"What do you know about Hungary?" Said Nick Fury.

A projector whirred in the dark room, a carousel of slides clipped into place and clicking as it spun like a merry-go-round. Light filtered through the Kodachrome, the reel being translated into a white drop-down screen. Intercepting the beam of light transmitted from the lens, were particles of dust, some clumpy enough to make the quality of the photos grainy.

The room was nothing more than me, a table, and a handful of S.H.I.E.L.D. Representatives; of whom, most people's faces were deluged in shadow.

"Not much, but that it's completely out of reach. It's beyond the Iron Curtain, that's all that matters." Slumped in the chair, I shrugged.

"What if I told you it's not out of reach. Not for us, anyway..." Nick presented, gesturing to the techie to reel through the images. "Let me rephrase that... Not to you."

"I really don't like the way you've said that..." I surrendered my opinion.

"Contentions are high between the USA and the USSR, and have been since the start of the Cold War. Espionage, guerrilla warfare, missile crises... Any blatant American intervention in the United Soviet States could start World War Three. But you... You, Clint, are a legal loophole..." Fury drawled, smirking.

I quirked an eyebrow, unsure if the expression had gone noticed in the pitch black boardroom. "Elaborate."

"He means-" Coulson's voice crossed the table. "-you've not technically graduated from S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy. You're not legally on the roster."

"Which means-" Nick interjected. "-if on this mission, everything goes to shit-" he cleared his throat, unamused mumbles and grumbles coming from his seniors in the darkness. "-we can abdicate all liability and culpability."

"Explains why you're sending me rather than..." I looked around in the blackness, I was pretty sure any one of the anonymous faces were more qualified than me. But I could make out Bobbi's face a couple seats down. "Bobbi-" was that Doctor Pym? "Professor Pym-" I looked back at the dimly lit face parallel to me. "-Agent Coulson."

"The reason we're sending you, Clint is because you have a very specific skill set," an authoritative sounding voice pierced the tenebrousness, threading through the utterances like a needle. "Nick, if I may?"

"Certainly Alexander."

The ominous clicks of heeled gentlemen's shoes preceded his emergence from the gloom. He stepped into the firing line of the projector, glasses perched on his nose and one hand slotted into his pocket. The waistcoated middle-aged man made a wrinkle-eyed smile before addressing me.

"You have a very specific skill set, Clint. I've never once seen you miss, neither has anyone else in this boardroom, or even this facility. Contradicting your skill, you, as a person, can - yes - sometimes be misguided. But your innovation, your youth, your resilience? It's unrivalled... Just work on that self-belief for me, son."

Pierce patted me on the shoulder before strutting back to his seat.

"We've been sidetracked," A voice remarked from the wings.

"Hungary..." Nick nodded to the projector operator, and an assemblage of images careened across the screen. "Budapest."

"Hungary, the country has a history of political volatility with the overthrow of the monarchy in 1848, the separation of Austria-Hungary in 1918, the Trianon Treaty of 1920, the revolution of both 1848 and 1956," Coulson relayed like a textbook, a comprehensive overview of their history.

Coulson stood, and paced to a position of presentation. "Budapest, the capital, is one of the biggest cities in the European Union. Once two cities, separated by the river Danube, Obuda and Pest. Unified in 1873 by King Franz Joseph I, facilitated by the main chain bridge. Five-hundred and twenty-five square kilometres of city, occupied by a population of just over two million. One hour ahead of Greenwich Meridian Time, six hours ahead of us here in Upstate New York. The currency is the Hungarian forint." He paused, though not a hint of breathlessness fringed his words. "This is where you'll be going."

But the next image that cropped up wasn't of the gothic spires, an aerial shot of the meandering river, or the antiquated lanes. It was of a woman.

"Am I supposed to know who that is?" I remarked, spinning in my wheeling office chair.

"Not if she's doing her job well," Nick snapped from the sidelines. "Natalia Petrovich, Natalia Romanova, Natalie Roman, Nadine Rushman... The name is never the same, but the face always is..."

A collation of images rolled onto the screen, clunks and clanks coming from the projector. A red head, petite, well made up, candids captured from various angles, but never quite detailing her face.

"If there's a crisis, Little Miss Trouble here is bound to show up with a soviet slugger and a catsuit..." Nick cupped his chin and scratched his stubble, the chaffing audible. "Coulson and I have even had the pleasure of meeting her first hand; not that we knew it back then."

"The latest name she's adopted is Natasha Romanoff," Coulson filled me in. "And after months of trying to sniff her out like a blood hound, we finally have a scent, and we've traced her to here. Our intel says she'll be collecting and dropping off information at the secret police station in Budapest, because there are rumours of another revolution stirring in the region. Whispers of liberation from the Soviet Union..."

More crappy quality photos scooted across the screen, some photos so old they were in sepia, with light leaks and colour bleeds. Some of them were her armed to the tooth, a singular face in a sea of people, others, more intimate shots of her in revealing dresses and lingerie.

"Your job, Clint, is a simple kill and collect mission. You find Miss Romanoff, you wait for her to track down the intel and kill her. She's your only lead to the information, you're going to have to tail her until she leads you there," Nick detailed. "She has been a thorn in our shoe for years, toppling regimes, undermining operations, and foiling political plots. This is your chance to prove yourself. Prove what your worth. Do this correctly, and you'll be in employ for the foreseeable future. This is your chance at a new life, Clint. This is you securing what you've always wanted. Look around... A family, friends, a home..."

And I did. Coulson smiling promisingly across the table at me, utter faith incandescent in his eyes. Bobbi, who's hand slithered to meet mind beneath the table and entangled our fingers. To Professor Pym, his head cocked sympathetically in the darkness. To Nick, the man who had returned my hearing to me, who had seen potential in me, who had given this opportunity to me.

This was the closest thing I'd had to stable in all eighteen years of my life.

"This goes well, Clint, and you'll be back in time for Thanksgiving, and there'll be a Thanksgiving dinner right here, your home, with your name on it," Alexander Pierce's voice intercepted Nick's.

Thanksgiving. I swallowed thickly.

I hadn't celebrated Thanksgiving since I was twelve. I couldn't. Too many memories were tied to it, and the financial failings prevented it the following years in Iowa. At the circus, we didn't celebrate it - we didn't have the funds to fritter away on extravagant meals, and we didn't have to prestige to dine with Mister Carson and Marcy. With Kate and her bottomless pit of money, I'd hauled myself up in bed all day; and I'd refused Thanksgiving dinner, much to her begging and disdain.

Thanksgiving was a time for family. I have none, through my own stupid fault. Thanksgiving was when I'd selfishly sent my family out to fetch a turkey on the frozen roads and condemned them to death. Abusive or not, some family is better than none.

That's why I'd have no one do things for me, except me - I'd have no one  trouble themselves, risk themselves, for me. And, equally, I'd have no one put themselves through the task of  putting together a Thanksgiving dinner for me.

'Lazy' my dad had called me. 'Selfish' my brother had called me. And maybe they were right.

Trying to deprogram all those years of inverted self-hatred and an animosity towards the celebration, I replied. "All the trimmings?" I called down the table.

"The entire shebang," Pierce promised. "Gravy, stuffing, parsnips and carrots - the works!"

"I'll do it."

The lights came up and the projector shut off, and the stern faces of S.H.I.E.L.D. Faced me.

"Preparation starts tomorrow, you jet off in a week," Nick informed me. "Dismissed."

The seniors disbanded ahead of everyone else, and people swept out of the room in a tidal wave, with a flurry of papers and the clapping of shoes. The only one who remained behind was the pallid little runt with the wide-rimmed and thick-lenses glasses who was attending to the projector. We mopped up his snot on his sleeve as he tidied up the wiring and the case of slides.

"Looks like a free holiday for me," I mumbled to Bobbi as we squeezed our way through the door frame. "Not to mention this Natasha chick is hot."

"It's hardly a holiday, and that's demeaning," Bobbi commented, giving me a condescending look. "I hope it goes to shit just because you've said that," she chuckled, the laughter ghosting in her words. "And I promise you, Eastern Europe is the last place you want to be right now given the political circumstances. Oh, and the weather is stagnant this time of year - it's a continental climate."

We came to a halt in the corridor as the rest of the crowd trickled away to attend to their administration duties.

"Yes, but consider, I've never been outside of the U.S.A. before, and how many eighteen year olds - especially Americans given those political circumstances - can say they've been beyond the Iron Curtain?" I raised her an eyebrow and her unimpressed look was unmoving. "Huh?" Her resolve dissolved.

She sighed and rolled her eyes, her booted foot tapping impatiently on the floor. "Look, I don't want you getting all cocky about this, Clint. You need to take this seriously-"

"I am taking this seriously!"

"You never take anything seriously!" Bobbi cried, and I recoiled. Realisation flitted across her eyes and she reigned in her temper. "Look, I'm sorry, I just don't want you getting into trouble, or killed."

I laughed it up, but was fast silenced by an admonishing look. "I'm not gonna get killed, what do you take me for-"

My ramblings were silenced with a press of Bobbi's lips, passionate, rash, a rush of adrenaline; my eyes slipped shut and the air was stolen from of my lungs. I hadn't time to register the kiss before she retreated and I blindly pitched forward, trying to follow her lips.

"Don't die," she hissed and strutted away, leaving me aghast and adaze.

Barely a second went by before another woman interrupted me.

"Mister Barton?" A voice like the crack of a whip, curt, with a cutting English accent.

I wheeled around, arms flailing, still dizzy. My lips stained clumsily with Bobbi's lip gloss, I met with the pair of intelligent dark eyes, belonging to the voice.

I drunk in the face, and I was fed a realisation from the back of my mind. I scrabbled to smear the offensively bright lipstick from my mush and stood to attention.

"At ease, Barton, you're no soldier, and I'm no sergeant major. Not anymore anyway." The woman approached, her hair gracefully silver, aged feet in flesh-coloured stockings slipped into scarlet heels. "Clint isn't it, may I call you Clint?"

"Of course ma'am..." I timidly laughed, correcting my posture.

"Director Fury and Agent Coulson speak very highly of you. A bright young spark, they call you. And from what I've heard you're by far the superior candidate for this mission. Your service record, though questionable, is impressive. A self-made man... I wanted to wish you well." Her eyes, were youthful, set in older sockets and she smiled honestly at me.

"Can I just say that it's an honour, Commander Carter, and it means a lot to hear that from a lady such as yourself," I babbled, bowing my head.

"I simply speak honestly. Don't ever let what others say get you down Clint. With sixty-nine years, I can tell you without a doubt that you're worth every penny. You remind me very much of someone I used to know," she reminisced wistfully, cupping my cheek. "He was dubbed reckless at times too, he used to scrap in back alleys and argue with his superiors, but you know what? He was a hero. And who knows? Maybe one day you will be too." Her hand, liver-speckled with age, dropped down to her side and she smiled at her wedding ring, the diamond icy white.

"Thank you ma'am..." I was stunned into speechlessness.

"The first mission is always the hardest, take it from me, and I know how much courage it takes to go solo into this thing - though you will have a whole team of staff helping you over seas - and I admire that. So young, yet you've lived so much. It'll do you good. Just know, this will change you, and I'm eager to see the young man that returns from Budapest."

A/N - I've updated on time. You're welcome.

I know. I'm as surprised as you are.