Time Note: This takes place between Iron Man 2/Thor and The Avengers

Rating Note: M for violence, language, and eventually 'adult themes'


Budapest, Pearl of the Danube. The city was old by the standards of modern man, built by the Celts and the Romans, pillaged by the Ottomans, ruled by the Habsburgs, bombed by British and American forces during World War II, and for a time swallowed up whole by the political beast called the Soviet Union. The mighty Bear had loosed its hold on Hungary at the close of the 20th century, and now the city was a center of commerce and finance, beautiful and power and desirable. People were drawn to her for her mysterious history, her lovely facades, and the natural hot springs that bubbled beneath her surfaces. To the unwary, she could also be deadly.

On this cold, moonless February night, Hawkeye had found himself a suitable perch atop the Hungarian State Opera House. Miklós Ybl likely had not had such uses in mind when he'd created his most well-known structure, but his neo-Renaissance design offered an exceptional wealth of angles, niches, and blind spots from which the agent-assassin could see but not be seen. His dark, rough-textured tactical clothing allowed him to blend in against the aged and shadowed stone, and his soft-soled leather boots made no discernible sound on the roof. The carnival season had turned the city into one huge party, with thousands of people indulging in excesses of food, drink, or whatever other pleasures of the flesh drove them, before the pious austerity of the Lenten season made such sensual activities frowned upon. His own period of denial had begun much sooner. There was a job to be done; he could not afford distractions.

"Widow, this is Hawk. I'm in position."

His voice was a low rumble, lost in the wintery wind to any curious ears that were more than a few feet away, or not connected to him via S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued throat mic. Sharp eyes followed a limousine as it pulled to a stop in front of the opera house, another in a long line of similar vehicles. One by one their rear doors had opened to disgorge men decked out in ultra-formal white tie and tails, who helped out women wearing flowing designer gowns in all hues, jewels glittering brightly even in the bluish street lights. The Budapest Opera Ball was one of the premier events of the social season, drawing the rich, famous, and politically influential from Europe and beyond. Of interest to S.H.I.E.L.D. in this case was a Middle Eastern prince with terrorist sympathies, a crap-ton of disposable cash, and a serious jones for Russian ballerinas.

Hawkeye didn't need to be able to see faces to recognize Black Widow when she emerged from her limo. It wasn't even her signature red hair that first tipped him off. No, it was the way she moved, even in a sequined emerald evening gown and fur wrap rather than her habitual black catsuit. There was an unmistakable fluidity to her highly trained and toned body, a distinctive placement to each step of her feet in their stiletto Manolos; don't ask how he knew the name, he had to learn all kinds of things in his line of work. Were there actual stilettos hidden inside those shoes, he wondered? His money would be on yes. For a brief moment, a smile crept unbidden across his face. It softened his solemn features in a way that few people ever saw, until his eyes refocused on the tall man emerging from the vehicle behind Widow. His tuxedo was like everyone else's, but he wore with it a head wrap and a heavy gold chain that sat atop the dark cloth of the jacket, an unmistakable badge of wealth and privilege.

"Has Sheik Ali bin Lookin'-to-Get-Some kept his hands to himself tonight?" he asked quietly into the frigid darkness, the words picked up and transmitted by his mic, followed by his low, cynical chuckle. "I suspect he's looking to penetrate the Iron Curtain in more than one way."

It was very dangerous to talk to her like that; Hawkeye knew that all too well. It was especially bad when she couldn't answer him right away. He'd pay dearly for it later, like he always did. That was part of their game, and the anticipation of her retaliation (tinged with a lick of real fear) was every bit as thrilling as anything he was doing on this roof tonight. She didn't flinch, didn't pause, didn't look up, even as his taunting words must have pricked and tickled her ear (and her ego). Instead, her hand slid neatly into the prince's crooked elbow and they climbed the broad stairs to enter the opera house, disappearing from his sight.

No, it was another chiding voice that injected a cold dash of reason. Agent Phil Coulson, while physically distant in New York City, might as well have been standing over his shoulder when he suggested in a stern tone via satellite feed that Hawkeye knock off the borderline ethnic slurs and return his attention to the task at hand: stopping the prince from making a deal to buy old Soviet nuclear ordnance to be repurposed into terrorist bombs.

"I'd give my best quiver to know where Widow stashed her weapons in that outfit," Hawk said, unable to rein himself in completely. What were they going to do, fire him? Besides, it was an undisputed fact that Black Widow was more dangerous buck-ass naked than most men armed with the latest in military hardware. He also knew that better than nearly any man alive - an incredibly elite club, since few men stayed alive once they'd tangled with her.

Flexing his fingers against the unwanted stiffness the night's cold could bring, Hawkeye was sure he heard a soft laugh from the other end of the connection. Coulson wasn't half the tightass he pretended to be, and he was definitely twice the badass most people believed. And, most importantly, he was one of the few people Hawkeye trusted without reservation. That was also an elite club, one he would have said wasn't likely to grow in membership any time in the near future.

Another couple emerged from a limousine in front of the opera house. This woman had red hair as well, but it was not the fiery hue of the Widow's. It was the shade commonly known as strawberry blonde, worn in a loose updo with a midnight-blue dress. The man beside her-

"Shit," Hawkeye muttered, drawing back reflexively into a deeper shadow as he confirmed the man's identity for himself. He only knew him from media coverage, but his mugging face was damn near anywhere. "Who invited Tony Stark to this little shindig?"