As soon as the last man hit the threshold, the unmarked black van peeled away from the curb. The back doors swung wildly as the driver stepped on the gas. A young man with sharp cheekbones and jet-black eyes burst from the warehouse and trained his gun on the van. Two more muscle-covered thugs skidded to a stop behind him and followed suit.

Leather-gloved hands groped for the van doors, pulling them shut just as the sharp pings of bullets started pitting the metal. The sounds stopped suddenly as they took a sharp turn.

"We're clear" said the driver.

The gang of men leaned back against the cold metal, their chests heaving under ammunition vests as they struggled to return their breathing to normal. Clint peeled the heavy weave of the ski mask off of his face. Sweat made his damp hair spike up. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, the black mask hanging from his hands.

"Did you see that?" said one of the other men, pulling off his own mask.

"Boss Korvách won't know what hit him!"

"That's what he gets for trusting Junior with his goods."

"I'll bet he's still cussing at the empty street!" another laughed.

"And you," said one on the men. Clint's ears perked up as the conversation switched to English. The nearest man slapped him on the back. "That was one crazy shot you pull off! You see this Mátyás?"

"I don't know many men who make such shot." Mátyás replied.

"I do," said a steely voice from the end of the row. A wormy man with a long stringy face glared over at Clint. His thin eyes narrowed into slits. "You think you're a hot-shot, do you American? You think you're that good? You got lucky. Don't forget it."

"Aw, lay off him Zoltán," said Mátyás.

The stocky young man beside him, Tamás, leaved over to Clint. "Don't worry over Zoltán Varga. He think because he's András' number két - " he held up two fingers, " - he is best at everything. You did very well."

"Thanks guys," said Clint, wiping the back of his neck with the mask. "Honestly, I'm just glad to be back. After a week of the couch, I was starting to go a little stir-crazy."

The driver clicked the radio on, and they rode back to Szabo's alternate warehouse to songs Clint had never heard, but the rest of the crew seemed to know by heart. Clint had to fight not to look at Varga. You have no idea who you're dealing with, you slimy little weasel, he thought to himself. If I ever get the chance, I'l show you just how good a shot I am.

When they reached the dark tar lot outside the warehouse, Clint helped unload the single heavy plastic case from the van.

"Óvatos!" Varga barked, then glaring at Clint added, "careful!" He went ahead to tell Szabo of their return as Clint, Mátyás, Tamás and the others each took a handle and carried the case toward the building.

"Man this thing is heavy," Clint said. He checked to make sure Zoltán was out of earshot. "Do you guys have any idea what we stole from the Agnikais anyway?"

"Nincs. We rarely do."

"I heard a rumor though," said Mátyás, "that Boss Korvách and his Agnikais were those behind the robbery at Mérnöki Industries last months back."

"Mérnöki Industries?" Clint repeated. "That's like a science lab?"

"Mátyás shrugged. "We six guys need to carry. You ever see a gun this heavy?"

They brought the case into the warehouse and placed it carefully before the looming form of András Szabo. Almost a mirror of his brother, András had the same broad shoulders and strong jawline, but none of István's suave demeanor. Every detail of András Szabo, from his coarse, graying hair to the thin scar on his pockmarked cheeks, radiated severity.

"Good work," he said, walking the perimeter of the case. "Lock it in the vault." He waved a finger out at Clint. "Mr. Griggs."

Clint threw up a wave to the others and walked to András.

"This was you first major task since you returned, no?"

"Yes, sir," Clint replied.

"How did it go?"

"Very well, sir. I feel good as new."

"That is good to here, Mr. Griggs. The boys seem to think you are an asset. I look forward to your further participation. You may go."

Clint paused, weighing the pros and cons of what he was about to do. It might just pay off.

"Actually, sir, about that. Is there any chance you have something. . . extra . . . going on? Something I could get involved in?"

"Ah," said András. "Come with me."

Clint followed András into his thin-walled office at the rear of the building. Varga held the door as András took a seat behind his beat wooden desk.

Clint paused as a gun clicked behind his back. Or not.

"Sit," Szabo ordered, and Clint sat in the rickety metal chair waiting before Szabo's desk. He slowly raised his hands in the air.

Zoltán chuckled behind him, his pistol resting on the back of Clint's skull. "I knew you'd be trouble American. I didn't think I'd get this chance so soon."

"What have you heard?" said Szabo.

"Nothing," Clint replied. "Although apparently there's something I should be listening for."

"You have ten seconds to convince me."

Clint sighed. "Alright look, my fiancé thinks I'm a banker. Our wedding's coming up next spring and I've promised her a lot more than I can afford right now, especially after my injury last week. I was hoping to get some extra cash to put toward the wedding. Or at least to buy her a nice gift or something." András raised an eyebrow. "Look I know it sounds stupid, but it's true."

Szabo nodded and Volga very reluctantly pulled the gun away from Clint's head.

"Women can be troublesome," Szabo sighed. "But you told her you were a banker? That was foolish, no?"

"I never actually told her that. I said I was in the business of moving and trading certain commodities across international markets and somehow she read 'investment banker' from that statement."

"And this girl," said Szabo. "You've mentioned her before. Tell me again."

"Her name's Charlotte, and she's a total art nerd. It makes her sound pretentious sometimes, but man, the way her eyes light up when she sees a Monet or a Degas, or even some idiot's doodling, it's magical. And she's gorgeous, with these fiery red curls and big pouty lips. She tries to put on a brave face all the time, like she feels like she always needs to be strong. But she doesn't realize how strong and brave she actually is. How much I know she is."

András studied Clint's face as he spoke, trying to detect the the smallest twitch, the faintest sign of a lie. These deep lies were more of Natasha's specialty, but Clint was sure that this time, Szabo wouldn't find any tells. There were none to find.

"I believe you," he said, leading back in his chair. "I have a proposition for you. Zoltán, you're dismissed."

"This showdown is going to happen," Varga spat in Clint's ear. The slimy little man stalked off with a grimace.

"Sir?" said Clint.

"Have you ever heard of Rózsambimbó?" he asked. Clint shook his head. "It's a restaurant in the cultural district, very high end, very classy. My wife and I have a reservation their tomorrow at eight. Unfortunately though, something has just come up and I can no longer attend. I was just about to call and cancel. . . unless you would like to take the reservation instead."

"Wow. Absolutely. Of course. Thanks you sir. She'll love it."

"And Sebastian," Szabo added, "all future jobs will find you."

"Understood."

"You're back late," Natasha chided as Clint walked through the door. "Long day at the office?"

"Meetings across the board," Clint chuckled.

"Seriously," said Natasha, coming to meet him in the kitchen, "how did the mission go?"

"Well. If stealing from a rival terrorist cell is considered good."

"And your shoulder? How's it holding up?"

Clint pulled off his t-shirt and tossed it over the back of a chair. With his opposite hand, he rubbed his shoulder. "Sore. More so than I'd hoped."

"Hop in the shower," said Natasha. She grabbed his t-shirt from the chair. "Let your muscles relax."

Clint put on a playful frown. "You're just trying to tell me that I stink."

She swatted at him with the shirt. "You've been better, now go on."

Clint disappeared into the bathroom and turned on the water.

"Did you acquire any new intel?" Natasha asked over the hiss of the shower. She threw the shirt in the laundry hamper and sat down at the kitchen counter.

"As a matter of fact, yeah," Clint replied. "The cargo we stole, it was a huge plastic case."

"Just one?"

"Just one, but it took six of us to lift it. On of the boys said it was connected to a science facility, Mérnöki Industries."

"I'll check it out," said Natasha. She pulled out their chunky black laptop and logged on to the encrypted ghost user ID. "Hmm."

"What?" said Clint's voice from the shower.

"Mérnöki Industries rents laboratory space to many different scientists, but apparently a break-in three months ago targeted the labs of Dr. Rudolph Takách, a geologist, and Drs. Tibor Német and Anasztázia Juhász, members of the University of Budapest Quantum Physics Department."

"Geology and Quantum Physics? What would the Szabo brothers possible want with that?"

"I have no idea," said Natasha, "but it all has to connect somehow. Nice work today. Clearly you're making progress with András."

"About that," said Clint. "Something went down after the mission."

"Something like. . .?"

"It's kind of a long story, but basically, I asked if Szabo had any extra work for me. He thought I was prying, but I told him it was because I wanted to buy my dear fiancé Charlotte a nice gift."

"Did he put you on another assignment?" Natasha asked.

"No. . . not exactly," Clint explained. "Have you ever heard of Rózsambimbó?"

"Of course. It's a high end restaurant up by the river."

"How would you like to go on a date?"

"There?" said Natasha. "It's a little out of your price range Sebastian."

Clint turned the water off with a squeak of the dial and came out with a towel wrapped around his waist. "But not Szabo' s."

Natasha raised an eyebrow as Clint crossed into the bedroom. "What exactly did you do?"

"Something's going down tomorrow night," Clint explained as he shuffled through several drawers. "I have no idea what it is, but András doesn't want me snooping around."

"Apparently not," said Natasha. "I'm not sure you understand exactly how classy this place is."

Clint tugged on jeans and a clean shirt and walked back out into the kitchen. "Well I'm about to," he said, "because we're got s reservation at eight."

"Wow," said Natasha. They hadn't gotten to play high society in quite a while.

"I'm sure he'll have someone watching us, so we both have to be there. I hope you don't mind."

"Do I mind spending a Friday night at one of the best restaurants in the city? Of course not. You can take me on a date whenever you like, Clint Barton." As soon as the words left her mouth, they both immediately noticed her slip-up. Neither one said a word.

"There's just one thing," Natasha said to break the silence. She grabbed Clint's wallet and pulled out Sebastian Griggs' credit card. "You need a new suit."

Clint shook his head. He knew exactly where this is going. "Which means you need a new dress."

"Reservation under Szabo, party of two," Clint said to the hostess as they stepped out of the octagonal glass lobby and into the restaurant proper.

"Right this way, sir," the short bespectacled woman replied. Clint looked around as she led them across the floor.

"Wow, you weren't kidding," he said to Natasha.

"I told you," she replied.

Rosy wooden columns rose up three stories, where they flared out into magnificent arches that wove a flowery pattern over the ceiling. Parquet isles wound through the carpeted floor, and a string quartet played softly on a raised marble platform. Crystal chandeliers hung low over the tables, casting a soft glow over the deep red table clothes. Another fleet of chandeliers stopped higher up, where green vines and creepers spilled over their brass edges. Massive glass windows let in the light of a crescent moon, and afforded a view of the street and the river.

"A waiter will be along shortly," the hostess said, gesturing to a small round table. As she turned and left, Clint pulled out a chair and waived Natasha into it.

"Why Sebastian, I'm impressed," she teased as she took her seat.

"So am I," Clint said absently. Natasha's sleek emerald gown draped low down her back and a misty sheer scarf hung between her elbows. "I mean, I'm glad you went with the green one. You really do look gorgeous Charlotte."

She smiled. "You don't look so bad yourself." Natasha leaned across the table and straightened his tie, it's pale green an almost perfect match to her scarf. Clint brushed off the gray sleeves of his suit and unwrapped his silverware. As he did, he let his smooth cloth napkin flutter to the carpet. Clint bent down to pick it up, taking the chance to scan the bottom of the table. He sat up an nodded. Natasha finished scanning the wall and nodded back.

"So we're not being bugged," Clint said quietly, barely moving his lips. "Which means we're probably being watched."

Natasha turned, taking in the panorama of the restaurant."My three o'clock," she said quietly, turning back to Clint. "Sweaty, anxious, suit doesn't fit well because Szabo just tasked him this morning, cell phone hidden on his lap for updates, and a girlfriend who seems to know she's out of place." Clint twirled his empty wine class until he could see the pair, and nodded.

A mustachioed waiter with a cloth folded over his forearm approached them. "May I start you off with a bottle of wine?"

"Absolutely," said Clint.

"Thank you for doing this," Clint said after the waiter had disappeared with their empty plates. He took Natasha's hand across the table.

"Of course. It's not like we had much of a choice, but I love getting dolled up."

"For parties, not for dates."

Natasha's eyes slid down to the table cloth. "I know. It's . . ."

The atmosphere of the room hushed suddenly and Clint and Natasha looked up. At a table by the door, the small figure of a man in a tuxedo bent down on one knee. The woman sitting across from him threw her hands up in surprise. She nodded and the cavernous room echoed with applause. Clint and Natasha clapped along, and as soon as the sound died down and the chatter of conversation rose again, their hands found their way back to each other.

Natasha shook her head. "They don't get it. None of these sweet little Romeos or Juliets understand that they're just playing a game. The flowers and dates and fancy dresses, they're all pawns." She looked out at the the other couples smiling throughout the restaurant. "They're like children. They can't see beyond the playground. So naive, so ignorant. So . . . innocent."

"You really believe love is only for children?"

"I don't see how it's can't be. It's funny. I've probably been on more dates than everyone here, and they're always the same. Not as nice as this place of course, but still, always dinner and flowers and ties and perfume."

"But none of the dinners you're talking about were real. You were there on assignment."

Natasha sighed. "And tonight's no different, but it doesn't matter. They're all the same. I just wish these idiots would grow up. Or I used to. Now sometimes I find myself wishing I could grow down."

"Charlotte," Clint said gently, but even so the name stung. Just real enough to remind us it's all fake.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult you. I know you don't believe that, I mean, you have a girlfriend. Or. . . you did."

Clint looked anxiously over at their babysitter, and let the conversation switch topics. Sebastian and Charlotte were laughing over their trip to Peru when András's scout walked by with the anxious blonde on his arm.

"Whatever was happening tonight must be over," said Natasha. "Otherwise big brother wouldn't be allowed to go."

Now that they weren't being watched, Clint finally voiced the though that had been pestering him. "You haven't said anything."

"What?"

"About Clara. You never said anything."

"What exactly to you want me to tell you?"

Clint cradled his forehead in his free hand. "I don't know. That I'm not an idiot. That I haven't made some horrible mistake. That I was right."

Natasha sat straight up in she chair. "That you were right leaving a nice, normal, sane girl for . . ." Her hand jerked as she choked on the last word, but she didn't let go. Me. He had done this for her. "What could I possibly say to that?"

Clint gave her hand a squeeze. "Just please don't tell me you're sorry."

Natasha squeezed back. "I'm not."

They left the restaurant with their fingers intertwined, and part of each of them knew it wasn't just for show.

"23 Talán Street, Nineteenth district." Natasha instructed the cab driver as they exited the restaurant.

"Actually, drop us off on the east side of Széchenyi Bridge," Clint said. Natasha raised a puzzled eyebrow. She knew he wan't picking up Hungarian that fast. Why had he bothered to learn that phrase?

"What are you up to?" she asked.

Clint smirked. "You'll see."

The cab pulled off the rotary onto a small gravel parking lot at the foot of the bridge.

"You sure this is where you want to be?" the cabbie asked.

"Yes, I think it is," said Natasha as she tried to read Clint's face.

The gravel shuffled beneath their feet as the car drove away. The sparse street lamps flickered, bathing their faces in shadows.

Natasha turned on her heel, surveying the scene. "And. . ?"

"And we have somewhere to be." Clint took her by the hand and led her up worn cement steps set into the hill. They came to a break in the guardrail, and Clint led her out onto the bridge. Cars whirred by them as they walked along the raised sidewalk. Huge wire ropes rose up beside them, racing to the suspension cable that swooped overhead.

"Seriously, where are we going?" Natasha asked.

"You'll see."

They came to the bridge's support tower, an ornate archway that curved over the roadway. It loomed before them like a white granite skyscraper. The pedestrian walkway bent around the tower, separating them from the street. Clint pulled Natasha close to cool stone.

Hidden from lights of the roadway, he lead her to a small door concealed on the face of the tower. Even in the dim light, Natasha could see that the door's padlock had been cut. She had a feeling she knew who did it.

"Breaking and entering now are we?"

"We've done worse," Clint said as he unhooked the broken lock and discarded it on the ground. The bare bulb of a small emergency light buzzed to life as he opened the door.

"Seriously, what are we doing here?" Natasha asked again. A lattice of steel beams rose up inside the stone pillar. Bunches of coated wires raced up the walls, draped haphazardly over the beams. From the little entry way where they stood, the hollow chamber tapered to within inches of the elevator shaft that stretched up the middle. Clint drew back the cage door with a squeak and ushered Natasha inside.

She hesitated before placing her foot on the grated floor. "Is this safe? When was this bridge built again?"

Clint smiled as he stepped in behind her and closed the door. "Don't you trust me?"

"You already know the answer to that."

"Good," Clint said, and he hit the 'up' button. The elevator came to life with a groan. The bare granite sides of the shaft passed by as the metal cage hauled them slowly to the top.

It opened to a small square chamber, lit with the same ancient bulbs. A crisp breeze whirled in through open doorways, which appeared to lead to a maintenance balcony.

"They have to change the lightbulbs somehow," Clint shrugged. Natasha stepped toward the doorway, but Clint caught her wrist. " Not yet." He shook his head and pointed to worn ladder whose twenty rusty rungs stretched up past the ceiling into an even narrower shaft.

"I hope these heels can take it," Natasha said as she followed him up the rungs. The light nearly disappeared as the granite closed in around them.

"A while ago you asked me how I see," Clint said as they neared the top. He used his forearm to push open a peeling green trap door and climbed out of the shaft. He held a hand out to Natasha, helping her up. "This is the best explanation I've got."

"Oh . . my god," Natasha managed to breath as he helped her on top of the bridge. The entire city of Budapest swept out around them in a magnificent panorama. Massive spotlights illuminated the towers and cables of the bridge, dwarfing the stream of red and white pinpoints that the cars flowing below had become. The Danube river meandered below them, glittering in the lights of the city, and reflecting the crescent moon that shone brightly in the crisp, clear sky. Just up the river, the Hungarian Parliament Building sat like a cathedral on the opposite bank. It's ornate spires stretched up toward the moon and it's arches and domes stood proudly before the city. An army of floodlights bathed its facade in soft white light, making the building seem to glow. Bars of white and orange light streaked out across the river. Behind them, the Hungarian National Gallery echoed the parliament building, its thick Roman columns aglow with what seemed like moonlight. Natasha spun around as slowly as she could, trying to soak up as much detail as possible. The longer she looked the more she saw, from the glittering glass window of the restaurant they had just left, to the Galleria Szobor in the distance, with its display banners waving in the breeze.

"Clint, this is . . ." Natasha choked, "this is incredible." She continued to walk in slow circles around the flat stone bridge top, trying to capture the panorama in her mind.

"I though you might like it," he said, trying to mute his grin.

"No wonder you like to see the world from a distance."

"Of course most views aren't quite as spectacular as this one," Clint said. "But something about places like this, it feels . . . "

"Kind of like you're flying, Hawkeye?"

"Something like that."

Natasha finally stopped circling, picking her favorite angle of what she was sure in that moment was the best view in the world. She crossed her arms against the stinging wind that whipped over the bridge. It bit into her bare arms, but she didn't much care. Clint came up behind her and wrapped his muscular arms around her. Natasha leaned her head back against his.

"And the best part about flying?" Clint said softly.

Natasha guessed his next words. "We're free. No Shield. No TPE. No babysitters, no handlers. This place belongs only to us."

She pulled his arms even tighter around her and he held her safe and close.

"So," Clint said after a while. "No flowers, no chocolates, no restaurant. How did I do?"

"Technically we went to a restaurant," said Natasha.

"Rózsambimbó was for Charlotte Welch," said Clint. "This is for you. Do you still think love is only for children?"

"Yes," Natasha whispered, "but I think this might be how it feels to be a child."

They stood there silently, breathing in the crisp scent of the river air. For the first time in quite a while, no part of Natasha wanted to run. No part of her wished she was somewhere else, or someone else. Clint held her tightly, grateful to finally have Natasha in his arms.

"I love you," Clint whispered into her ear, just loudly enough that she could hear it before the wind swept the words away.

"I know." Natasha let the moonlit city disappear as she closed her eyes. "I love you."

Clint took her shoulder and turned her slowly around so their eyes would meet. She grabbed his jaw and pulled him in for a passionate kiss. Natasha wrapped her arms around his head, and Clint held the small of her back, pulling Natasha toward him. With their foreheads resting together, they finally broke long enough for Clint to whisper back, "I know."

That night, a very irritated Lornic Lovász awoke to the ringing of the telephone. "What do you want?" he growled into the receiver. A smug chuckle met him on the other end of the line. "Boris? Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"Yes, I do," said Boris. "The Missus and I haven't been able to sleep a wink."

"Why? Are the fifth floor love birds in a fight again? Frankly I don't much care."

"You should," Boris said, his smirk practically being transmitted through the telephone.

"What? Why?"

"Because, Lornic my friend," said Boris, "you owe me some money."