Agent Clint Barton was certain that agent Falch or even agent Hill could have taken care of this mission. Heck, he had even asked why they hadn't sent Coulson (this has obviously been a joke, but Phil had still become rather offended by the proposal).

He just couldn't accept that they had to send agent Romanoff on a honey trap mission.

Honey trap missions were simple, old fashioned yes; one could even say they were bullet proof. An old classic like the ones you would read about in old spy novels or saw in spy movies. The beautiful female spy (note that it apparently worked best if said spy was Russian) is sent to seduce the big, bad, ugly Italian (okay, the last part might just be hate biased, but that was the only way he could imagine it) villain.

He had asked if they had chosen Natasha for her red hair. Director Fury had told him not to be so dumb, and that that would be a very bad reason to choose a person for a mission.

This had not changed Clint's point of view at all.

It was very easy to tell that Clint was furious about the entire mission, but no matter how hard he (figuratively speaking) kicked and hissed, it was still agent Natasha Romanoff who was sent off on this (to him) doubtful and all together stupid mission.

And he hated it.

"Come now Barton, it won't even be that bad," Black Widow was standing in front of him, dressed up for her 'big date' as agent Coulson had had the nerve to call it. Clint had been inches away from bashing that slick grin in.

"Easy for you to say," Clint replied with a face that resembled the ass of a chicken, all crumbled up with wrinkles of worry.

She was beautiful as she just stood there, making sure that her intercom was working as well as invisible to the human eye. She was so beautiful, and maybe he should tell her?... But right as he opened his mouth to form the words a voice called in both their intercoms, saying that it was time for agent Romanoff's departure.

The two shared a short last glance, and he prayed that she could read what his eyes tried to tell her.

Take care. Gosh, you look so beautiful.

He wasn't proud of what he was currently doing. Eavesdropping, couldn't that be qualified as disobeying orders in some way? Well, Fury hadn't directly told him that he should not put his intercom on the same line as Natasha's.

Probably because he hadn't thought it necessary… But still, no no must be a yes.

So Clint was sitting there in a motel room about one thousand miles away from agent Romanoff, his Natasha, who was supposed to have a heated date with one of SHIELD's future prisoners (if everything went as planned), and there was nothing he could do about it. And he hated it.

Was she aware that he was eavesdropping? Possibly. Probably. Certainly. Black Widow was one of SHIELD's top agents, which most likely was the real reason she'd been chosen for this mission.

So she was more likely than not aware that agent Barton was listening to everything that happened where she was right now.

He could hear the target compliment Natasha's dress now, compliment her hair, her make-up, her everything. Natasha replied by complimenting the penthouse, the view and the man in return. Clint growled to himself. Who did that man think he was? Natasha wasn't just any girl.

It was hard to stay calm in the situation he was currently in. If he took one of SHIELD's private jets, how fast could he be there?

"Yes please, chardonnay is fine," said the sugary (oh, how it pleased Clint to know that this sweetness in her voice was unreal, otherwise he would not have been able to stand it) voice of agent Romanoff in the intercom in his ear.

He stood up and started pacing back and forth on the worn out rug of the motel room floor. The rug had probably felt its fair share of jealous husbands' paces through the time.

"It's an absolutely perfect view," said Natasha's voice again before Clint thought he heard a false chuckle followed by the target's deep bass voice. "It's even prettier from the panorama window in the bedroom, I can assure you."

Clint's pace on the floor went more rapid and a bitter taste formed on his tongue.

"I'm sure it is."

A pause. They were probably walking to said cursed bedroom right now.

"Oh my, how gorgeous!" False surprise. False excitement.

"Your or the view?" Cheesy and stupid!

But then Clint heard a quiet female moan and he stopped to a halt.

"God damn it, Natasha," he mumbled to himself and clenched his hands tight enough for the knuckles to whiten. Now she just had to go and do something stupid.

For what seemed ages, Clint couldn't hear a thing over the intercom, and as time passed he started thinking that the little machine had been as surprised as he had and just given up. But all out of the sudden he heard that same beautiful voice again, in another vulgar moan and he breathed out sharply.

He hadn't even noticed that he'd held his breath since the first moan, but he had. "Shouldn't we move to the bed instead?" Natasha asked the target at the other end of the intercom, her voice seductively thick. Clint could hear the other man agree on the suggestion and after a moment or two a creak of sorts was heard. They were definitely on the bed now.

Clint was no longer sure this was such a good idea, and as he just stood and stared with blind eyes, he felt bile rise in his throat. He knew Natasha would not put any emotions into this mission; it would be completely and utterly emotionless sex and she still only cared about him. He knew that she might even (despite the fact that she'd never admit it) feel bad about doing this, feel that she let him down somehow.

The thought of Natasha going hard on herself emotionally over this made the bile rise even faster, and Clint found his feet move again, this time not in circles but towards the bathroom where he leaned down over the sink and drank a few slurps of water to clean out the taste.

As he lifted his head from the sink and looked in the mirror he made a decision. His hands were clenching the sides of the sink, massaging the white stone material in the same rhythm as the sounds he could hear over the intercom itself. Yes, he had made a decision. No, he would not stop eavesdropping on Natasha's mission, because yes, it could still be dangerous. No, he would not let Natasha think badly about herself for doing this.

And yes, he would turn the microphone on his end of the line on.

Clint splashed water in his face and dried it off slowly with one of the motel's towels before re-entering the sleeping room and sitting down on the bed. His right hand went up to his ear, hovering for a few minutes over the little button that would turn the microphone of his intercom on or off. He breathed deeply, still listening to Natasha's voice mixed with the deep bass of the target at the other end. He was readying himself for this.

And then he clicked it.

"Anyone here who ordered pizza?" he faked a cheerful voice and listened to the hitch in Natasha's voice from hearing him. Somehow he'd wish that the fact he went on the microphone for this would make her drop the mission and just catch the first plane home and forget all about honey traps and targets. But Natasha is a devoted agent – and a good actress, so she doesn't say a word.

"Oh, sorry, did I interrupt anything?" the sound of Natasha's voice was somehow different to him, now that he knew that she could hear him as well (but he knew that it was just his imagination). "Look, Nat, I just want you to know that I know why you're doing it, and I'm not judging you."

He could hear Natasha letting out a particularly strained hiss at the other end of the line, probably some little code for him to decipher. Could mean anything, he decided, anything really... But it probably just meant something in the lines of fuck off.

"Look, I know you can't talk right now – that much is obvious – but then let me do the talking! As I already said: I don't judge you one bit. This is something you've gotta do, I know." He had leaned back on the bed by then, lying like a dying starfish on a rock in the sun. "Shit, Nat, I don't want you to beat yourself about this. It's just a mission, I know that." He knew that she wouldn't reply; not by words.

So when he heard her yelp, he took it as a reply to his comment. It was definitely meant for him, and not for this probably greasy man boning her at this exact moment. Clint could not imagine in any dimension that Natasha had meant that yelp for anyone but him.

But the fucker on the other end obviously thought it was for him, because Clint could hear the male voice increasing in volume and speed, little words like "so pretty" and "you're gorgeous" mixed in the moans. Clint was having a hard time convincing himself not to get his bow and arrow and take the first plane he could get (or hijack).

But he was sure that however bad he felt right now, Natasha probably felt thrice as bad. So he just had to suck it up and act like a grown up. "Do you know what I thought about before you left today?" he pretended to wait for an answer, "I thought you were the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on."

The other end of the line was quiet for a moment or two (if not counting the target's voice, but who would count that?) and Clint awaited some sign of approval before continuing. When he got it, he closed his eyes and a smile crept over his face. "Remember that time in Budapest, where we almost didn't get out alive?" the memories of that particular mission flooded over him, and he felt a weird sensation in his body. "Even with blood and sweat smeared all over your body and a burst lip you were still gorgeous."

Natasha starts groaning again on the other end, this time sounding more genuine than anything he'd heard over the intercom earlier. "After we'd cleaned ourselves up we went to a theatre show, remember? I think it was an opera or something – I don't remember, I fell asleep." Natasha's voice formed into a short chuckle, which Clint only detected because he knew her so well. The target had more than likely no idea that the woman he was having sex with just laughed. Clint felt warmth well up inside him. He really did have Natasha all to himself, even if someone else slept with her right now.

"Natasha?" again, he knew she couldn't answer him by words, but he wanted some sort of answer right now. Anything would do. And he received a long dragged mmmmhh. "Here's what you'll do..."

He breathed in slowly and let out his breath in a long sigh. "Close your eyes and think of me."

And even though he wasn't sure she did (Natasha seldom followed his advice) he continued to talk. He talked about what they'd eaten that night, at that little Italian restaurant they'd found in a shady street of Budapest, about what they'd done when they'd come back to their hideout.

And mostly he kept talking about how utterly perfect he thought she was. Her lips, her eyes, the way her hair flowed in the wind. How adorable he thought she was, when she was asleep. Her morning breath. Everything.

Clint talked all the way, until he heard the target at the other end of the line cry out his climax and Natasha with her faked orgasm. That was when he stopped talking and sat up in the motel room bed. The panting on the other end died out slowly and he heard Natasha's voice forming words for the first time since what felt like forever. She said something about how amazing it was; the typical after-sex sweet-talking, and then she said something about a smoke.

But Nat doesn't smoke thought Clint, as he listened to her footsteps and a door opening and shutting. Then there was the sound of wind against a microphone. She had gone out on the target's balcony apparently.

"God, I thought you'd never shut up!" laughed Natasha and Clint joined in.

"See you soon."

"You too."