Hi! Welcome to my massive Strike Team: Delta origin story! It's been done 10,294 times before, but I won't let that stop me. Featuring: Clint, Natasha, Clint/Natasha, dad-Coulson, pizza dog, good missions, bad missions, Budapest, explosions, fluff, angst, kissing, the sex, etc. Canon compliant with pretty much everything in the MCU/Avengers/Cap 2/AoS/what-have-you. Let's get started. :3

Postcards

Chapter 1: Guten Tag

Drechsler lay spread eagle on the bed in the corner, wrists cuffed to the iron bars of the headboard, naked except for a Hermes silk tie hanging loose around his broken neck. The last vestiges of a salacious grin still lingered around his mouth. Natalia sneered at the body in disgust and wriggled back into her too-short, too-tight black dress. The asshole hadn't even noticed the gun holster strapped to her thigh until she was straddling him. No peeking, she'd purred as she slipped the dress straps from her shoulders and advanced to the bed, and the obedient bastard had kept his eyes locked with hers the entire time.

Natalia paused, listening hard for the sound of voices or the creaky floorboard two doors down. Satisfied that the mark's associates were still occupied in the hotel's bar, she crossed the room to the desk and booted up his laptop.

Technically the hit was finished. She could make her exit and rendezvous with the rival drug lord who'd hired her, receive the other half of her pay. Information was valuable, however, and she had a few minutes before anyone noticed the lack of sex coming from the upstairs suite.

Lithe, quick fingers played across the laptop keys. She knew the hotel was a front, a cover for the massive amounts of cash and product that exchanged hands each week. Drechsler wasn't an intelligent man, all things considered. Within moments she had several spreadsheets saved to a flash drive; delivery schedules and drop off locations, client lists, distribution maps, logins and security keys for several offshore bank accounts, which she'd make use of herself, and a list of suppliers.

The floorboard down the hallway creaked. Natalia pulled the flash drive free and shoved it down the front of her dress just as the door slid open. One of the men from the bar slipped into the room, muttering to himself as he threw the deadbolt.

"Nice one, Barton. Real subtle."

Angry German shouting echoed up the stairwell. Natalia assumed the man was berating himself. She pegged Barton as an unmitigated idiot and clicked on the little desk lamp.

"Guten tag," she deadpanned, watching with amusement as he startled and whipped around and raised a bow of all things. She leveled her gun at him in return.

"Aw, shit."

She watched his eyes sweep over the room, lingering on the dead drug lord in the corner. He was so obviously American when he spoke, she couldn't understand why the thugs downstairs hadn't caught on sooner.

Every instinct was telling her to shoot him, end him and get out - she could hear the angry Germans systematically searching the rooms, kicking in doors and shouting - but she wanted to know what business an American spy had infiltrating this particular drug ring. Information was valuable, after all.

"Shit," he repeated. "You work fast."

"How long have you been trying to seduce Drechsler?" she quipped. The man's lips pressed together in a tight frown. "Didn't mean to steal your mark," she added insincerely.

"He wasn't my mark."

Should've shot him, Natalia chastised herself. She leveled her second gun at the archer's head as he advanced a step further into the room. She could guess what was coming next.

"I was supposed to stop you before you murdered anyone else."

There it was.

"You know who I am?" she asked, stalling for time. She moved closer to the window, regrettably closed and locked. The archer lifted an eyebrow.

"You have an M.O.," he shot back sarcastically, gesturing to the body on the bed. "Black Widow. Natalia Alianovna Romanova. S.H.I.E.L.D. sent me to terminate you."

"And how's that going?"

The Germans were tearing apart the room next door. Their suite would be next.

"Not so well, actually."

They stood at an impasse for several long moments. Natalia watched the archer shift his weight from one foot to the other, saw his finger twitch against the bowstring. Drechsler's men pounded on the door. All she had to do was hold out long enough for them to break in. She could claim the archer had killed Drechsler, play the part of the terrified sobbing prostitute (God, how cliche), slip out unnoticed while they handled the archer for her.

The arrow shot past her at shoulder height. The window exploded.

...