December 1991

Peggy's entire body seemed to seize up.

They're dead … They're dead … They're dead …

"Wh-what?"

"They were driving home, and the brakes failed …" His voice broke horribly. "They're dead, Aunt Peggy. They're gone."

A sob forced its way out of her mouth and she broke, dimly noticing Clint scrambling across the room to catch her before she hit the floor.

Many people tended to see Clint's strength and quiet nature, and assume that he was not a clever man. Maybe not stupid, so to speak, but not clever.

Those people seemed to forget - or not realise - the amount of calculations Clint needed to do in his head to make some of the shots that he did, sometimes in less than a second.

Hawkeye may have been his name in the circus, but it had stuck with him at SHIELD, and it was not a misnomer.

Clint's sharp eyes saw everything, so she should not have been surprised that he took in her greeting on the phone, her reaction, and came to the correct conclusion.

Gently relieving her of the phone, he took over. "This is Clint, I work with Sharon. Is everything alright?"

There was a pause, while Tony seemed to adjust, thankfully regaining some of his composure. "This is Tony Stark; Sharon's a family friend. I … There's been a family emergency; I wasn't sure who else to call."

Clint tucked his arm around Peggy the way she had held him earlier. "We'll be home within the hour, Mr Stark. I'm very sorry for your loss."

There was another pause. "How did you know?"

"I haven't known Sharon very long," Clint said. "But I assume something that upsets her this much must be something big."

"Look after her," Tony said bluntly. "She must trust you."

He hung up abruptly, and Clint set the phone down in favour of pulling her close. "What happened?"

"His parents are dead," Peggy answered, resting her head on his shoulder. "Car accident."

"I'm sorry," Clint murmured. He hesitated, then tentatively added, "I thought you said you only knew Howard Stark because he worked with your great-aunt during the war."

She had said that.

She'd forgotten.

The age gap between Belinda and Sharon meant that Sharon being overly close to the Starks just wouldn't have made sense.

As far as the Level Sevens and below were aware, the only connection between them was due to their affection to her late great-aunt.

Howard hadn't even really been doing that much consulting for SHIELD anymore. Clint's bow was (not that the archer was aware) a personal favour.

Peggy could lie.

After so long in the game, lies came as easily as the truth.

She should lie.

"My name's not Sharon," she admitted softly. "It's a fairly long story, and it's a Level Eight, which you're nowhere near, so you can't breathe a word of it to anyone, and you can't tell anyone I told you either."

"I can keep a secret," Clint assured her.

Peggy smiled weakly. "I know."

May 1992

Howard and Maria Stark's funeral was like a bad dream.

Peggy knew that she was going to lose people eventually. The curse of immortality - or something like it anyway - was that she would bury those she loved long before she herself succumbed to any kind of old age or illness.

But she had not expected them to be the first, and not so suddenly.

She spent the service desperately wanted to just gather Tony up into her arms and hold him tight and hide him away from the media vultures.

As a 'family friend', however, all she could do was allow his godfather to look after him.

Obadiah told her privately that he was considering moving Stark Industries down to California and take Tony with him.

While Peggy hated the idea of him dealing with his grief so far away, she had to admit that taking him out of the home he had shared with his parents would probably help him.

She insisted on a weekly phone call though, and Tony - mostly - kept to that.

Divulging her true identity to Clint turned out to be a good move - he was rapidly becoming the best marksman SHIELD had, and, simultaneously, a bit of a loose cannon.

Due to his talent, the upper echelons were willing to overlook the occasional eccentricities, and let Peggy and Phil handle him.

It was spring and Peggy was in her office, working through the paperwork from her last op.

By now, she was so used to Clint appearing from the air vents at strange times, that the noise of the cover popping off and a body slithering to the ground didn't even make her look up.

"Agent Barton, can I ask you to please proofread your mission reports?" Peggy asked, signing on the dotted line. "I don't think you took a shit at the target."

Clint sniggered from the chair on the other side of her desk. "Sorry."

Peggy smirked. "If you say so. What can I do for you?"

"People keep thanking me for working this Sunday," Clint said, a frown evident in his voice. "I don't get it."

Now Peggy looked up, automatically glancing at the calendar on her desk. "Sunday's Mothering Sunday."

Clint looked perplexed. "What?"

"Mothering Sunday," Peggy repeated. "Or Mother's Day, I suppose it's called here."

"What's that?" Clint asked.

Peggy hesitated, once more picking up on the tumultuous childhood that wasn't noted in his file. "Well, it comes from a time when a lot of people were in domestic service. They were only given one day a year when they could go and see their families, and it became known as Mother's Day. It's a day when some people go and visit their mothers. A lot of agents still have decent relationships with their parents. Some of them are parents themselves."

Clint frowned. "My mother was a bitch."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Peggy said softly. "My mother was a gem."

"She's passed?" Clint asked.

Peggy raised an eyebrow, about to remind him about her real age, when she noticed his eyes flicking up to the corner.

Where the cameras were.

"Yes," Peggy said instead.

No one was watching the footage from her office that wasn't cleared for security, but she hadn't told him about the cameras, let alone where they were.

No one ever spotted them.

His eyesight continued to astound her.

"What was she like?" Clint asked.

Peggy hesitated again, trying to put it into words. "She was … She was one of the strongest people I knew. She was widowed when I was six and she just … She kept going. But then she wouldn't have considered that strength. She just would have considered it being a mother."

Clint tilted his head. "And what is a mother?"

Peggy leaned back in her chair. "Well a real mother - a good mother - is someone who nurtures you, who helps you be the best version of yourself that you can be. Someone who loves you for everything that you are, not in spite of your faults but because of them. Because that's what makes you who you are, and that's all she ever wants you to be." She made a point of meeting Clint's eyes. "I'm sorry your mother wasn't a good mother."

His lips quirked in a humourless smile. "Luck of the draw." He stood up, his fingers tapping against his thighs. "Thanks Sharon."

She wasn't surprised when he left via the vents again.

She was surprised that Sunday evening when her doorbell rang and she found Clint loitering on her doorstep.

"Hello," she greeted. "How was work?"

"Nothing happened," Clint said, his hands fidgeting behind his back. "I thought about what you said. About mothers."

Peggy stepped back. "Why don't you come in? No cameras in here, I promise." She led him into the kitchen and made a pot of tea.

"We didn't kill them," Clint said, watching her.

"Your parents?" Peggy asked, a little startled. "I didn't think you did."

"I think Barney wished he had," Clint admitted. "They were … They told us it was our fault. That we were bad kids. So when they died, we ran away because we thought it would get worse."

Peggy scowled, setting a cup of tea in front of him. "You know that wasn't true, don't you?"

"How do you know?" Clint asked. "You didn't know me as a kid."

"No child is bad enough to warrant that kind of treatment," Peggy said firmly.

"I know they were liars," Clint said. "It took me a while. My mother wasn't anything you said. But … um … I wanted to bring you these."

'These' were flowers, a small bunch of roses and tulips that made her smile even through her confusion.

"They're beautiful, thank you," she said. "Can I ask why?"

Clint didn't answer out loud, his hands fidgeting into sign language instead.

My mother never did any of that. You have.

For a second, Peggy didn't respond, couldn't respond.

It wasn't the first Mother's Day gift she had received - Tony had always included her in the celebrations ("because Aunt Peggy's like having another Mom"), although she hadn't heard from him this year.

Nor had she expected to, since it was the first one without Maria.

But that was different - Tony was her godson and had known her all his life. And, for all Howard's faults, Maria had been a doting mother.

For Clint to open up like this …

Tears pricked at the back of her eyes and he settled himself a little deeper into the spot in her heart she had been pretending he hadn't carved out for himself.

"They're beautiful," she said again, knowing from experience that he had reached his limit of emotional discussion for the day. "I haven't eaten yet; would you like to stay for dinner?"

Clint gave her a shy smile. "I'd like that."

March 1998

As the years went by, Peggy watched Clint blossom into an exceptional agent.

An exceptional agent who listened to a total of two people - three on a good day. Unfortunately for Nick Fury - who took over from Pierce when he moved to the World Security Council - he was the third person.

Only Clint's exceptional record allowed him this freedom, including his habit of questioning every op he was given.

Privately, Peggy was glad that he insisted that missions met his own moral compass before he took them.

It also meant that she and Phil were his only handlers, which meant that she never had to worry about him on a mission.

Fury occasionally put his foot down, but even he never went further than locking Clint out of the ventilation system.

At times like that, Clint would slip out of headquarters and borrow Peggy's attic.

Peggy wasn't quite sure what it was about high places that Clint liked. At first, she assumed it was the vantage point, but the vent system at HQ was hardly equipped with surveillance and her attic just had the one skylight.

When asked, he just shrugged, and she didn't argue when he turned down her spare room. Instead, she made sure she included the attic in her weekly clean, dusting off the boxes (a few of which contained Steve's belongings) and straightening his bed.

(He called the pile of blankets, pillows and old shirts a bed; she called it a nest. Sometimes it amused her; other times it made her sad, thinking about what happened in his past that this made him feel safe).

But even with an agent as skilled as Hawkeye, a mission could go wrong.

It was a cold spring day in Syria, and Peggy had a team trying to bring down a small terrorist organisation.

It should be straight-forward, but Peggy had concerns.

Not about the plan, and certainly not about Barton, who was in a sniper's next, watching everything through a scope (of a rifle, this time, much to his disgust).

No, her concerns were about the other two agents.

Grant Ward was a fairly new agent, a specialist who was a dream to work with. She had no qualms about his ability to stick to the plan and follow orders. Her worries related to his SO, John Garrett, who was … unnervingly protective of his asset.

Peggy had to go up the chain of command and practically sign over her firstborn to get him on her team for the op.

The other agent was specialist in undercover work. Codenamed Mockingbird for her abilities to blend in to the background, Barbara Morse was another agent who she would not normally worry about.

But, since an impulsive event three weeks ago, Barbara Morse was now Barbara Barton.

A honeymoon it was not.

So maybe it was Clint she was concerned about after all.

Everything went according to plan, right up until it didn't.

Ward had retrieved the information required and Morse had the schematics, which was supposed to happen, and then they had to fight their way out - which wasn't.

With a gunshot, Morse hit the floor, blood pooling beneath her.

"Barton, hold your position," Peggy ordered, a little breathlessly.

One of his bullets passed by her, flooring the man trying to kill her. "Staying put, Agent Carter. Is she breathing?"

"She's breathing," Ward said sharply. "Extraction?"

"Two minutes," Peggy said, taking out another of the terrorists. "Barton, cover us; we're bugging out."

"On it."

Ward scooped Morse up and made a run for it; Peggy took down another few shots, unworried about the ongoing sniper fire, confident in Clint's ability to hit his targets without hitting her.

The engines of the extraction jet had never sounded so good.

By the time Peggy joined them and the jet took off, Ward already had Bobbi strapped to the medical bench, pressing cloth into the wound on her stomach.

"How is she?" Peggy asked.

"Through and through," Ward answered. "They're taking us to the nearest base so we can get her proper care."

Peggy nodded. "Hawkeye, finish cleaning up and meet us at base."

"Roger that."

"I'm sorry," Ward said softly.

Peggy raised an eyebrow. "What are you apologising for?"

"The op went south," Ward answered.

"The op went south because our info was bad," Peggy said. "It wasn't your fault."

Ward's brow furrowed. "But … I should have been able to do something."

"You did," Peggy said. "You kept your cool, you got your fellow agent out of the line of fire. You did exactly what we would expect of you. Give me your arm."

"My arm?" Ward asked, startled.

"Don't think I didn't miss the fact that you got clipped as well," Peggy said, reaching for the first aid kit.

"Agent Morse …"

"… isn't going anywhere," Peggy finished. "Keep that pressure up with your left hand and give me your right so I can check. I'm not having you drop dead from blood loss as soon as we've saved her."

By the time they landed at the base, Peggy had Ward's arm bandaged up. Bobbi was rushed off to surgery and the other two agents hunkered down in the waiting room.

Clint arrived ten minutes later, a little breathless. Peggy rose to meet him, taking the rifle. "She's in surgery, but it was a through and through; she should be alright."

Clint nodded, his jaw clenched, and strode off to find the doctor.

Peggy returned to her seat, setting the rifle down. The movement jolted Ward out of his doze and he jerked to attention. "Sorry sir … ma'am, Agent Carter. I was just resting my eyes."

"Go ahead," Peggy said. "We'll be here a while."

"I haven't been debriefed yet, ma'am," Ward said.

Peggy paused. "That's okay, Agent Ward. I have faith in your ability to remember what happened even if you take a nap first." She smiled. "Does Agent Garrett expect you not to sleep on ops?"

Ward chuckled. "No, of course not."

Peggy frowned, her earlier concerns returning to her, something about his laughter ringing false. "Of course not," she murmured.

June 1998

Peggy tried to keep an eye on Ward after their return, something that was proved difficult by Garrett's continued looming presence in the background.

No one else seemed concerned, however, and the easy camaraderie that existed between the two men slowly soothed her ruffled feathers, and she put Ward's strange behaviour down to an op that had gone wrong, an injured colleague and a different handler.

Bobbi made a full recovery, thankfully, and Peggy more or less ordered Clint to take the time off work to look after her.

The marriage had come as a surprise to everyone, possibly even including the couple in question, and Peggy was starting to think it wasn't the best idea the two had ever had.

She wasn't expecting the visit heralded by the soft tap on her office door.

"Agent Morse," Peggy greeted. "I thought you were still on medical leave."

"Desk duty," Bobbi said, closing the door behind her. "Clint and I got back from Hawaii yesterday."

"Oh good," Peggy said with a smile. "He took my advice and took you on vacation. Did you have a nice time?"

"It was fantastic," Bobbi said. "But also … we're getting a divorce."

Peggy blinked. "Hang on. Let's have this conversation on the couch." She went to the air vent and tapped just inside it. "Clear out!"

"Is someone in there?" Bobbi asked, easing herself down, wincing just a little as she did.

"Sometimes Clint is," Peggy said. "Just wanted to make sure. I'm so sorry, Bobbi."

"Are you?" Bobbi asked quietly.

Peggy paused, considered how her friendship with Clint might be translated by someone who wasn't in the know, and winced. "Yes, I am sorry. But maybe I should explain something." She looked up at the cameras in the corner. "Level Eight security clearance. Shut down."

There was no obvious sign, but Peggy's serum-enhanced hearing picked up the sounds of the cameras turning off.

"I'm not Level Eight," Bobbi said.

"Yes, well, neither is Clint," Peggy said. "It's my secret, not SHIELD's. I can decide who I tell. Level Eight is just … Well, it's peace of mind. My real name is Peggy, I was born in 1921, I was given a serum in 1947, and Clint brings me flowers for Mother's Day every year."

"That … That makes so much more sense," Bobbi murmured. "Thank you for trusting me."

Peggy waved her off. "With that in mind … You're getting a divorce?"

Bobbi nodded. "It wasn't about you, Sha … Um, Peggy. Sorry."

Peggy chuckled. "I answer as easily to Sharon as Peggy nowadays; don't worry about it. I didn't think it was about me, but I was concerned that it hadn't helped."

"Clint is loyal to a fault," Bobbi said. "Once he decides that you're worth his trust, that's it. He would never do anything like that." She sighed. "We just … We made a mistake. We met and we clicked and it was just so easy that we … We kind of got swept up in it, you know?"

"I was surprised when he told me you were married," Peggy admitted. "Aside from anything, I'm a little hurt I didn't warrant an invitation."

Bobbi laughed. "No one did. It was just the two of us and a guy from City Hall. What would you have said?" She asked curiously. "I mean, if he'd told you ahead of time."

"I would have advised him to wait," Peggy said honestly. "It is possible to know after a few weeks, I'm sure. God knows I knew people who married that quickly and they're still together now. Granted we were in a war, so the speed was less to do with knowing that you'd met the right person and more to do with not knowing if you were going to die tomorrow. But I know his past. I don't know yours, but given how quickly he took to you, I bet it's not dissimilar."

Bobbi nodded. "No circus. But we both scored on the crappy family bingo cards."

Peggy smiled sadly. "First proper relationship for both of you, I'm guessing. The early days can be … heady. I never … I had to guard against that, otherwise my career and my reputation would have been in the toilet. You don't have those issues anymore. If I didn't back then … I can certainly see how I could have thrown myself into something. In time, you learn context. So I'm told. He loves you very much," she added, because he did, that much was obvious.

"I love him too," Bobbi said immediately. "That's why I came to talk to you. I know he's going to blame himself, and he's going to come to you, and you need to tell him that. He hasn't done anything wrong. I love him so much, I just don't love him the way a wife should love her husband."

"When did you realise?" Peggy asked.

"On vacation," Bobbi said with sad smile. "Since we got married, we haven't really had any private time, aside from when I was recovering, when we couldn't really … you know, do anything. And we had a lovely time on vacation. We went scuba diving, and we went to the top of a volcano, and … It was brilliant."

"I've never been to Hawaii," Peggy admitted. "Not even for work, which is a rarity."

"You should do it," Bobbi said. "It was incredible. But neither of us thought about just …" she trailed off.

"Pretend I didn't tell you he gives me flowers for Mother's Day," Peggy said dryly.

Bobbi grinned a little sheepishly. "We had sex, don't get me wrong. It just was more because … that's what we do rather than … Neither of us even thought about just ordering room service and staying in for a day."

"There's more to love than sex," Peggy said.

"I know," Bobbi said. "There's also more to sex than love. Clint and I had … really good sex that evolved into love. It just didn't evolve into the right kind of love. We're … comfortable, and it's nice, and we could probably be fine staying married. But that's not what I want. And it's not what I want for him either."

Peggy nodded. "For what it's worth, Bobbi, I think you're making the right decision. Better to call it quits now than wind up resenting each other down the line."

"Exactly," Bobbi said, breathing a sigh that sounded relieved. "You'll look after him?"

Peggy squeezed her hand. "I'll look after him."

Clint didn't show up that day, but Peggy wasn't too surprised. She went home that evening and called Tony, because his exploits had been front page news (again).

Tony had inherited his mother's charm and his father's ability to talk rings around people, and by the time Peggy hung up, she felt like she had run a marathon. She sat in her armchair, rubbing her temples, telling herself that her godson was a grown man now.

His mistakes were his to make now.

A soft noise upstairs made her smile, and she went to the kitchen and began making hot cocoa. Sure enough, she had just placed the mugs on the table when Clint appeared in the kitchen doorway, his eyes red.

"Hey," she greeted softly. "You hungry?"
Clint shook his head. "Can you make me feel better?"

Peggy smiled. "Probably not. Neither of you is in the wrong, Clint."

"I know," Clint muttered, taking one of the mugs. "I just … I feel like I let her down."

"You let each other down." Peggy guided him into one of the chairs. "When I was fourteen, I fell in love with the boy next door."

Clint raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"I never said anything to anyone," Peggy said hastily. "You had to be so careful in those days, if you were a woman. The wrong move, the wrong rumour, and your reputation, your career … any chance you had of making any kind of life for yourself would be over."

Clint scowled. "I bet the men could do whatever they wanted, right?"

"It was easier for them," Peggy admitted. "But you have to remember that birth control wasn't what it is now either, or as easy to get hold of, so if you did slip up with a young lady, you either married her or you would be rather shunned by a lot of society."

"So what happened to your neighbour?" Clint asked curiously.

"Well, he was a few years older than me," Peggy said, sitting next to him. "He was very handsome. Dashing, my mother called him. When I was fifteen, he married the girl down the street. I was heartbroken." She smiled. "I don't know what kind of impulsive things I would have done if society had been different."

Clint was quiet for a few moments. "How did you get over him?"

"I pretended he never existed," Peggy said. "The war happened, I joined up, got shipped over here. And then, one day, at base camp, one of the SSR scientists turned up with this new recruit. Skinny guy, scrawny, but with the biggest heart you could ever find. Dr Erskine had recruited him for something called Project Rebirth. Our CO wasn't happy, said that you needed more than heart to be a soldier. So he picked up a dummy grenade, pulled the pin and threw it. All of the recruits scattered - except Steve. He jumped on top of it, and curled up in a ball to try and absorb the shockwave."

"Did he have a death wish?" Clint asked frankly.

Peggy laughed. "I often wondered. No, he just knew that he wasn't going to let people die if he could help it. I fell in love again, and I realised that … I hadn't been in love the first time at all."

"Is this your way of saying that if Bobbi and I had been normal teenagers we probably would have made these mistakes ten years ago?" Clint asked.

"I think most people make those mistakes with a responsible adult stopping them from making the mistakes too big," Peggy said. "But actually it was my way of saying that, however much it hurts now … it will get better."

"What happened to him?" Clint asked. "Your grenade jumper?"

"Well, Project Rebirth worked," Peggy said. "He became Captain America."

"No way," Clint breathed. "I knew you were with the Howling Commandos; I didn't realise you knew Captain America as well. So he … Oh."

"Yes," Peggy said softly. "We lost him shortly before the end of the war. He took a plane down in the Arctic, rather than let it hit the US and let the bombs on board take out half of the Eastern seaboard."

Clint took her hand, signing something against her palm that she recognised as the sign he used for her name, and she smiled.

"I still don't know what you're saying," she said gently. "Do I get to know now?"

Clint smiled, signing it again. "Super-Mom."

Her heart stuttered a little and she rose to her feet, bending to press a kiss to his forehead. "I should be so lucky. Are you sure you aren't hungry?"

Clint took a deep breath. "Me and Bobbi are gonna be okay, right?"

"I think you'll be far more alright than if you clung to each other," Peggy said honestly. "She came to tell me what had happened because she wanted me to tell you that it wasn't your fault. It's no one's fault."

Clint nodded. "Now you mention it, I guess I could eat."

Peggy smiled. "Then stay for dinner."

"Can you teach me?" Clint asked. "I mean, I never really learned to cook. I know I live on base, but … that might not last forever. I feel like I should probably know how to look after myself."

"In that case," Peggy said, "wash your hands. We'll start with the basics."

February 2002

"Barton's gone AWOL."

Peggy sat down at her kitchen table, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Phil, how … Just how?"

"I don't know," Phil admitted, his worry clear even over the long distance. "He radioed to say that he had her in his sights, and then he just went silent. We can't find him anywhere."

Peggy frowned.

Clint might be eccentric, but it wasn't like him to act like this during a mission, even if it was a solo op - the elimination of the world's deadliest freelance assassin.

Known as the Black Widow, the former Soviet soldier didn't seem to care who she killed, or who she killed them for.

"Any indication of trouble?"

"None," Phil answered. "He just vanished. No one else around. There's evidence of a scuffle, but he either never fired a shot, or he cleaned up after himself. I haven't reported it yet, I … I was surprised he took the op in the first place."

Peggy could agree with that. She and Coulson had become well-versed over the last decade in figuring out which missions Hawkeye would agree to, rejecting many as 'not worth his talent'.

The Black Widow was so deadly that Clint was really their best shot - literally.

However her file had made the hair stand up on the back of Peggy's neck, and she really had expected him to turn it down.

"Keep it on the down-low for now," Peggy said. "See if you can find them. If he hasn't turned up by tomorrow morning …"

"I'll call it in," Phil said.

"Good. I'll make some enquiries this end," Peggy said, absently tapping a pen against the kitchen table. She paused, tilting her head as her enhanced hearing picked up a noise upstairs. "Actually, hold that thought. I'll call you back."

Hanging up the phone, Peggy slipped into the living room and retrieved her gun from its safe. She loaded it silently and moved to stand behind her kitchen door to wait, even though she was certain that her unexpected visitor was not a threat.

Sure enough, when the noise became footsteps, it was Clint that stepped into the room.

Peggy replaced the safety with a loud click. "Agent Barton, just what do you think you are doing?"

Clint spun around, looking suspiciously guilty. "You did say your door was always open."

"I did, and it is," Peggy agreed. "But you are supposed to be in Russia tracking the Black Widow, not in my kitchen. Did you find her?"

"I found her."

"Was there a fight?" Peggy asked.

"There was."

Peggy waited patiently for him to elaborated and he waited patiently for her to change the subject.

Finally she sighed. "Clint, what happened?"

"She knew I was there," Clint said. "She had to. She was … I had her in my sights and then she disappeared. Next thing I know, she's behind me and … I got the upper hand … somehow."

"Maybe she wasn't expecting you to know hand-to-hand," Peggy said. "A lot of snipers don't."

"Or she didn't really want to win," Clint said darkly. "I put an arrow through her shoulder and she kind of gave up and … Look, I wasn't sure where to go."

The hairs on the back of her neck gave another salute. "Agent Barton, where is the Black Widow now?"

Clint gave her a sheepish smile. "Borrowing my room. She's asleep. I think."

Peggy sighed. "Your orders were to eliminate her, not adopt her."

"Yeah, well, I made a different call," Clint said, scowling.

Peggy closed her eyes. "Did you always intend to make a different call?"

"I was open to it," Clint admitted. "Her file mentions the Red Room. Have you read those files?"

Peggy had. She had also, many years ago, burnt one of their facilities to the ground. "I have."

"She has nowhere to go, Sharon," Clint said. "She's using the skill set she has to keep herself alive. That could have been me, if SHIELD hadn't found me."

Peggy closed her eyes, transported back to the afternoon in her office when she had first met him. "So you brought her here?"

"Do you trust me?" Clint asked seriously.

Peggy opened her eyes again, meeting his gaze openly. "You know I do. If you'd told me or Coulson what you were planning, we could have smoothed the way. How did you even get back to the US?"

"We snuck onto a cargo plane," Clint answered.

Peggy sighed. "I want the details; that is incredibly concerning, even if you are spies. All of the increased security is supposed to be stopping that kind of thing. Have you eaten?"

His negative response did not surprise her - she could practically hear his stomach grumbling - and she pulled a tub of leftover stew from the refrigerator, poured it into two bowls and heated it in the microwave. "There are some water bottles in there was well."

While Clint retrieved them, she set the bowls on a tray, grabbed a couple of spoons, and carried the whole thing up to the attic.

She let Clint enter first, lingering outside until he said otherwise.

"You awake?" He asked softly.

"She knows I'm here," a woman's voice responded, heavily accented.

"She trusts me," Clint said. "Come in, Agent Carter."

Peggy stepped through the door, her gaze landing on the woman curled up in the centre of the nest. A dark bruise was blooming on her face, just covered by long red hair, and there was blood just starting to seep through her shirt on her shoulder, presumably from the arrow wound Clint had mentioned.

She was very pretty, but she looked young, much younger than the years in her eyes, and she looked at Peggy with no shortage of mistrust.

Peggy didn't bother faking a smile. "Barton tells me you want out?"

"Do I have another option?"

Peggy narrowed her eyes. "Your options are SHIELD or a bullet."

The woman smiled slightly. "Then why did you send an archer?"

Peggy was surprised enough to laugh, handing the tray to Clint, who ate a spoonful from both bowls before handing one to the Widow. The redhead still eyed it suspiciously, but his actions seemed to reassure her that the food wasn't poisoned. She practically inhaled it, and Peggy couldn't help the way her heart clenched as she wondered when the woman's last meal had been.

"We sent an archer," she said, marvelling at the steadiness of her voice, "because Agent Barton is the best we have."

"He missed," the woman said.

"I think you'll find he hit exactly where he was aiming," Peggy said, her eyes lingering on the woman's shoulder. "Do you need a bandage?"

"For what?"

"Your shoulder," Peggy said. "It's bleeding."

"I won't bleed out."

Peggy bit back her immediate response. "That doesn't make it comfortable."

The Widow was still looking at her like she was plotting something. "Comfort doesn't matter."

"Well, it should," Peggy said simply. "What's your name?"

"Natasha," she answered. "Natasha Romanov."

"How many Widows are there, Natasha?" Peggy asked.

"I'm not sure," Natasha said, scraping out the bottom of the bowl. "None of those who graduated with me survived. I don't know if there are any others."

"So all of the reports of the Black Widow over the last decade," Peggy said, "they were all you?"

"I assume so," Natasha said. "Of course I would need to see them to be sure."

"The file we have says you were born in 1984," Peggy said.

Natasha raised an eyebrow. "How do you know I wasn't?"

"If you were born in 1984, you were about six when you started working freelance," Peggy said. "I've seen the reports. You weren't."

"I don't remember," Natasha admitted softly. She was tensing, Peggy could see, fight or flight rising to the surface.

"You never answered the question," Peggy said. "SHIELD or bullet?"

"I deserve the bullet," Natasha said. "I had nowhere to go. I had a very specific skill set and I didn't care who I used it on. Or for."

"And now?" Peggy asked.

"I have red in my ledger," Natasha said. "I would like to wipe it out."

Peggy sighed. "Barton, it's on your head."

Clint waved her off with a hand sign that roughly translated to if you say so, and she rolled her eyes - not even Tony assumed she would automatically have his back when he'd done something stupid.

When did she get so soft?

She pulled out her phone again, dialling Phil's number.

"Peggy?"

"Call off the ground team," she told him. "Mission complete; target acquired."

"He got her?" Phil asked, sounding surprised. "Why'd he fly back without reporting for debrief?"

"Because he recruited her," Peggy answered.

There was a brief moment of silence, then … "You know, I bet most parents don't have this problem."