The taxi pulled over on a quiet residential street. "Here you go. 23 Talán street," said the cabbie. Clint and Natasha paid the fare and climbed out. The car puttered away behind them as they rolled their luggage onto the side walk.
"Once again, Fury has spared no expense," said Clint as they surveyed the peeling paint, rusted handrails and chipped concrete stoop of their new residence. Immediately, though, they could tell why the Shield scouts had chosen this place. A quiet residential neighborhood made it easier to keep tabs on neighbors and spot anything out of the ordinary, even before they were used to the place. At five stories, this particular building and its neighbor were the tallest in a two block radius. Across the alley, the neighboring building formed a windowless concrete barrier shielding Clint and Natasha's new apartment from attack. It world be virtually impossible for a sniper to target them here, while still affording Clint aim at the street below.
"Shall we?" said Natasha. They climbed the five steps up into the building. The cramped lobby area smelled of must, and the cranberry rug was worn almost through to the floorboards beneath. A steep staircase wound around the elevator shaft. Natasha pushed the up button and the open cage elevator rattled into view. The folding mesh door creaked as they pulled it open and stepped inside. They were sliding the door closed again when a voice called out "Hold the door!"
Two older gentlemen hustled toward the elevator, clinging tightly to the brown paper bags they were holding. They pressed tightly into the small metal box.
"You must be new," said the man with a bald spot on his head and a chin full of white stubble. He shifted his bag with the clink of glass and held out a hand to Clint and Natasha. "I'm Boris Bognár. My wife and I live in 4B. This here's Lornic."
"It's nice to meet you," said Natasha as best she could. "I apologize; my Hungarian is still a bit shaky. I'm Charlotte and this is my fiancé Sebastian. We just moved into 5C."
"You English?"
"American, actually."
"Well it's a pleasure to meet you both. Say, we're just getting ready for poker night with some of the fellas. You're welcome to join us."
"Thanks you," said Natasha, "but we have some unpacking to do. Maybe another time."
The elevator dinged and came to a stop on the fourth floor. Boris and Lornic scooted out of the elevator. "You're late!" a plump woman shouted at them from the doorway of 4B. They hobbled down the hallway as the elevator rattled away.
"Who was that?" asked the woman as she snatched the grocery bags from Boris and Lornic. "And for god's sake Boris, put on a clean shirt. We have guests coming."
"Aren't I a guest?" said Lornic.
"You don't count. You practically live here. Well?"
"They're an American couple who just moved in upstairs," said Boris.
"Married?"
"Engaged. What's it to you Marika?"
"Just curious," said the woman as she put the bags down on the counter.
"They won't stay together long," said Lornic.
"What makes you think that? asked Boris.
"There's something stiff about them. Like they don't want to be around each other. I say they split up within a month."
"That's ridiculous."
"Twenty bucks says I'm right."
"Fine," said Boris, and they shook on it.
"I just hope its the pouty little redhead that goes," said Marika. "This building could use a man like Mr. Muscle."
"Home sweet home," said Clint as they entered their new apartment.
Natasha placed Charlotte's purse on the kitchen table and looked around. The whole place was, for the most part, one room. They had entered on the kitchen side. A worn counter area with a small gas stove and dented cabinets sat behind the table. Down a step, a tattered couch sat on the floorboards and an area rug did its best to cover up the scratches on the floor. An empty bookshelf slumped against the peeling olive wallpaper and beside it, a door led back to the bedroom.
"We've had better," said Natasha.
"We've had worse."
"The windows are a nice change," Natasha agreed, "even if they are looking out at solid concrete."
They split up and explored where they would be living for the next three months. Clint examined the kitchen, opening the oven's squeaky door and running the tap water. Natasha sat on the couch, then headed over to the windows.
"You'll enjoy this," she called to Clint. She unlocked the farthest window and pushed it open, then stepped out onto the fire escape. Clint came to join her. Natasha rested her elbows on the rusty railing as looked down at the alley below. "Not the best view, I know."
"Maybe not," said Clint. "Here." He took Natasha by the shoulders and pointed her toward the street. "From here you can see the street we live on."
"Great."
"And judging by the angle and direction of this building, if you stand right here . . ." He walked her to the back end of the balcony and tucked her far into the corner of the railing. "You should have a decent view of the city."
"Wow," she said. He was right. Past the end of their concrete neighbor, you could see toward the river. They were far enough from the center of the city that their view wasn't blocked by the taller buildings they were looking at. "What do you see out there Clint?"
"What? I see what you see."
"That's not true. I see an alley and a hideous concrete wall. You see the city. How?"
Clint paused. "You've never asked me that before. No one has. I'm not sure how to explain it." He leaned over beside her, studying the city in the distance. "I see angles and degrees. I see all the shots I could take. But it's more than that I think. I see they whole city like I'm above it."
Natasha chuckled. "Like a hawk?"
Clint shook his head. "I guess I'm not describing it well. I'll find a better way to explain it to you."
His hands were still resting on Natasha's shoulders. She brushed them off and climbed back through the window. "We have some unpacking to do."
The moving truck came and went and within the week all their things were put away. The pots and pans were stowed in the kitchen cabinets; all their clothes were folded away in their dressers. Their weapons were carefully hidden beneath the floorboards, behind the sheetrock and around the apartment. A punching bag hung from its aluminum stand against the olive wall. Beside it, Natasha had alphabetized Charlotte's books on the bookshelf. From a box labeled home touches they had pulled out fake photographs of Sebastian and Charlotte and scattered them around the place. Natasha was putting away Art Deco: Artistic Expression in the 1920s, when she stopped and picked up one of the frames.
"Remember our trip to Machu Picchu?" said Clint as he walked in the door.
"Someone spent a lot of time on photoshop making these pictures, but you and I have actually been to all of these places."
"Somehow I think Charlotte Welch would prefer these over the only photo actually taken on that trip, which was of a drug lord hanging by his neck from a tree."
"Fair enough," Natasha said. "How was the meeting with András?"
"Excellent. As far as he knows, I'm the real Sebastian Griggs."
"Any hints yet about what they're involved in?"
"Not yet, but it will take time before he trusts me." Clint placed a grocery bag on the counter and began emptying it out. "Any luck with István?"
"I've been tailing him for the past three days. My best bet to make contact is a coffee shop he frequents. I have enough intel, so I'll make my move tomorrow."
After dinner, Natasha stood out on the fire escape, the wrought iron biting her ribs as leaned over to look at the city lights beginning to come to life under the dark evening sky. She heard the scrape of the window behind her, but didn't turn around.
"You alright Charlotte?" said Clint.
"I'm fine. Just adjusting to a new city," she replied. "And the neighbors don't speak English so you don't have to stay in character out here."
"Who said I was? Staring off into the mist is usually my job. Are you doing okay?"
"Of course," said Natasha. Clint stood there silently until she continued. She held up one of the doctored photographs of Charlotte and Sebastian. "I hear that in the real world, it takes longer than four days to move. Instead of one little box of fake photographs, people have truckloads of photo albums and trinkets. Apparently keepsakes don't usually come with index cards to memorize explaining where they came from."
"These deep cover missions always rattle me too. Why is that?"
"Because they are just real enough to remind us it's all fake." She fiddled anxiously with ring on her finger. "We forfeited this kind of life a long time ago, and that's fine. I just wish these missions didn't have to spit it back in our faces."
"I've got to say, I've missed this," said Clint.
"Missed what?"
He smiled and took her hand. "It doesn't all have to be fake Natasha."
"Of course it does. That's the point. It just another lie."
"The easiest lies to tell are the ones rooted in truth." Clint intertwined their fingers and pulled her in for a kiss.