Budapest » [Clintasha]

Chapter Sixty-Four: Human Machinations

"Can I help you, madam?"  The fresh-faced lad, the same who had chased away the coop of people with a broom, asked.

She smiled at him, her lips lightly pursed with contempt. "I'll buy five loaves. Fresh out of the oven."

The boy's eyes lit up like Christmas had come early. He rushed off into the kitchen to attend to her order.

Clint reminisced from the outside of the building, leaning against the wall in the snow. Snowflakes gathered in his spiked hair, which started to go flaccid in the cold and the wet. Clint didn't have to read Hungarian to work out that the shop was a family business; the quirky and quaint signage was clue enough, and the selective clientele that didn't come with a big name brand.

Watching her receive the goods over the counter, Clint hot-footed it away. Completely conspicuously.

Carrying the warm bread, she rushed back to the family who had been basking in the warmth of the bakery, and handed them the coveted goods; murmuring incomprehensible things in Hungarian. Clint watched: doe-eyed, transfixed. She split it into parts and dished it out to the children and adults; it was dissonant with everything he'd been taught about the enemy; about the Soviets. They looked as if they were praying over her as she left the remaining food in the bag with them.

Natasha was just about to set off again, but the youngest and scrawniest of the pack threw himself at her, clinging to her leg. She went rigid, unsure how to react, but then melted into the gesture – she thought for a moment of how what she saw would never be hers. Little or plenty, she would never have a family. She ruffled his hair, and whispered something into his ear, and folded his fingers around a slip of paper.

Money.

With a kiss on his brow, she slipped away, the altruistic angel of Christmas with her Titian red hair.

Clint stopped spectating and got back to his work.

"Tailing her, sir..." He murmured into his collar.

"Well aware, Barton. Tracker, remember. But keep your distance," Coulson's voice was less clear, the signal broken up by the blizzard.

"Yes sir. Sorry sir," he added quickly, then mentally flagellated himself for speaking into his collar again. He crossed the street, deeming it a decent distance to spy from: not close enough to draw attention, but not so far he couldn't keep track of her. Not as if he'd lose her: she was the only pinprick of colour in the beige city.

Headlights glancing off the street, he followed her through the bright haze of head-on traffic and the storm of tooting horns. Cars zipped past between them, the road like the rushing Danube currently concealed by buildings; but he could see her over the brow of the vehicles.

In a brief exchange, she overpaid for a newspaper, receiving blessings from the vendor. She rolled the dense wedge of paper up and tucking it into her pocket, she continued on her way.

He watched her stop and scout out cafes, but as she went to cross the street she stopped dead in her tracks.

"Sir, sir, she's stopped. I don't know what-" Clint saw her turn and face his way, then she started strutting towards the crossing, still facing his direction. "Shit, shit, shit! She's headed my way..." His heart jumped into his throat, and he pivoted, looking for somewhere to dash and look busy.

Behind him, a shop; he clumsily threw himself through the door and into the interior. Looking around at the expensively clothed natives, he felt out of place.

The jewellery store caught Natasha's eyes, of course it did. The lights in the window were brighter than that of any in the street, and the gems were purer than any of her putrid surroundings. It wasn't the ornate necklaces, or the spangly bracelets, or even the brooches imbued with blood diamonds that caught her eye. It was the selection of rings.