AN: The big finale. Pretty sure this is the longest fic chapter I've ever written. I truly hope the wait is worth it. Hugs and kisses for you all. (More notes at the end)

AN2: Special thanks to my dear Hallie (tumblr user thehalliebadger) who kindly beta'd this chapter for me when nothing felt like it was working.

AN3: Gail Runciter (Red) would be portrayed by Kumiko Konishi and Wendell Vaughn (Quasar) by Daniel Sunjata.

playlist: Oats in the Water by Ben Howard, Oh Death by Noah Gunderson, Run Boy Run by Woodkid

February 25, 2004

Washington, D.C. is thoroughly plunged into the throes of winter as Phil Coulson pulls his coat tighter against the brisk chill in the air. The sky is leaden gray with the promise of new snowfall. To his right, the Reflecting Pool plays gracious host to a slew of civilians in their winter gear tottering about across the frozen surface. A thick layer of snow banks the sidewalks, and the dregs the plows left behind are mingled with rock salt and crunch beneath Phil's feet. The spire of the Washington Monument rises up behind him, and to his front is the snowed in Lincoln Memorial. All around are the sounds of winter and tourists having fun.

On a bench ahead of him, Coulson spots Nick Fury. It's always a task to find him in these environments - he blends in effortlessly, as if he never left fieldwork. SHIELD's director is clad in black, his leather duster exchanged for a less conspicuous black coat, bald head covered with a black beanie, and sunglasses to substitute for the eyepatch.

On his approach, Phil greets genially, "Director."

"Coulson," he says back, moving to the side to indicate that his agent should take a seat next to him. "I should congratulate you and Barton on your last assignment. The Serpent Society is never easy to deal with."

Coulson answers as he sits, "Barton got out of there alive and with the mission objective complete. That's congratulations enough."

"How is he?"

"Pissed that they managed to pull a fast one on him. A bit battered, but nothing serious; I'm sure you read my report."

"Mission ready?"

"He certainly thinks he is. His reaction times are a bit slower, but still faster than every other agent we have."

Fury grumbles, "Talented bastard."

"That he is," Coulson confirms.

"You read Agent Woo's report," Fury says, half a question and half an assumption.

"I did," Coulson answers. "What was Pierce's reaction?"

"The World Security Council wants her crossed off as soon as possible."

"What the World Security Council wants is generally not what Alexander Pierce wants."

Fury sighs heavily. "Pierce seemed... intrigued by the idea that we could get her on our side, but who hasn't thought about the benefits of getting her on their side? In the end, he voted with the Council. We have orders to cross her off as soon as we can find her. Where are we on that?"

"Fisher's on the face trace and her known aliases. She used a US passport with the name Natalie Rushman to get to Germany, and we'll be ready if she tries to use it again."

"I doubt she'll be that sloppy. Who's on your list of ops for the mission?" Fury asks.

Phil had known this question was coming, but he still cringes. "Red and Quasar are at the top of my list."

There's a heavy pause before Fury asks, "Not Hawkeye?"

Choosing as much honesty as he can afford, Coulson answers, "His judgement is... clouded."

"How so?"

"He seems to be under the impression that she can be recruited for SHIELD. That she could join our side."

Fury leans back into the frozen bench, and contemplates the civilians in front of them for a few seconds before answering. "I hate to say this, but he's a professional." Fury's tone of disgust nearly makes Coulson crack a grin. "He'll get the job done if we need him to."

"Do you want me to send Hawkeye after the Widow, sir?"

Fury turns his head to look hard at Coulson. "Why don't you, Coulson? He's the best operative we've had in years. Needs an attitude adjustment, but he's got a near perfect mission record. He gets the job done."

"Yes sir. I'll call him and let him know." Coulson moves to stand when Fury's stern voice halts him.

"Phil, cut the shit. What happened in South Africa?"

"Sir?"

"I didn't become the Director of SHIELD by not being able to tell when people are lying to me. Not only that, you and Barton have been on shaky ground. Don't look at me like that Phil, I may only have one eye but a blind person could see the tension between you since that mission."

Phil schools his face to blankness. "We haven't lied. We've been disagreeing on the Black Widow's willingness to come to our side. That's the truth."

Coulson can't tell behind the glasses, but he strongly suspects that Fury just rolled his eye at him. "Okay. Just know that I'm officially recommending Hawkeye for this mission. Feel free to send out Red and Quasar with him."

"He works best alone."

"Then send them as two different parties. One can roll out the welcome wagon and the other can be there in case of any screw ups." Fury stands then before turning back to Coulson. "We're not letting her slip through our fingers again. I want that menace in a body bag soon."

Coulson nods. "Yes, sir."

The Director takes a few steps before he turns back once more. "You know I always appreciate your candor, Phil." Coulson senses that this is going somewhere, so he makes no effort to speak up. "The Widow has been a thorn in our side long enough. I need you to do whatever it takes to take her down, understood? Even if that means not siding with Barton."

He swallows hard. "We'll take her down. I'll give you a rough mission plan no later than tomorrow."

Fury contemplates his underling briefly before nodding tersely and turning sharply on his heel, walking back towards the Washington Monument.

On the other side of the world, a train shoots through Switzerland, heading steadfastly towards the border of Italy.

The Black Widow is nothing if not resourceful. She looks around herself, knowing that if she got herself here, she may have brought something along with her. She darts her hands beneath her seat, and pulls out a small canvas messenger bag with a leather shoulder strap and brass buckles. She feels a vague sense of recognition of the bag, but hasn't the foggiest idea of what is inside.

She feels something wet on the inside of her right palm, and pulls it away from the bag.

Blood.

There's blood on her hand. Warm and wet and so vibrantly dark red.

We must never disappoint our country.

Mama, what are you doing?

Her fingers fail and the bag slips from her grasp, her throat closed and diaphragm writhing in a trapped gasp, and the sound of the canvas colliding with the floor jolts her, and suddenly her hand is perfectly clean. She sits absolutely still for a moment. Her eyes are wide and steady on her hand as though she herself is an illusion that, if she stares at hard enough, will dissolve.

Making her breathing determinedly steady, she reaches down and picks up the bag. (For practicality's sake) she scans the outside for any blood.

Perfectly clean.

She is very nearly alone in the car, the nearest other passengers being five seats behind her, so she dumps the bag out on the seat next to her. It's a small pile- the bag was obviously hastily or thoughtlessly assembled and wasn't filled to capacity.

One passport, with her train ticket tucked inside. Her name is Natalie Rushman. My name is Rushman. Natalie Rushman. Natalie supposedly lives in Florida in the United States in a city called St. Augustine. Natalie has three stamps in her passport- two are older, the ink dried and fully soaked into the pages from Russia and Germany. She can't remember getting them, and the dates are from forgotten days. The third is newer, the word SCHWEIZ and February 25 stamped from Switzerland.

One near-empty Ice Mountain water bottle. Her mouth is dry and her lips cracked, so she hastily unscrews the cap and lifts it to her lips before stopping herself. What is she thinking? She cannot afford to get sloppy. She sniffs it hesitantly. Her body jerks away of its own accord from the sickeningly sweet, fruity smell. It could be anything from chloroform to paraldehyde, to about a dozen other poisonous substances the Widow can think of off the top of her head. Even if it is harmless, she'd rather quench her thirst elsewhere. She replaces the lid carefully and places it on the seat next to her, where she picks up the next two items.

Two silver pens- the ones that are heavy and look like they cost a nice chunk of change. She twists one, half-expecting some sort of explosion or weapon, but is underwhelmed by the ballpoint that emerges. Same with the other.

The final item is a mystery.

A torn piece of paper, smaller than the palm of her hand, and with a sloppily written message on it.

711417925 Petr- the final word devolves into illegibility, the next letters unknown, as the only following marking is a deep, inked slash across the paper, as if it was dragged from her hand.

She looks hard at each item, feeling them in her hands, smelling them, hoping that something would trigger a memory.

The torn edge of the paper trips something in her mind, the sound of tearing paper and heaving breath and scraping nails, but nothing concrete.

She feels like she can remember the pens rolling between her palms, can remember tossing them into the bag, but she of all people knows that memory is a finicky beast. Nothing is perfect recall, rather most of memory is a creative reimagining of what once was seen.

She swallows hard and replaces the items in the bag.

Then comes the realization that she had no clue what she's supposed to do now.

The tinny voice of the conductor comes across the speakers, saying that this will be the last stop from the S78 Train and all passengers should make their way to the nearest exit with all carry ons. Thank you for choosing ItaliaRail, and welcome to Milan.

The platform is crowded, and the sky is a sallow shade of gray, the clouds hanging low in the sky. As she steps out of the train, the cold is like a slap to the face. Nowhere near the frigid temperatures of her youth, but the change is still jarring. She wears a baggy sweatshirt, thin pants, and bare feet jammed into a pair of sneakers. She finds herself shivering.

She gets her passport stamped, because she knows that's exactly what she needs to do.

After that is far more relative.

Fury looks up when Barton comes in, already decked out in his stealth mission gear. "So you've heard."

"That the Widow's passport pinged in Milan an hour ago? Yeah." He sounds incredulous.

"It seems sloppy for her," Fury says.

Hawkeye snorts, crossing his arms, "No shit. She stays off our radar for how long, and we catch her using the same passport that she knows we have a bead on? It doesn't smell right."

Fury watches Barton carefully, keeping in mind what Coulson had told him earlier. "The World Security Council is putting a high priority on this. Pierce is watching us closely. We cannot afford any other fuckups, Barton. I don't care about whatever bullshit you and Coulson pulled in South Africa. But this needs to end, and soon. Do I make myself clear?"

There's not even the barest microexpression crossing Barton's face right now. He's a good liar. "Crystal, sir."

Rural Spain

In the yellow light of late morning, the shape of two people tangled beneath dark green sheets is easily discernible. Their room is small but adequate, indicative of the rest of the modest cottage. It's done in lovely cobbled stonework and polished light wood and Gail wishes that she and Wendell could get away with staying here forever.

But both of their SHIELD-issued earpieces sit on their bedside tables, a constant reminder that they're always a single call away from their next mission.

"Oh my god, Red." It's said breathlessly and with the kind of wonderment that can only come from being completely sated.

Gail says back to him, just as breathless, "I think I'll forever regret not getting to have Metallica as my call sign. I'd enjoy hearing you call that out during sex."

Wendell laughs softly beside her. "Just because I'm your SO doesn't mean I'd ever be able to get that approved."

"You're telling me the guy who got the call sign Quasar approved wouldn't be able to swing Metallica with the brass? I'm disappointed."

"I'm disappointed because I definitely promised that after we finished up in Yemen, I'd fuck you until you couldn't talk," Wendell says, managing to make her shiver even though perfectly completely sexually satisfied can adequately describe her at present.

She doesn't hold back her smirk, "Aw, dearest, you knew that would be an impossible goal as soon as you took it."

"Perhaps it was my wording," he suggests, shifting so that he half lies over her again. "Maybe I need to make love to you instead."

"Oh, I like the sound of that," Gail answers, grasping the back of his neck and pulling him towards her for a kiss. He leans back into it, one of his hands coming up to cradle her cheek in his hand. Christ, but Gail can't remember a single time in her life when she felt so cherished by anyone.

Certainly not by her parents, a father who died of cancer before she could truly remember him and a mother who spent more time on a bar stool than she did anywhere else. Her older brother did his best to raise her right, but one drunk driver later, and Jacob was gone too.

Things are starting to get interesting, and she pulls herself out of her memories to straddle Wendell, purposefully rolling her hips into his. It's then that their comms sound, breaking the silence and snapping them both out of any previously good mood they might have had.

Gail rolls off Wendell with a sigh, bouncing on the bedsprings a bit before reaching over and snagging her earpiece.

"This is Red," she answers, taking care to not sound as annoyed as she is (also, she was definitely on the path back to blazing arousal, so she tries to not sound like she's been interrupted.)

"Agent Runciter," comes the droll voice of Agent Coulson. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

She hears Wendell leave the room, taking his call out into the kitchen. She's tempted to turn and watch that fantastic ass walk out of the room, but she is on a professional call, so she probably shouldn't. "Just some great R&R. Have I been reassigned already?"

"Yes. Apologies for cutting your time off short."

Gail stands and begins to dress. "It's no problem. Life of a SHIELD agent and all that."

"We are very impressed by your performance in Yemen. Agent Vaughn gave you excellent marks, and your solo missions have been nearly flawless. Upper management has noticed."

Her movements stutter slightly as she pulls her shirt over her head. "Thank you, sir," she says briskly, determined to be calm and collected. Dressed in a white tank top and sturdy leggings, she begins tugging on her boots.

"Since your performance has been so exemplary, you're going to be tasked with more difficult missions, and you won't always be paired with your SO. That being said," Coulson continues as she throws her go bag on the bed, "You and Quasar are one of the most effective teams SHIELD has had in its repertoire to date, and Director Fury has agreed with me to put you and Vaughn on the Black Widow."

Her breath catches in her throat. "Say again, sir?"

"The unit tracking her has had some recent breakthroughs in pinning down her location. We need a strike team that is efficient and unbreakable. You and Quasar have worked together for years and fit that bill. Agent Hill is filling in your partner now. Both of you are to make your way to the rendezvous point sent to your StarkPads as soon as you can."

As soon as you can. Shit, they always give a timeframe. Always. That's SHIELD training 101. Gail bets they know exactly where the Russian's Pit Bull is right now, and they want to get on her fast.

"Anything else, sir?"

"You'll be meeting Agent Barton at your rendezvous point. He is running point on this mission, so for the foreseeable future, he is now your SO. Good luck." The click of the disconnected line soon meets her.

Agent Barton. Hawkeye. The man who never misses. Holy shit.

Quasar's mood appears to be very similar to hers as he comes into the room, still naked as the day he was born. "Hawkeye," she says.

He nods, seemingly in awe himself. "Yeah."

"You ever meet him?"

"Saw him once when he was getting re-certified after an injury. I mean jesus, I still think that him being there was a front because we were all just cadets and it was our first day in the shooting range and the dude is hitting insane shots with a fucking bow and arrow while some of us were so nervous we couldn't even hit the damn targets with a scope."

"So he's really that good?"

"From what I've seen of the mission files he's been involved in, yeah. Plus his range scores don't lie."

Gail nodded slowly, "So when you said 'us' just then, does that mean you missed your target in front of SHIELD's best sharpshooter?" She's grinning madly by the end of her sentence from watching his expression transform from awe into annoyance.

"I'm not answering that," he says as he begins to don his clothing.

"That means you totally did."

13 Hours Later

He's stripping a sniper rifle when they enter the run down motel room on the outskirts of Milan.

For some reason, Gail thought he'd be older. However, he's actually much younger than a majority of the field agents she's worked with in her time with SHIELD. There's an empty coffee pot sitting next to his right elbow and a white rag fisted in his left hand. Somehow, she's underwhelmed when she actually looks at him - shouldn't he be taller?

What she is impressed by is the nearly second nature way his fingers move across the dissembled weapon, not ceasing in his movements even when he looks up upon their entry.

She's also heavily amused by the way her partner is hiding how awestruck he is - his shoulders are as far back as he can pull them, and his posture is as stiff and straight as he can possibly get it. Gail supresses a smile.

Quasar steps forward protocol on his lips. "Agents Vaughn and Runciter, call signs-"

"Yeah, yeah, Quasar and Red, I know," Hawkeye interrupts. He sets the pieces of the rifle down, and Gail notices the quiver strung behind his back, looking like nothing she'd ever seen before. She figures his legendary bow must not be far away and has a strong compulsion to see it. "Look, here's the deal- I work alone. I don't usually have a second, much less a third. So what that means is this: don't be afraid to tell me if I'm being a fucking idiot. If you've got an idea you think will work better, tell me. But, at the end of the day, my word is the damn gospel, got it? I'm your eyes in the sky and chances are I'll be able to see things that you won't. We're heading out as soon as our analyst can give us some sort of heading. Get your weapons in order. We need to be ready to move. So." His stance drops, and he picks up the rifle pieces again. "That was just about as authoritative as I can get. I think Fury would be proud of me."

Both Red and Quasar stand near the door, not quite sure how to respond to Hawkeye's sudden personality adjustment. Just as they were about to start moving, Hawkeye drops one of his rifle pieces and picks up the coffee pot, holding it out in their general direction. "If anyone is headed towards the kitchen, I'd really appreciate some more coffee."

The first thing the Black Widow learns on the outside is that 'lost' is not simply an adjective.

One day, she learns it is an emotion when she realizes she has no safe houses to go to. No backup plans or even money to get a room at a hostel. Lost is the feeling she has when she finds an alleyway in Milan when she curls in upon herself against a wall, nothing but a crushed cardboard box beneath her back.

(We have no use for a child who cannot follow orders.)

Her body shivers, her mind reels, because she truly has no one and nowhere to go. They have been all she's known. They provided. (We must never disappoint our country.) And now she feels like she is falling from a building. She wishes it was free fall, because that meant that she could fall forever. But she knows that her fall will come to a violent end. She'll hit the ground and her body will break apart and it will be over. (Can I even have a soul?)

Lost is a verb when she awakens in the morning, her healing body doing her no favors having slept on the unforgiving concrete, and realizing she has no idea what to do or where to go.

She tries to not let it scare her that she doesn't even know what she's healing from.

Lost is again an emotion when she wants to take a shower, feel the grime come off her body, and she again realizes she has nowhere to do so. She's cold, her body aches, and warm water pouring over her skin might sound like the best thing in the world to her right now, but she can't have it.

She is lost when she falls asleep under a bridge because the rain is pouring down and everything hurts, there are pins and needles in her feet and her eyes, she can't feel her hands and feet, and she decides she cannot go on any longer. She curls in on herself, wrapping everything towards her core where it still feels like she's warm.

She starts to believe that lost will become permanence when she spends the next four days without food, and only meager amounts of water.

It is only after she begins picking through a trashcan for something to eat that she refuses to feel lost any longer.

She sees a distorted image of herself in an opaque puddle. Hunched over as if she were an old woman, her hair is greasy and snarled like a rat's nest, and her body is swallowed up in her large sweatshirt.

She is the Black Widow.

She has overcome things much worse than being lost.

She has survived.

Regardless of what happened, she cannot allow herself to wallow like a dirty waif.

She will not allow herself to be lost.

En avant.

She finds a crowded bar and slinks through the crowd, towards the back where she knows the restrooms will most likely be located, and hopes that the barkeeps don't notice a non-patron using their facilities.

She enters the women's and blocks off the door. She'll have to be quick if she doesn't want anyone complaining about someone hogging the ladies' toilet. There are five stalls, five sinks, and five soap dispensers, and the clean tile beneath her feet is a welcome change. She drops her bag and strips out of her clothes, ragged and disgusting, but there's little she can do about her attire until she can steal some more. She can't wash her clothes, with nothing to replace them and no way to quickly dry them.

Naked before the mirror, her appearance gives her pause. Her eyes are bloodshot and red-rimmed, even though she doesn't remember crying. Her skin looks pale and sallow, and is covered in days of dead skin, sweat, and city grime. Her hair is straight and stringy with grease, and looks closer to auburn than red. It's longer than she'd prefer to have it, the ends resting on her shoulder blades. Once it regains its clean, natural curl, it'll probably feel a bit shorter. She can't count her ribs (it's nothing like São Paulo), but she can see her muscle more clearly, can watch the fibers move and stretch as she bends toward the bowl of a sink.

She turns the faucet up as high as it can go, and the water streams out fast and clear and hers. It is icy at first, but it feels incredible to run her fingers over her scalp, to feel the water stripping away the dirt and filth. The sensation of water and her fingernails running over her scalp is so enchanting at first that she just runs her fingers through her hair over and over and over. She pulls out so much dead hair, she half-fears the sink will clog. She washes her hair with hand soap. Once the water begins to drain clear again, her head feeling lighter somehow, she pulls out from under the sink and wrings the excess water out of her red locks.

It's not perfect, but she'll take it. Because if she wants to do anything she'll need to look presentable. Everyone will suspect someone who looks like a homeless vagrant.

She then proceeds to wash herself. Her skin reeks of body odor and the pervasive smell of the city. The water has since warmed, and she lifts her leg to place her foot in the sink. It's been so cold and wet outside, and the lack of socks has been doing her absolutely no favors. She hisses when the water hits her frozen skin; it's tepid at best, but it feels like it's being poured from a hot kettle.

She uses her hands to rub the water into her flesh, and she feels warm.

She drags the water up her legs, pushing into her skin and peeling away the grime. She repeats her actions with her other leg and her arms, and does her best to wash the rest of herself with her hands and paper toweling. After drying with single-ply paper towels and forcing herself back into her wretched clothing, she unblocks the door and slips out of the bar after a mere ten minutes.

No one sees her go.

Mission Log: Day 2 - Recon - Comm Transcription #21 - 29 February 2004

H: I'm not seeing any sign of her on this body. Looks like a regular old murder to me.

R: From what I could get out of local cops, that seems to be the case.

Q: I wouldn't be too fast to dismiss. We don't know what kind of weapons she's carrying.

H: Somehow I doubt a Desert Eagle would be her choice of weapon. The Hand Cannon is not her style. Especially not taking down just your average joe.

R: We should keep our eye on all the deaths in the city. Who knows what their investigations might lead to. For all we know, she could've picked up a Desert Eagle and be carrying that if she comes across anyone she needs to take out.

Q: Well, we don't even know what her criteria is for killing people. She might be a damn loose cannon with no killswitch for all we know.

H: We don't know that for sure. If she's still killing, I doubt it's for no reason.

Q: How on earth could you say that? She's one of the most vicious and effective killers we've ever come across -

H: [laughing] We? Oh, young grasshopper, you've been on her case for maybe three says and suddenly you're the expert on the Black Widow? I've been tracking her for years.

Q: And look how effective you've been. She's still out there and killing -

H: You know who else was one of the most vicious and effective killers SHIELD's ever come across?

[dead air for 3 seconds]

Q: What -

H: Me, Quasar. I was that killer.

R: Boys, can we please focus. We are on a goddamned mission. I don't need a dick comparison contest going on in my ear.

Q: You're right, Red. I'm sorry, sir. I spoke out of turn.

H: Christ All Mighty, Quasar, I told you how I feel about 'sir'.

Q: Sorry, Hawkeye. You're the commanding officer of this mission.

H: Damn straight. But can we do everyone a favor and not apologize anymore?

Q: Yes, sir. I - I mean, yes, Hawkeye.

H: [laughing] Oh, Jesus.

R: Am I the only one still focused here?

H: Absolutely not. Super duper focused where I'm sitting.

R: Good, because I heard another report on the police radio. Three people found in an alleyway off of Via Vitruvio. One dead, one in critical condition, and another unconscious but stable. From the sound of it, sounds like there was some brutal injuries. I think this might be right up our alley.

H: That certainly sounds more like her style, especially because we don't know for sure if she has any weapons. She'll fight tooth and nail and with anything she can get her hands on.

R: Hold on a second - I'm getting more details.

[dead air for 5 seconds]

R: Okay, the dead one was apparently really brutally beaten and stabbed in the eye. The unconscious one appears to have been injected with some kind of really strong sedative, most likely. The one in critical condition had a piece of bone shoved into his brain. They're sending the two live ones to Fondazione Centro S. Raffaele del Monte Tabor. Should we go check it out?

H: Yeah. Same protocol. I've got the sky, Red, you've got the cops, and Quasar, try to not get in your girlfriend's way.

R: [laughing]

Q: That's not - we're not - there's no -

H: Relax, Stiff, I'm just messing with you. Jesus, I think I preferred you when you were yelling at me. Actually, strike my last command, I want Quasar on the survivors. See what they know if possible. If not, keep us updated on their conditions.

Back at the Hub, Coulson stares down at the message Fisher had just sent him in confusion.

The subject line said: SUPER INTERESTING. MUST READ.

Coulson had opened the message, he was greeted by a photo of Admiral Ackbar from Star Wars, with a tagline that read: He knows when it's a trap.

That is certainly... interesting.

Only when Coulson tries to click out of the message, it doesn't go anywhere. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me," Coulson murmurs in frustration, tapping the screen of his StarkPad with a bit more gusto. "Fisher, if you sent me a virus again, I'm going to kill you." The last friendly virus Fisher had sent him had successfully replaced every single icon and background on his phone, computer, and StarkPad with a photo of Steve Roger's ass. Literally just an old, cropped photo of Captain America's butt. Every. Single. Icon.

This time, though, there is no virus.

The picture of Ackbar shimmers out of view and is replaced by text.

Hey, Coulson. Sorry about the meme. I implanted a message within it so that I could make sure you were the only one who saw it. Hold your applause. My brilliance and hilarity aside, there's something fishy going on. I need to talk to you about it ASAP. Come to the cafeteria at 12. Jeez, I hope you check your email by then, or I'll feel really stupid sitting there by myself.

But refocusing: super suspicious stuff. Need someone with gun probably and actual training. -Fisher

Coulson checked the time. 12:15. Well, better late than never.

"I was really afraid you weren't going to show," Fisher says before taking an inordinately large bite of the burrito in his hands. The cafeteria is busy with the lunchtime rush, and many tables are packed with talkative agents, letting their hair down a bit during their lunch breaks. Fisher seems to have managed to claim the only table that had been unoccupied next to the wall.

Coulson slides into the table right next to Fisher so he sits with his back was to the wall. "What the hell, Fisher."

"Okay, I know, I know. I'm sorry about the pomp, but there is something really serious going on in our Black Widow operation."

"What do you mean?"

Fisher brings his khaki messenger bag onto the table between them and sets his burrito aside. He opens the bag to reveal at least a ream of paper. "Okay, I know, how weird is it that Fisher has a bunch of paper in his bag rather than just his computer, right? But I didn't want to risk anyone knowing that I was poking around in anything. Not to say I'm not good at covering my tracks but -"

"Fisher," Coulson interrupts forcefully. "What is going on? Risk what?"

Fisher closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. He reopens his eyes, looking more serious than Coulson's ever seen him. He manages the expression even with his braided ponytail and an orange and yellow flowered shirt. "I'm the one who set up most of the protocols regarding tracking possible identities, practices, activities, et cetera of the Black Widow. Most of the stuff I've had so far has been conjecture, like unconfirmed aliases and credit card numbers, face-traces that end up being bogus, and murders that basically end up being regular old murders, you know?"

"Yes. Is there a point to this, or are you still hunting for that raise?"

"Yes, there is a point here, and I mean, that raise would be nice, but that's what I'm trying to - stop trying to distract me with money. Anyway. So, since these leads have thus far been pretty much unsubstantiated, I don't have them on a constant stream alert system. Everything is stored and catalogued in the files for the lowly tech hobbits to sort through later. However, when we got the Natalie Rushman identity, I put it on a constant stream alert system right away. The constant alert stream system means that every single activity that happened with anything tied to that identity, I knew about it right away, even if I wasn't at my station or on duty, kind of like the constant little app notifications on Starkphones and Starkpads.

"Most of the time, it meant absolutely nothing. A short little data burst would be sent to me that said there was nothing new to report. Those come to me every half hour. Whenever something big happened, I would be notified right away." That's when Fisher pulls out a very specific packet of papers, stapled together and looking like they'd been looked through many times. There are a few highlighter marks on the front page.

"I still don't understand how this is top secret information. What exactly is wrong here? Did someone hack your notification system or something?"

Fisher shakes his head, flipping to the third page of the packet. It's full of what looks like coding, but on further inspection, it's mostly just basic file names and dates/times of entry. "No, my notification system petered on, leaving me unaware of what was happening in the Black Widow files."

"And what was happening in the Black Widow files?"

Fisher stabs his finger into the first big highlighted portion of the data. "This spot is completely empty. This is the tracking protocol on Natalie Rushman's passport. The date on this giant empty space is February twenty-third, and the entire bloc from 0300 hours to 0800 hours is just gone. No stored data bursts, like I programmed. Just complete emptiness. This happens two more times," he flips to the next page, "Here. 0500 hours to 0800 hours on February twenty-fifth, and then again," he flips to the next page, "the five hours just prior to when her passport pinged in Milan."

Coulson nods, trying to fit the pieces together. "So, what does this mean?"

"It means that someone got into my super freaking secure programming, erased all the data from that time, and made sure that my notification system still sent me a data burst on schedule."

Everything hit Coulson like a freight train. "So we have ourselves a double-agent."

Fisher looked relieved that Coulson believed him, but also spooked out of his skin. "Yeah. There's literally no way for anyone outside SHIELD's servers to get into the Black Widow files. This person is with SHIELD and has a high security clearance "

"The data missing... how far apart is it? In time?" Coulson asks, even though he's already pulled the packet over to himself and is scanning the printout.

"Couple hours, I think-"

"I know what they removed," Coulson says in dawning realization. "Think about it. The Black Widow would have needed to travel from when she escaped us in Germany to get to Italy. What if whoever removed this data prevented us from getting the pings on her passport and erased any evidence that her passport was registered at all? But why?"

"I was thinking about that as I waited for you to check your email. What if the KGB or whoever is after the Black Widow want to find her first? Maybe the only reason that we got the ping on her identity in Milan is because I came back on duty at that time and they didn't have time to completely purge the file? I mean, they'd want to slow us down as much as possible, since I think SHIELD has made it pretty clear we want her dead and buried."

Coulson picks up the thread effortlessly, "And they want her back alive... She deserted and they want her back." Well, god damn.

Things just got a hell of a lot more complicated.

A few picked pockets and duped men later, she has purchased herself a few new sets of clothing. She finds her preferred outfit and stows the rest in the canvas bag.

Her new clothing is certainly something to see.

Without any money besides what she's stolen, she's looking for a ride from a John. Most of the credit cards she stole are probably useless by now, their owners having noticed their wallets missing, so she won't be able to get a hotel and a shower and food unless she can get someone to get her in for free. The less attention she attracts, the better off she'll be. There's no one more invisible than an anonymous sex worker, so that's the person she becomes. If she absolutely needs to, she can cross him off and take his car, but hopefully it won't come to that.

So she dons fishnet stockings, complete with sexy black garters and a short leather skirt to show them off. Her top is red and cropped just above her navel, and the thing is a mess of sheer material and sequins that hugs her ribcage and breasts. Her hair doesn't look like much, seeing as how she hasn't had the chance to properly wash it, but she knows that her aesthetic appeal won't be dampened much by it. She throws it up into a high ponytail to show off her neck and collarbones anyway. Her overzealous makeup, intense cat-eyes with smoky eyeshadow and a vibrant shade of lipstick, emphasize her features and her black, tall platform heels make her legs look longer. She knows what will attract her prey.

The chill of winter nips at her bared skin, but she's not expecting being out for very long.

She walks towards a group of prostitutes waiting next to the road on Via Vitruvio, adjusting the canvas bag on her shoulder. She hangs close enough that she can't be misconstrued as anything else (though her clothing should make that a non-issue), but far enough away that she won't have to answer to their pimp for hoarding in on their territory. She doesn't have the patience to deal with that right now.

She's barely looking into the road for seven seconds when she hears them, and barely a millisecond passes before she feels an arm wrap around her middle and a hand close over her mouth.

She's yanked hard backwards, away from the road and so quickly none of the other women notice that she's being dragged away. Another person moves to take her legs, closing their arms hard around her knees. Three assailants. One behind holding her mouth, one to her left, and one holding her legs. All likely male. She tries to scream against the hand as she's dragged between buildings, but to no avail.

She hears the alley gate being dragged shut.

"Okay, Alek, shut her down," says the one behind her in Russian, still holding her mouth painfully tight.

The one who hasn't touched her yet to her left moves closer, using one of his arms to halt her writhing hips.

She hears the pop of a needle being uncapped.

The white sun against the black sky. No, not again, I swear, I'll-

The needle enters her neck, and she's overwhelmed by the smell of antiseptic and metal and sweat. Then her adrenaline just goes.

With a vicious sound rising in her throat, she opens her mouth against the hand holding her quiet, and bites. Hard. She tastes blood and skin as her teeth grind into the tendons and the sinew, coming to a stop when she's grinding against his bone.

He howls in pain, jerking his hand back, and he leaves a good chunk of his middle finger behind. The Black Widow turns her head and spits the blood and skin into the second man's face, and he doesn't press down the plunger before he's pulling back in shock and disgust.

The needle is still in her neck, she can feel it, but she leans forward and snaps her head back as hard as she can anyway. She feels it connect, can feel his nose and chin being crushed against her scalp. She rolls her torso hard, away from his arm but she can feel the lack of resistance from him and knows that her headbutt was at the very least a knockout blow, and she breaks his hold on her, and her torso is falling towards the ground. She cushions the fall with her arms, and she uses the ground as leverage to kick into the third man's chest. He's knocked backwards by the force of her kick and the feeling of those stilettos biting into his skin.

She rolls hard away from them, pulling the thick needle out of her neck, and stands as quickly as her impractical footwear will allow. Her eyes land on the second man, the one whose face is covered in blood that isn't his, and he's coming at her too hard and too fast. He lands a sickening punch to her diaphragm that forces the air from her lungs in a loud grunt and shoves her backward, her head slamming into the brick wall.

(The needle thickness is indicative of where the syringe can be injected. Please stop- Thinner syringes are for skin and blood vessels only. I won't- Thicker needles are optimum, as they can be utilized in a larger number of places like through muscles and cartilage.)

She takes advantage of her temporary height increase and slams the needle down into the man's left trapezius and squeezes the syringe all the way empty. She rattles his skull with a left hook when she's hit across the right by the man whose chest bleeds from what look like bullet holes but she realizes are from her shoes. Not completely useless after all.

Her first opponent seems to be fading. Whatever it is they'd been planning to give her must be potent, because it's already taking effect and she's not even sure she found a blood vessel. His eyes are drooping and his next punch is so sloppy, she's able to just duck under it, and throw her right shoulder into the next opponent's chest. The one she hit with the sedative goes down with a heavy thud and a muffled groan.

She scores a direct hit on one of her shoe-wounds, and he stumbles back, long enough for her to step out of the shoes and fight on solid ground. When he doesn't immediately charge back at her, she takes the time to observe him and inconspicuously draw air into the syringe. Unremarkable face. Thick, but wouldn't strike someone as being overtly strong. Wearing reasonable mission gear-sturdy pants, long sleeve black shirt with a muted red star on the shoulder, and utility belt (with a gun, she notes. They want her alive, then.)

"Come home, Black Widow."

Her head wound flares, throbbing against her eyes, but she bites it back, bites back the pain.

Mama, what are you doing?

"I will never come back."

"Your compliance will be rewarded," he says earnestly, eyes flicking around her face. "We must never disappoint our country-"

The throbbing intensifies, but she pushes the pain back. "You talk too much," she replies, and then flies forward.

Unfortunately, he's expecting her signature, and bats her out of the air like a fly. The ground is punishing beneath her, and she loses her grip on the syringe. The plastic apparatus skitters out of reach. She does a shoulder roll and is back on her feet in time to see him shifting into a mixed martial arts stance.

His feet are as fast as a boxer's as he moves towards her, a barrage of punches flying at her. She dodges and absorbs the best she can, and each time he lands a hit, she can feel her skin breaking, bruises forming. Each time she recovers and strikes back at the wounds she's made when she gets an opening. He moves to land a kick to her left side. Her arm flies down and she hooks her elbow around his knee. A split second later, her right straight is scoring a direct hit to his face. Her hold on his leg makes him lose balance and she unapologetically chucks him backwards. He hits the ground forcefully, the heavy thud of his body making the Widow think she's gained an advantage.

She darts a look back at the syringe, only to pay for it a moment later when he recovers faster than she'd expected and lands an answering kick to her jaw that rattles her skull and renews the heavy pounding in her head. She stumbles backwards hard, her vision swimming, but her opponent doesn't wait and the deluge of no-holds-barred fighting begins again.

God, she knows she's taking more hits than she's receiving, her body very much out of practice against such a skilled opponent. She wonders what she was doing during the missing time, because she never lets herself go like this, never lets a day go by without training.

She's thrown to the ground once more, rolling a few times before she loses her momentum and she can feel the blood pouring out of the wounds on her shoulders and back.

God, her body hurts, and compliance sounds so easy and she's nothing without the motherland and-

Love is for children.

Mama, what are you doing?

No, she's her own person, why be the Black Widow when she can be...

She casts her arm out to the side, finding one of her dangerously pointed shoes. She grasps it tightly in her hand, and she hears him approach. Reaching into that deep well of strength, of power, of her training, she brings herself to her feet and without any fanfare, stabs the stiletto into his eye.

He howls in agony, his body recoiling from her, hands flying up to his face on instinct, but she pushes deeper, unforgiving as her face is splattered in blood and vitreous humor leaks from the socket.

Her attack drives their weight backwards, and he collapses backwards, still vocalizing his pain. They hit the asphalt painfully, and his yell turns into an anguished scream, and there's going to be witnesses soon, she needs to finish this.

She leaves the shoe in his skull and retrieves the air-filled syringe. She's about to plunge it into his arm when she hears him whimper, "You are Black Widow, you are a weapon of the republic-"

The scarlet-haired assassin grabs the shoe again, renewing the pressure on his injury. He screams again.

Finish this. "My name," she snarls close to his face, enjoying the fear in his remaining eye, "is not Black Widow."

She jabs the needle into his neck and empties the air into his blood stream.

She doesn't wait to watch him die.

She staggers backwards with a gasp, her breaths dragging through her throat unwillingly. The three men are lying around the alleyway either dead or unconscious. She's not going to check them. No time.

She leaves the shoes; she can make her way faster without them, but she limps her way over to her canvas bag and heaves it over her shoulder. It feels twice as heavy as it had been before.

Her chances of getting a ride are now absolutely blown to hell. She's bleeding in too many places to count right now, and she can feel a black eye forming and her lip is split. The bruises aren't fully formed yet, but she can feel them bleeding under her skin. It's only a matter of time before her skin becomes a canvas of blues and purples and greens.

She heads away from her victims, towards the opposite end of the alleyway. She flips open the bag, rummaging through the neatly folded clothing for the large sweatshirt and pants she'd come to Milan with. She'd managed to lauder them, so they smell clean, but she just needs something to cover her injuries so that she won't draw attention. She pulls them on while walking, over her faux-prostitute clothing and pauses long enough to slide her bare feet into a pair of sneakers.

She finally exits the alley and joins the easy flow of human traffic on Via Bendetto Marcello, ducking her head down and trying to keep from making eye contact with anyone. She focuses on making her gait even despite every step sending shatters of pain through her leg and into her hip.

A few blocks down, it's becoming clear to her that she's not going to be able to convincingly walk much further, and she's still in a relatively reputable part of town. Nowhere she can reasonably stop and hide to patch herself up.

She steps off to the side to lean against a building to look out across the street. The building she rests on is some restaurant called Frijenno Maganno, and the thick scent of pomodoro, prosciutto, and mozzarella wafts through the doors.

A small park of some sort is across the street, and many vehicles are parked along the curb. She watches as a man on a motor scooter fills a vacant parking place. She doesn't much care what he looks like or who he is because all she can see is that he shuts off the scooter and leaves the key as he darts across the road. He's probably picking up food or a person or something that will only require his attention for a brief span of time because no one whose brain still functions would leave their keys for just anyone to steal.

She doesn't take much time to decide what to do.

The scooter starts beneath her prompting, and she's away before the owner even has an inkling it might be gone.

The motion of the needle and thread through her skin is a tried and true rhythm. It hurts like a bitch, so she's got a bottle of vodka next to her with a proof so high that it could probably fuel a space ship. It was a big risk to get it, she knows that, but none of the cheaper liquors called to her as much as this one, with the letters in Cyrillic and a grossly overblown price. It tastes like home and has that sharpness that floods her senses the way only vodka can.

She ties off the end of yet another row of stitches, each set significantly sloppier than the last the more drunk she gets.

She should be freezing, what with the unheated, abandoned garage she'd gratefully tumbled into after a cold motor scooter ride through town. Each drink she takes warms her from the inside out. She knows that alcohol warmth is fake warmth though, so she pulls the trench coat she'd purchased and throws it over her legs.

She's never been big on alcohol, for good reason. She doesn't like how it dulls her senses, her reaction times. She takes another hard swig, and knows that with much more, she won't be able to shoot straight if her life depends on it. But god, her body hurts and the only time the pain in her head stops is when she's good and wasted. They taught her how to deal with pain, but they never showed her that she didn't have to deal with it in every single waking moment. (Everything is quieter when she drinks. No mama. No we must never disappoint our country.)

The first drink felt a bit like being punched in the diaphragm, but now all she feels is the burn in her throat and nose when she pours some of the clear liquid across the gash. The pain is dulled by the rush of alcohol in her veins, but she still blows a hard breath through clenched teeth.

She can't stay in Italy, much less Europe. It's too close. They've already found her once, and they won't stop.

As they said, she's a weapon of the republic. They won't let her slip through their fingers.

Every single one of her covers are as good as blown. They'll be watching for any of her known aliases around the world, and she realizes that that's how they probably found her this time. She vows to ditch Natalie Rushman as soon as she finds a dumpster to put her in.

She'll need a new set of ID, which will be a bitch to get ahold of. It might be easier to simply make her own since she didn't know who or where she could go to on the streets for something like that, couldn't trust anyone else to do it well enough to get her through customs to the United States.

Somehow, as the thread pulling through her skin darkens her vision and the alcohol numbs her awareness, she doesn't really question why she's chosen the US.

It's an ocean away from her handlers. An ocean away from Mama, what are you doing? Tensions between Russia and the United States have always been high. Maybe that'll be enough to keep them away. (The fact that Hawkeye is in the United States does not factor into her plans. Not at all.)

She'll need luggage of some sort. She can't come into the United States with only a small handbag claiming to be a citizen if she wants to pass unnoticed. She can't wait for her injuries to heal, so she'll need to buy plaster strips and load her face up with makeup. She's hidden worse.

She can already imagine what she'll say. I've been on holiday. No, they say vacation. I've been on vacation. I had a lovely time.

A plan makes her feel more in control. So even though her stomach is starting to churn and she's burning through the vodka faster than she should if she's planning on not throwing up, she smiles and ties off her last set of stitches.

March 1, 2004

Their adrenaline is finally crashing, leaving them all panting and tired. None of them are seriously injured, which he counts as a blessing. His small crew is huddled in an abandoned warehouse, taking stock of what weapons they'd managed to salvage in their rush to leave their safehouse.

They return to the motel exhausted from a day of fruitless hunting and dejected from their leads dying and escaping at the hospital.

Clint answers the alert on his comm, signaling that someone (probably Coulson) from the Hub wants to talk to him.

"Agent Barton, call sign Tired As Fuck, how may I -"

"Barton, don't go back to your safehouse!" Coulson all but yells over the comm.

"What? Coulson, we're already there -"

"There's a fucking mole, Barton! They know where you're stationed, and they want to get the Black Widow first. They want her alive and they aren't going to just let us kill her. Get the fuck out of there."

Clint snaps to attention, taking on the guise of leader once more. "Red, Quasar, get all the weapons you can carry, and fast," he snaps urgently. They lurch into action immediately, their exhaustion being pushed down for the time being.

"There's no time, Clint!" Coulson insists, "Get out! They probably already have eyes on your place, take what you have and get out!"

Red and Quasar had already gathered a few things, but judging by Coulson's very evident and slightly contagious alarm, that is all they are going to get. "Guys! It doesn't matter anymore! We're compromised, we have to get out!"

"Find a safe place, resent your comm channels, and call me." Coulson disconnects abruptly, and the trio of agents rush for the door.

They barely make it to the motel stairs before the bomb goes off.

They had all been far enough away that the worst of the injuries came from being thrown against the walls by the blast concussion, and despite the million other things that should be at the forefront of his mind right now, the only thing he can think about is what Coulson had said. They want her alive. They want to get to her first.

How many more times do I need to almost get blown up looking for this woman, he thinks.

Red looks solid, but Quasar looks slightly shaken. Surprising. Clint thought that the SO would be better off than his trainee. Red casts concerned looks in Quasar's direction, which he doesn't entirely receive. On the bright side, he looks solid enough to finish the mission as Hawkeye looks over their assorted weaponry while Quasar resents the comm channels.

If Red notices Quasar's slight trembling, she doesn't mention it.

"Done," he proclaims finally, and hands back their comms, and Barton immediately puts in a call to Coulson's direct line.

"Agent Coulson," his handler answers.

"We're alive, so you can quit your worrying," Barton says.

"Thank god. I'm going to keep this brief. Fisher made sure there are no bugs in this phone, and he's making sure this call stays clear."

"That guy really does deserve a raise."

"No kidding. You are somewhere that isn't affiliated with SHIELD?" Coulson asks.

Hawkeye scoffs. "I'm not a rookie. We're safe for now."

"Weapons?"

"We still had on our field gear, plus we managed to carry out an M24, three extra Beretta 92s, and two M4 Carbines. No extra ammo other than what's already loaded."

"So you're relatively well armed, but low on ammo."

"That's what worries me. I've got my bow, and I can attach the arrowheads that I can reuse. We'll just have to be careful with our bullets if we come up against the separate interest."

"But you can complete the mission."

He looks over his two agents, who watch him with avid interest. He can hear Fury's words in his head, This needs to end, and soon. "Yes. We can finish this."

"Good, because we know where she is right now."

The Piazza del Duomo is densely populated on this day. There's some sort of festival going on in the square, the crisp winter weather doing nothing to detract from the air of revelry. Vibrant flags are strung up around the square, complimenting the colorful shopping booths that are set up in rows on the east side of the plaza. A small band plays upbeat music, and few particularly jubilant celebrants have taken up dancing near them in the middle of the sqaure. On the west end of the piazza, a variety of food stands offer an array of pungent, delicious-smelling cuisine. The Duomo di Milano plays backdrop to the festivities, the famed cathedral of Milan spearing upwards into a clear sky.

The sea of humanity isn't as dense as it could be, but it will certainly make locating the Widow that much more difficult. Red and Quasar are already stationed in the throng of colorful people, mulling about until one of them spots the Widow.

Quasar is stationed on the west end of the plaza, and Red on the east. Each of them wear casual winter gear over their mission duds. If he didn't know exactly where they were, he wouldn't be able to pick them out from the next festival-goer.

Coulson had given him an exact description, and told him that she'd likely be entering from - "Got her. West end of the plaza. Close to the merry band."

Her hair is blonde now, her clothing colored in delicate pastels. Her pale tan trench coat swishes smartly around her legs, and a light pink scarf wraps around her neck. A tilted, wide-brimmed hat partially hides her face from where he's sitting on the north face of the piazza, but for Hawkeye, there's absolutely no mistaking that it's her.

"I'm not seeing her," Red answers.

"Trench coat. Pink scarf. Big hat." She doesn't look to have any significant injuries, but she is slightly favoring one leg.

"I see her," Red and Quasar say almost simultaneously.

"Move into position," he orders them, and runs through the plan in his mind. But no sooner can he recall the first step does he spot them.

Five, six, seven black-garbed people coalescing on the Black Widow like white blood cells to a parasite. "Strike that order, fuck, they found her too."

They spread out around her in a loose circle, still a part of the ever-moving crowd, but the Widow acts like she doesn't even know they're around her. Her gait never falters and her eyes are fixed forward.

"Hawkeye, take the shot. They want her alive. Take out their motivation." Quasar insists.

"You are not giving the orders here, Quasar."

"I'm just giving you my opinion from the ground."

"And I'm giving you my opinion as the SO of this mission," Hawkeye snaps. "Red, Quasar, follow them."

"On it."

"Moving into position."

He's watching Red slowly and casually make her way towards the group when the fight breaks out. One of them must have reached for her or tried to speak with her, because the number of agents in black is now down to six, and one is lying on the ground motionless. "Fucking hell," he swears, and nocks an arrow.

It's not long before the civilians scatter, realizing what is going down, and a few panicked screams arise. They push back and away from the fight, forming a panicky circle around the chaos in the middle. Red is on the edge of the civilian bubble, avidly watching the fight and waiting for her orders.

"Hawkeye!" Quasar tries again, now on the opposite side of the circle than Red, "I really think you should take the shot!"

"I don't know if you noticed, Rambo, but we're outnumbered, and we don't know what other assets they might have in the area -"

Two gunshots interrupt him, followed by a chorus of civilian screams, and he sees that the Widow has managed to gain a gun from one of her opponents. She's down to four and none of them are yet going for any of their lethal weapons. They look like they're trying to rein in a wild animal, but she pauses in her shooting. He can't see her face, but her stance is defensive and she's definitely favoring one leg. She looks like she wants to run.

Most of the civilians are running clear away from the battle now, their thrills set aside now that guns are in the equation, and Hawkeye can hear the distant wail of sirens. However, there are still the few who remain, gathering grainy images on flip phones, and some who seem like they want to help, but have no idea to go about it. People who want to be heroes, not realizing that this is not the time.

He feels like he's biding for time, because for once in his life as a SHIELD agents, he has no fucking clue what he's supposed to do. Then the Widow decides for him, taking out the last four men surrounding her with quick, clean headshots.

"I'm going in. We can't let her kill these civilians," he hears Quasar say, and then everything seems to move in slow motion.

Quasar darts from the crowd, having shed his bulky disguise and is now dressed in - fuck - all black SHIELD stealth gear. He approaches from behind, probably thinking that he can take her by surprise -

"Quasar, stop!" Red pleads, backing up Clint's orders, but it's not enough.

"Quasar, she's only going for threats! Don't -" but their words either don't get to him fast enough or he doesn't care.

Because the Widow has seen him.

She puts a bullet in his head before he gets within five feet of her.

Hawkeye can see her face, and it's startling to him how frozen she looks. Deadened. Everything about her posture earlier said that she was scared, that she just wanted to escape. Now, though, now she looks like a killer, surrounded by bodies and panicking people with a cold, indifferent demeanor to match.

Quasar collapses, and his body slaps into the hard brick of the piazza. The bullet wound starts to bleed, the scarlet pooling beneath him on the ground.

Hawkeye doesn't need his comm to hear Red scream, "No!"

He abandons his post, heading for the fire escape, "Damn it, Red, don't do anything stupid!" he says into the comms, futilely, because she doesn't say anything back to him. Looking back out into the plaza as he reaches the ground, he watches as his other agent charges at the Widow.

No, no, no.

"Red, stop!" he yells, but to no avail.

The Widow starts to fire at Red, but she's prepared for that. She ducks and rolls to the right, maintaining her pace towards the Widow but getting out of the line of fire. Red lets loose a battle cry when she comes upon the Russian assassin, and the Widow tosses aside the handgun and drops into offensive stance.

They come together like colliding storm systems.

Red fights like rage, all brawling and heavy hits. Meanwhile, the Widow fights like patience, smart, conservative strikes until she makes her move.

The Black Widow picks up Red, heaving her clear over her shoulder, and throws her hard down to the ground. Red's head snaps back to the ground on impact, and the crack resounds loudly. She's not dead yet, so the Widow drags her up by her hair and wraps an arm around her neck threateningly.

Hawkeye is running as hard as he can, but he's not in the Widow's line of sight, as he's running at the pair from their left flank.

"Widow! Stop!" he yells, but she must not hear him.

He's close enough, though, to hear the Widow growl, "I'll never go back."

Then she snaps Red's neck.

No.

God, please, no.

"Widow!" he yells again, and this time, she spins to face him.

Her deadened look falters. "Hawkeye?"

The wails of the sirens get closer.

She bristles, clearly trying to decide whether to stay or flee. His first instinct shouldn't be to try to reach out to her. Red lies not ten feet from him, eyes still wide open, and Quasar still bleeds, facedown and pallid. No, no, Gail and Wendell. Those were their names. Gail Runciter and Wendell Vaughn. God, those were his agents. He should want to hurt her, should want to put an arrow through her heart and laugh.

Instead, he replaces the arrow in his quiver, and drops his hands non-threateningly to his sides. "Hey, it's okay, I'm not here to hurt you," he says.

Some semblance of reason seems to return to her then, as she looks to the bodies of his agents with widened eyes, and then back to him. "I - I killed your people." Then, "Why haven't you killed me?"

She's desperately hunting for truth, so he gives it to her. "Because I want to trust you."

She smiles sadly at him. "That is your first mistake."

Because I want to trust you.

Who does this man think he is? He should know what she's done. Even if she hadn't killed his people just now, he knows enough about what she's done to warrant her death ten times over.

(I regret nothing in the service of my country.)

(That's a load of bullshit, and you know it.)

(Mama. Trachea spilling out. Love is for children. Spinal cord ripping. Let me do this one good thing. Love is for children.)

She feels like an exposed nerve, even though he's refused to kill her - twice now. She's not stupid enough to think that there will be a third time.

She should try to put him flat on his back, should knock him out or better yet... She should want to, because that's what's in her best interest.

But he knows her. Somehow, in the handful of violent minutes they've been in acquaintance, he knows her.

Then there are police cars roaring into the square, their sirens echoing harshly off of the enclosed walls.

She looks from them back to Hawkeye.

You don't have to do shit like this anymore. Do you know what they did to you in there?

She swallows hard, and the world seems to halt on it's axis.

(Trust breeds mediocrity.)

("The only solution I've thought of wouldn't make sense."

"Except that you're right."

"You realize this means we're completely fucked, right?"

"Completely.")

("Are you going to be my new mama? I think we should be friends."

"I'd like that very much.")

(Trust breeds mediocrity.)

"Come with me," she says.

He really shouldn't. Just because he wants to trust her doesn't mean that he already does.

He really shouldn't. She killed two SHIELD agents, two agents under his orders, not even ten minutes ago. Their bodies are still warm, their eyes still wide open.

God forgive me.

He follows her.

She warns over her shoulder, "Stay alert. I doubt the force they sent after me were their only agents in the area. We might be ambushed on the way back."

They are.

Her warning had made him draw and nock an arrow, keeping it at the ready as they raced through back roads and alleyways.

They both seem to notice it at the same time. The sounds of two pairs of feet pounding the pavement multiplies into four, six. It's impossible to count until they swarm. Two drop from above, the low roofs making the perfect hiding place to safely spring from. Three block off the front of the alley, and two others close off the back end.

They're effectively cornered by the black-suited agents. Hawkeye notes that each of them has a red star on their shoulder, and he wonders if it's significant.

He spends his first arrow on one dropping from above. It plunges into their solar plexus with a wet slide, and they hit the ground with the sounds of snapping bone and heavy flesh.

The other lands nearly on top of the Widow, but she's dispatched him before Hawkeye can nock his next arrow.

The Widow and Hawkeye have dropped into a back-to-back stance without realizing it.

Facing the end of the alley with the two opponents fast approaching, Hawkeye draws back his arrow, and fires. It finds its mark, sinking into the chest of the agent on the left who tries to keep running, keep standing, but soon drops to the alley floor face first, making the arrowhead shove out their back.

He can hear the Widow engaging her own assailants behind him, but must focus on his own.

The agent is as tall as he is, with her hair cropped short, ideal for fighting. She darts a jab out to punch him, and he deflects with his bow. He drops it moments later when she comes at him with a left hook.

He catches her hand painfully in his, but grinds through the shock to twist her arm to try to dislocate her elbow. She doesn't let him get that far though, as in a startling moment of acrobatic finesse, she jumps off the ground, turning her body in the air so that her joint is no longer in jeopardy.

She lands low to the ground and the change in angle rips her hand out of his grasp. With a wide sweep of her leg, she knocks his legs out from underneath him. Before she can take advantage of him being on his back, he puts his hands on the ground next to his head and flips himself to his feet. Using the momentum from his jump up, he drives his shoulder into her midsection and into the wall behind her.

She lets out a pained huff when they slam into the wall, but he regrets his bent-over position when her knee flies up, landing a solid blow against his chest. It's not enough to knock him away, so he readjusts so that his hands are biting into her neck. There's murder in her eyes when he cuts off her air supply, her hands scrabbling at his face and neck but finding no purchase.

Her hands close tightly around his wrists, and he thinks he's got this fight won. Instead of passing out, she manages to get her legs up between them and kicks into Hawkeye hard enough to make him fly into the opposite wall and drop her on the ground.

Then she goes for her gun. They had orders to bring the Widow back alive, but no such things were promised about whoever was with her.

He hears the gun go off, but instead of feeling the pain of a gunshot wound bloom on his body, he watches as the gun drops out of her hands, and she falls. The bullet hole in her temple makes his head snap to the side, where he sees the Black Widow, panting and bloody, with a gun in her hand. Probably picked up from one of the fallen agents.

"Jesus christ, that was maybe a minute, and you got all three of them?" he asks, not trying to hide his abashed surprise. He has always known she's good but jesus. That is something else.

He finally looks closely at her face, and sees that it's a mess of ruined makeup. Plaster strips hang off of her face in ruined chunks, revealing wounds closed with either yarn or butterfly bandages.

How injured is she really? She must've run into quite a bit of trouble before SHIELD got to her.

She must notice his inspection, and she runs a hand across her face, discarding the few bits of plaster that looked like peeling chunks of skin. "Hurry. We have to go before any more of them find us."

He reaches down to pick up his bow when he comes to the very abrupt realization that she'd chosen to save him. She could have easily allowed that agent to shoot him. She could've ditched him back in the Piazza. She's had so many opportunities to leave him or kill him and she hasn't taken any of them.

"Thanks for taking her out for me," he offers. "That might have gotten a bit sticky if you hadn't."

She stares blankly at him, before answering in mild confusion, "You are welcome."

God, she is so painfully awkward about it that he wants to give her an out as soon as possible. "So, lead the way."

She nods, obviously much more comfortable with that than having to accept his thanks. "This way," she says with a jerk of her head, directing them to the mouth of the alley. She is heavily favoring one leg now, but if she was so reluctant to accept his thanks, then she certainly won't accept his help.

"Nice digs," he comments as they enter the apartment.

"It belongs to a businessman who's going to be in Rome for the next two weeks. I stole his wallet and saw his itinerary," she tells him.

Not long after she'd awoken in the warehouse, hungover and nigh upon freezing, she'd decided abandoned buildings weren't going to cut it. Stealing that particular man's wallet was just a stroke of luck.

Mr. Patrizio Veranelli, born the thirteenth of August in 1976, was unmarried and had a stellar apartment. Light hardwood floors, marble kitchen, fancy bathroom. The works. Far too large for a single person, but it was starkly different to how she'd been spending her days prior.

They walk straight past the entryway, and the Widow stops in the living room. It's an open space, sparsely decorated with two white leather couches facing each other with a sleek, black coffee table in between them. Large bay windows on the opposite wall let in the overcast sunlight.

Neither of them make any moves to sit.

Not wanting to waste time on small talk (she only ever seems to do that with marks anyway), she turns so abruptly to face Hawkeye he nearly runs into her. The Widow takes three swift steps away from him and says frankly, "You haven't killed me. Last time we met, you said that you had standing orders to kill me. Are they still standing?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

"Listen -"

"Then why haven't you killed me yet?" she asks. She wonders how he can so callously disregard his orders, do it when it seems like he should want to follow them. She killed his people. Right in front of him.

"Tell me something, Widow," he says, taking another step closer to her, "have you ever gotten orders you haven't liked before? Haven't wanted to follow?"

She swallows, tempted to back away as the threatens to invade her space but she stands her ground. His steps are silent even on the wood floors. "I... I don't..." (Mama, what are you doing?)

"Don't lie to me. I know you have."

She takes a step backwards.

"I could easily lie to you. I am an excellent liar," she points out.

She immediately regrets taking the step backwards as his eyes flicker down to her feet. She stands her ground again. "Don't deflect. Look, do you know who I work for?"

She shakes her head. "My superiors were never able to determine conclusively who you work for. Their best approximation was the CIA."

He nods, seemingly pleased with himself. "I'm a part of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Agency. Better known as SHIELD."

SHIELD. SHIELD. She feels like she's heard of it before, but never in a context she understood. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I want you to come work for us."

"I'm sorry?"

"Join SHIELD. We're the good guys. The Red Room? The KGB? Those people are bad news. I know I don't need to tell you that. They have made you do some absolutely awful shit. And you did it because those were your orders, because you never knew anything outside of what they were telling you."

"You know nothing about me." Another step backwards.

"On the contrary, Widow, I know a lot about you. I know that you were born January third, 1986," he says slowly, letting the power of the words sweep over her. "Your parents names were Sergei and Anya." Each piece of information feels like a physical blow, and she starts to back away from him, her body moving of it's own accord. A taciturn man with thick round glasses - We would never want you to disappoint your country - A voluptuous woman who looks like her - You are a weapon of the republic.

She feels her head shaking. "No. No, I'm - I'm a weapon of the republic, I'm the Black Widow, I -" But that's not my name. Her head is pounding now, the pain so sharp and sudden it makes her gasp, her hands flying up to her temples.

"They died," he persists, not allowing her to retreat, matching her step for step, "in a house fire when you were almost three. You probably don't even remember them, because the government took you into their custody instead of looking for your next of kin."

Her hands are shaking and she can't stop it, and it feels like her head is going to explode.

There's a long, heavy silence between them, and Hawkeye never drops eye contact with her.

She can hear the beating of her heart, can feel the blood rushing in her ears.

We have no use of a child who cannot follow orders.

A white sun on a black sky.

Erskine.

No, no, please, stop, I won't

The blood, the red, the trachea spilling out

Mama, what are you doing?

I can fix it. There will be nothing left to save.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Boom.

She lets her hands fall to her sides, clutching the fabric of her ruined coat. "I... I'm not... You said that... SHIELD... SHIELD is the good guys." He nods. "I'm not good. I've never been good."

"Neither was I," he answers simply, and she startles. "I worked for anyone and everyone who wanted to give me money. I didn't care who I was killing, I didn't even really care if I got killed. I was just... lost."

"So how... how are you here?"

"Because someone offered me exactly what I'm offering you. A second chance."

Can I even have a soul? "Who says I'm looking for one?"

He rolls his eyes at her response. "Oh, please. Don't give me that bullshit."

"You know nothing, Hawkeye," she says sharply, "I could snap your neck before you take your next breath."

"But you won't."

"You cannot know that."

"I do, because as much as you put on this front," he covers the ground between them quickly, invading her space so much so that they're almost breathing the same air, "you're dying on the inside. Don't tell me I don't know you, because this is like looking in a damn mirror. This is a chance to make up for everything you've ever done. Every good person you've ever killed."

I may have red all over my hands, but so does every person on earth.

Sipho. Officer Soares. Red... Alisa Katayev. Ma jolie fleur. She can see them.

See all of them.

She remembers something then, something that Gavril said... "...to make up for everything I'd ever done... They're helping me fix what I caused."

She remembers the grip of a small hand around hers, leading him through the halls of a hospital in Kwa'Dukuza. "This nice lady was helping me find you!"

"I don't-" her breath catches in her throat. "I don't even know where to begin."

Steps backwards, digging in his back pocket. He holds out to her a small black pocketbook. Her hand raises up to take it, but she meets his gaze questioningly. "Yeah, go ahead."

Her fingers close around it. The cover looks well worn, and the bindings feel frayed. This book has been opened and closed, looked through and pored over, many, many times.

She opens it.

"It's a list of everyone I've killed. Everyone I can remember, anyway." The names are all in red ink, one per line. She flips through the pages. The names mean nothing to her, but the well-worn pages tell a different story about him. "I don't know why I killed any of these people. Some of them had families, some didn't. Some were probably terrible. I don't know, and I never want to know."

"Like a ledger," she says quietly. She looks up from the red names. "Do you keep track of people you've saved?"

He nods. "Try to, anyway."

She knows the first name that will go in her ledger. The first person she will make up for. "I have so much red."

"We all do. Doesn't mean we can't try to wipe it out."

In that moment, many things fall into place for Natalya Romanova.

Let me do this one good thing.

They're helping me fix what I caused.

Sauvée!

You don't have to do this anymore.

"Okay. I'll do it."

Afterword:

It's incredibly hard to believe that this story is finally coming to a close after over two years of dedication, writer's block, incredible amounts of frustration, as well as unbelievable amounts of terrific triumph and joy. I owe so much to the people who made this story happen.

If you've read this far, thank you, you special person. I salute you and am eternally grateful for you sticking with me the entire way through this story, through some brutal spelling and grammar errors as well as some really trying hiatuses. Special thanks to all my reviewers whose kind and inspiring words are the reason I write and the reason this story is finished today. I cannot adequately put into words just how much each review was cherished, read over multiple times when I was feeling sore about writing. This is truly a story for you all.

I also appreciate anyone who felt this story was worth your time and put it on your alerts and/or favorites lists. It means so much to me that people read what I write and emotionally connect to it, so I thank you for the opportunity to know I did that for some of you.

Big shout out to my beautiful readers on Tumblr who always are ready to kick my ass into gear with your kind and encouraging words.

Finally, thank you to my beautiful ninja warrior princess Hallie who gives me more support and friendship than I will ever feel worthy of and is the best last-minute beta I could ever have.

Since you've stuck with me through this afterword, I owe you some information about the upcoming addition to the FALLING IN REVERSE TRILOGY.

The next story will be entitled Perfection of Duality and will be coming out later this year. I will be editing/proofreading White and reposting it along with writing the sequel during this break. You can follow me on tumblr for writing updates/previews, or just check my #fanfic updates tag if you don't want/have a tumblr. Link is on my profile.

Perfection of Duality: Coming Summer of 2015. After she is brought into SHIELD by Hawkeye, the Black Widow learns how to be human, and two damaged people learn what true partnership really is. Slow-building Clintasha. Sequel to White.