A/N: Hi everyone! Thank you so much to everyone who read/reviewed/followed/favorited this story! It means a lot to me that people take the time to read my stuff. I saw that there was some interest in me continuing this story. I had originally intended it end here, and I wasn't really sure how to go forward with it. But then the wheels started turning, and I realized I shouldn't go forward at all, I should go back! Flashback time! The rest of the story is going to be lighter than the first two chapters, but it is ultimately going to lead to the reason behind Natasha's decision. I really hope the whole "What happened in Budapest?" theme isn't too overdone, because that's where this is headed.

Sorry for any confusion! All mentions of a ring are about the boxing ring they're sparing in. My bad! Thanks to the reviews who let me know!

April 19, 2009

"Which brings us to the threat level index. Coulson, report," said Director Fury.

"Yes Sir." He fixed his jacket and rose to stand at the front of the conference room. He toggled the projection controller, calling up the Shield global satellite map. "Our observation units have reported improvement in the situations in Marrakech and São Luis. No significant changes at any of our other red-level observation points. However, our intel suggests a new target here-" he used the remote's trackball to zoom in on Eastern Europe "- in the Hungarian capital."

"What kind of trouble?" asked Agent Hill.

"The Testvériség a Piros Éjszaka, or the TPE. They're a terrorist organization that began in the 1970's. The group has undergone several power struggles, the last of which, five years ago, put brothers András and István Szabo in charge." He pulled a surveillance photo onto the screen. "Pictured here with their next-in-command, Zoltán Varga. The group has made a name for itself in large-scale weapons trafficking operations, but our sources indicate they've found themselves in the middle of something bigger."

"Something like. . ?" said Fury.

"That's the problem, Sir. We don't know. When this intel first started coming in, we tired to pry our way into their operation, but they clamped down hard. We're getting nowhere."

"Do we have agents on the ground?"

"No, Sir. Ramirez went in yesterday for preliminary reconnoissance and couldn't even get close."

"Very well," said the Director. "Meeting dismissed."

"But Sir," one of the board members began. They still were barely half way through their weekly reports.

"You heard me," he said, and the senior handlers filtered out of the room. "Coulson, Hill, with me."

"Sir?" asked Hill.

"We've all seen situations like this before. It's a tinder box waiting to go up. We need eyes on the ground. We need intel. Get me Barton and Romanoff."

"Is that the best option, Sir? We did have a certain . . . er, deal. . . with them," Hill reminded him.

"Deal's off. I want them in Conference A in twenty minutes."

"Yes, Sir."

Natasha walked into the conference room in sweatpants and a Shield t-shirt, halfway through binding her hand in boxing wraps. She wound the thick yellow cloth around her knuckles and down her wrist. She looked up at the other occupants of the room and paused, letting go of the cloth and feeling it loosen and unravel around her arm.

Clint Barton spun around in his chair.

"We had an agreement, Fury," Natasha said coldly, ignoring Clint's gaze and meeting the Director's.

"Yes, your requested leave. You each independently asked for leave from your partner, for, how did you put it Barton? 'creative differences.'"

"You approved a twelve-month leave," said Clint.

"It's barely been six," said Natasha. "What is he doing here?"

"You little lover's quarrel is officially over."

"We're not lovers."

"No, you're partners. Partners who have to trust each other with their lives, so I suggest you work out your 'creative differences' quickly. You leave for Budapest at 0600 hours."

"Fury you can't do this!" said Clint.

"Coulson will brief you on the mission," said the Director as he strode out of the room.

"Agent Romanoff?" said Coulson, gesturing for her to take a seat. She chose the chair farthest from Barton. Coulson sighed. Sometime Nick Fury had too much faith in people.

He passed out a thick manila folder to each of the agents. "The Testvériség a Piros Éjszaka. Loosely translated it means -"

"Brotherhood of the Red Hands," Natasha interrupted.

"Yes, they're a terrorist organization based in Budapest," Coulson explained, giving all the details he had told Fury earlier. "This is a deep cover mission to infiltrate their organization. You have two objectives: learn what they're planning and stop it. You will each be responsible for one of the brothers. Agent Barton, you will replace a guard that András had recently hired from the United States. Agent Romanoff, you will be responsible for István, the younger brother. He runs a gallery in the city that we believe is connected to the organization."

Agent Coulson finished reciting the details of their mission. As soon as he breathed the word "dismissed," they stood and left without a word.

Natasha made her way to the Helicarier's gym, finishing her hand wraps as she walked. She held her ID card to the sensor and the polished metal door swung open with a hydraulic hiss. Empty. Just the way she liked it. She shed her t-shirt for the black racer-back tank top she wore underneath and strode to her favorite heavy bag. Over and over she punched the rough surface, feeling the force of her blows spread up she arms and dissipate through her body. How could Fury do this to her? Especially now - now that she was finally getting over what had happened. She paused, catching the bag and steadying it. Was she lying to herself? Was it even possible to get over. . .

"I though I might find you here," Clint's voice cut through her thoughts.

"Amazing deduction, Sherlock," she said. He strode closer. "What do you want, Barton?" She kicked the bag with all her strength, sending it swinging on its chain. Clint caught it, pulling her target away before she could strike it again. "You want me to kick you instead?"

"I want not to get killed because of this!"

"We're not going to die. Nothing's changed."

"You're distracted. We both are. We're going to make mistakes."

"I don't get distracted Barton," she answered.

"Really? Prove it." He looked over toward the boxing ring in the center of the gym. The tri-colored ropes shown bright in the artificial halogen light.

"Fine." Natasha climbed between the thick ropes of the boxing ring, waiting as Clint quickly wrapped his own hands.

He climbed in opposite her and nodded. "You ready?"

They tapped hands and assumed their fighting stances, fists up in guard. Clint threw a couple of quick jabs, which Natasha easily blocked. She threw back her own punch. Clint caught her harm, pulling her toward him.

"What happened, Natasha?"

She twisted out of his grip, landing a kick to his ribs. "You know damn well what happened." Clint tried to catch her foot, but she was too quick. With his face unguarded, she swung a jab at his cheek. "We got compromised," she said.

Clint dove at her, stopping her block and slipping his muscular arm around her neck. He dragged her to the ground, pinning her to the mat. "Sleeping together doesn't make us compromised."

She wriggled under his grip, fighting to keep his weight from crushing her neck. "Yes Clint," she breathed, "it does." She used her legs to launch him up, flipping over onto his back. She sprang up quickly to her feet. "That's the definition of being compromised. Agents can't be involved. It never ends well."

He followed her up, throwing a quick kick, which Natasha deflected with her forearms before throwing a flurry of jabs and crosses and ramming a knee up into Clint's ribcage.

"You don't get it," he said, swinging an open palm strike at Natasha's ear. She blocked it and jabbed at his chest. He threw a punch, and she ducked, crouching on the floor. With a sweep of her leg she kicked Clint's legs out from under him and he fell to the mat. Clint smiled as she held him down."Natasha, we've been compromised for a very long time."

"That's ridiculous," she said loosening her grip.

"Drop the mask, Natasha. You know it's true. You know we work so well together because we. . . we care about each other. We always have."

"No, Barton," she said coldly. "We don't." She stood up and went to duck out of the ropes. Clint stood up and caught her wrist, spinning her forcefully toward him.

"This is why I couldn't stand being partnered with you!"

"Why?" said Natasha, "Because I'm not delusional?"

"Because I'm tired of you running!" he shouted.

"I'm not running from anything," she hissed, "except maybe the sight of you and Agent Young."

"We went on a few dates. So what?" He paused. "Are you jealous?"

"No Clint, I'm not jealous," she cut back. "I'm mad. You keep saying how much you care about me, how much I mean to you. It's crap. You're lying to yourself, and to me. Just stop. Leave me alone. Let me go."

"Nat, it's not like that."

"It's exactly like that." She wrenched her hand out of his grip and ducked under the ropes of the boxing ring. "I'll see you on the plane."