Disclaimer: Avengers is not mine. Black Widow and Hawkeye are not mine. But the hints we've gotten about their past are just too intriguing to not make up a story for.

The Different Call

Budapest was a beautiful city. Clint made a mental note to take some time to go sightseeing if he survived this assignment.

They had volumes of information on the assassin known as the Black Widow. She had a stack of confirmed kills, including five S.H.I.E L.D. agents. She showed no mercy, executing witnesses, using innocent bystanders as collateral, sometimes killing multiple people to obscure her real target. On one occasion she burned down a hospital to kill a single patient, a job another assassin had botched. Her last known hit had ended in the death of a geneticist while he was jogging in a park, during which she'd stabbed the only witness, a young father out for a walk, in front of his one-year-old son. The father had fortunately pulled through. His statement was how they'd linked that murder to her. She'd once even executed the six-year-old daughter of a mob boss who tried to turn against his organization and make a deal with law enforcement. Those attacks had struck Clint particularly hard, since he was a new father himself.

Besides her professional resumé, there was no solid intel on her. She had gone by over a hundred aliases just counting the ones S.H.I.E L.D. knew about, but her real name was unknown. She was a master of disguise. She was fluent in several languages, making her country of origin hard to pin down, though rumor had it she was Russian. That same rumor said she was a product of the mysterious Red Room, a Russian organization rumored to train girls from a young age, shaping them into master assassins. Some in the intelligence community thought the Red Room was nothing but an urban legend.

Clint had studied every single photograph of the Black Widow known to exist. He'd practically be able to recognize her from her shadow.

S.H.I.E.L.D. had picked up on intel that the Black Widow had been hired to assassinate Vasile Flaviescu. It was hard to guess who in specific wanted Flaviescu dead: it could be the rival arms dealers his undercutting put out of business, the customers he sold cheap guns to while simultaniously gathering enough dirt to blackmail them for more money in the future, the employees at his very unsafe gun factories, or the governments of half a dozen countries where he'd sold guns to rebel groups. S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted him dead or arrested for the biological, chemical, and sonar weapons he had in development. But not as much as they wanted the assassin currently after him.

Considering the extreme difficulty of tracking the Black Widow's movements, shadowing her prey until she showed up seemed the best bet of getting her.

Flaviescu, unfortunately, didn't make himself easy to track. He traveled with a retinue of well-armed, well-trained bodyguards, had a fleet of armored cars, and spared no expense on his electronic security precautions. But his security was no match for S.H.I.E.L.D.'s resources, and it had not been hard to figure out his itinerary once it was confirmed he was coming to Budapest.

"The motorcade is approaching the factory," Agent Coulson reported over the comm.

Flaviescu's weapons factory was in a large brick building in the outskirts of the city. Clint had staked it out and set up a sniper's nest high in a dense tree across the street. He'd been there for hours.

"Roger that," he whispered.

It had been Clint's analysis that had led them to select this building as the most likely area for the Widow to strike. This wasn't where he was most vulnerable—a hotel, car, or restaurant would be a much easier target—but it was the most predictable point for Flaviescu to be, making it somewhere a master assassin could stake out, study, plan for. And for an assassin of the Black Widow's caliber, easy was no object.

A row of identical black cars with tinted windows drove up to the factory, entering the covered parking lot. Clint tapped a button on his goggles, switching the view to the high-resolution infrared images provided by the tiny sensors S.H.I.E.L.D. drones had affixed to the outside of the building late last night. He could see a thermal image of every single person in the factory. Each one had been accounted for as they entered the building; they had already determined Black Widow wasn't there yet. Clint expected her to make her move as Flaviescu exited his car, but nothing happened as the gun baron and his 20 bodyguards walked from their vehicles to the door of the building.

It had crossed Clint's mind that she might blow up the building with Flaviescu in it, but even if that were the case she would be nearby to confirm it worked and kill her target if he tried to flee. Besides, Clint's gut told him the Black Widow would make it more challenging for herself.

He kept his eye on the thermal image of Flaviescu superimposed on his view of the factory building as he greeted his employees, checked a computer screen, thumbed through a stack of papers on a desk. Four of his bodyguards were constantly beside him while the rest fanned out to a greater distance to keep an eye on things.

Clint watched with amusement as word of the head honcho's arrival spread through the building, prompting people who'd been sitting back to find ways to appear busy, factory workers to put more verve into their duties.

Except for one factory worker who seemed to step out for a restroom break only to apparently climb into the ceiling.

Clint's attention fixed on her. A quick cross-check of his biometric algorithm bright up her identity as Dalia Kazlauskas, who had been working at the factory for nearly two months.

She was a match to the height and build of Black Widow. He kicked himself for not seeing it sooner.

She moved with surprising speed and agility through the ceiling space. She appeared to be unarmed, but she dropped into the security office, landing in the midst of four armed guards. In seconds—so fast Clint could barely follow her movements, though he saw a roundkick, a double frontkick to two heads at once, and a move where she wrapped her legs around one's neck and used his momemtum to knock over another—they were down, and she was armed.

Damn.

"I've got eyes on target. Confirmed in the building," Clint reported.

"Great. We're standing by for extraction," Coulson said.

Clint watched her pause at the security monitors before heading into the hallway, pocketing two stolen guns and holding the other two. When a pair of factory workers walked toward her location, Clint tensed. They were innocent...ish bystanders, and they wouldn't stand a chance against her.

But she unexpectedly ducked out of sight into an empty room, hiding while they passed.

Clint got his first glimpse of her through a window. Her hair was dyed dark brown, she was dressed in a black suit she must have had on under her factory work clothes, which must have been uncomfortably hot.

He took aim and nocked an arrow. The breaking window would slow the flight of the arrow, so he'd have to factor that into the speed.

The thermal image of one of the factory workers stopped at the door, directly behind the Black Widow. He couldn't take the shot without risking collateral damage.

Black Widow heard the door handle jiggle. She'd already locked the door. The person on the other side of the door dug in his pocket for keys.

And Black Widow went to the window. She opened it quickly and slithered out, closed it, and hung out of sight, gripping the bricks with her gloved hands.

He took aim again. She was vulnerable. She'd made herself vulnerable to avoid a witness she much more easily could have just killed.

He hesitated. It didn't feel completely right to take advantage of her one compassionate act to kill her.

In seconds, he lost his chance; she shimmied to another window, took a quick peek to see if the room was empty, and slipped in. She went back to the hallway, made her way quickly yet stealthily to the room where Flaviescu was working, and brought out her guns.

Flaviescu went down first, killed instantly with a shot to the head. His bodyguards opened fire, which Black Widow managed to dodge while still firing, judging by the guards who went down even as she rolled. She leaped up, doing a backflip as a bright flash of heat appeared behind her. Only when she fell to the next level down, landing in a crouch, did Clint realize she'd blown a hole in the floor.

Her skills were remarkable. He'd known that from reading her file, of course, but seeing it in front of him in real time brought it home. The Red Room story of her origins must be true; no one could move like she moved, or face a room of twenty armed hostiles alone, without a lifetime of training.

If that were true, it meant she'd only been a child—an innocent child—when her training in assassination began. What kind of monsters would do that to a child? And if killing was all she'd ever known, all she'd ever been offered, it made the risk she'd taken to minimize collateral damage all the more significant.

The rest of the building had erupted in chaos after the sounds of gunshots and explosions. Regular employees were trying to flee or hide, while Flaviescu's surviving bodyguards were searching for the assassin. Having made her way to the basement, Black Widow was heading for the far side of the building.

There was a dead-end alley back there. If she was heading for it, that meant she probably had some means of escape stashed there. Clint felt his window of opportunity closing fast. He rappeled out of the tree and sprinted to intercept.

Natasha had completed her mission. Flaviescu was dead. Next step: get out alive. And she was a short corridor, a door, one flight of stairs, a window, and five meters of alley away from that goal. It would take at least another minute and twenty seconds for Flaviescu's guards to find her, and that was only if any of them guessed which way she was heading.

She sprinted down the narrow corridor and reached for the doorknob.

Crash!

The very second she heard glass break behind her, an arrow whooshed past her ear and buried itself in the door in front of her face. She spun around, dropped to a crouch, and drew two guns in the same half second, and found herself facing a man in black, kneeling at her own level, with a bow drawn taut, arrow leveled at her chest.

She took a breath.

Natasha never worried about death. Death would come whether she worried about it or not, so there was no point wasting energy on fearing it. She would get out of this alive, or she wouldn't.

Thus there was no tremor in her voice when she said, "S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent Cint Barton, codename Hawkeye. I'm surprised; I heard you were a deadshot, but you missed me by two centimeters."

"What makes you think I was aiming for you?"

His tone was confident. Cocky even. She 'd known it would only be a matter of time before S.H.I.E.L.D. sent someone else after her, after what happened in São Paulo. It figured they'd send their best shot.

If she shot him, his grip on the arrow would loosen. At this range and with so little room to maneuver, it was unlikely she could dodge in time. Short term, darting out of the way without firing a shot was a better bet, but could leave her exposed for a second that he could take advantage of.

The longer he kept his arrow drawn without firing, the more fatigued the muscles holding it back would get, the better chance she'd have of him missing.

"You expect me to believe you missed on purpose?" she asked to buy some time.

"Yeah. Truth is, I was about to kill you. That's what I came here to do. But something's nagging at me."

"And what's that?" If she sprang straight up into the air and shot him in the head while using the wall to kick herself to the left, surprise and gravity should prevent the arrow he'd release from hitting her; it would get the door behind her instead. That would give her a decent chance at killing him and getting out alive.

"Hassan Suleiman."

She paused at the name, the corner of her lips twitching downward.

"The witness you stabbed in Sydney. Did you know that was his name? His baby's name is Zayn. I thought he just got lucky, or he was just too determined not to die. Five slash wounds, and not a single one hit an organ or artery. But seeing you fight tonight, that doesn't make sense. You didn't leave him alive by accident. You didn't want him to kill him. Maybe you saw his baby son and decided you'd just roll the dice. Tonight you risked your life to avoid putting someone else in danger. I had a clear shot at you while you were climbing across the outside wall."

"Why didn't you take it? You know I'm not going to give you another chance."

"Because I'm starting to wonder if this is really you. I'm wondering why you do what you do. Assassin for hire. It can't just be about the money anymore, and I don't believe its because you enjoy killing."

He was half wrong on both counts. The money wasn't all that great after expenses and the Red Room's cut. She didn't have enough tucked away to retire on, anyway. And she did enjoy the hunt, the scheming, the fighting, the challenge of it all.

But not the killing.

"I do it because I'm the best at it," she answered.

"But you're not happy."

"There's more to life than being happy." She wasn't sure why she was still talking. Surely his guard was down enough that she could kill him.

"That's true. There's making a difference, helping people, being a good person. But you don't have any of that, so...what do you have?"

"My skills. My reputation."

"I get that. So here's another idea: come with me."

He was trying to get her to let her guard down. She had to act, had to kill him.

"What do you mean?" she asked instead.

"Join S.H.I.E.L.D. Use those skills you're so proud of to do good."

"It's a bit late in the game for that."

"Why, because you've killed people? You've got a little red in your ledger? I used to be in the circus. Just because we were something doesn't mean that's what we always gotta be."

"Seriously?" she scoffed.

And then he did something that shocked her: he let the bowstring go slack, took the arrow off, and raised his hands in a non-threatening gesture. "You tell me."

Sometimes late at night Natasha fantasized about leaving this life, about running away, disappearing, leaving the Red Room behind her. Sometimes she even imagined doing something heroic. But those were just fantasies, daydreams. But here was an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. offering her a way to make it a reality. And unless he was the best liar she'd ever met, he was being serious.

The far door burst open. Three of Flaviescu's bodyguards rushed into the room, bullets first. Natasha somersaulted forward and shot past Hawkeye, downing two of them. The next second Hawkeye's arrow took out a third.

"You had a plan for getting out of this?" she asked him.

"Yeah: with you."

"You must have been pretty confident I'd take your offer."

"I bet my life on it."

She turned her back to him and kicked open the door. "This way."

Someone fired at them from a few stories above in the stairwell. Clint shot an arrow straight up. The man fell forward, tumbling down toward them. They both dodged out of the way.

Natasha kicked out the window into the alley. It was empty. She sprinted to the loose boards concealing her motorcycle. "Hop on."

Clint got on behind her as Natasha started the engine.

"There's a jet waiting for us in the woods just north of the Citadella," he said. "Can you get us there?"

"Yep."

She zigzagged out of the alley onto the street, followed by a scattering of bullets. Clint turned and let off a parting shot, which ricocheted off the wall and 0pierced the hand aiming the gun pointing around the corner from the alley.

The motorcycle topping a hundred kilometers an hour through the city streets soon had police cars in pursuit, sirens blaring. Natasha easily outran them, weaving between cars, cutting through narrow alleys, taking shortcuts across places that were not in the least meant for wheeled traffic.

"This isn't exactly how I wanted to see Budapest," Clint quipped.

She didn't respond, being too busy dodging cars as she sped across Erzsébet Bridge, but it occured to her she might end up liking Hawkeye.

"There."

They rode the motorcyle into the dense trees for a minute, then abandoned it when the terrain grew too rough. Clint led the way on foot.

The jet appeared in front of them suddenly, Phil Coulson watching from the open hatch.

"You want to explain this, Barton?" he asked with apparent bonhomie, though it didn't escape Natasha's notice that the way he was holding his folded arms indicated he had a gun tucked just out of sight.

Clint shrugged. "I know this mission was a kill order, but I figured we could really use the Black Widow on our side, so instead I asked her to join us."

"That's it? You just...asked?" Coulson's smile didn't change. He struck Natasha as remarkably cheery for someone currently weighing the odds that one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s most dangerous operatives had either just turned traitor or gone insane and he was seconds away from almost certain death.

"I asked nicely," Clint amended.

"To be fair, he did ask nicely while he had an arrow fixed on me," she said. "It made the decision a little easier."

Coulson conceded her point with a tilt of his head.

"I know this is a risk," Clint said, "but she had plenty of chances to kill me between the factory and here, and she didn't take them."

Coulson stared at her thoughtfully for a very long moment, then shrugged. "Okay. Let's go."

That made no sense to Natasha. Clint's argument was weak; if she'd taken advantage of his offer to attempt an infiltration of S.H.I.E.L.D., of course she wouldn't have killed him. She'd watched the contemplation of that possibility play out on Coulson's face.

"So you're just going to trust me, just like that?" she asked.

"Ms. Widow, I know the look on your face: you've got the look of someone wondering what the hell she's just done. I trust that."

That was exactly what she'd been thinking. She had just thrown away everything she'd ever known, everything she'd been taught, everything she'd ever worked to achieve, for a total question mark. She knew a deal about S.H.I.E.L.D., an organization devoted to protecting the world from doomsday weapons, death cults, mad scientists, and anything else too complex, too cutting-edge, or just plain too weird for lawful authorities to handle. That necessitated a lot of legally and ethically questionable activities, such as sending an assassin to assassinate an assassin. And apparently giving a pass to an assassin in order to recruit her. She also knew they had technology beyond what the rest of the world could dream up. She wondered if working for them would require an interrogation under a brain scan, or maybe having a bomb implanted in her body to encourage her loyalty.

What the hell had she just done indeed.

But even as it occured to her this might be her last chance to turn back, she knew she wouldn't.

"Call me Natasha," she said, giving someone new her real name for the first time in years. It felt good. She glanced at Clint, who raised his eyebrows with a wry smile, before she added, "Natasha Romanoff."