Agent Clint Barton, aka Hawkeye, was having a hell of a good time. He had always loved the chase, loved the feeling of seeing and not being seen. Also, he had to admit, his target wasn't bad to look at from behind. In fact, this was one of the best jobs he'd ever had: women, alcohol, etc. etc. It wouldn't be fair to say Barton was the shallow type that only enjoyed those things, but it also wouldn't be fair to say he didn't

Oh, yes, I enjoy those things, he thought, his eyes running over her ass, which he had to admit was very, very nice. Fuck yes I enjoy this job, far more than I probably should.

Natasha Romanoff, aka his target, was walking a couple hundred feet ahead of him, humming carefreedly. She stopped every once in awhile the same way a tourist might, admiring the architecture and taking pictures of the scenery. Barton smiled, checked his watch as if he was running late, shaped his face into a startled look, then began jogging.

In reality he was catching up to Romanoff.

One block and I'll be there, he thought, reaching his hand under his bulky overcoat and feeling the arrows slung on his back. One more block. She won't even see me coming...

Natasha had seen him coming the second he'd begun tailing her. To make sure she knew exactly where he was (not that she needed to, but backups are always good), she checked the reflections in the windows every once in awhile. She even hummed a little under her breath. She knew she shouldn't be enjoying this and all, but Agent Barton was kind of cute, even if he wasn't really her type. Nevertheless, he wasn't bad looking. She stopped humming. If the situation had been any other, if she hadn't been ordered to kill him...

Natasha shrugged. She didn't especially care, really. There were men everywhere. That was one thing you could count on.

The next time she checked a window, Barton was jogging. This made her smile. Finally. I was wondering whether he'd make a move, she thought. This is about to get a lot more interesting.

Barton's arm was still under his coat, tensed and ready. As he stepped lightly to a foot behind her, she suddenly turned around and smiled at him sweetly.

Shit, he thought.

"Do you need directions?" She asked in fluent Hungarian, twirling a lock of her (temporarily) brown hair around her finger.

"Yes, actually. Could you show me to-" Barton frantically thought of dark places he'd scouted the day before.

"Could you show me to the Szimpla?" he said in equally good Hungarian.

Natasha's right pointer finger twitched imperceptibly. She put on a flirty smile.

"Of course. Follow me."

Barton did. He'd stuck Plan B in a corner by the back of his head. He'd been sure that he wouldn't need it.

And look now.

She was far better than he had thought she'd be.

Also she was drop-dead gorgeous. Which didn't help matters. He imagined what she'd look like after they'd done what they were going to do to her, after-

Natasha walked in the bar, felt something was missing, and walked back out.

"You coming?" she asked pointedly, watching Barton watch her.

"Just admiring the... Architecture," Barton said, and followed her in.

Hungry Hungarian eyes followed Natasha as they walked in, focusing on different parts of her body. She seemed unfazed by this, but Barton saw her shoulders tense slightly.

"Two beers, please," she said. The bartender looked up.

"Of course, beautiful," he said, winking, quickly flicking his eyes up and down Natasha's body.

Barton was incredibly pissed the bartender. Sure, he himself'd been admiring her curves barely twenty minutes ago, but it was still a very unclassy thing to do it so obviously, in such a public place. And besides that, Barton hadn't said anything creepy.

"Clint." Barton started at his name being spoken, then realized that in spacing out his eyes'd been boring into Natasha's breasts. He almost blushed, but he was trained too well.

"Yes?" he said, not stopping to ask why they were suddenly on a first name basis. After all, they were supposed to be strangers, he was ordered to bring her back with him, and she was the target. They were playing a game. Why wasn't she following the rules?

"Clint, what do you do for a living?" she asked, a smile tugging at the corners of her plump lips. Barton found himself following them with his eyes. Christ, she doesn't know what she's doing to me. Maybe this isn't such a good job. I'm not supposed to be thinking about her lips, she's a distraction, shit, god, those goddamn lips are so amazing. What if I pressed my lips to hers? Nobody would mind, nobody would mind-

"I said, what do you do for a living?" Natasha asked again. Barton snapped out of it.

"I... I'm a professional archer. Working to get to the Olympics."

"Really. What are you doing in Budapest?"

"I'm on vacation."

"In December. Shouldn't you be training?"

"Shh, don't tell my trainer." he smiled at her, and she smiled back.

After five beers, Barton thought that maybe he'd had five too many. Natasha seemed to be swaying from side to side too, so if she was as drunk as he was, he'd probably be able to bring her back to his flat with her. Then they could snuggle, and have a sleepover.

Wait. She wasn't- He was the one swaying. Shit. He noticed the full glass of beer in front of her. Had she just gotten a refill? She wasn't touching it. Maybe he should finish it off for her. Wouldn't make much of a difference.

Barton reached across the counter. His hand wasn't going where he wanted it to go, so he tried to bring his other hand to help, and ended up falling over.

"I fell over," he said, giggling a little, his vision blurring. He saw an angel looking down on him.

"You're going to need to come with me," the angel said sternly.

Barton felt a question mark fall out of his ear. "To where? Heaven?" he laughed. That's where they were going, that was it. He was feeling so good, he must be good to go to Heaven. He remembered his mommy's voice in his ear and her songs in his head. He started singing:

"Our Father, which art in Heaven..." he sang under his breath.

"To our hotel, sweetheart," she said sternly, laughing a bit, as if talking to a child. She held his hand and pulled him up easily.

Barton liked her hand. It felt nice, like a turtle.

They somehow made it out of the bar. When women gave them strange looks, Natasha smiled and gave them a face like "What can you do? Men, am I right?" and they smiled back sympathetically and moved on. When men gave them strange looks, Natasha made sure they saw her body, and usually all the things they had to say would disappear. Thankfully nobody tried to go down on her that night. She couldn't bear to lose any time. Her flight was tomorrow.

Sometimes Barton'd give her such a completely sweet and trusting look that she'd feel bad for a tiny moment. But then she'd remember, and haul him with even greater intensity.

They finally arrived at Natasha's hotel, fifteen minutes later. This was due partly to Natasha's navigational skill, and largely to her stamina. Agent Barton weighed more than he looked, and she mentally tucked that in her mind for future practices.

She was relieved when they got to the hotel room. She laid him on one of the beds (there were two, she'd made sure of it), and sat down on the foot of the other one. She almost immediately heard snoring from Barton, and she took this time to observe him. Neat, short brown hair. Strong arms, looked like they were probably tensed a lot. He wasn't what she considered hot, but she knew some people would probably find him attractive.

His chest rose and fell, and she found herself checking his pulse. Sluggish, from all that alcohol. She hadn't even needed a tranquilizer, he'd tranquilized herself.

This job had been almost too easy, and she was almost disappointed. Barton was supposed to be one of the best of the best.

"You let me down," she said, sitting on the edge of his bed and kicking her feet at the carpet.

Then she got up, brushed her teeth, took a quick shower, and laid on her own bed. Her internal alarm was set at five am. She was ready for step two.