walks out the door.

His sigh sounded so, so old. A few moments dragged past, and then he was sitting up. The air was cold on her side as he moved out of the bed, and Natasha couldn't help but shiver.

Clint seemed to notice, as he paused in whatever he was doing to pull the blankets back up around her shoulders.

Natasha listened to him fumble around with his clothes for a moment, padding around the room to collect his things. For a moment, she could sense him standing in front of her. She struggled to make her face smooth as in sleep. This was generally when she was jerked awake, when the quiet illusion was shattered and she had to crawl back home.

The quick shoving off of cash would be awkward as she tried to finish putting her clothes on, but he probably wouldn't care. Some men retreated into the bathroom, hiding from her face and expecting her to be gone by the time they came out, while others watched her blankly as if she were a tv screen. Natasha hoped Clint would at the very least give her space as she pulled on her underwear and her dress and gathered her coat in her arms.

But again, he caught her off guard. He mumbled something to himself and turned away, not even trying to wake her up. At this point, Natasha could keep from cracking open an eye. She squinted at him through her eyelashes, watching him walk over to another piece of clothing on the floor. She closed her eyes as he pulled on his shirt, not wanting to mess things up now.

Natasha held her breath as he sat down on the edge of the bed, putting on his shoes, maybe, and then went through a few more seconds of rustling. Then the sound of shoes on the floor, and the door clicking shut.

She waited, unsure of what had just happened. Had he gone to the bathroom? Natasha reluctantly rolled over, frowning when she saw the empty bathroom. Her eyes landed on the door to the hall, then blinked. He had left? That was...an absolute first for her. Why had he just left? Why didn't he wake her up?

A dark thought hit her, and she slammed her fist into the pillows.

He had run away without paying her, that was the only explanation. Why hadn't she guessed, he was probably some scumbag that managed to go around conning prostitutes like her that thought they could sneak a few seconds of extra comfort. No wonder he had been so relaxed earlier, he hadn't had a reason to worry if he wasn't going to pay her.

he isn't interesting to her. except for when he put that sticky note on the mirror.

Natasha flopped back on the bed, so upset with herself for being so stupid she couldn't even think straight.

Of course, this is what she got for slacking on the job. What would the Landlord say, when she came back and had to explain that someone had cheated her out of a good few hours of money?

The thought sent fear through her stomach. Her numbers had been dropping lately, and she was really counting on tonight to pick them back up. She might not have been the girl of the month, but at least she would be paying her rent and still have some left over.

Natasha reluctantly sat back up, then leaned over to paw at her underwear, which was on the floor. Maybe if she could get back out there fast, there might be someone who would pay for at least an hour...

But no, it was early morning. The chances of someone buying her now were slim to none.

She pulled on the remainder of her clothes, mood foul.

Natasha slipped on her pumps, wondering if any of the other girls might float her the cash. No, that was ridiculous. If someone came to her begging even fifteen more dollars, she wouldn't give it to them. She had her own skin to look after.

She looked into the mirror, trying to adjust the scowl off of her face. Her hair was a mess, and her makeup was smudged into a trashy mess. She angrily smeared her arm across her mouth, getting rid of the last mocking remains of lipstick.

Natasha finally noticed the sticky note on the frame of the mirror. She frowned, realized there was nothing on it. She pulled it off, turning the perfect little square in her hands.

it is blue. like his eyes, she thinks.

This was certainly an unusual twist, but sticky notes weren't dollar bills. She turned to throw it away, then caught sight of the wad of bills, tucked neatly in the far corner of the desk.

Hope swooped in her stomach, and she grabbed the bills up, rifling through them. Their smell was cloying and almost metallic, but at that moment, it was the relief kissing Natasha on the mouth.

There was a little less than she usually charged, but that was alright! That was more than alright, that was a blessing from God, whom she hadn't really been sure if she liked after everything she'd been put through. She grinned at the bills, so thankful that this strange, strange man hadn't ditched her with nothing that her legs felt weak. Natasha braced herself against the desk, then remembered the sticky note held tightly in her hand.

She brought it up to her eyes, examining it. A blank sticky note, placed on the mirror before Clint left. It was bright blue and slightly crinkled from where she'd held it, but laid relatively flat when she set it down.

Natasha pocketed the cash and turned to leave.

She paused, hand on the door knob. Natasha glanced at the sticky note and sighed.

she takes it because they haven't left her anything before.

As she walked back, the sticky note burned in her pocket. It was a secret, a promise, a stupid bit of possibility. She knew that she was marching down a road that she would probably want to sprint back up later, but the promise of something new, something different to smother out the pointless drudgery of every day was too strong. It was just a sticky note, after all.

The walk back to the boarding house was long and just as cold as the night before, but it gave Natasha time to forget Clint Barton, let her face settle into its typical mask of distance and apathy. By the time she made the block, she was cool and drawn up tight and not offering a care in the world.

The boarding house was narrow, crammed in between two other buildings. The rooms were stacked in beside each other, little boxes that didn't offer much more than a closet and a bed. Even the Landlord's room was small, though he was allowed a touch more space and privacy. The boarding house wasn't a home. It was a dark shell, an alcove for people to huddle into until it was dark enough to go back out again. It was no place to get comfortable.

People flitted by her as she walked through the lobby, quiet and purposeful as they headed out or stumbled in. They avoided eye contact with her, and she didn't say a word as she sauntered past. They were nothing but dust under her heels.

As she walked down her hall, the sticky note seemed to vibrate in her pocket, screaming for someone to notice and snatch it away. She remained nonchalant as she passed girls, ages spread all over the scale. To the younger ones, she even offered a smile, because she was sorry for them, and they had not yet learned how to twist a smile into a gasp of pain.

Natasha couldn't help but take a breath of relief as she crossed into her room. Each girl's room was private, their own little space. Once a person stepped through their doorway, they were subject to the owner's rules. Some girls plastered the walls with posters and magazine cut outs, to pretend that they were normal again, while others left it pessimistically bare, as if to suggest that decoration didn't matter when they were gone.

Natasha tended to lean more towards the sparse side of the scale, leaving her walls and unadorned and the furniture plain. She really only had room for her bed, nightstand, and vanity. The only personal addition she had made was a small picture frame, perched bravely on her nightstand. Her bed, unlike everything else in the room, was utterly chaotic, a nest of pillows and blankets, which often spilled out onto the floor.

She pulled the sticky note out of her pocket, glancing it over before pressing it to her mirror. It had just enough adhesive left on the back for it to stay in place, a little echo of where it had been before.

This was just a one time thing.

AN I've been working on this chapter for a very long time, trying to get everything to be perfect. The depiction of Clint I have in my head is a messy, hard to pin down character. There's a lot that I can do with him, which is exciting. And Natasha, don't even get me started on her. Her character here is absolutely fascinating.