Author's Notes: AHHHHHH! Only one more chapter! Ugh, I don't want this story to end. It's been such fun! Thank you to everyone who's enjoyed the ride with me.

Now, what happened in Budapest awaits . . .

Disclaimer: I don't own it. Not mine, no sir.

Chapter 22: Past

Budapest was lovely in winter.

Snow fell softly in the lamplight as Natalia Romanova walked wrapped in a black trench coat with a striking white fur collar. She looked every inch the aristocrat she was meant to be, from the diamond pendant earrings in her ears to the matching bracelet on her gloved wrist. Her latest mark was an American accountant who had gotten in over his head with the Russian Bratva. Her mission was to extract information from him—shipments, numbers, the works. It was elementary work, entirely beneath her.

But Natalia was bored.

The Soviets hadn't tried to control her for a decade now. Things got interesting after the USSR dissolved, but she hadn't wanted to deal with pitifully weak men vying for power. So she essentially left, and everyone in Russia was wise enough to let her go. She began to take jobs for the money, no questions asked, and the past ten years or so had been very fruitful, in that regard.

She had a villa in Belize right on the water, but the last time she'd visited, she'd only stayed two days before the sun had seemed too bright and hot and the water not nearly as cool as she remembered. She had two apartments in the States, one in Washington D.C. and the other in New York. She'd just purchased a cabin in Minnesota for a rainy day. There was the flat in Kiev and the condo in Tokyo.

Natalia hadn't been to Moscow in years.

The snow reminded her of the winters of her youth, when she'd been young and alive. Able to delight in the crisp air and the gentle kiss of snowflakes on her skin. But Natalia was so old now, so tired, that she trudged through the falling snow with only one goal in mind—to get back to her hotel, take a long soak in the bath, and perhaps rent a romantic comedy to watch. She'd heard good things about Sleepless in Seattle.

Her mark, Wesley Marcum, had checked into the room right across from hers. Perhaps she would ask if he'd like to watch it with her.

There's a shortcut through an alley to the hotel, and while most women would avoid such a place alone at night, the Black Widow had no such qualms.

And when Natasha thought back to this moment, she thought that perhaps it was that kind of arrogance that had allowed Clint to so thoroughly get the jump on her.

One second she was on her feet, and the next she was on her ass in the snow.

"Fuck," she cursed.

"You know," Clint said as he aimed an arrow at her heart, "I've heard all these stories about the Black Widow. They say never to have expectations, but . . . wow."

Natalia huffed as got to her feet. "Do you always talk so much, Agent Barton?" She smirks lazily when he cocks an eyebrow. "I haven't lived this long without keeping track of who wants me dead. Nick Fury always has been a stubborn pain the ass, but sending an ex-carnival archer after me is just insulting."

"This coming from the woman wiping snow from her ass."

"This is cashmere."

"Sorry, I don't know the difference. I'm just a carnie with a bow, after all."

Natalia sighed heavily. Despite the quips, she recognized the hard look in his eye. He wouldn't just let her go. "Well, then," she said. "Let's get this over with."

With skills honed and perfected over decades, Natalia was able to go from lackadaisical and off-balance to quick and sharp in the span of a second, and so the woman that attacked Clint was every bit the Black Widow that he'd heard about. She lunged straight for him, turning gracefully to the side as he fired an arrow, the tip passing millimeters from her nose. Then her hand wrapped around his bow, and she pulled with greater strength than he ever would have expected from a woman her size. He moved with her, though, and threw his elbow back, hitting her in the face before swinging his bow around sharply like a staff.

Natalia leapt out of the way and stayed low. When Clint charged toward her, she kicked him square in the chest and then sprung up, kicking off the side of the alley wall to punch him in the face. Clint rolled over his shoulder and came up shooting, sending an arrow right under Natalia's feet as she jumped to avoid it. Then they were fighting over the bow, Natalia pulling the string. She kicked his knee and then backhanded him sharply across the face.

He let go. She kept the bow.

Clint drew a knife. "Okay, then," he said. "We'll do this the old-fashioned way."

"I've been doing this for longer than you've been alive, Barton," she said. "You won't win."

"Yeah, well, worth a shot."

Natalia begrudgingly admired Barton's talent. His style was straightforward and honest but powerful, and the longer they traded blows, the more she felt her mind slip like it often did these days. It was as if she was back in the Red Room, a young trainee with her new instructor, and for some reason, she felt her chest clench. Because as she continued to fight for her life, she realized with a pang that she hadn't danced like this in years.

She hadn't had a partner that could keep up with her.

But Barton could, and she was so tired.

She hissed at the sting of his blade glancing over her ribs. No one had drawn blood from her since the seventies, but the pain made her feel more alive than she could remember in so, so long. Natalia wasn't so far gone that she didn't know what that meant. All her jobs that she took lately were dangerous and brash, practically designed to kill her, and as she slowly began to lose ground to Barton, she realized that maybe that was what she wanted.

Maybe she wanted to die.

After dealing death for nearly fifty years now, maybe she was ready to experience it for herself.

Maybe it would be easier. Maybe it would be simpler. She already felt nothing. She was cold and empty, so like a Siberian winter, and maybe she was just tired and ready to sleep.

When she found herself in the snow once again, an arrow only inches from her chest, she didn't move. There were a dozen ways she could have fought back, but she just laid in the snow and let the cold seep through the cashmere of her coat. Her eyes darted from the arrow to the archer.

Do it.

Clint frowned and abruptly lowered his bow. "You believe in second chances, Romanova?"

What the hell?

"You're an idiot."

"Yeah, you've been doing this for a long time and probably could've killed me seven ways from Sunday by now . . . but you haven't. You weren't even trying. You're lucky my ego isn't that fragile."

She sighed as she sat up. "Why do you care?"

"Look, the way I see it, you're bored as hell and just looking for anything that has some meaning, right?" he challenged. "I've been there. SHIELD gave me a second chance. I figure it's my turn."

She huffed, getting to her feet. "I'm not some favor."

"How much sleep do you get at night?"

"What does it matter?"

"Because before I joined SHIELD, I was lucky to get two hours. Nightmares are a bitch."

"Some of us are stronger than others."

"Some of us are just more stubborn."

"What do you think is gonna happen, Barton?" Natalia challenged. "That I'm going to switch sides and make myself a good little soldier fighting the good fight? Suddenly all my sins are absolved? Is that what you think you're offering? Some sort of happy ending?"

"I'm offering you a choice. What you do with it is up to you."

Choice.

When was the last time she'd known what it was like to have the freedom to choose?

"I'll be at the Kempinski bar until midnight," he said. "Buy me a drink, and we'll talk."

He collapsed his bow into a baton and dropped it over his shoulder into his quiver that was deceptively made like an average backpack. And it was luck that Natalia caught the shadow of movement over his shoulder. There was no time to shout a warning, and so Natalia did the only thing she could—she launched herself at Barton.

He raised his hands in surprise, ready to defend himself, until she knocked them both to the ground just as the unmistakable crack of a gunshot echoed in the alley, and a spray of dust and brick rained down on them as a bullet embeded itself right where his head had been.

"Shit," he cursed, but Natalia was already moving, plucking a knife from her coat and throwing it with a sharp flick of her wrist. She didn't wait to see if it landed. She knew it would.

Instead, she grabbed Clint's arm. "C'mon, we need to move."

"Who the hell are they?"

"I don't know. Enemies."

"How many enemies do you have?"

"I've been in this game for a long time. A lot. Do you have a car?"

"Round the block."

"Good."

Despite their urgency to get to some form of safety, Natalia and Clint didn't run. They walked calmly but quickly onto the main sidewalk. It was a Saturday night, and so there was still plenty of traffic. No one would risk open fire in such a crowd, and so it bought them a little time. Clint carefully observed the faces around them.

"I make five," he said. "Two in front. Two in back. Got one on the roof. Southwest corner. Just who did you piss off?"

"Bratva."

"Russian mob? Shouldn't you be on the same side?"

"Not when you steal two million dollars from them and kill their Kapitan."

"You did what?"

Natalia shrugged. "I was going to frame an accountant from another chapter and start a war," she said. "Let them fight it out. Why do you think I'm here?"

"Yeah, well, you're secret's out."

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

Clint unlocked the car and slid wordlessly into the driver's seat as Natalia closed the door to the passenger side. "Buckle up," he said before pulling into traffic.

Natalia unbuttoned her coat, revealing a silky black evening gown and two H&Ks. The slit in her gown that went to her hip revealed a knife-garnished garter belt. Clint chuckled. "I'll give you this, Romanova," he said as he powered through a red light trying to lose their tails. They had two by his count. "You've got style."

"I may be a spy, but I do have standards. Take a right."

"Why?"

"Just do it."

They were on a quieter street with less traffic, and Clint wondered for a second why the hell she'd wanted them here in the open before he realized her plan. It was crazy. No, it was fucking insane. Yet, strangely, their best option. There was no way they would lose them in the city. No matter what, traffic was too dense and there were too many potential casualties.

So here they were.

A black SUV appeared on the other end of the street, and Clint gripped the wheel. "You got this?" he asked as Natalia held up her gun.

"I don't miss."

The SUV accelerated sharply, charging straight toward them. Clint kept the wheel steady. There was a deafening bang and a shower of glass as the windshield shattered, followed by a second shot that made his ears ring. The SUV in front of them swerved violently, two small holes in its windshield, before it crashed into a parked car. Clint abruptly spun the wheel of their car, the back bumper hitting the crashed SUV, and creating a nice shooter's nest that could provide cover and multiple lines of sight.

"This is the dumbest thing I've ever done," Clint said as he climbed out of the car. "And I've mixed coke and pop rocks."

"What?"

"Never mind. Look, we're up against at least twenty angry Russians with guns, and I've got a bow and arrow."

"Now isn't the time to feel inadequate, Barton."

"Hold on, inadequate? I didn't say that. I'm very adequate."

"I'm flattered, but you're not really my type."

"That wasn't what I—shit, here they come."

Two SUVs spun around the corner and gunned their engines. Natalia hummed. "You take the one on the left," she said. "It's only fair."

"Only fair," Clint grumbled but nocked an arrow anyway.

The next few minutes were chaos. One man held half his body out of the window and opened fire with an uzi, sending Natalia and Clint ducking for cover. Natalia popped up after a few seconds despite the hail of bullets and fired two quick shots, taking out the front tires of the SUV on the right, which collided neatly with its companion, sending the man the uzi flying out of the vehicle and into another car parked on the side of the road.

The peace didn't last long. The small suburban street became a storm of gunfire, the muzzle flashes from all the discharges lighting up the street like the Fourth of July. A stray bullet hit an engine. A car exploded in a roar of flame. Natalia and Clint alternated covering for each other and slowly eliminated the majority of the Bratva Budapest chapter.

Clint ducked for cover as another spray of bullets came at them. "This is insane," he said, glancing over at Natalia, who had a smile on her face. "You're insane."

"What? This is fun."

"You and I have a very different definition of fun."

"To be fair, I am running out of bullets," she said. "Cover me."

Clint sighed tiredly, grumbled under his breath, but popped up from the relatively safety of the car and quickly fired arrow after arrow while Natalia dove into the SUV of their crashed neighbors, rifling around in the back for something they could use. Surely, they had a . . . oh, yes . . .

Natalia emerged from the SUV with a broad grin that Clint instantly distrusted. He briefly hung his head at the weapon in her hands. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

"What? We're running out of ammo, here."

"That's a grenade launcher."

"Good eye, Barton. I was beginning to doubt your little nickname. What's Hawkeye about, anyway?"

"It's . . . never mind what it is! You're going to fire a grenade launcher in a residential neighborhood?" They were suddenly blinded by a bright, white light. Clint looked up. "Oh, great. Hey, look. We've made the news!"

"Can't win them all," Natalia said before cocking the gun and firing at a cluster of Bratva. Two cars went up in flames, along with a fire hydrant that erupted like a geyser. She fired again immediately after, totaling another three cars. Clint could just barely hear the shouts of the remaining Bratva. Natalia tossed away the grenade launcher. "Time to go," she said.

Amazingly, the car still turned over, and so despite the fact that it was missing a passenger door, a windshield, and was riddled with bullet holes, Clint gunned the engine and shot away from the scene. It took some creative driving to lose the helicopter, but eventually they found a parking garage and abandoned the car. Going their separate ways without a word, Clint lost his black jacket to reveal a dark purple sweater, while Natalia entered the elevator. While she was there, in the brief time she had from the third level to the basement, she pulled off her blonde wig, tucking it into the pocket of her coat. She quickly took the pins out of her hair, letting it fall in long, thick red curls to her shoulders. She ducked her head to ruffle them and by the time the elevator dinged, she stepped out casually with her hands in her pockets, and calmly walked onto the street.

She checked her watch as the helicopter flew overhead. One hour to midnight.

It took her little time to get her affairs in order. She found an internet café open late and wired a hefty nest egg to her account in the States. She also took the time to kill two of her Soviet aliases, choosing to keep one for emergency purposes. And she could always make more anyway. In thirty short minutes, Natalia had erased Natalia Romanova from Eastern Europe. She also hacked into the Red Room and KGB and deleted her files.

Particularly the ones that gave away her age.

If she was starting over, she was starting over with a clean slate.

Natalia arrived at the Kempinski with ten minutes to spare. She spotted Barton at the bar in a dark purple sweater and blue jeans. She smirked to herself as she spotted the thick black rims of his glasses. Hawkeye, indeed.

She took a seat at the opposite end of the bar. The bartender went to her the second she smiled at him, and she felt like a new person as she leaned toward him in a plain white sweater and simple pearl studs in her ears. "I'll have a vodka," she said before glancing pointedly at Clint. "So will he."

The bartender grinned and nodded. "Yes, miss."

She waited until Clint got his drink, and when he looked down the bar at her, she smirked and raised her glass. He toasted back.

Two days later, she found herself sitting in Nick Fury's office at the newly built Triskelion, watching as the Director of SHIELD stared through the tall glass walls to stare at the Potomac. She'd been sitting in the single chair in front of his desk for an hour now. Neither had yet to say a word.

Fury was the one to break it.

"So, what makes a Russian KGB operative want to defect? Particularly an operative with such a long and illustrious career as yours?"

She swallowed and gave him a twitch of a smile. "I've got red in my ledger," she said. "I'd like to wipe it out."

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"You don't."

Fury hummed and tapped at a file on his desk. "I see you've refused to submit to a psychological evaluation."

"I've had enough people in my head over the years. I don't need another one." She gave him another small smile as she stood. "Look, Nick, we're both too old to play these games," she said. "This is what you wanted."

Fury raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"Of all the agents to send after me, you send Barton. Fresh off the farm with a habit of questioning his orders." She smirked. "It was a win-win for you. He makes the call, then I'm no longer causing you trouble. He makes a different call, then I'm still causing trouble, only now it's to your benefit." She cocked her head to the side. "So, what's it gonna be, Nick? Do you want me or not?"

Fury couldn't remember the last time anyone had disrespected him so cavalierly. Even Hill, who had no qualms calling him on his bullshit, was loyal and obedient to a fault. But if he took in Natalia Romanova, the Black Widow, he was well-aware that he, at the end of the day—no matter what he may like to think—would not be her boss. He would never hold authority over her like he did over every other person in the building.

She was the closest to being an equal out of everyone else.

And she knew it.

So, for now, Fury would let her set the dynamic. He couldn't press her. Not yet. He had to win her trust, and that was no easy feat, but then if there was one spy in the world who could outwit the Black Widow, it was Nicholas J. Fury.

He'd put her with Coulson and Barton. She could learn trust from them, and then, one day, she could earn it back.

"Alright, then, Agent," he said. "I'm gonna need a name for your record. So, who are you now?"

"Natasha. Natasha Romanoff."

"Well then, Agent Romanoff. Welcome to SHIELD."

We're almost full circle, guys and gals. Just one more chapter.

Next time in A Ghost of a Memory . . . "Open the door, sweetheart." - Bucky

See you Friday!

-AC