A/N: This is the final chapter of "Budapest." Many thanks to all who read and reviewed.

I'll be starting on something new soon that will probably be my NaNo project, so stay tuned.

Namaste,

Sunny

Avengers

Budapest

Chapter 9

Elisabeta grabbed Ryland's fingers where they lay on her thigh and squeezed hard, trying not to laugh. "Yes, I know."

He looked at her as though she were mad. "When did you…"

Releasing him, Elisabeta handed over their glasses for refills. When he returned, she held hers for a moment, watching the light glinting off the surface of the liquid. "I've always known, kedvesem."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"What would've been the point? I needed a charming man to show off to my friends, and you fulfilled that role admirably. Your name was of little consequence. And if I had, there was the possibility that you'd change your mind, and I couldn't have that." She brought the glass of brandy to her mouth and drank half. Her confession had thrown him, and it gave her a small thrill that she could render such a supremely confident man speechless, even for a few moments. He finished his drink, reached across her to set the glass on the table. After a moment he chuckled then started to laugh. The sound tapered off as he sat back, wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and pulled her close. He dropped a soft kiss on her temple. With one finger, she toyed with the edge of his vest. "What is your real name?"

"Clint. You can call me Ryland, if you want."

Picking up her glass, she held it in her hand, debating if she should finish it and have a third. Her doctor didn't expressly forbid alcohol while taking her medications, but he also didn't tell her she could. "Perhaps I should go first. I have a feeling that my confession is the shorter one."

Clint huffed out a long breath. "You're right."

Taking another sip, she let the warmth of the brandy slide down her throat. Turning slightly to face him, Elisabeta rested her elbow on the back of the sofa. "My friend Ursola runs an escort agency in addition to her event planning. She arranged for me to meet Ryland York. However, I did not find him at all suitable so I sent him away. Then, I saw you coming toward the café. Asking if you were Ryland York was the first thing I could think of to introduce myself. When you denied being him, I'd would ask you to join me for a drink as a precursor to inviting you to be my escort to the celebration. Imagine my surprise when you claimed to be Ryland York. The rest, you know."

"I thought about telling you the truth, but didn't for the same reason. If you knew I wasn't who you thought I was, then you might kick me to the curb, and I really needed to be at that party."

"Why is that?"

Getting to his feet, Clint downed his drink in one gulp and set the glass aside. He was doing it again. Whenever strong emotions were present, he seemed to distance himself from those around him, unless he was playing a part, like he had from the moment they met. At the moment, however, he was being himself. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he went to look out the window at the moon playing peekaboo with the clouds. "That's a long story. It's best if I start from the beginning."

Getting to her feet, Elisabeta crossed the library floor, wanting to provide him with comfort the way he'd done for her. A dizzy spell came over her just as she reached Clint's side. He caught her, and despite her protests, lifted her in his arms. She looked into his eyes so close to hers, the concern sincere and unaffected. The feeling of warmth all along her right side brought to mind things she didn't want to remember, but did anyway. This body which had betrayed her by failing when she had so much to live for was doing it again. She tightened her arms slightly, feeling a responsive tautness in his fingers curling into her ribs. Parting her lips in invitation, she waited for him to take what she was offering. He wanted to-she could hardly miss the signs-but hesitated. Taking control, she drew his head down and kissed him. When she requested access, his lips parted and their tongues touched.

~~O~~

Though Clint had promised himself that this wouldn't happen, the moment his lips touched Elisabeta's, he knew he'd give her whatever she wanted. The taste of the brandy on her tongue electrified him, as if the alcohol were a conductor of sexual electricity. It flowed through his veins making him powerless to resist when Elisabeta softly whispered, "Please make love with me."

He carried her down the hall to her bedroom. She reached down to open the door, and once inside, Clint kicked it shut. Her request that he make love with her hadn't been said with the same force she'd used before, though the demand came through loud and clear. No hesitation. And that had been his undoing. He wanted to rush, to bring them both to completion quickly in order to appease the call of his body, but Clint forced himself to go slow. To make certain Elisabeta had one last good memory to get her through the end of her days.

Carefully, as if she were a delicate piece of art, Clint lay her on the bed, and quickly removed his vest. Then, as his hands began to unbuckle his belt, Elisabeta rolled to her knees and inched to the edge of the mattress. This brought them face to face, and she wasted no time in taking advantage by kissing him again while her nimble fingers opened the belt, and undid the front of his pants.

Not letting their mouths lose contact, Clint returned the favor by removing the belt around her waist and slipping under the floaty blouse to touch her skin. She gasped and her fingers went to work on the buttons of his shirt.

When she parted the sides of his shirt, Clint reluctantly moved his arms down and back so she could push the material off his shoulders. Then, with lightning quickness, he grasped the hem of her blouse and lifted it off over her head, tossing it to land somewhere behind him. They continued to alternate, and soon were under the covers engaged in a dance as old as time.

Hours later, with Elisabeta nestled within the circle of his arms, Clint was kicking himself for letting his body call the shots when he'd promised himself he wouldn't. Looking down at her face, he saw a small smile of satisfaction. Some of the lines of weariness had smoothed out, and the underlying air of annoyance seemed to have vanished. He hesitated to call it anger, though that seemed the best word for it. Resentment and antagonism worked as well. All of them indicating that she'd somehow stalled at that step in the grieving process, telling Clint that perhaps the reason that she hadn't succumbed to the illness was because she hadn't yet reached the final step: acceptance. There was no need for her to continue to suffer. If he was able to help her take that final step by making love with her, then he would willingly and enthusiastically do so again.

Clint turned out the bedside light, tucked the covers around Elisabeta's shoulders, and kissed her on the forehead, but didn't go to sleep. A couple of hours later, she began to stir. Tilting her head back, she smiled at him. "Bocsánat. I haven't been sleeping well lately."

"Don't be sorry. I like watching you sleep." The smile she flashed warmed him more than the brandy. "Feel up to talking?"

She chuckled and snuggled closer. "Right now, I feel as if I'll live forever."

Clint rubbed his chin on the top of her head. "Good, because I have some ideas for after you've heard my life story."

Elisabeta's hand resting on his chest moved. She lightly brushed her fingertips over his cheek and into his hair, nipping at the short strands. "You don't have to tell me, Clint. It won't change anything."

"Most of what of what you think you know about me is lies, and you deserve to know the truth."

He felt her grin against his shoulder. "So you don't make your living as a gigolo?"

Clint moved the hand on her ribs up and down feeling each bump. "No. Far from it."

She sighed, feigning disappointment. "That's too bad, because you're so good at it."

Chuckling, he tightened his hold briefly. "Thanks. I think." He let the lighthearted atmosphere fade. "My older brother, Barney, and I were sent to an orphanage after our parents were killed in a car accident when I was six. A few years later, we ran away and joined the circus…"

~~O~~

The morning sun filtered through the curtain to touch Elisabeta on the face with its promise of a warm spring day. The clock told her it was past time to take her morning medications, but she didn't want to do it in front of Clint. He wasn't in bed with her, but his clothes and hers had been picked up and now lay on the vanity chair. She didn't want him seeing what or how much she was taking, especially in light of the story he'd told her. Though, if he was telling the truth, hiding anything from him would be impossible. He was also a very ethical man, past actions notwithstanding, and would respect her privacy.

She tossed back the covers and hurried into the bathroom without her robe, pulling the door closed behind her. Clint would knock before coming in, so she didn't have to worry. Opening the cabinet where the clean towels were kept, she took out the pill keeper, popped open the one marked for mornings and dumped the capsules and tablets into her hand. She filled a glass from the tap and used it to swallow her pills. The combination often made her nauseous unless she ate something. She would just have to take the chance.

The bedroom door opened and closed, then there was a rap on the bathroom door. "Betta, angyalom. I made breakfast."

"Just a moment," she called out. Seeing her reflection in the mirror, Elisabeta grabbed the brush and ran it through her hair to tame it. She splashed water on her face, dried off, slipped on the robe hanging on the back of the door, and put on a sunny smile before joining him. Clint was holding a tray with two cups, a teapot and two plates with slices of toast covered in jam.

"It's not much because I didn't want Cook to be pissed that I used all the eggs."

Since he obviously intended to feed her breakfast in bed, she obediently got in and pulled the covers up to her waist. Clint set the tray over her lap then went around to get in the other side, sitting on top of the covers. "This is fine, Clint. I don't eat much in the mornings."

When they'd both eaten and the tea was gone, Elisabeta felt his eyes on her. He wiped his mouth and lay the napkin on the tray. "Any questions?"

"About what you told me? No. I saw the videos from the invasion and everything else. It was a terrible thing to see."

"Even worse to experience. Especially the destruction of everything I've dedicated my life to."

She gripped his hand, letting him feel her sorrow for all he'd lost, reflecting on the reversal of their roles. He'd always been the one to provide comfort. Now it was her turn. "At least it prevented the deaths of so many innocent people. I find it appalling that such evil could exist."

"Oh, it does, believe me. And if my life had taken a different turn…"

Elisabeta stopped him with a finger to his lips. "But it didn't. You're here, and I for one am glad that you're one of the good guys or we might never have met."

His smile of appreciation turned into a chuckle. "You have jam," he pointed, and when she tried to wipe it away, he stayed her hand, and leaned forward. "Let me."

Clint used his clever tongue to remove the spot of jam then captured her lips in that way he had, making her feel womanly and cherished. His arms drew her close, and when his hand slipped inside her robe, she gasped and clutched at him. Through the haze of arousal, she heard a crash, then nothing as he once again worked his particular brand of magic on her body and senses.

At the Hotel

Clint slid the keycard into the slot and let himself into the room. Standing just inside, he thought how impersonal and cold it felt to be here alone. He'd left Elisabeta sleeping, saying a curt good morning to Anya and Cook as he left. Guilt nipped at his heels as he tossed the vest and jacket on the bed. Kicking off his shoes, he undressed and went to get a shower.

He'd just come from the bathroom when there was a knock on the door. Angry that he'd let his body make the decisions last night, he flung the door open. "What?"

Without a word, Natasha handed him one of the cups of coffee she carried, giving him a sympathetic smile that told him all he needed to know, that she was available if he wanted to talk. Flicking her eyes to the side in a prearranged signal, she said, "John and I will be going to breakfast soon, if you'd like to join us."

Just for a moment, Clint thought about refusing, but if he did that, he'd most likely spend the time alone kicking his own ass. "I'll meet you there. The diner?"

"Actually, I was thinking of that little café just off the river. Thirty minutes?" The restaurant was the halfway point between the hotel and the safe house.

Nodding, Clint sipped the coffee, closing the door after giving her a short nod. Setting the coffee aside, he went to the closet and pulled out all his clothes, leaving only a single change on the foot of the bed next to the suit he'd worn the night before. He'd paid a hefty fee to have the alterations done quickly. They had to travel light so he couldn't take it with him, nor could he leave it in the room. The hotel had an incinerator where he could dispose of it on the way to the café to finalize the plans for moving to the safe house.

A Few Days Later

It was after midnight and Clint was on watch. Somehow, though he'd been in charge of setting the schedule, he'd drawn midnight to 0400 when nothing ever happened. Pulling the laptop to him, he propped his feet on the edge of the console and started surfing for music. A pop-up ad appeared in the middle of the screen. With an annoyed huff, he took steps to keep it from happening again.

When he returned to the music site, he gave the news feeds a cursory glance, then something caught his eye. Sitting up, he put his feet on the floor and clicked on the link provided, quickly scanning the article. He slammed the laptop and rushed from the communications room, snatching up a set of keys on the way out.

~~O~~

The day was nearing its end when Clint finally returned to the Bunker. Natasha was waiting for him at the secret entrance and looking none too pleased. In the past, she would've come looking for him. However, it had probably been Banner's idea to give him some time to come back on his own. I owe Banner one.

Without a word, he breezed past her, cut through the control room and down the hall to his cubicle. Relentless, she followed him, not speaking, lurking in the doorway while he shoved what few possessions he had into a duffle bag and zipped it.

He hoped she'd get bored and leave, but no such luck. She blocked the opening, using her glare on one of the milder settings that conveyed concern as well as annoyance and frustration. "Where were you?"

Glaring back until she moved out of the way, Clint strode quickly down the hall. "I had business to take care of."

"What kind of business?"

"Personal business." Natasha grabbed his arm, yanking him to a stop. Apparently he wouldn't be able to get on with his life until he told her what she wanted to know. "I had to go out. Notice that I'm using my 'I don't want to talk about it' voice, and let it go."

He took off again and she stayed with him. "Is this still about Adele?"

Coming to a stop, Clint let out a long sigh. Without looking, he knew she was gloating over getting her way. "No. I got bored on watch so I started surfing the 'net."

"And?" Grabbing his arm, Natasha forced him to look at her, which he did reluctantly.

"I found an obituary for Elisabeta. She died in her sleep two days after we had dinner." Natasha's hand found his, holding on tight. "I went to offer my condolences to Anya then to the gravesite and just sat there for a while." Silently, Clint thanked his partner for pushing him to talk because he really did feel better. "I told Elisabeta."

He felt Natasha's shock in the way her shoulders stiffened. "What did you tell her?"

Head down, he looked at his feet then up to his partner's face. "Everything, Nat. I told her everything." Clint waved a hand at the world in general, snorting humorlessly. "About me, SHIELD, the invasion, HYDRA. The funny part is she already knew I wasn't Ryland York."

He rubbed both hands down his face and chuckled. "She knew from the beginning. When the real Ryland York arrived, she didn't like his looks so she sent him packing. Then, when she saw me, she hoped I would be so flattered by her boldness that I'd agree go to the party with her. It threw her a little, when I claimed to be York so we both kept the fiction going because it served our purposes. I got into the party and she had a charming date. Her words, not mine."

Natasha looked back and smiled. "And yet another woman falls for the Barton charisma. What about Anya? What did she say?"

"She still thinks I'm York, and I didn't see any reason to tell her otherwise. The poor girl's been through enough. Should get a little better though."

"Oh?"

He adjusted the set of his feet. "Yeah. I hacked into the probate court's files. Except for moderate bequeaths to the other employees, Anya is the sole heir to Elisabeta's hundred million dollar estate. The attorneys should be giving her the news any day now. I just hope she doesn't end up with some gold-digging creep."

"There's an easy way to make sure that doesn't happen."

A slow smile dimpled Natasha's cheeks and Clint was instantly on his guard. "How?"

"Marry her yourself, of course."

Though the very thought of marrying anyone made him start to hyperventilate, Clint managed to appear to be thinking it over. Then, he shook his head. "Wouldn't work. I'll be gone most of the time, and she deserves to have someone who's there for her every day."

Natasha made a quick recovery, giving him a knowing smile. "But you're going to keep an eye on her."

Clint shrugged and crossed his arms, adding a smirk for effect. "Yeah."

Natasha gave him a nod as she left, and Clint was just a little surprised to realize that talking about Elisabeta had made him feel better instead of worse. Or was it because he'd confessed all to the older woman knowing that she wouldn't breathe a word of it to anyone? No. His reason for telling her hadn't been because she was dying and would take his secrets to the grave. He told her because he didn't want lies between them any longer.

Many times, Clint had wished his life had been different, but then he would be different. When Coulson found him in Texas and invited him to be a part of SHIELD, it had been a turning point in his life. For the first time ever, he was being forced to see beyond his narrow view of life with himself as the center of the universe. There was a war on, and Coulson was asking him to choose sides. If he'd chosen the other side, he wouldn't have befriended and lost Coulson. He wouldn't have brought Natasha from the dark side, and she never would've met Banner.

And Clint wouldn't have met Elisabeta. Now she was gone, and although he was sad, his life was richer for having known her, something for which he would always be thankful.

Several Weeks Later

At the Playground

Sitting in the corner of the mess hall that Clint had come to think of as his, the archer stared into his coffee cup and ignored the eggs, bacon and toast. He pushed the silverware around while his left heel tapped a rapid rhythm on the floor.

Exhaling loudly, he slumped down in his seat, his eyes scanning the room. Natasha and Banner were sitting with their heads close together making plans to return to Sao Paulo. Near the exit, that little weasel Koenig shared a table with Hill, both holding tablets and speaking earnestly. Probably working out a new schedule of drills for the agents that had finally found their way here. At another table, Decker, and his SO, Cooper, were digging into their food as if they were starving. Knowing Coop, he probably had Decker out running laps at 0500, and pounding on a punching bag at 0630. Yates was still on light duty for another week or so, giving him lots of free time.

Laughter drew his attention to Agent Skye in the company of Agent Triplett. How could she not have a last name? So she didn't like the one given to her by the nuns at the St. Agnes Orphanage. Big deal. Get over it and get a new one. First and last.

Until Yates was fit for duty, Clint had nothing much to do but work out, and consult with Coulson, May, Natasha and a few other high ranking agents on how to bring SHIELD back to its former glory. The most troubling thing was the spells Coulson was having where he carved intricate schematics into the wall of his office. No one seemed to know if they were a side effect of the GH.325 or something else. But if it was the serum, then wouldn't Skye be doing it too?

Leo Fitz had finally come out of his coma, and not long after, Simmons left. She thought it would make Fitz's recovery easier, but not that Clint could see. The scientist stayed in his lab all the time, even sleeping there, and talked to himself way more than a normal person. But then, most science nerds were weird. He heard that Fitz had gone to see Ward, to demonstrate what it was like to experience hypoxia. Fitz could've killed Ward, but he didn't. Coulson wasn't happy and said so.

And Fury. Clint had been thinking about him lately, wondering where he'd gone and what he was doing. In his opinion, they needed the former director's help before the world went to hell in a hand basket. Research. He needed to research his former boss to see if he could find something in his past that would give a clue as to the man's location.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Clint scarfed his breakfast, and refilled his travel mug that Koenig insisted that everyone use. The carpets are new, and cleaning them costs a fortune.

Returning to his room, Clint booted up his computer, now with unlimited access, blocked the server from tracking his searches and got to work. He snorted to himself, finding humor in the fact that someone who was off the grid of a grid that's already off the grid was looking for someone who's so far off the grid that the grid ended five miles back. And if that didn't confuse the hell out of him, nothing would. By the end of the day, Clint had a list of names and addresses. The leads were slim, but it was better than nothing.

Opening his email, Clint wrote a short note to Coulson, Natasha and Yates, scheduled them for delivery at noon the next day, and started packing. He only took what he really needed, two changes of clothes, his bow and quiver, and his favorite knives.

From the bedside table, he picked up a platinum keychain. Hanging from it was a teardrop shaped chunk of Lucite. Imbedded in the center was a shard of the bone china set that he and Elisabeta had smashed on the kitchen floor. To him, it had been like a rite of passage, so to speak. The dawning of a new and exhilarating life in which she was free from the constraints of her old one. Free to navigate her own course. And her sexual awakening had been only one small part of that.

The keychain had fallen from the pocket of the suit he wore to dinner with Elisabeta just a few days before she passed away. She'd obviously placed it there while he was making breakfast. As a memento, it was perfect. Something that he could look at and smile over the memories invoked. The keychain went into an inside pocket so it wouldn't get lost.

After a good night's sleep, Clint left the compound, drove into town and made his way methodically down the list he'd compiled, traveling all over North America, feeling more and more frustrated at every turn. His MO was to watch and wait in order to determine if Fury was indeed at a particular location. Clint was a patient man, but it was wearing thin. So thin that by the time he reached the Hamptons, he decided on a more direct approach. He would knock on the door, ask for Fury, and if the former SHIELD director wasn't here, Clint would move on.

As houses in the Hamptons went, the home was not exceptionally large or overly ornate. Nothing even close to the home where Clint had met with Marja Szabo. A long driveway led guests through a painstakingly maintained garden. Others might have been tempted to line the drive with sculpted topiary, but none were to be seen. The design was simple yet tasteful and elegant.

The exterior of the Italian Mediterranean style home was sophisticated in white with a short set of stairs that brought one to a covered vestibule. The windows that faced the driveway were arched at the top, sheer curtains covered by heavy drapes could be seen, drawn shut to block prying eyes.

Clint rang the doorbell and turned to lean his shoulder against one of the columns that flanked the steps. As big as the house was, it would probably take a while for someone to answer. To his surprise, the door opened almost immediately. Before he could turn around, he heard a female voice say, "Aren't you a little short for a Stormtrooper?"

He snorted a laugh. "Do I look like Luke Skywalker to y…" As Clint finished his turn, the woman came into sight and he momentarily forgot what he was saying. She was standing with her weight all on her right foot with the right hand even with her head, gripping the jamb. Without appearing to do so, Clint let his eyes travel down to her feet and back up to lock with hers. He estimated her age at early thirties. She wore a bright blue long sleeved top over black jeans, and sneakers that looked brand new. Her sable brown hair, parted on the left, touched her shoulders, curling up on the ends, with layers framing her face. Eyes the color of a cloudless summer day sparkled with humor, curiosity and intelligence. One perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched in question, and a playful smirk pursed her mauve colored lips. A platinum bow and arrow pendant with a small diamond in the head hung around her neck. It matched the arrow bangle around her left wrist and the arrows hanging from her ears. She was fair, her skin flawless except for tiny crinkles at the outside corners of her eyes.

"You look more like a short Han Solo, but without the furry sidekick." The woman's left arm came up, the hand settling on the upper edge of her slender hip just below the waist. Clint couldn't help staring, and he must've been at it longer than he thought because the smirk turned into a cheeky grin. "You're going to have to help me out here. Though I give the impression I can, I don't read minds. Are you looking for directions to the highway? Lord and Taylors? The Fun Center? Spiritual enlightenment? Where to find the best Oeufs en Cocotte au Saumon Fumé in Manhattan? Give me a hint or we'll be at this all day."

Her voice was smooth and well-modulated with the tell-tale New York accent. It had an undertone that came with having spent at least a year in the southwestern US. Crossing his arms, Clint let his grin mirror hers. "You a cop?"

"Staff psychologist for the city of Denver. But don't hold being a shrink against me. Everyone has to do something." She put her hand out, and he took it. "Naomi DeLuca. Gina's daughter."

"Clint Barton. I'm looking for…"

"You're here to see Nick." She turned and started across the enormous foyer. "Follow me. That way you can check out my backside as closely as you did my front." Rushing to catch up to her, Clint wanted to ask how Fury knew he'd be here, but didn't get the chance. "You have a problem with punctuality, Clint?"

"Not really. Why?"

She snorted, as if the answer were obvious and his comprehension skills minimal. "We expected you two days ago."

"Oh?"

"Nick told us you were coming," she explained. "I was so intrigued by his description that I took an extra week's vacation just so I could meet you."

Clint followed her down a long hallway that led to the back of the house. "I'm flattered."

"Don't be. I thought he was lying. But now you're here."

"And?"

Naomi stopped with her hand on the doorknob. Through the window, Clint could see a large pool house situated near the in ground pool. Stretched out in a chaise lounge, wearing baggy shorts and a white tank shirt, and reading a book, was Nick Fury. As he'd done to her earlier, Naomi gave him a leisurely and deliberate onceover before responding. "I'm reserving judgment until I get to know you better."

She pushed the door open and pulled it closed behind him. Now that he was in sight of his objective, Clint was strangely reluctant to interrupt Fury's solitude. Taking a deep breath, he walked around to the opposite side of the pool to his former superior's side.

Fury made a big show of closing the book and setting it on the table next to a pitcher of lemonade and two unused glasses. He nodded for Clint to take the vacant seat to his left, and once he was seated, Fury poured them each a glass, handed one to Clint and kept the other for himself.

Relaxing back in his seat with a sigh, Fury took a long swallow of the cold drink and Clint followed his lead. It was tart with just the right amount of sweetness to offset it.

Fury crossed his ankles, let out a long, contented breath, tilted his hat down over his eyes and said, "You're late, Agent Barton."

The End