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The second time they meet, she’s on business in London.
She’s snapping pictures of the outside of the National Gallery when she sees him. Her dyed-blonde hair is pinned up in a messy bun, and her sweatshirt, stolen from a girl in a hostel, reads UCLA in bold letters. She’s scanning the crowd around her out of habit, and there he is, eating a sandwich at a chain café.
Surprise jolts through her like electric shock, but she doesn’t let her face change. She turns away towards Nelson’s Column instead, taking more pictures. An exchange student wouldn’t know a man like that, so neither does Natasha.
When she searches the café that night, she finds a message taped under his table:
nice 2 see u good luck
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The third time they meet, it’s for a job. Not a city, this time, but a flat green suburb somewhere in the Midwestern U.S. She lures the target out, and Barton finishes him easily. He strikes up a conversation on the helicopter ride back; confused, she keeps her replies short.
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The fourth time they meet is in Budapest, and the less said about that the better, he always grumbles. It makes her smile to remember, though.
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(The first time they met, he decided not to kill her. She still doesn’t know why.
She’s seen him kill: an arrow in the back, an arrow in the chest, an arrow between the eyes. Always clean, always quick. He doesn’t take pleasure in it, but he’s good at his job. He rarely hesitates.
But he did for her.
She almost asks him about it, once. She blacks out before she can, and the next time she sees him, her body wrapped in wires and bandages and hospital smell, it doesn’t seem like the right time.)