A/N: Hi everyone! I'm so sorry it's been so long since I updated. This chapter was giving me all sorts of trouble!

Clint's knuckles remained white on the controls as he guided the S.H.I.E.L.D. plane away from the Helicarrier deck and into the black night sky. His clenched jaw didn't loosen as the floating aircraft carrier rapidly shrunk and vanished, leaving only the ebony water below the nose of the plane. Natasha monitored the radar screen from her place in the copilot's chair. Between the cycle's of the radar's hypnotic green line she glanced over at Clint.

"Nervous?"

"I'm not exactly looking forward to parachuting into the Indian Ocean from 35,000 feet if Fury shoots us down."

Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed, and still no blips appeared on the radar, no alarms sounded over the speakers. "We're clear," said Natasha. "If anyone wanted us out of the sky, they'd have done so by now." Clint remained tense in his seat. "But that's not what you're worried about, is it?"

He remained quiet. Natasha waited patiently for him to reply.

"What if it happens again? What if we get distracted, loose focus, make mistakes. What if we fail?"

"We won't."

"You can't know that. Last time -"

"Last time doesn't matter! It's over. We can't stop it; we can't fix it. And dwelling on it like this, that's what will compromise you."

"So what do we do?"

"What we always do: we get the job done."

"Flight SHP327 requesting permission to land at Ferenc Liszt International Airport," Clint said into his headset as they neared their destination.

"SHP327, you are cleared for landing in Zone 6," the air traffic control operator replied.

Clint cut the plane's twin turbines and used the two rotary engines set into the wings to lower the plane down to the tarmac. He set it down in a line beside six other identical gray planes, each with the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo emblazoned on its wing. Two hydraulic arms lowered the door and Clint and Natasha stepped out onto the tar. Natasha lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the low rising sun and slung her bag over the opposite shoulder.

"They've been trained well," Clint noted as he observed the airport workers. A few of them stopped what they were doing to observe Clint and Natasha's arrival, but none approached. When Clint and Natasha turned in their direction, they quickly returned to their work. "Who has point?"

"I don't remember, and let's hope we don't find out. Whoever's in charge, I doubt they want us interfering."

"Then we should get out of sight as soon as possible."

"Where to?" said Natasha.

"I think I know a place."

They stepped off the bus onto a warn, crowded street. Bright sunlight beat down and its warmth radiated back up off the bricks. Clint stood in the center, letting people flow around him as he spun in a tight circle, eyes glued to the skyline. Natasha leaned against a patch of stucco wall as she waited. Street vendors haggled in the stalls beside her. People bustled two and fro, shouting, waiving, chatting and singing in Hungarian and other languages. Natasha's eyes flicked over every one of them, analyzing them.

Clint's eyes drew angles to every lamp post and building corner, building up a map in his mind. The more information he took in, the higher his mind seemed to rise over this little market street until he could picture most of the neighborhood. Noting the position of the sun, he nodded to himself.

"Got your bearings?" Natasha asked as he approached.

"This way," said Clint. "Are we being followed?"

"Two suits at the east end of the street. Definitely S.H.I.E.L.D."

"And that's making you smile?"

"Would you rather Varga's guys already know that we're here?"

"I would rather not have to ditch out own people. Our own well-trained people."

"Oh please. They're S.H.I.E.L.D., not me."

"You modesty is humbling."

"Would you like to try to ditch them on your own?"

Clint's smirk faded.

"I thought not. You are going to have to trust me."

Clint stopped. He looked sadly into her eyes. "Tasha . . ."

Natasha's eyes rolled up toward her eyebrows. "Oh for god's sake." She grabbed his wrist and dragged him around a corner.

Noise and color exploded around them as they found themselves in the heart of the street market. Vendors shouted from the stalls and tables packed into every inch of the wide cobbled street. Produce hung from brightly colored canopies; trinkets jangled in the slight breeze coming over the surrounding buildings. The mesmerizing aromas of stews and smoked meats, roasted sausages and fresh-baked pastries made Clint's mouth water. People bustled everywhere, packed nearly shoulder to shoulder as they examined the wares each stall had to offer.

Natasha dug into Clint's bag as the made their way into the crowd. She pulled out an envelope of money and divided the Hungarian currency between them.

"They've seen what we're wearing. Change and meet me at the end of this street," she instructed over the noise of the crowd and the tambourine of folk music tapping in the distance. She let go of his hand and they split and vanished into the crowd.

Clint glanced down at his clothing, brown pants and a white button-up shirt. The best way to disguise himself would be to change colors. A navy blue tunic caught his eye and he fought his way to the stall and threw down the amount of money written on the small paper tag. The vender looked up at him, puzzled but happy. "Yeah, yeah lucky you. I'm in too much of a rush to haggle." He slipped the tunic on as he worked his way down the street. A few places down, Clint tried on several pairs of sunglasses. He purchased his favorite and moved on, now free from the glare provided by the late morning sun blazing down into the street.

On the other side, Natasha selected a long flowing cerise skirt and slipped it over her slacks as she walked. She pulled at her existing white blouse to loosen it and change its shape. Natasha ducked into the narrow gap between a fishmonger and a man selling woven blankets to tie a beige kerchief over her distinctively bright hair.

She worked her way along until she suddenly found herself face to face with a stack of pallets leaning against a brick wall. Two arched doorway let out of the market, one on each side. A hand burst out of the crowd and grabbed her wrist, pulling her toward it.

"Nice shades," she said. "Stay still."

"Did we shake them?"

Natasha put a hand on his upper arm, adjusting his position slightly. One agent still moved toward them in the graphite gray reflection in Clint's glasses. "Not quite."

"Then what are we waiting for?" He started to move toward the left door, which led out onto an open street.

"Uh-uh," said Natasha as she pulled him in the other direction. "If I recall, you own me a dance."

"No offense, but I don't exactly feel like -" But it was too late. Natasha had already flung them into the crowd of couples dancing to the plucky rhythm of the folk band. She observed the dancers feet for a count, then threw herself in and dragged Clint along with her. They spiraled along, turning and clapping to the band set up on a make-shift stage. They could have left the dance after a round or two, but Natasha held them there, and Clint knew he didn't have the skill to lead her off. As the tambourine pounded, his scowl slowly relaxed. As soon as he broke a smile, she twirled them off of the dance floor and out to the street.

Clint shook his head as his chest rose and fell. "Let me guess, you'd never seen that dance before in your life."

"Not once," she smiled. "But don't give me too much credit, it's similar to others I know."

They strolled calmly down this less chaotic street, looking perfectly at ease yet all the while keeping an eye out for their followers. Without thinking, Clint extended his crooked elbow to Natasha, and just as reflexively she wrapped her arms around the silky cloth of his new tunic.

They made it almost a block before the pair registered what had happened. Natasha willed herself not to tense up. If she could keep herself calm maybe Clint wouldn't . . . But it was already too late. Clint's arm went limp and his pace quickened ever so slightly. Natasha let her arm fall away and crossed them over her ribs despite the bright sun over head.

"Which way?" she asked as they came to the next crosswalk.

Clint slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers and consulted his mental map. "Over here."

After a few more twists and turns, they broke off into a quiet side street and then a deserted alleyway. Clint stopped at a the single door set into the brick. He pulled out a key and turned the lock. When he flicked the light switch a single lamp sputtered weakly before glowing to life. Two tiny high-set windows illuminated columns of dust. Natasha coughed as she tossed her bag on the tattered emerald couch. The whole place smelled of must.

A scratched coffee table sat before the couch. A sheetless mattress waited on a rusty box spring in the corner. One door shot off into a bathroom.

"Sorry it's, well . . . this."

"Works for me." She knelt down before the coffee table and pulled four small metal cubes from her bag. "I didn't know you had a safe house here."

"I set it up shortly after I recovered. I figured someday we might want it."

"We?"

"Yes we. What's wrong with that?"

"I didn't know this place existed. Makes me think maybe you mean just you. Planning to go after Varga without me were you?"

"I am not having this discussion right now."

"Want the kill shot for yourself?"

"Not having this discussion."

Natasha placed the cubes in a neat rectangle on the table and tapped the nearest one with her finger. In unison they began to glow. Thin blue fibers of light shot between them, growing horizontally into a grid, then stretching up to creates a holographic box. Natasha waived a small drive over one of the cubes and Varga's file flickered up onto the virtual screen.

"So it's agreed," Clint said as he picked at the bottom of his takeout container. The room had grown dim as the sun sank behind the buildings, making the holographic screen appear even brighter. "You'll take the slight weakness here -" he gestured at the 3D map with his chopsticks "- on the southeast edge of S.H.I.E.L.D. perimeter. You're quick enough to make it past their tech, but I'm not stealthy enough to follow. And I'll make my move here, from the north."

"Yes. This warehouse you were looking into has too many guards and not enough exits."

"You're sure I can make it through this?" Clint asked.

"You have to."

Clint held the mission personnel report projected before him.

"Anyone I should know about?" asked Natasha.

"No. No one that'll cause us trouble," Clint replied and swiped the file back into the data drive.

Natasha took one last glance at the virtual map of Varga's warehouse and the surrounding area, then up at the small, dirt-speckled window. "It's almost nightfall. The longer we wait, the more we risk S.H.I.E.L.D. moving on Varga."

They pulled their civilian clothing over their uniforms and slipped out onto the darkening streets.

Perched on the corner of a high rooftop, Clint and Natasha gazed silently at their target in the distance. With their bright civilian cloths now crumpled in a nearby dumpster, their dark uniforms blended seamlessly into the night. It was time to move. Now was as good a time as any to strike. But they stayed motionless on the rooftop. Their binoculars sat useless on the cement parapet.

"I don't think I ever quite understood it before, why you were so afraid of being compromised," said Clint.

"And now?"

"Now everything feels wrong. Not wrong, just . . . off. My mind feels slow, my eyes won't focus, it's like there's a buzzing in my brain. At the end of a mission, in a fire fight, sure, even the best of us can get emotional. But here, sitting on the edge and knowing you're about to jump with holes in you parachute . . ."

"I know."

"Makes you wonder . . ." he began, but cut himself off.

"Just say it. I know you ask yourself every day."

Clint hung his head, clenching his fists until the words came out. "Was it worth it Natasha? Those strolls in the park, those dinners and dances, was it worth all of this?"

"I don't know. And it frightens me that I don't have an answer," she replied."But Clint, do you remember why I was so afraid of us all those years ago?"

"You've felt like this before?"

"More times than I would care to admit. But that's not it, not all of it. I was afraid of loosing you, remember? I was petrified that if we became involved, we would eventually have a fight we couldn't come back from."

"And you want to know if this is it."

"No, not really. For once I would prefer to be ignorant. It sound nice."

"It is. It's when that ignorance is ruined that it hurts."

"I needed you back then Clint. I still need you. And now I'm . . . I'm more afraid than ever that I might loose you. Or that you're already gone."

Clint rose and gripped the handle of his bow. "We're running late. Let's move."

Natasha nodded, performing a final check of her radio. "See you inside," she said and climbed down the rusted fire escape.

Natasha dropped the last few feet from the fire escape and landed in a crouch on the tar. The alley was dark and silent. As she swung out on to the main street, it was the same. Being a commercial district, there were few, if any, residential buildings in this area. Half of the warn out buildings, with their smashed windowpanes and crumbling smokestacks, were abandoned anyway. At this time of night, the place was no better than a ghost town.

Welcome home, she thought wryly as she slunk though the shadows between the dirty old street lamps. It felt good to be back in the shadows. She didn't get the privilege much after New York. Still, as she wound her way toward the S.H.I.E.L.D. perimeter she found herself stuck once again on her conversation with Clint. That's what I get for trying to open up. And he wonders why I don't like to share. She tried to push it from her mind. Time to focus. Let all the emotion drain away. Zoltán Varga is your only concern tonight.

Natasha came to a stop a block before the S.H.I.E.L.D. perimeter and tucked herself in a shadow. Reaching into one of the pouches in her tool belt she drew out a thin plastic case. Inside, contact lenses rested at the bottom of two identical wells filled with clear solution. Natasha caught the first on her finger and lowered it gently onto her eye, then then repeated with the other. As she blinked them into place, the lenses sprung to life. A digital display appeared around her, illuminating the corners of nearby buildings with red and blue lines. In truth, Natasha wasn't a fan of this particular piece of tech. The augmented reality display could too easily become distracting, letting the user forget about the real world, and real threats, around him. But for a mission like this, they would come in handy.

Natasha pressed herself to the wall and crept toward the perimeter. As she neared, a blue line appeared in the distance. It grew into a shaded triangle, displaying the range of a motion sensor installed in this alley. A similar red triangle appeared from the opposite direction, creating a crosshatched pattern where the two fields overlapped. More virtual shapes illuminated row of laser bars followed by two more motion sensors. A camera hovered overhead and a tiny microphone sat clipped to the brick, recording every rustle and echo.

She had gone over the plan a hundred times back at the safe house, but the visual aid made her job immeasurably easier. Stay quick, stay quiet. She only had about a ten second window to reach the other side of the alley, then another twenty to sprint two blocks toward Varga's warehouse. After those two blocks, S.H.I.E.L.D. would surly know of her presence, but so close to the target, they could take no action to stop her without alerting Varga to their presence too. If she tripped any of this field of sensors, however, they would know her exact point of entry and detain her before she even got close.

"Clint," she whispered, "I'm in position."

"So am I. Thirty seconds to mark."

As she waited, Natasha reviewed the plan once more. She would sprint into the alley and run in a curve up the brick wall, in the camera's blind spot. From there she would push off backward into a somersault and land one hand in a small gap between the sensor fields. From the handstand she would push off again, and have to fly four feet before her foot could touch down on the tar. She would use her momentum to throw herself into a butterfly kick, flinging her legs straight but sideways and sliding her body through the laser bars like a frisbee. As soon as she landed, Natasha would have to be back up on the wall again, then spring to the other side and hope the nanotraction built into her gloves would hold her until she could swing herself forward and somersault over the final field and to the empty ground. If only she could . . ."

"Go."

On command Natasha broke into a run. Her momentum carried her up the wall and she ran in an arc over the first of the sensors. Her boots gritted on the brick, peeling away from the wall a she slowed. She used the last shred of contact to push off into the backflip. Her hand touched in the center of the sensor blind spot, a gap between the blue and red patterns lit up by her contacts. Her foot hit and she kicked up, holding her breath as she flew sideways through the laser lines. She was high on the wall, then soaring through the alley, until her shoulder touched down on the tar and she rolled into the watch zone.

Natasha jolted up and took off again, her feet flying over the pavement as she sprinted the two blocks to their rendezvous point. When she reached the building she climbed inside so S.H.I.E.L.D. cameras couldn't finder her.

Five seconds, ten seconds, twenty, a minute then two went by. Natasha's chest heaved as she caught her breath, but there was no other sign of movement, no other sounds.

She tapped on her radio. "Clint! Clint, where are you? Did you make it through the north perimeter?"

"You know that was never going to work."

"What? We agreed. We had a plan."

"Plan's changed," said Clint as he peered out the half-broken windows of an abandoned warehouse on the perimeter. He drew away a tattered piece of cloth to get a better view. "I'm in the warehouse."

"Idiot! That place will be crawling with guards, especially now that I'm inside. The next patrol is due in . . . six seconds!"

"Tasha I know, I'm sorry. It's just . . . I'm sorry."

The bare wood door hit the floor with a loud crash, sending a cloud of dust up around it. The safety of a gun clicked off.

"Freeze!" yelled a voice. "Put your hands where I can see them."

Clint obeyed, raising his hands above his head. Slowly, inch by inch, he turned to face the agent.

"Clint?!" said the agent.

He smiled. "Agent Young. It's been a while."