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Watching the sun set, Natasha had the unsettling feeling she's been here before. She was searching and searching for the memory but it was as is if her thoughts hit a blank wall every time she felt she was onto something.
She bit her lip as she braced herself to greet the next wave of freezing wind. She suddenly felt irritated. What was she even doing here. This was so stupid. Trusting a feeling and walking around aimlessly throughout this city she's never been to just to get to a park with lampposts similar to those in all other city parks in the world... it was unusual for her to say the least.
She'd spent the warm winter day roaming around the center of Budapest looking around tourist locations and museums. She had to confess it was a beautiful city. A beautiful city she knew nothing about when the plane touched down yesterday, yet she had found everything she was searching for like directions and small coffee shops without a single obstacle for directions in her mind.
That bothered her. As far as she knew, she'd never set a foot in this European city. So how was she doing so well in finding her way around it.
Nevertheless something had lead her there. She didn't know what, but a small turn of her stomach indicated that it was close in time. She tugged her coat tighter around herself, trying to preserve the heat of her own body. Her shoes squeaked in the snow beneath her feet, the heels of her high boots digging a little deeper in the white layer coating of snow, covering the earth.
The park was empty and quiet - the type of quiet only winter can bring over the earth. Peaceful and nice and at the same time - distant and even kind of scary. It didn't exactly terrify her, but ever since she was a child she'd felt certain respect towards the harshest of seasons. A respect she'd kept so far.
Her breath came out in an exasperated sigh and a light cloud from her lips as she took a look at her watch for the thousandth time in the last hour. Her stomach dropped as she heard steps in the snow too near to feel comfortable. Her whole body froze as she turned to face the person, who was insane enough to get out in this cold weather and come on this hill where the freezing winds of the four directions of the world made their meetings.
The twilight was slowly slipping into darkness as the last gleams fell on the face of a man in a black coat, dark purple scarf and blue jeans, who was obviously feeling far worse than her in the iciness. He had a black hat on that covered most of what seemed like some pretty messy sandy blonde hair. His face indicated lack of sleep and not a lot of care. The evidence hid in the dark circles under his eyes and the two day stubble on his face.
She saw recognition and hope in his eyes as they just stood in their places. Her heart started suddenly beating fast, sinking as her mind caught up with the situation and Natasha realized she didn't know him. Her lips parted but any and all words refused to leave them as a lump formed in her throat. The beam on his face slowly disappeared, replaced by a pain so raw it broke her heart.
There they were. Two silent strangers with heavy hearts, standing at the top of a hill at an empty park in an early cold evening in Budapest.
Finally, he managed to clear his throat and speak up.
"I wasn't sure you'd come."
He was clearly upset and she didn't know what to say about it. Her fingers seemed to press to her palms involuntarily as she struggled to find the right words while wondering why the hell did she feel like this. Why a stranger made her feel like she'd gone through the worst things in her life all over again all at the same time and was left vulnerable - like a child. A broken child from a broken home, stripped from its childhood.
Finally, she gave up.
"I don't mean to be impolite, but I don't think I know you."
It's as if his tall figure shrank under her words. As if she'd slapped him. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply from the cold air to steady himself.
He seemed calmer when he speaks again, masking pain with fake indifference.
"Of course you don't." - his voice was softer than anything she can remember she'd ever heard, but somehow it made her feel like she'd lost something important. All the while though, it's more broken than anything she's ever heard too.
Something in him made her want to take a step and put her hand on his shoulder, but she suppressed the urge. For the outside world if would appeared as if she was swaying on her heels because of the cold but she knew better. And she hated it.
This was a mistake, she thought of saying, I should be going. Instead, a whisper came out of her lips so low it could have as well been the wind:
"I don't know why I came here."
Her fingers flew to her lips in terror as she realized what she'd said just as his eyes lifted up to find her face again. He's become breathless and in a matter of seconds he'd taken a step towards her just as she jumped back - away from him.
"Nat..." he started saying, apparently driven by a habit, but she shook her head in horror.
"No. Don't. Don't call me that, don't call me "Nat"."
He made the effort to stand still and in a good distance from her, though she could see it pained him. She bit her lower lip as she steadied her heartbeat, trying frantically to assess the situation. When she spoke up again, she'd managed to calm herself and focus as if this is no different than a regular job. Yeah. Same questions, different day.
"Tell me who are you."
He carefully nodded as he shoved his hands back in the pockets of his coat, shivering ever so slightly.
"My name is Clinton Francis Barton" he rolled the words out intentionally slow so he could trace her reaction but got just a small frown that told him nothing. She could be remembering or she could be thinking this is a trap. And he could be losing her all over again. He patiently waited for the next question he knew was going to come, because honestly, this was the easiest answer she was going to have to hear from him tonight.
"Why did you call me "Nat"?"
It wasn't unexpected, but just as he thought seconds before that, it wasn't a question with an easy answer.
"The Natasha I know would like to know the truth, so I have to warn you, this isn't exactly a short story" - he answered, searching for signs of more recognition on her face. She pursed her lips, but nodded sternly. In the dim light he could see her fists tightening in her leather gloves. She looked mysterious and maybe even deadly, ready to disappear in the night, which he knew she was capable of. Still, she was staying and it gave him hope. The fact she was here proved enough of the theories he'd continuously laid out in front of Coulson every day of the last two months.
He took a look around and began to tell the story they shared, but only he could remember to tell:
"You are here because this is where we met for the first time."
Clint barely finished his sentence before Natasha dangerously tilted her head and interrupted him:
"I've never met you. I've never been here before in my life."
Clint suppresses the urge to grab her and shake her so she remembers and can tell the story with him - the way they met, the friendship they formed, the nights they'd had and the future they planned. Instead, he just looked at her and shrugged:
"I'm the one who can tell you what you're doing here and why you've been going around a city you've supposedly never been in before for the whole day knowing perfectly well in yourself where everything is since you don't know, Natasha. You choose if you want to believe me, but you asked me, so now you have to listen to what I have to say."
Surprisingly, she nodded and guilt washed over Clint. She was probably so confused under that cold surface of hers he'd been fighting to melt for so long. His heart hurt at the thought, so he just continued on, hoping for the words to soothe the pain. In both of them.
"As I was saying, you are here - we are here, because this is where we met for the first time. It was a winter night very similar to this one. And just as freezing, believe me. You were down there at the house doing what you do best - charming your way to your target, while I was right up here in camouflage gear - watching from far away." - he made a pause for a second to look at her and then smile a little absentmindedly at the memory so alive in his mind. "Watching my target. You." he saw the momentarily shift in her eyes and her taking a step back to the darkness and quickly added: "That was five years ago, Natasha, I am not an enemy."
The next words sliped out of his lips involuntarily and quietly:
"I'm not an enemy. I'm a friend."
His hands were outstretched in front of him in a stopping, calming gesture. As if she was a wild horse he was trying to tame.
Natasha shook her head, her eyes swaying around as if she suspected a trap again but everything was as quiet and calm as before, so she stayed in her place. Or rather, trusted her inner feeling to do so, no matter the lack of logical explanation.
"I don't have friends." - she finally responded. It was not sad but a matter of fact statement. She didn't know why, but saying it hurt. A lot.
It was his turn to shake his head:
"No. You didn't have friends when I met you but you do now. Believe it or not, you are my best friend." he tilted his head in a pained expression. "Will you listen to me?"
Natasha didn't look convinced the slightest and he quietly begged as he saw the disbelief in her eyes. "Please, Tasha."
The sound of her Russian nickname on his lips was what made her stay. She willed herself to listen without interrupting anymore. There was no way he could know it without her telling him. But why didn't she remember? Why didn't she remember anything but a bunch of nice feelings and a scent she couldn't get a proper hold on?
She wanted to curl in a corner and put her head in her hands for as it long as it took to figure it out. But to do so, she had to hear the whole story first.
"You were my target and nobody could see me. I was freezing with a sniper gun - back then I still used to like guns a little better than arrows."
Arrows. The word made her feel excitement, and she frowned. He didn't seem to notice it.
"Everything was going on plan until you stood by the French windows and just... looked outside, glass of champagne in your hand, your lips gently touching the delicate glass. You were in the perfect spot for me to take the shot and take you out. You were beautiful in that elegant blue gown you were wearing."
He looked at her intently. She was watching him silently. She had that look on her face when she was trying to figure someone out and couldn't.
"Why didn't you?" she shrugged. As if they were not talking about her potential death but about a dropped penny on the ground or going to church on a Sunday.
"It was your eyes." Clint simply stated. She raised her eyebrows and he continued. "The way you looked lost in your thoughts and the sadness and wisdom far much for your years is what that made me get my finger off the trigger and later pull you out of the hell that reception became."
He took the time for a breath to look at her face for traces of recognition. She looked as if she's trying to remember this.
"I recall a reception and a gown, a certain smell. Bullets. I did my part, I took the target down, but I remember waking up in another city later. Going on another mission." she mumbles under her breath, wrinkling her nose in that adorable expression he's gotten so used to seeing almost every day for the last three of five years.
"It's okay not to remember." he says carefully. He'd had his suspicions, but now he knows with positivity what's happened. So he waits. He waits for her to brace herself for the next part.
"A few days later - you suffered a gunshot wound and we spent some time at a discreet hotel, a few days later we traveled to the States where I presented you to my superiors."
Clint didn't know which word pushed the dominoes exactly, but he saw her eyes sparkling as she laughed:
"Oh my God, I thought Coulson was going to kill you!" she blurred out. It was short lived, though. Her laugh died as soon as she realized what that meant.
Her thoughts scrambled in her brain like a flock of sheep scared by the sight of a wolf. She knew what that meant. Because it had happened before. Her heart missed a heartbeat as fear and desperation took over her.
"Боже мой..." she chocked, reaching for the lamp post for support as her knees weakened. Clint leapt forward but stopped himself with fingers hanging just over her hand for confirmation she'd like to be touched before reaching for her. Natasha grabbed his hand and tightened her grip around it. He responded reassuringly.
"I'm here. It's okay." he repeated as he took her in his arms as she gave up in front of the inevitable truth. That her memories was altered. That she was played with. Again.
"It's okay, you came here, everything's okay" he whispered as he held her tight as she took in one shaky breath after the other in. Little did she know he was holding back tears of relief and pain at the same time as he tried to reassure her they will both be okay - broken and unmade together, but nevertheless - okay.