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Assassin's Waltz
2.

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Four targets.

Each have been located, studied in depth; their movements observed.

They reside in the same room.

A celebration party, for the infamous genius Howard Stark. The past ten years a success of brilliant inventions and valuable instruments in aid of SHIELD's work. Five top agents attend, as body guards.

They are subtle, but not subtle enough for The Black Widow.

She identifies all five the moment she steps into the grand hall. All assume she has been invited; Natasha dresses for the occasion. A flattering, scarlet dress, with an open back. Her hair is long, the longest it's ever been, past her shoulders, down to her bosom. And it's nice: nice to feel feminine after such a time.

Howard Stark is weak, especially with pretty women.

The man, although married, notices Natasha immediately and comes over, wearing a foxy smirk. She smiles, delighted to have gained his attention so speedily and for the next several hours, he is her entertainment. In the meantime, she splits her focus; eyes dancing onto her targets.

All of them are here.

'You haven't told me your name yet.'

Natasha's eyes glimmer. 'Natalie,' she says, 'I've always admired your work, Mister Stark. How honoured I am to finally meet you in person.'

'It's taken you far too long,' Howard replies.

The greying hair, few wrinkles, tired eyes. She knows this man once had a childhood, a youth; something he recklessly delved in, while others never had the opportunity to. Natasha was too young to participate in the war––she was not ready, but she read about it; every detail she could.

Heroes, they are called. The men who stepped onto the field and fired bullets. Like maddened souls.

Natasha expresses little sympathy.

A crooked smile, and she leans into him, 'Mm, maybe I can make it up to you?'

He is pleased with that. Howard clicks his fingers and a waiter arrives. The man wants the finest wine available, and two glasses. Natasha shall be offered special treatment this evening. The other guests have established their host is otherwise occupied, and leave the couple be to their drinks.

But Howard is distracted when he catches sight of somebody.

'Ah!'

Natasha follows his line of gaze.

'Peg, I thought you weren't going to come.'

'After all this time, you still express doubt in me. I'm wounded.'

There is a woman, and she walks over, walks in a way Natasha is familiar with. It is her eyes Natasha notices first: deep and inviting; mysterious. Natasha cocks back her chin, and faces the woman Howard endearingly calls "Peg". Then she studies Howard's behaviour with Peg, how he kisses her cheek, grins at her; their affection, obvious, is the sort of affection Natasha observes in a friendship.

Years show in the woman's face, but, somehow, it suits her.

'This is Natalie. Natalie, this is Peggy.'

'A pleasure,' Natasha takes Peggy's hand in a firm handshake.

She knows that name.

'I don't recall seeing your name on the guest list,' Peggy remarks, cocking a brow. 'However, I find no harm in our new addition.'

'A colleague invited me,' Natasha lies, but she could convince anybody. 'He is aware of my––well, admiration of the great Mister Stark.'

Howard blushes slightly. His weakness is apparent. 'Did'ya hear that, Pegs? Great. You should call me that from now on.'

'Not on your life,' Peggy scoffs.

It is her.

It is the same woman, the same Peggy, who took her hand and taught her about falling, about the purpose of standing back on one's feet again; it is the same woman who fed her, gave her a childhood, if only for a moment.

But that girl was Natalia. A baby herself, ignorant and under the command of her Handler.

Peggy doesn't know Natasha. Not the woman who stands in a red dress, who flirts with men to earn her prize; who uses her own body as a weapon. And, yet, the way Peggy looks at her, through those same warm irises, Natasha would think Peggy has known her all along.

She knows.

Yes.

She must know who Natasha is.

'Natalie has been telling me all about herself; you spend your free time painting,' Howard looks at Natasha for confirmation. The whole painting hobby was a cheap, and easy lie. One Natasha threw out on a whim. She nods. 'I was invited to come and inspect said paintings. Should be a treat.'

'How lovely,' Peggy whispers, a sort of sadness in her smile.

Natasha drops her gaze, and decides to simply focus on Howard; the woman's expression carves too much emotion in her.

'If you'll excuse me, Mister Stark; Natalie.'

'Don't run far,' Howard teases, before returning his attention to his redhead companion.

Natasha doesn't allow herself to watch Peggy walk away; despite the longing sensation building within her. She doesn't quite know why, but letting Peggy go like that––it's left a bit of a mark.

How bizarre, that they meet again.

The handkerchief still in her possession.

She erases the image of Peggy in her mind, and thinks the way her character thinks. Howard is oblivious. Natasha identifies a target, to her left, expressing suspicious behaviour. He's starting to panic; he's starting to feel nervous and soon it will be Natasha's turn to act. It will be a speedy job.

One target departs.

As does the next.

Two remain.

Natasha excuses herself, and Howard turns to entertaining the other guests.

This is all second nature. She's dealt with this sort of foolish manoeuvre from her targets before; those they call hitmen, terrorists, the lot––very rarely are they a challenge to defeat. She sees right through their motives.

Natasha walks out of the hall, follows one of her targets.

Certain the area is deserted, she catches up with him, and slams his body into the wall. The man is trapped in her lock. Before he can yell for help, she knocks him out cold, slumping him into a nearby chair.

Her second target is heading for the next floor. She knows why.

First floor: a bomb. He intends to blow up the building.

With him still inside.

Of course she reaches him, and he's shocked and horrified to have been caught. Bloody nose and fractured skull, he collapses to her feet, useless. Her next objective is to disable the bomb and get out.

That is her mission.

It's under the rug, under the floorboard. She has to break open the wood in order to retrieve the bomb. A heavy thing, wires connected. This shan't be a problem. She kneels down, flips her hair over her shoulder, and studies the bomb, which wires to remove. It will take her, at most, ten seconds.

Something cold presses into the back of her head.

The snout of a handgun.

'That's quite enough.'

Natasha smirks. 'Are you going to shoot me?'

'Don't think I mightn't. Come along, now. Move away.'

'I have it under control––'

'It is not your control to have.'

Natasha blinks. She furrows her brows, and peers over her shoulder. There is no mercy in Peggy's eyes. 'You should allow me to disable the bomb. I know the mechanics. Your men can attempt at trying, but, if you knew better, you'd leave this all to me.'

There's a pause, and Peggy lowers the gun. Slight reluctance.

'Go on.'

Natasha turns back to the bomb and, in one swift movement, disables the bomb.

There's silence.

And then: 'Stand up. I want to see your face.'

To Natasha's surprise, she actually obeys. She meets Peggy's eyes, and there's something almost satisfying about not having to look up at this woman anymore. She doesn't know what to expect, but she wasn't expecting Peggy to appear so solemn.

The woman is calm. 'Now I know the real reason behind you not being on the guest list. Next time, try not to lie.'

'I never lie: I am an honest woman, through and through.'

'Do you take me for an idiot? Don't play tricks.'

Natasha imagines Peggy raising the gun.

The bullet.

Natasha imagines Peggy offering her death, with that same broken smile.

She wants to see that smile again.

That grief. That pain. That beauty.

That slight, dented hope.

'You are not an agent,' Peggy remarks. 'You are in no way associated with myself or SHIELD.' Natasha doesn't respond. 'Let us keep it that way. If I see you within a mere inch of my work, I'll make sure you take no further step. Are we at an understanding?'

'Whatever you say.'

'Go. Be gone with you.'

Perhaps the great Director does not remember, after all.

Perhaps she does not remember young Natalia, her bloody knees, her enthusiasm over something as trivial as ice cream.

Perhaps Natasha has been a fool.

(Love has never been a kind caress.)

She maintains a stoic expression, refusing to feel anything for this woman; the rejection thrown at her.

For Natasha is used to such cool farewells.

She does not voice any more words. Natasha steps around Peggy, gaze locked, and the war, the years of battle, shine through Peggy's face. There is a riddle of puzzles waiting to be deciphered, and Natasha is thirsty to solve each.

For now, she does as she's told, and walks away.