Disclaimer—Recognizable characters belong to Marvel… No copyright infringement intended. Any similarity to events or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Author's Notes—Because I always need new fandoms like I do holes in the head… I'd like to blame my dear buddy Cindy Ryan, who always gifts the greatest plot bunnies, whether she realizes it or not, but I'll just thank her instead, for the inspiration and the beta. :) Based entirely on MovieVerse.

Opportunities—"You and I remember Budapest very differently."

There was one thing he knew about spies: skills, especially like the ones she displayed, were hard to come by. They were honed in the darkest corners of the world, tried by fire. Errors were paid for in blood, maybe even body parts. For her to be that talented and to look that flawless spoke volumes.

Clint Barton sat back on his heels from his perch high atop the neighboring building, watching as she disappeared into the night club. Director Nick Fury's words rang in his ears: Under no circumstances is she allowed to just waltz out of there.

The kill order had been given by the nebulous, mysterious Council that Fury only whispered about on the rarest of occasions. Normally, Clint had no issue following through with the tasks he was given. That was his job, and he excelled at it.

Ever since he had arrived in-country, however, something felt wrong, off even. Like he shouldn't be there, doing that. It wasn't that she was beautiful, or that her file read like any other Russian tragedy hold-over from the Cold War, or that he was intimidated by her very distinctive skill set. It was just that every fiber in his being told him not to do what he'd been told.

Stay at a distance, Fury had told him. Do what you do best.

Clint felt compelled to venture closer, to use his brain in addition to his brawn. Wasn't that what he did best? Didn't SHIELD recruit him because he was an expert in marksmanship, because he could analyze situations and provide the best course of action under stressful situations? Granted, at that moment, he felt oddly serene.

Securing his bow and specialty quiver, he decided that a drink at the bar was in order. And maybe, if he was lucky, he'd be granted an actual audience with his target: the illustrious Black Widow.

There was one thing she knew about tails: boredom was rampant. They grew restless, agitated at having to do the grunt work. Following someone like herself undetected was a challenge, and the blond on the rooftop had done an admirable job, up to a point. She'd made him two days ago. While she couldn't be sure how long he'd been there, she imagined not long. She'd only been in Hungary a week.

Spotting her incongruous shadow, however, meant having to adjust her timetable, so that she could do her work unimpeded. She hadn't seen him trade off, which meant he was a loner, just like she was, and that was a very good thing for her purposes. He'd slip up, blink or become distracted, maybe have to call in to whoever had sent him after her. Natasha Romanoff knew it was only a matter of time and, when the opportunity would present itself, she would be ready.

In the meantime, she had to wait. The Russian ex-patriot had grown up waiting.

She ducked into a local hot spot. It was crowded, steamy, with way too many people for her taste. The flashing lights and electronic bleating music would've been enough to cause any number of epileptic seizures. It only moderately annoyed her while the rest of the young, carefree patrons danced about in trance-like wonder.

The bar itself was just as packed as the dance floor, and she flirted her way onto a stool, vacated by a dark-haired swarthy man who should be thankful she let him live after the nasty things he'd said to her.

Once the bartender came through with her vodka tonic, she glanced about the room. As if on cue, her tail arrived.

He was handsome, she guessed, if one liked the all-American look he sported. She didn't have a type, and prided herself on that. Having types meant having a soft spot—a weakness—and that was one thing she refused to have. Lesser assassins got killed that way. She was no lesser anything.

Running a manicured finger along the lip of her glass, she knew exactly how the night would pan out. She would have two drinks, maybe venture into the throng of pulsating dancers to make her escape in another hour or so. Giving handsome the slip would allow her to get back to work and, maybe, she could finish up, getting the hell out of Dodge by midnight.

Waking up on the first class flight to Paris would be just fine by her.

What she wasn't expecting, however, was the warm voice in her ear and the steady, solid weight of a hand on her shoulder.

"Funny, this doesn't look like a spider's web."

Without looking back, she knew she'd miscalculated. And that was something she never did. "My, my. Welcome to my dance parlor…"

The chuckle was all too easy and far too calm. "I'm no fly, Miss Romanoff."

"You certainly have been a pest," she countered.

Clint, with a well-executed glare, cleared the seat to her right and sat beside her. "I have to say, you are impressive."

She glanced at him, momentarily caught by the hue of his eyes. "Your skills are lacking, mister…" She drifted off.

"Let's put a pin in that for the moment, Charlotte." He ignored her scoff. "Seems you haven't been able to catch your target."

"I'm on holiday—one I'd hoped would be free of CIA agents—so I really have no idea what you're talking about."

He flashed a disarming grin, one that almost worked. He could tell, because she'd glanced at his mouth, her eyes lingering there longer than was necessary to discern his motives. "Not CIA."

"Interpol?"

"Let's just say I'm part of an agency that deems you a threat."

She batted her eyes, a combination of innocence with a touch of seduction that, she knew, mortal men couldn't resist. Except, somehow he had managed it. And he added another of those infuriating chuckles for good measure.

"Won't help you this time, Miss Romanoff. But, what do you say? Leave all this high-wire, no net stuff to the psychopaths and come join up, where there's medical, dental, and retirement benefits."

It was her turn to laugh at the absurdity of it all. "This is what the US government offers to their enemies?"

"All right," he said, leaning in slightly. "You drive a hard bargain. "Holidays and two-week vacation, paid."

"You expect me to believe that you're a business-minded headhunter? One that's not after my scalp?"

Clint watched her for a moment. It was clear she couldn't decide if he was serious or deranged. Maybe he was the latter, because when Director Fury would find out, he'd be a dead man. But, some orders were worth disregarding. Some people were worth saving. "My intel says you're going after Dimitri Volodin tonight. Once he's dead, you've got a redeye flight so you can keep running. But, my intel also says you're about to walk into a trap. Volodin's paranoid, increased his security ten-fold."

She narrowed her eyes. "And I should believe you?"

"Best opportunity you've got? Tomorrow morning, right before dawn. Guards will be exhausted. Adrenaline of the night's watch will be crashing. We can take them out together."

Her eyebrows drifted up her forehead as she repeated the most foreign word he'd said: "We?"

"Drug-runner, human trafficker. Your target's a scumbag who's ruined a lot of lives, not just that of your deep-pocketed benefactor."

"By dawn, I could be safe, far from here."

"By dawn, with your current plan, you'll be in a body bag. You're good. You are, Natasha, there's no doubt about that, but good can be greater."

She rolled her eyes. Didn't he realize that her moniker meant something? That she excelled alone, and she'd be damned if she'd become some government chew toy, thrown to the dogs to see what happened. "While I appreciate the offer," she began, her voice laced with sarcasm.

"Barton," he interjected.

She blinked, confused.

"Clint Barton," he provided, pointing at himself.

Annoyed but undeterred, she huffed. "Mr. Barton, I hope you are as good as you think you are… or else it'll take you a long time to find me again."

He smiled, paying for her drink. "See you just before sunup."

Stay tuned…