Budapest

Clint - Bad News and Promises

Clint wasn't sure it was her at first and he did a double-take. The platinum blonde hair, the tiny white dress, and the thick black eyeliner...it was worlds apart from the prim and proper Russian ballerina he had become so familiar with all those months ago.

He had been all over Budapest, walking the streets until his feet throbbed, searching for information, no matter how small, on Romanoff's whereabouts and he'd come up with precious little. Just when he was about to give up, when he had finally decided to grab a drink and call it a night...she was there. Right in front of him. After the hell he'd been through to hunt her down, after the hell SHE put him through herself...she was finally only a few feet away. All it would take was a step or two and he could reach out and touch her.

Clint had replayed this moment in his head a thousand times. What he would say to her. How she would spit at him to leave her alone. The inevitable attempt to kill him. Romanoff had spared his life once already. He was under no illusions that she would spare him a second time.

Romanoff turned her back to him, her elbows propped on the bar. She'd seen him. He knew it. She had seen him but she would pretend she hadn't, faking it for his sake while she still held that last sliver of mercy, an olive branch of peace that was withering fast the more he pushed his luck.

Clint knew he had a very short window of opportunity to get to her before she either high-tailed it out of here or her patience ran dry. He'd already taken a ton of risks to track her down. Might as well take the direct approach.

Clint pushed through the crowd and headed for the bar, sidling right up next to Romanoff. She kept her gaze straight ahead and sipped at her drink. But Clint could feel the cold fury radiating off her just by one look at her rigid shoulders, the tense line of her spine.

So he played along.

He propped his elbows on the bar alongside her and retrieved the envelope of pictures from his inner jacket pocket. Slid it over to her. Without looking at him, Romanoff shoved it back. Clint pressed his hand over the envelope and held it there until she gave up and turned away from him, ignoring him.

As if that would be enough to discourage him and make him leave.

After a full minute passed in silence, Romanoff finally spoke.

"Go away," she growled.

Clint shook his head and gestured to the bar tender for a beer. "Nope, don't think so," he said. "I went through a lot of trouble to find you. I'm not about to head out again when we've got so much catching up to do."

Romanoff sucked in a breath, jaw clenched tight. "So you're a glutton for punishment then."

Clint tipped his head to the side, screwed one eye shut as if he had to think about it. "Yeah, I'd say that's pretty accurate."

Romanoff tossed back the last of her drink and squeezed the glass so tight that her knuckles went ghostly white.

"Do you have a death wish?" she hissed. "I will kill you."

"You mean like the last time we met?" He leaned in close and lowered his voice. "Because you had the chance to put a bullet in me and you didn't take it. Instead, you chose to use fireworks and a little sleight of hand to throw your buddies off the scent."

Slowly, Romanoff turned her head to look at him. And there was something there, hidden, a shadow so fleeting Clint almost missed it in the strobing neon lights and the heavy cloud of cigarette smoke of the bar and the thick eyeliner casting darkness over Romanoff's eyes. It wasn't fear exactly.