Curse the Widow for making an appearance in the middle of winter. Originating from Iowa, he was no stranger to the cold. However, that doesn't mean he preferred it, and Russia was an ice cube by comparison. The worst part was how the cold made his hands numb. Numbness was an inconvenience to the trigger finger or, in his case, the bow finger.

Agent Barton took a sip of his coffee. After flying the Quinjet for seven hours straight, he could feel the caffeine wake him up and heighten his senses. Black coffee was only a bonus. His real reason for being at the cafe was to stake out.

According to S.H.I.E.L.D. Intelligence, this was a frequent spot to find KGB agents. It was no wonder, any skilled assassin would notice the perfection of this location. There were no ATMs, meaning no security cameras. The occasional cop that would drive by or walk inside for a coffee and pastry were one level above mall cop; casual, relaxed, and carrying few lethal weapons. The cafe itself was located in a tourist area where anyone can blend in and the amount of witnesses kept some hostiles from trying anything... some.

Still, it was a long shot his target would be here considering he had no information on the Black Widow. For all he knew, she could have flown out of Moscow hours ago.

He had about forty minutes before he would raise suspicion.

Two-thirds into his coffee and with twenty-five minutes left to spare, something caught his sharp eye. It could be nothing or it could be something. The next ten minutes should decide that.

Through his tinted sunglasses, he spotted a slim, tall woman with red hair sit at a table across the patio and order something from the waitress. She seemed a bit too tall to be Natasha Romanoff until he noticed her heeled boots. Textbook spying considered heels impractical unless you were seducing a rich guy at his party, but one could pull off running in thick heeled boots if they were skilled enough. Clint had no doubt Romanoff was.

To complete her disguise, Romanoff wore a tan trench coat, which disguised her figure, the stereotypical yet effective spy accessory. Her loose red hair covered some of her face. She looked like she belonged, and that's why Clint noticed her.

Five minutes later, the waitress brought her a cup of what he assumed was coffee and a raspberry pastry. Five minutes after that, a man approached her table.

He looked just as inconspicuous as her and they greeted each other like friendly co-workers with a firm handshake. Romanoff's back was facing him, but he could see the man's face. When they both sat down, the smile vanished to a professional expression, void of emotion. He was older—maybe early forties—with salt-and-pepper hair.

They spoke under the noisy city atmosphere. He should have planted bugs. Even if he had, his Russian was elementary at best, which also made his ability to lip read useless.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the KGB agent slip her a piece of paper across the table surface. Romanoff unfolded it, glanced at it, then tucked it into her trench coat pocket.

With eight minutes left to spare, Clint decided he had seen enough. He pulled his S.H.E.I.L.D. encrypted smartphone out of his back pocket and pretended to read his emails as he snapped a photo of the Widow's contact. Facal-recognition may give him some useful intel later.

He finished off his now cold coffee in a single gulp. Tucking some money under his saucer with a tip, he stood and stretched. Adjusting his baseball cap lower over his eyes, Clint left the cafe with his hands in his coat pockets, walking in the opposite direction of his target.

He crossed the street and, after making sure no one was watching, entered an alleyway. He glanced around; empty. Rubbing his calloused hands together, Clint jumped and caught a water pipe, frozen to the touch. He pulled himself up, the toes of his boots scraping against the wall. He pushed off and gripped the metal fence of a fire escape. He hurriedly climbed the stairs, then jumped onto a windowsill. His foothold groaned under his weight. The curtains were drawn, but he didn't wait to find out if anyone was home to hear that. He pulled himself up and rolled onto the snow-blanketed roof.

Waiting for him right where he left them were two cases. Hawkeye reached for one. He paused, fingers hovering over the clasps. Then he abruptly grabbed the other case and opened it. Under ten seconds, he had the sniper rifle assembled and ready to fire.

Despite the below freezing temperature, the assassin stripped off his coat and cap. Lying flat on his stomach, Barton peered through the scope focused on the cafe. The KGB agent and the Black Widow were parting ways. He let the man walk away; he wasn't Clint's target.

He adjusted his scope as the Black Widow crossed the street. His hoodie and t-shirt were wet and cold from the snow. Years of training taught him to ignore the tiny discomforts.

Black Widow continued to dodge and weave around the busy sidewalk. Like a woman on a mission, she didn't let the other pedestrians slow her brisk pace.

She was headed towards him, blissfully unaware of the nozzle aimed at her heart. His finger tightened around the trigger.

Three.

He breathed in...

Two.

...and out.

One.

A scream shattered his focus. His target suddenly sprinted into the busy street. Hawkeye sat up quickly, not believing what he was seeing through the scope. His vision was just as sharp without it.

The Black Widow ran in front of a car skidding on ice and unable to break in time. In a blink of an eye, she snatched something and rolled out of the way. The car screeched to a stop a few feet too late and the driver stepped out, anxious apologies tumbling from his mouth.

Natasha Romanoff helped the little girl to her feet. She crouched down to her level and brushed the hair out of her eyes and the dirt off her dress. Clint couldn't hear what she was saying, but he read her lips. She was asking the child if she was okay.

The girl's dark head bobbed up and down in answer, though she squeezed a well-loved stuffed animal to her chest in a death grip. Then she flung her arms around her rescuer in overwhelming gratitude. Romanoff stiffened. Clint watched her green eyes widen in surprise and confusion. The assassin awkwardly patted the little girl's shoulders as the mother rushed to them with tears streaming down her face. The mother verbally expressed her thankfulness over and over. The stunned Widow could only smile and nod.

Clint found himself lowering his rifle. A target has never caught him off guard like this before.

Barton never claimed to be a moral man—he has seen and done too much—yet he had his rules and boundaries. With Romanoff's lengthy record, this didn't make sense. Why would a ruthless killer like the Black Widow risk her life for someone not her mission?

He was missing something.

Under ten seconds, Clint had his sniper rifle disassembled and returned to the briefcase. Under five, he had his quiver strapped to his back and his collapsable bow slung over his shoulders. He walked back several paces. He turned, sprinted, and jumped. He soared through he air until his boots hit shingles and he rolled on impact. Then he was on his feet and running again.

If his eyesight had been average, he would have lost her in the distance. He kept Romanoff just in range of his sights so as not to alert her to his presence.

He followed her until she entered an apartment building. It wasn't fancy, but it wasn't shabby either. Affordable middle class apartments with options for easy exit routes; he noted the fire escapes, busy streets, lack of cameras, and nearby buildings only a jump away. Now Barton knew her temporary residence. He didn't know what floor or room number, but the front desk may be willing to help... or not.

He could engage her right now. For a minute, he was sorely tempted to march into her room, arrows flying. His common sense decided for him. According to her file, her hand-to-hand combat skills, among other skill sets, outmatched his own. Tight quarters would be a disadvantage to him. Better to stick with long distance shooting.

He turned and walked back the way he had come.

Clint tossed the two cases onto his bed. Sighing, he ran his hand through his brown hair, making it stand up on end wildly.

He sat on the edge of his bed and pulled out a sleek silver laptop from his backpack. The S.H.I.E.L.D. eagle logo flashed on the screen as he entered his passcode.

He ran facial recognition on the man he had taken a photo of. While he waited, he rummaged around his backpack for an energy bar. He unwrapped it and took a bite while his other hand searched for something else: a burner cell phone.

He was supposed to be on radio silence, but even radio silent agents are given a secure form of communication for emergencies. He flipped open the silver cell as he chewed. The bar was bland, but the tiny bits of chocolate helped. Coulson would want to know why he hesitated, why his feelings about the mission were suddenly compromised. How could he explain that a deadly assassin risked her own life to save a little girl and that automatically changes everything they know about the Black Widow? He shut the phone.

A beep alerted him to the laptop. Gripping the protein bar in his teeth, Clint put the computer on his lap and started reading.

The man's name was Yuri Zaikin, a member of the KGB and the SVR. He was an assassin himself, but with much fewer confirmed hits than the Black Widow and Hawkeye himself. This put him on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s watch, but not a priority. Clint quickly realized why: the man was sloppy. He used flashy, recognizable weapons and left behind evidence. Heck, S.H.I.E.L.D. even had a residence location. The only reason he hadn't been caught was because he worked for the KGB on Russian soil. He was a loose cannon the KGB kept close.

Hawkeye cleared his screen, shut the laptop, and tossed his wrapper in the trash can.

He changed into his black S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform and strapped more gear onto his belt and boots. Hawkeye locked his quiver onto his back and jerked his collapsed bow to spring it into full size. Opening the window, Clint stuck his head out.

He was on the seventeenth floor of the hotel building. A cold wind whipped through his brown hair. He took note of its power.

Leaning back as far as he dared, the archer nocked an arrow to the string, aimed straight up, pulled it back, and fired. The arrow whizzed through the air. The tip activated as it flew, breaking apart into a grappling claw. Hawkeye's grip tightened around his bow as the grappling arrow pulled him up the side of the building to the roof. Coulson may consider his exit excessive or dramatic, but Clint really didn't feel like explaining to the hotel staff and other guests why he was carrying a bow and wearing an eagle on his sleeve.

At the top, Hawkeye returned the arrow to his quiver—Waste not.—and grabbed another one with longer range. The arrow flew an even greater distance and hit its mark. Hawkeye swung through the air with the agility and skill he learned from the circus.

The room was empty when Clint arrived. With his knife, he silently unlocked the window and peered inside, searching for traps and alarms. Nothing. This man was either insanely confident or insanely sloppy. He guessed both.

Clint stepped into the apartment and began planting bugs. He stuck one under the table by the landline phone, one behind the refrigerator, then one behind the dresser in the bedroom; all out of sight. Once he was satisfied, he activated the bugs and linked them to his comm and a translator. Then he made himself comfortable in a building under construction across the street.

He only needed to wait an hour before he heard the door open. Footsteps entered the apartment, followed by the door shutting. A masculine voice muttered in Russian and Clint activated the translator. Complaints about being a messenger boy to the Black Widow instead of being assigned the assassination himself rolled across the screen. Clint smirked in amusement.

So the note was her new target; no surprise there. He continued to listen intently. He heard Zaikin open the fridge and retrieve something made of glass. There was a hiss followed by a clinking of light metal against stone countertop; beer.

After a sip and a sigh of contentment, footsteps approached the bug by the landline and picked up the phone. Clint didn't hear him punch in any digits. It was a direct line, like his burner cell phone.

  "I have given the Black Widow her next assignment," read the translator device in Clint's hand. The Russian voice in his ear was gruff and heavily accented. "She will be at the gala tomorrow night."

He couldn't hear the receiver's response. Yuri Zaikin grunted a farewell and hung up with a thunk. Clint deactivated the bugs.

Back in his hotel room, Clint Barton researched galas in Moscow tomorrow night. There was only one. A Russian entrepreneur named Aleksandr Miroslav was hosting a gala tomorrow night to showcase his art collection. Upon searching Miroslav's name in the S.H.I.E.L.D. database, Clint discovered the Russian millionaire was under KGB suspicion for supposedly selling government secrets.

He dug into his backpack again and pulled out the flip phone.

  "This is Hawkeye. Clearance code: H-three-A-six-delta-E-two-seventeen."

There was only silence on the other end for a moment.

  "Acknowledged, Hawkeye. Something wrong?"

A smile touched Clint's lips as he heard the underlining concern in Coulson's voice.

  "No. I just need assistance from HQ."

  "What do you need?"

  "An invitation to a party."