Avengers, Moulin Rouge 1. Nature Boy

**Hi guys, a little author's side note:**

**Each chapter is named after a song played in the movie 'Moulin Rouge!'. The title of the story itself, "Ne me quitte pas", belongs to a song written and sung by Jacques Brel, also sung beautifully by Nina Simone, which translates to "Don't leave me", so there's a little teaser as to how this story would go….heh heh. Don't you just **_**love**_** angst?**

**All rights to the movie '**_**Moulin Rouge!**_**' and the Marvel characters displayed all go to their respective owners.**

* * *

**STEVE POV**

Alive.

That was the first word that popped into Steve's mind when he stepped foot on the train station platform in Paris. Amidst an ocean of moving bodies, his eyes soaked in the blur of colors around him. A bright pink fur coat here. A blue fedora there. Black suits. Brown suits. Red gloves. Green hats. All different colors yet all moving in unison. All moving to the steady rhythm of the train as it pulled out of the station, sending small vibrations throughout the platform. The heartbeat of the city.

It felt exciting, exhilarating moving to Paris, amidst the retaliation of his folks back in Brooklyn. But after the passing of his mother, and a following year or so of some soul-searching (as cheesy as that sounds), Steve finally decided to explore his passion for art, something that he wanted, for a long time, to be more than a petty hobby, as some critics have claimed it to be, but an actual career. So of course, his mind instantaneously went to Paris. And sure enough, here he was.

A small smile appeared on Steve's lips as he placed his dull grey newsboy cap on his head, sweeping a few blond strands from his eyes as he did so. With two small brown suitcases in hand, and a few dollars in his pocket, Steve succumbed to the tug of the current, following the mass of people onwards to their own respective lives, as he tried to find his own in the city.

* * *

The building was rundown, its bricks turning this slightly yellowish brown color. Even though its disrepair was apparent, Steve's apartment back home was far worse. He looked down at the letter in his hands, and back up. Twice. Then thrice. Shrugging his shoulders slightly, he pocketed the letter and headed up the stairs to see the apartment he would be living in. His best friend back in Brooklyn, Bucky, had some friends, connections in the city, and after a few beers or so, Steve was able to get an address. After a few weeks of correspondence, and convincing letters, he had finally landed a roommate, whom he was about to meet in about…

Three.

Two.

One.

His knuckles rapped on the door. Nothing. Steve knew someone was home, for his ears caught the faint whistle of machinery and once or twice, a string of foul words. He knocked once more, with a little more insistency.

Finally, a man, eyes strapped with black goggles, appeared behind the now slightly opened door. With black hair standing on end, and work grime apparent on anything and everything on him, the man had an eccentric edge to him, standing a few inches shorter than Steve as he stripped his eyes off its protective gear, tucking it in the depths of his partly gelled hair. A smirk appeared on the man's lips as he dried off his hands on his smeared grey tank top, leaning on the door frame as he did so.

"So you're the 'Captain' I've been hearing all about from Barnes," he says in a nonchalant manner.

"What?" Steve had not mentioned anything about this in his letters. He subconsciously made a little mental side note to murder Bucky if he ever went back to Brooklyn.

"Little childhood nickname your mother calls you by, as Barnes has told me" the man replied, his smirk deepening, "little Captain America, mama's boy extraordinaire."

With sweaty palms, Steve mumbled back, "It's _Steve Rogers_ actually, and whom do I owe the pleasure?"

"Tony Stark," The man answered with an exaggerated wave of his outstretched hand.

Steve, sighing as he did so, shook Tony's hand with mild reluctance. So this was the man he was rooming with for the foreseeable future. He found his mind repeatedly reminding himself why he had come to Paris in the first place.

"Please just call me Steve," He replied as his hand fell back to his side.

"No can do, Cap, I've taken quite a liking to it," Tony teased as he opened the door, letting Steve through, "It's already growing on me."

Steve wished he could say the same about the apartment. With wallpaper peeling off, and the stench of something burning hanging in the air, the apartment felt cramped and cluttered, despite its large, open size. Blueprints were strewn all over, like leftover confetti from one hell of a party. Metal parts laid across the floor, like land mines in a battlefield, shining as the late afternoon sun began its descent beyond the horizon. A glass of half finished whiskey laid on a wooden table pushed up against a corner of the room. Slightly yellowing double glass doors stood in the middle, feeding into a tiny balcony off the side of the apartment. Tony hurried in after Steve, locking the door behind him with a not-so reassuring click.

"So, welcome," Tony said, gesturing to the space as if it was a masterpiece, "to my humble abode."

"It's...quaint." Being nit picky about an organized studio space, Steve struggled for the words to describe the room without sounding rude.

It didn't seem that Tony heard him as he kicked some of his metal parts over to one side of the apartment, the side closer to the wooden table. Steve, rather unceremoniously, dropped his suitcases on the bed furthest away from the table, clicking the lock open on the one with his art supplies. He could feel Tony's eyes side-glancing at him as he brought out his portable easel and set it against the wall adjacent to the bathroom. By the time Steve had set up most of his supplies, with tubes of paint set neatly on a stool, along with his array of brushes and palette knives, Tony had distinguished the boundaries of the room. Steve's half was clear and neat with Tony's being much less so. It was better now with all of Tony's toys clumped in a corner. He could actually appreciate the expanse of the apartment, with its high ceiling and open concept.

"So, you're an aspiring artist?" Tony said, breaking Steve's reverie.

"Yeah," Steve said, nodding back as he approached the double glass doors, opening them up to step on the balcony, "been one ever since I could see."

"I get the feeling," He heard Tony reply as he followed Steve outside, glass of whiskey clinking in his hands, "I, myself, am an aspiring inventor, mechanic, engineer...whatever you wanna call it."

He downed the remains of the whiskey at an alarmingly fast rate. "Ever since I had hands, I'd been tinkering away."

Steve nodded, with clasped hands hanging partly over the railings. He let his eyes wonder, as he knew they did best. Bright lights illuminated the silhouette of buildings, the hum of the city raging on into the now settling evening. But one odd structure stood out among these, which was quite an accomplishment considering Paris and its effortless vigor. A windmill shaped building rose out of the masses of brick structures, decorated in a loud and bright fashion, pulsating as if it was its own living being.

Eyebrows furrowed and eyes locked, Steve pointed the building out to Tony, "What on Earth is that?"

"That my friend is the Moulin Rouge," Tony said, with a hint of slyness tugging at his words.

"Moulin. Rouge," Steve echoed, feeling the peculiar sensation of the words rolling off his tongue.

"What exactly is it for?" Steve says, cocking his head towards Tony, whose playful smile was starting to make him regret the question ever slipped from his lips.

"Oh, tonight's going to be _fun_."

* * *

Dressed in a suit a size too small, and his blond hair sleeked back in Tony's gel, Steve stood staring up at the massive windmill, with its blades dripping in a myriad of changing colors, the words 'Moulin Rouge' flashing in the sky in time to the beat of music, so strong that it sent shivers up his spine. He felt Tony clasp both hands on his shoulders, squeezing them as he shoved him forward.

"Cap," Tony said, his own voice dripping in excitement, "You, my friend, have not lived."

And once again, with Tony pushing him on, Steve succumbed to the tug of the current, as he slipped under, swallowing him whole.

Mesmerizing.  
The Moulin Rouge was nothing short of it. Unlike the train station, whose myriad of colors moved in an organized manner, the sensations found here were the embodiment of pleasure and chaos itself. Everywhere his eyes looked, colors, bodies, were intertwined in an eternal dance as the 'Diamond Dogs' of the Moulin Rouge searched the crowd for the suitors who would lay with them tonight. Men in black and white clashed with girls of a thousand colors. The resulting riot of color was an artist's dream.

Steve reached for the tiny, leather bound sketchbook tucked in his breast pocket, his fingers clasping for the three colored pastels he kept with him always. Red. Yellow. Blue. The three colors that made the world. Before his fingers could reach them, he felt a hand grasp his shoulder, and another on his cheek. Searching blue eyes pulled from their surroundings, Steve's had come to rest on two expectant hazel ones, peeking up from mascara-dripping eyelashes. A closed-lip smile drenched in bright pink lipstick grew larger and larger as they drew closer to his lips.

Steve stepped back, catching the woman off guard, both stumbling out of the trance that had pulled them in. With a hand in his hair, he stuttered an apology to the woman, leaving her looking after him, an insulted grimace plastered on her face. Pushing past countless moving bodies, Steve finally found a secluded table to collect his thoughts. He knew for a fact that he was no good with dames. He only ever talked to them when Bucky had dragged him to bars and parties, and those conversations usually ended with him left alone on a couch, or at a corner, his sketchbook tucked in the crook of his arm, a pencil or pastel working away at the page. And moving to Paris had not stopped that cycle. Nor did Steve try to.

With a pastel in his hand, and eyes flitting back and forth from scene to page, Steve let his mind go, and his fingers with it. Swirling across the page, his hand worked furtively, each stroke, each purposeful detail capturing the larger than life party as it raged on into the night. His concentration wavered as his eyes came to rest on a smug Tony, sauntering towards him with none other than a bottle of whiskey in hand and an exposed collar, revealing faded red marks snaking its way down his neck, disappearing into the depths of his white-button up shirt.

"Is this a party or what?" Tony shouted in Steve's ear, making him wince a little, "You having fun?"

Out of courtesy, Steve nodded in reply, as he went back to his sketchbook. Feeling Tony's breath down his neck, Steve tilted the page away, strategically curving his arm around the leather bound book to Tony's dismay. Choosing instead to plop down across from Steve, Tony offered the bottle to the latter, with Steve gently refusing. With a shrug, Tony muttered a faint "suit yourself" before taking a swig of the golden liquid. Even though the liquor might enhance the colors around him, Steve knew the details would all blur together into a swirling frenzy so he decided against it.

The lights dimmed, hushing the crowd. Shifting his gaze from his sketchbook, Steve sought out the reason behind the change in lighting. And there, in the center of the floor, his eyes found her.

Wrapped in a white, beaded corset and a fringed skirt dangling from her hips, she demanded attention from all eyes present, her fiery red curls glowing in the spotlight trained on her and only her. A hypnotic violin tune echoed throughout the space, and with it, her body followed. Whirling around mesmerized forms, she pulls them in with a sway of her hips; the beckoning song of a siren.

"They call her 'The Black Widow'," He heard Tony whisper, as the tempo of the music picked up, "The star of the Moulin Rouge." Steve figured. By the looks of it, she had already trapped them all in her web. With each leap, each flip, each pirouette, Steve didn't know if it was his eyes deceiving him, but she was drawing nearer and nearer, the details on her face breaking the surface into clarity. Long-drawn eyelashes. Painted, blood red lips. Prominent, striking cheekbones. Lucid, green eyes.

Eyes, pointed straight at him.

And with a final pirouette, spinning faster and faster, she ended with a striking pose, her back arched, glove-fitted arms reaching to her sides. Her clear green eyes, right in front of him now, still trained on his blue ones.

The crowd erupted in deafening applause as she straightened up into a standing position, bowing twice as she blew kisses in every direction. There was a notable shift in the dance floor as eyes looked up at her expectantly.

"Ladies Choice," she declared with a clear voice that rang throughout the room. Tony perked up at this, much to Steve's confusion.

"That means she chooses her lover first," Tony says hurriedly, his eyes glued to the Black Widow, "then followed subsequently by the other girls."

Crossing his fingers, Tony leaned forward in his seat as she turned to face the table they sat at. Steve, with a pastel in his hand, leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, waiting expectantly for her to choose Tony for the night.

Lifting her hand gently, and with the signal of one elegant finger, she pointed out the lucky man.

And there he was, sitting there, with a pastel in his hand.

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**Hope you enjoyed what I got so far :) Reviews are highly appreciated. Update may come in a week or so.**


	2. Your Song

**NATASHA POV**

Toting a cigarette between her fingers, Natasha clasped a single dart in her hand, keen eyes on the bull's-eye. Eyes narrowed, and hand raised, she shifted the dart back and forth, as if moving to the steady beat of a swinging metronome. A few seconds of concentration past. _Inhale_. She steadied her arm. _Exhale._ And let the dart fly. Landing just shy of the coveted red dot, she sighed a little, taking a whiff from her cigarette, her muscles relaxing as she slowly exhaled the smoke. Grabbing a glass of vodka from the top of her dresser, she stomached the liquor down, smacking her lips slightly as she swallowed the last drop. A smudged, red mark appeared on the edge of the glass, her fingers already absentmindedly wiping it away when a knock rang out throughout the room. Setting the glass down, she hauled the door open, revealing an impatient Clint, fingers clasped together behind his back, eyes like daggers shooting straight at her. This did not faze her at all.

Clint rushed past her, inviting himself in as Natasha shoved the door closed behind him, muttering a sarcastic "Nice to see you too, Clint" before turning to face him. Contrasting the sleek black ensemble he wore, his deep, purple vest was the first thing her gaze was drawn to. Followed by the faint form of a Browning pistol tucked in the waistband of his pants. Clint was in charge of security, so naturally, wherever he was, the pistol went. Most people would be unnerved by the casual way he carried the weapon, but Natasha knew better. A similar model laid under her pillow.

"We need you in about twenty minutes tops," he said, arms crossed over his chest, "Fury's got the Red Room ready."

Natasha arched an eyebrow at this. "The Red Room?" she asked, taking another drag of smoke in between, "Someone special, I suppose?"

Clint nodded curtly, fingers pulling away at the velvet curtain that covered the window, revealing a full view of the crowded dance floor. Motioning towards her, he pointed out the 'special guest' she would be with tonight.

"See the man standing with Amora?" Clint said as Natasha made her way towards him, "Bright pink lipstick, overdone mascara?"

"Who? The man or Amora?" She teased with a smug grin as she leaned forward, squinting her eyes for a clearer view.

Clint didn't look amused. "He's supposed to be this rich sponsor. A ringmaster and famed magician of the world-renowned circus, _'Le Cirque de Neufs Mondes.'_"

"The Circus of Nine Worlds." A familiar name, with a familiar sound. But that was all it was. Familiar. Nothing more, nothing less.

Side-stepping away to give her room, he leaned against her dresser, waiting for her to seek out her target, fingers fiddling away at a small, yellow dart. Eyes scanning the swarming masses of people, Natasha zeroed in within seconds, finally spotting her prey. Sleeked blond hair, tight black suit, fleeting nervous movements. She smirked.

"Hair sleeked back, tight suit, tall?"

Clint nodded.

"Child's play," she stated with plain confidence, moving away from the window to touch up her lipstick. An incredulous smile appeared on Clint's face as he shook his head ever so slightly, his focus now directed at the dart board. With a steady hand, Natasha gently glazed her lips over. Two strokes on the top, two strokes on the bottom, followed by a light press of her lips, now stained _red. Red. Blood, red. Everywhere, red._ Natasha pressed a finger to her temple, tracing tight, small circles in an effort to ease her mind. _All red._ She pressed another_. Dripping. Soaking red._ Teeth gritting. _All your fault._ Shut up. Shut the fuck up. _All your fault. All your faul_—Thump.

Her head shot up, pale fingers trembling against her skin. She slowly lowered her hands, placing them flat against the wooden surface of the vanity, avoiding her eyes in her own reflection. After exchanging a few, steady breaths, she turned to face the source of the soft sound, readily willing to thank it for saving her from herself. And there on the dart board, claiming the bull's eye she had so narrowly missed, protruded a small yellow dart. She sighed, looking at a beaming Clint.

"Stop showing off," she mumbled, a little exasperated, as she tugged habitually at the hem of her silk robe, "You already know you have better aim than I do."

"Just a reminder, in case you've forgotten."

Natasha hid a smile. "Well, reminder received," she replied, pointing her cigarette at him, "now wipe that stupid grin off your face before I smack it off you."

That only deepened it. Rolling her eyes, she inhaled a drag of smoke, and exhaled it with a sharp puff, right in Clint's face. He cringed.

"Twenty francs say I can take the target out in ten minutes," she challenged, desperate for anything to preoccupy her thoughts as she crushed her cigarette in the ash tray by her vanity, "Ten minutes from the time I point him out, to when I drag him to the Red Room."

"Ten minutes?" he asked with a hint of suspicion.

"Yeah."

"Pffftt, please…"

"Take it down to five."

"Deal," Clint said, eagerly shaking her hand, a sly smile apparent on his face, "That has got to be the _easiest_ twenty francs I have ever made."

"Don't get cocky," Natasha said, her voice dripping in accusation, "You haven't won it yet."

"Rest assured, I will be waiting," he teased, his fingers curling around the rusted knob on her door, "It's time."

Stripping off her silk robe, and with a quick touch up of her hair, Natasha sauntered out of the room, mind set solely on her mission, with Clint soon following in her wake.

Both with two different men in mind.

* * *

The plain look of confusion and poorly masked anxiety crossed his blue eyes, spreading across his face, upsetting his features. It was almost comical, the blond man's dumbfounded innocence contrasting the gratuitous mess of sweating bodies, already resuming their dancing on the floor, but she had a mission. And she had only five minutes to finish it. So she goes for the hook, line and sinker tactic, the three steps playing out in her head, reflexes on edge.

Slowly lowering herself down onto his lap, his body instantaneously going rigid, she leaned in, her hand grazing his thigh, lips brushing against his ear as she whispered, "Dance with me."

He stared at her, with unbelieving blue eyes, words hanging on the tip of his tongue. _Four minutes, thirty seconds._ Instead of waiting a few hours, years, maybe a millennia for a reply, she slid both hands into his, fingers intertwining, as he obliged cooperatively. Pulling him up into a dazed standing position, she tugged him towards the dance floor as he followed submissively, leaving his friend gawking after them. _Hook._

Fitting herself to his body, back pressed to his chest, Natasha placed both of his large hands on her hips, his fingers only lightly skimming the curves. With one hand grazing the back of his neck, her head resting against the slope of his chest, she let her instincts take over, both bodies sliding, moving together in unison, engulfed in the loud, booming music, isolated in the heated moment. _Three minutes._ With fingers trailing down his cheek, his neck, his arm, they land on his hand, his pulse accelerating. She felt his head lower, his forehead resting against the side of her neck. A single, hitched breath escaped from his lips, warm against her skin. _Line._

Slowly turning to face him, making sure they kept as much skin-to-skin contact as possible, she wrapped her fingers around his neck, lacing them together. _Two minutes._ No time for 'formalities'. She was going to finish this mission. She grazed her lips against his jaw line, tracing a path across his cheek, feeling his breaths turn ragged, shallow, as her lips finally skimmed his. Not quite a kiss but enough of one to make his fingers curl; his hands now brushing against the small of her back. _A minute, thirty._ She let out a throaty sigh, ever so softly, leaning her frame against his, lashes fluttering in that way she knew drove man wild. _One minute._ Lips parting in a shared breath, she caught a glimpse of his eyes. His pupils were blown wide. She smirked. _Sinker. With thirty seconds to spare._

"Let's get out of here," she whispered, her hand finding his, squeezing his lightly. And once again, he obliged without a word. Hand-in-hand, with him trailing behind her, she led him towards the Red Room, her eyes searching for Clint among the catwalks, eager to bask in her triumph. They find him, frozen in a crouched position, one hand clasping a catwalk railing, a dumbstruck expression on his face. Her smirk deepened at this, taking pleasure in the look of someone who just lost twenty francs.

Natasha glanced back at the blond man, flashing him a lingering smile as they disappeared down a hallway, leaving Clint staring after her, the words 'wrong target' barely escaping his lips.

* * *

Lips clashing together in a heated rush, Natasha's fingers gripped the back of his neck, as they trailed across the room, kicking her shoes off in the process. Keeping her lips locked on his, all in a faked need for more, she smoothly slipped her sleek black gloves off in two quick, swift movements before running her fingers through his blond hair, his arms simultaneously fumbling about her waist, lost and confused. Among other things. _Inexperienced. At least she didn't need to do much to impress._ Her arms gripped his shoulders, hurriedly slipping under his jacket, fumbling at the buttons of his shirt.

He stepped back, catching her off guard, as she caught a glimpse of a falling, black book hitting the floor. Followed by an explosion of flying paper, now strewn all over. With a string of curses, he crouched down, sweeping the numerous papers into a clumped pile. Natasha followed suit, fingers piling stray papers into her own pile.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, his sincerity alarming her, "I can't."

She glanced up from her pile, fingers frozen. He was still working away at his, slipping his papers into the leather skin of the book, gingerly arranging them neatly.

"Sweetheart," she replied, taking on a soothing tone, "I _promise_ I'll be gentle."

"No, that's not what I meant," he looked up, blue eyes holding her green ones, "I…I don't even know your name. Much less who you are."

This confused her. Sitting back on her heels, now in more of a kneeling position, she asked, curiosity pulling at her words, "Does it matter?"

"Yes," he said, the sudden confidence surprising her, "Ma'am, it really does."

For once, she had nothing to say. She just knelt there, staring at him, gripping a stack of papers in her hands.

"Steve," he said, tossing the word in like an afterthought as he slowly rose to a standing position, "Mine's Steve Rogers. Nothing much to it really."

He offered a hand to her. Raising an eyebrow, she took it cautiously, pulling herself up. She was about to hand her pile over but her eyes finally, actually landed on the sketches, gaze locked.

Detailed was the first word that popped into her head. Complex was next. Delicate. Then, simply brilliant. None of which justified his work by a long run. In small, modest pages, Steve had captured the simplicity of complex things, as well as the complexity of simple things. Natasha never knew how many colors a mug could hold. Nor did she know how simple the raw, human emotion was, expressed by a single color. Lines interconnected into faces, strokes clumping together to form smiles, eyes, hands, limbs. She prided herself of having sharp eyes. But this, this was beyond a point of observation she could imagine, let alone see.

"Christ," she whispered, fingers flipping through the pages, eyes flitting from detail to detail, "This, this is—"

And the papers were gone from her hands in one swift grab, Steve already placing them together with the pages in his book, subsequently pressing the latch shut with a satisfying click. Gazing down at the book, a few seconds of silence past between them, with her eyes locked on him, and his on the leather-bound book. Natasha sensed she had crossed some sort of personal barrier.

"This book, all those sketches," he finally murmured, a hint of vulnerability scratching the surface, "it's my thoughts, it's what I see, what I think. It's just. I've always kept it to myself."

"Kind of brings a new meaning to open book, huh?" she teased, crossing her arms over her chest, suddenly feeling bare, aware of how much of her skin was exposed.

He chuckled, an affable laugh that resonated from his chest. It was sincere. Honest. Rare. Natasha sensed herself relax, tension disappearing from her muscles. Their eyes locked for a second, her steady green ones holding his, unnervingly blue. Uncertain with a curious edge, but sincere all the same. And for once, in a night full of firsts, she was the one to avert her gaze. Vulnerability. She had felt it again. Twice in one night. And that had scared her.

"How about yours?" he asked, softly and cautiously.

"What?" she said, cocking her head slightly.

"Your name? Still don't know it."

Silence.

"Natasha," The word slipped, rolling off her tongue. Regretting it immediately, she bit down on her bottom lip.

"Natasha," he echoed, still clutching the leather-bound book in his hands, a smile stretching across his face, "Nice to officially meet you."

"Likewise," she replied, after a few seconds of silence in passing. She saw his eyes flicker from her to his sketchbook, almost unnoticeable but being her, she caught the movement. There was a noticeable shift in his fingers, followed by a small, nervous drumming against the leather skin.

"May…may I draw you?" The question came out of nowhere. He paused. "I mean if that's okay with you, ma'am."

She studied him cautiously, tilting her head slightly, narrowing her eyes. She scanned him, his features, his voice for a trace of sarcasm, ignoring that small part of her who wanted to find it. But there was nothing to find. It wasn't some sort of game, or trick. He goddamn _meant_ it.

"It's just been a long time since I've done a detailed body figure," he quickly justified, running a nervous hand across the back of his neck, "Exploring anatomy, you know."

"Exploring anatomy?" she asked, a ghost of smile on her lips, "Really?"

His eyes widened. "Oh, oh no, th-that's not what I meant. I mean-what I meant was that I wanted to practice my skills on the human body."

She snickered, a foreign sound she had not heard in a long time. She waited for realization to dawn on him and sure enough it did.

"Oh god, I can't speak," he exclaimed with an exasperated sigh, rubbing a palm across his face, "I'm going to just shut up now and stop—"

"You can draw me," Natasha heard herself say. He looked up from his hunched stature, beaming at her with a glimpse of a shy grin.

She let him direct her into a pose, and it was a surprisingly simple one. Calves hanging lazily in the air, legs crossed at the ankles, she laid on her belly, arms folded before her with her chin resting in the crook of the fold. "Foreshortening's my weak area," he had told her as he pulled three pastels from his jacket, laying them down beside him as he sat right across from her, facing each other on the floor. It was a new experience, watching him sketch. His eyebrows furrowed in concentration, lips pressed together into a straight, thin line, eyes looking up with fleeting glances, she never quite felt the same intensity that emanated from Steve as his fingers worked at the page before him. Sure, she had slept with many men in her day but it was never intense, it was more of a sloppy mesh of skin and moans. And with this, this wasn't even achieved through the act of sex. He just had the intensity, the concentration, the delicacy of someone who knew they loved what they were doing. A feeling Natasha could never have experienced herself. And it was a small pleasure to simply observe it happen instead, in a shared silence that was neither awkward nor heated. A silence that was just peace at its core.

"A man of many talents, huh?" she said absentmindedly, her eyes trying to steal a peek of the drawing in his hands, "Ringmaster, magician, _and_ artist? Leave some for the rest of us."

He looked up, fingers freezing on an unfinished stroke. "Ringmaster? Magician?"

This intrigued her. "Yeah." She paused with a growing suspicion. "You know, of _Le Cirque des Neufs Mondes._"

He placed his pastel down carefully, confusion streaking his face. "I'm sorry, but I've only been in Paris for at most, a day. My French is quite limited."

And just like that, her reverie was shattered.

"Oh god," she whispered, hurriedly rising into a standing position, her mind already working away at a plan to evade this mistake.

"What? What's wrong?" Steve said, stumbling after her as she swiftly scooped up her shoes and gloves, hand already gripping the door knob.

And then she heard them. The unmistakable voice of Fury mixed with one that she did not recognize, the words 'ringmaster' and 'magician' being tossed around in conversation, growing louder as they drew near.

A knock rang out on the other side.

_Oy vey._

* * *

**I know I haven't really described the Red Room, but that comes in the next chapter. Yeah, I know this is a larger chunk but I just wanted to give you guys a good amount before school starts. Another thing, if there's a problem with the french, leave a comment and I'll correct it.**  
**Updates may take a while from this point on. Rest assured, I will finish the story one way or another :)**

**Suggestions are always greatly appreciated!**


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Avengers, Moulin Rouge, Drama, Romance