The Galleria Szobor

cordially invites

you

to the

10th Annual

Summer Gala

July 26, 2009

"I can't believe this is coming up so fast," Natasha said, holding up the glossy printed invitation. "It feels like we just got here."

"We've been in the city less than three months, that's not very long."

Natasha focused her eyes on the swirling calligraphy of the invitation. "Its longer than you'd think," she muttered.

Whenever she and Clint were alone, time seemed to slow to a painful drawl, especially at first. Natasha knew she should enjoy it. They might not see this much freedom again for a long time. Still, she wished she could speed up the clock and fast forward to the end of this mission. Or at least make the days go by at a normal pace.

Sometimes it was nice. A five minute chat on the fire escape could feel like an hour-long conversation. If Clint managed to make her laugh, she would smile for what felt like the whole night. Otherwise, though, she felt as though she lived in a spotlight, her every move scrutinized by high-speed cameras ready to catch any falter. And of course, if she could stop worrying, Natasha was sure this game would get easier to play.

She had relaxed a lot since that first day though. Oddly enough, it was her first slip-up that helped.

Natasha hadn't heard the click of the lock turning open, or the scrape of the worn wooden door on the floorboards.

Clint swung through the door and grabbed a set of safe keys off the table. He was turning to hurry back down to the wharf when a noise caught his attention. Reaching for the gun tucked up against his back, he scanned the apartment for anything out of place.

"Tasha, you still here?" he called. She should have been at least on her way to the gallery by now.

From her place on the bathroom floor, Natasha clamped her mouth shut and hoped he would just turn around. She jumped as Clint burst through the bathroom door, gun drawn. "Natasha? God Baby you scared me," he said, tucking the pistol away.

She felt that familiar surge of panic race through her, the same as when she blew a cover. This type of panic she could control, turn it around and use it. "Sorry."

"Are you alright?" Clint asked.

Oh no. Was the game over already? "I'm fine," she replied as Clint helped her up.

It was true, she really was okay. On the way out the door she had grabbed a power bar that just did not agree with her. It was going to be a long mission without those things. Clint would find that odd though, so she scanned her mind trying to remember what was in their fridge. "You might want to get rid of the yogurt."

Clint walked to the kitchen as she straightened her blouse. The refrigerator seal opened with a quite pop. "You sure? It says its good for three more days."

"Trust me, it's not."

And he did. He trusted her. Any excuse she made, he took. If she ever made him suspicious, he didn't bring it up. Whether he was just being polite or was actually oblivious, Natasha couldn't tell, but she happily took what she could get. She might just pull this off.

But now that he had caught her once, she had to be more careful: once is an anomaly, twice is suspicious, three times is a pattern. Still, somehow she let herself sink into the life that was almost hers, and a few times she came very close to forgetting the game.

"About the gala, Tasha," said Clint a few afternoons later. "I've got some news."

Natasha jabbed at the punching bag hanging from the living room wall. "Good or bad?"
"I suppose it depends on how you look at it. András called me in for a job. He called everyone in for a job. His entire crew is running security for the gala."

Natasha stopped, steadying the bag and putting on her best pouty face. "And here I was hoping you'd be my date."

"Yeah, Baby I know. I'm sorry," Clint said. He picked up the second pair of boxing gloves from the milk crate beside the bookshelf and strapped them on.

"It's alright," Natasha replied. "It least we know the Szabo boys have something big planned for the gala."

Clint jabbed at the sand-filled cylinder. "You don't think they'll blow it, do you? There will be a lot of notable people at that party."

"No way," said Natasha, punching it back toward him. "István's put too much effort into his collection to destroy it, and András wouldn't put all his muscle in the line of fire. Besides, with a bomb that size, it would blow a decent chunk of the city."

"You don't think they'll set it off anywhere?" Clint stopped the stepped aside and let Natasha land a powerful roundhouse kick.

"I think that if the Szabo boys were smart enough to come up with this smuggling scheme," she puffed, "they have something a little more creative in mind."

"That might be even worse," said Clint.

"I've got to say, this is a little refreshing," Clint said as he buttoned up his dress shirt and straightened the cuffs.

"What is?" said Natasha's voice from the bathroom.

"It's been a while since we got dressed up for a party we were both actually invited to."

"I'm invited, darling. You're working the door."

Plastic rustled as Clint pulled his charcoal jacket from its dry-cleaner's bag. "You've worked plenty of things at plenty of parties. Now hurry up, I'm almost ready."

"So am I." Natasha came out of the bathroom wearing black lace lingerie and a pair of red stilettos. A matching garter kept a throwing knife strapped against her thigh. Her fiery curls stood neat and perfect under an invisible blanket of hairspray, and she'd pulled a few locks back with a glistening barrette. Makeup dusted her soft face, with a touch of blush highlighting her strong cheekbones and thick mascara making her green eyes gleam.

"Wow," was all Clint could manage to say.

Natasha gave him a playful smile as she sauntered into the bedroom and opened her closet. "You'll like me even better in the dress."

"Somehow I doubt that."

Natasha pulled out a gleaming red dress draped on a silk hanger.

"I thought redheads weren't supposed to wear red," said Clint.

"It's more about choosing your moments," Natasha said as she slipped into the dress. Thousands of sequins shimmered over the gown, catching even the dim light in the bedroom and making it dance. The strapless bodice hugged her frame perfectly, highlighting every curve then letting go at the perfect spot on her hips, where the the fabric raced down to meet the slit carved up to her thigh, then fell to a stop just above the floor.

"I take that back," Clint said as he walked over and ran the zipper up the back of the dress.

Natasha turned around and grabbed the two loose ends of the bow tie draped over his neck. "I wish you were coming with me," she said as she tied it.

"Me too." He kissed her softly so he didn't smudge her scarlet lipstick and lingered for a moment to take in the scent of her hair. Clint reached over to his dresser and picked up two small plastic cases.

Natasha took hers and looked down at the tiny ear radio resting inside. "The day I go to a party without one of these things. . ."

"You're in trouble," Clint joked.

She tugged gently on his ear. "I was going to say, I might actually enjoy the party."

"You're telling me you don't enjoy this?"

Natasha smirked. "I never said that either." She tucked the radio inside her ear and gave it a test. "Here we go. Just as we discussed. Separate cabs twenty minutes apart. I'll be with István coordinating the finishing touches on the gala for the two hours before it starts. Then I'll be in the main atrium with the rest of the guests. You'll be outside sweeping the grounds and patrolling the perimeter of the Galleria."

Clint nodded. "Keep you eyes peeled for any suspicious behavior, or anyone involved in the TPE. Something is supposed to happen tonight, let's be ready."

"Good luck, Hawkeye," Natasha said with a quick kiss on his cheek.

"Good luck Natasha."