A/N: This is a companion story to Terrible Lie. I'd recommend reading that first, but it can stand on its own. Chapter titles from Yes, Anastasia by Tori Amos. It's post-CATWS, but will mostly be flashbacks.

1. I know what you want, the magpies have come, if you know me so well then tell me which hand I use

She has been haunted for as long as she can remember. She's been haunted by ghosts of memories, of friends, of family, of allies, of enemies, and of those somewhere in between. There are things she knows she will never escape, no matter what name she takes or where she chooses to hide out. Some things that haunt her keep her awake at night, staring into the darkness. And some things help her sleep, reminding her that there are those who care about her. She remembers a time when nothing but satisfaction at a completed mission fell into the latter category, before anything fell into the former except wisps of memory.

She's made a name for herself, several times over. She's killed and infiltrated and stolen secrets for decades, since she was an orphaned child with no choice. Then one day she was given a choice. Sometimes she reconsiders her decision to stay in this line of work; she could have gotten out. She could still get out. But it's all she knows. And no one is better at it than she is. So she stays, loyal to those whom she trusts, who trust her. Her loyalty is not won by patriotism and ideals, but by the people who serve beside her. If that is not enough to satisfy the men in suits who run the world, well, maybe she's better off lying low for a while.

Her legs stretch out in front of her, feet resting on the railing of her balcony. The chair beneath her is wooden and warm, retaining the heat from the sun that set several hours ago. It is comfortable here. The world is quiet here. It's been many years since she was last in this country, and many more since she acquired this safe house. Things have changed drastically, but, here, they are always the same. Or were, she thinks, glancing back into the doorway behind her.

She comes here to think. Of all her safe houses all over the world, this is the one in which she places her greatest faith. Securing it required going through dozens of backwater channels and she is absolutely certain that no one could find her here, even if they knew where to start looking. And people are most definitely searching for her, after what happened today. She may not be a ghost, but she knows how to move like one. It is safe here. For now.

Her legs moved rhythmically, steadily, as she ran at a speed she wouldn't be able to maintain for long. But she had to get away, get away before she could be found. She was being hunted, she knew, and she knew by whom. He was one of the best, which she supposed should be flattering. Of course, they had sent others after her, others who were not the best, and they were dead now. So maybe they were just erring on the side of caution.

The narrow streets were difficult to maneuver, and the locals stared at her in annoyance and surprise as she whipped passed them. Her cover was blown, and she made no attempt to pass as one of them. It hadn't worked, anyway. How long had it been since she had been secure? Each cover had seemed to last only a matter of weeks before they found her again. Was she getting sloppy? Or were they just that desperate?

She supposed she had ruined one too many of their plans. Not that such a thing had been her intention; she did what she was sent to do. She followed orders. She was not in charge of the missions, only seeing that they were finished. Once, she had wanted to ascend the ranks and be one of those in charge. But that feeling had passed and now, well, she took pride in a successful mission but the failures were wearing her down. Or, more accurately, the nature of what she was sent to do was beginning to weigh on her. Maybe she had just finally realized they were on the losing side, and her superiors refused to change tactics or accept this fact.

Her thoughts are cut off abruptly when she ran headlong into a cart an old man has just shoved into the street. She rolled automatically, ignoring the stinging pain in her wrists and palms and knees before getting to her feet and continuing her run. People shouted at her from behind, but she ignored them too. The wings of panic fluttered in her chest as she heard a projectile whip passed her ear, far too close for comfort. Instinctively, she searched for cover, and ducked into the nearest door she saw.

She was in a small shop. The owners and single patron looked considerably startled by her intrusion. She dove behind the counter and rolled into the wall. Pulling out her gun, she glared at them and put her finger to her lips in warning. Their shock turned to fear, and they held very still, watching her carefully. Her breath came in hard gasps, due in part by the fact that she was no longer moving. Finally, she was able to breathe evenly, and had received no sign of her pursuer. Her hostages were getting restless.

Warily, she got to her feet, and asked in their native language if there was a back door. They pointed, and she moved silently into the backroom, which was clearly a storeroom and office. They seemed concerned, peering after her, but she continued on her path to the door that led her into an unobtrusive alley. Holstering her gun, she pulled her scarf back over her hair and face and walked slowly, calmly, out of the alley and joined the other pedestrians.

As she walked, she considered where she could go. Her cover was blown, so there was no point in returning to her safe house. Even if they weren't waiting for her there, even if he wasn't waiting for her there, it was only a matter of time until they tracked it down. She needed to leave this place, get on some form of public transportation, preferably the kind that didn't check identification very closely, and go to another city. She tried unsuccessfully to shake off the feeling that she would never stop running.

Suddenly, something whistled passed her head and she dropped into a crouch automatically. The people around her screamed and shouted and began running in different directions. She scanned the rooftops and windows, searching for the source. A glint in a window caught her eye and she turned to look. As she did so, something buried itself in her shoulder. The pain was more surprising than anything, but she soon began to panic as a feeling of exhaustion spread across her. In a moment, she was unconscious.

She listened, giving no sign that she was conscious again. A wooden chair was underneath her, something leather, possibly a belt, held her in place. The room was of indeterminate size, but not particularly large. As far as she can tell, there was one other person in it. A person who was presumably watching her. She considered how best to use what she had at her disposal to take advantage of the situation and get out of here.

"I know you're awake," a male voice said calmly.

After a brief moment of deliberation, she opened her eyes to assess her pursuer. Clint Barton, she knew. Formerly a thief, now an agent of SHIELD. World class archer. His reputation for marksmanship and as an assassin was renowned. Which begged the question of why she was still alive.

"I thought you were supposed to kill me," she said coldly.

He smiled. "If I wanted to, I would have," he answered affably.

"Why didn't you?" she pressed.

Cocking his head at her, he leaned against the wall and appeared very much at ease. "Do you want to die?"

"Do you?"

He laughed. "Not particularly."

She glared at him, looking him up and down. He didn't look like his reputation would suggest. He didn't look like someone who could best her in a fight. But appearances could be deceiving, as she was well aware. "What do you want?" she asked at last.

A smile broadened his features. "I think the real question is what do you want." He paused, waiting for her to respond, but she just continued to glare at him. "You've been getting sloppy, Romanova. You've been leaving a nice trail of breadcrumbs for me to follow. Which was very nice of you, by the way." His smile grew at her continued stony silence. "Ah, you didn't do it on purpose. Oh well, I appreciate it." He stood and walked over to where his quiver lay by the door.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, against her better judgment.

"Finishing my mission," he replied nonchalantly, selecting an arrow and picking up his bow.

"Wait." The word burst from her against her volition. Why was she asking him to wait? Was this not the end she knew she'd signed up for from the beginning? Well, maybe not from an arrow, but from an enemy agent. He paused, looking her over.

"Do you want to die?" he asked again.

"No," she admitted, her voice a whisper.

"Good. Because I think I can offer you an alternative."

She sat back and raised an eyebrow at him. "And what's that?"

"You know who I work for. We could use someone of your talents."

"A criminal like you, you mean?" she sneered.

He didn't react. "Yes."

"Is that your mission?"

Pursing his lips, he shook his head. "I'm supposed to kill you. But we didn't have enough intel to indicate you wanted to defect."

She smiled. "Is that what you think I want?"

"Yes."

Her smile faltered. She frowned and looked intently at the ground, considering his offer. She didn't want to die, alone in this basement, but was she willing to serve the enemy for the rest of her life? The answer shocked her in its clarity. "Fine. Take me in," she said resignedly.