A/N: Black Widow and Hawkeye belong to Marvel, I do not own them. Lake Baikal is a real place. It is fantastic, spooky and beautiful. Google it.
Chapter One
Every fourth building was brown with blue shutters. It was starting to get a little spooky. This whole highway was a little spooky. He shifted in his seat and glanced over at Natasha, sunglasses on, head bent over her phone. She'd barely spoken to him the entire trip.
The M55 stretched ahead of them, winding away from tiny Babushkaya along the coast of Lake Baikal. They passed a blue taxi stand with "Babushkayat" in white Cyrillic chipping off the side, and then the town vanished and fell dead behind them.
"Two more miles," Natasha announced.
He grunted. He considered asking about the brown and blue cottages, why there were so many, and then thought better of it. So far, Natasha had been in a relatively good mood, and he didn't want to mess with her.
"Turn," she said.
"What?"
"Turn, you were supposed to turn back there. At the bridge."
"The railway thing? There wasn't even a turn-off—Fine. Hang on."
The Lada did a neat u-turn on the highway and trundled back to a railway overpass that edged across the top of an embankment. The white blue waters of the lake slipped up the banks and lurked between the stone walls, ice and snow still crusted along the shore. Another car, considerably less beat-up than their own rental, was parked primly on the gravel slope. The Lada lurched over the highway's shoulder and ground to a stop with a disgraceful mutter.
He switched off the ignition. "Ready?"
"Let's do this. And get out of here." The passenger door was jammed, so Natasha was forced to slide out the driver's side door after him. Cheap Soviet cars. There was something wrong with the pedals, too.
"Zdravtsvoity!" called the man in the tan suit who waited by the other car. "Hello!" Behind him five men in black trench coats piled out like a Russian luxury clown car troupe. "A beautiful day, is it not, Agent Barton?"
"It's a little cold."
"You don't appreciate a fine Russian spring?"
"I'll commune with nature when this is over, Tuprakov. Now, what's the plan here?"
"The plan is very simple. You give us the information we requested, in exchange, we give you the serum."
"Actually, there's been a change in plans." Natasha stepped forward. "New deal: I let all of you live, and in exchange, you give me Agent Barton."
"What are you speaking of, Agent Romanoff? Agent Barton is right beside you."
"That's not Agent Barton."
What the hell was she doing? "Natasha—" He grabbed for her wrist and she whipped her arm away.
"Three days ago my partner was supposed to return from a completed mission in Kazakhstan. Instead this man came back." She nodded to Tuprakov. "He's very good, I'll give you that. He insisted that in order to obtain the Malacorn serum an exchange for classified documents be made."
Tuprakov chuckled. "I think your partner is turning on you, Barton. Perhaps it is time to come back to us, eh, Little Natalia?"
He tried to get through to her again. "I'm your partner, Natasha—"
"If you're my partner, why wouldn't you let me see the information you're handing over?"
"It's classified. Standard protocol, you know that. This is my mission, my drop. You're just here for back-up."
The muzzle of her gun fell heavy and cool against his temple. "Wrong answer."