In each SHIELD issued room, there was a SHIELD issued dresser. The contents of those dressers varied, depending on the current occupants. Agent Dunham, a radar specialist, had a whole drawer of socks. Woolen ones, there was a rather nasty draft under the radar desk. Agent Millen, down in the armory, liked to stock up on cargo pants. The pockets came in handy.
Two rather more prominent agents also had dressers. Agent Romanoff, resident seductive spy, had her top dresser drawer full of lingerie. Agent Barton, their premier sniper, had his second drawer of shirts. And each item in those drawers, well, they told a bit of a story.
Top Drawer - Black Leather Corset
It had been a tiring mission, all things told, and Clint was glad to see the end of it. Too many nights sitting on rooftops and watching his partner flit about clubs, cozying up to this musclehead or that lowlife. All in the name of finding some ambassador's idiot son who'd gotten himself kidnapped and held for ransom. Frankly, Clint hadn't been surprised when they'd determined that the kid had been in on the whole deal. Natasha had greatly enjoyed the part where she'd finally 'escorted' the young man in question away from his captors. So the guy had tripped. Big deal.
They'd come out of it relatively unscathed, at least. Natasha had a few nicks and scratches, nothing to speak of. The idiot's partners/kidnappers hadn't exactly been top notch muscle. More brute strength than anything else, and frankly, the Black Widow could handle that with her eyes shut. Probably with one hand behind her back. And he'd bet she could have even taken them standing on one foot. Of course, there had been the ringleader, a coked-up skinhead with paramilitary training and what he'd guess was some really good drugs. That guy had felt no pain, and just kept getting back up every time Nat had laid him out. Damn good drugs. Clint had finally ended the whole mess with an arrow through his eye socket, which meant more paperwork. Too bad Fury had wanted the guy alive. He'd have to settle for the idiot son.
Clint was whistling under his breath, having showered, changed, and was wiping down his bow for the fifth time. It was so hard to get all the roof tar out of the little crevasses if you weren't careful. Natasha was in the bathroom, currently using all the hot water provide by the seedy hotel SHIELD had them stashed in. When the knock came at the door, he looked up, and narrowed his eyes.
He'd already slid out of range of the door and had one of his sidearms pointed at the entrance when his phone beeped. He glanced down, and rolled his eyes.
"Dammit, Phil, one of these days I'm going to shoot you," he grumbled, checking the peephole before holstering his weapon and opening the door.
Phil Coulson gave him a faint smile as he stepped into the room, a black satchel in his hand. "Good trip?" the other agent inquired mildly.
Clint rolled his eyes again as he secured the door. "You know exactly how it went, Phil, cut the crap," he said. He moved back to his original task. Time, tide and roof tar waited for no man. "You extracting us already?"
Coulson settled himself rather gingerly in the lone chair the room boasted, a rather spindly looking number without a cushion. Clint had avoided sitting in it, himself. "No," he said, setting his satchel next to the chair.
The door to the bathroom opened in a cloud of steam, and Natasha came out, rubbing her wet hair with one of the thin towels. "No?" she said. Clint flashed her a glance. Too bad, she was already dressed. Slim black sweats and t-shirt. He rather enjoyed those times when she came out in a towel, lots of long leg and porcelain skin showing. Ok, more than rather. She'd started doing that recently, and he took it as a good sign. Trust between partners, right? Clint focused his eyes back on his handler.
"What do you mean, no?" he echoed, propping his bow up on end and examining the string. No nicks, no rough spots… he slid his fingers slowly down the string, feeling as well as looking.
"If we're getting a few days off, I'm so not staying here," Natasha told Coulson, dropping the towel on the bed and picking up a comb instead. "This place is one step above a deathtrap, and that's being generous."
Coulson smiled, that little smile that Clint knew quite well and always meant the same thing. Clint groaned. "No, Phil." Natasha looked at him. "Aww, come on. We just got done! We don't get any break?"
Coulson cleared his throat. "This should only take a few hours," he said. "SHIELD has gotten word that Hans Grudenhaff is in town."
Clint blinked. Okay. That was one he didn't know. He looked at Natasha. She shrugged. "You're going to have to give us a little more than that," she said, cutting her eyes over to Coulson.
Phil reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a small sheaf of papers, leaning forward to spread them on the end of the bed. Clint abandoned his bow and Natasha set down her comb to lean forward and look at them. There was a picture, a Germanic looking man in his mid-40s, Clint guessed, slightly overweight, nasty look about the eyes.
"Grudenhaff," Coulson said, tapping the photo. "That's a current photo. He's currently working his way up in the Sanchez weapons organization. He's been a very low-level player, but just yesterday seems to have been promoted. He's in town, and we suspect he's here to broker a deal with some former East German security forces. There's a weapons cache that is reportedly still unaccounted for, and SHIELD would greatly like to acquire it."
Natasha had picked up the photo and was studying it. "And?" she asked, setting it back down.
"Grudenhaff has a big weakness," Coulson said, sitting back. "One that we can take advantage of tonight and hopefully get our hands on the weapons with." He smiled that damn little smile. "He's a submissive."
One red eyebrow slid upward. Natasha's face was fairly neutral, but Clint hadn't been studying his partner of two years from under his lashes for nothing. She wasn't thrilled. "S&M?" she said. "Seriously? Please tell me he's gay."
Clint grinned at her, loving the 'fuck you' look she shot back. "No way, sweet cheeks," he said. "This one's all you. Right, Phil?"
Coulson nodded. "Sorry, Romanoff, but Barton's right. Grudenhaff is strictly hetero, with a preference for redheads. You're right up his alley."
"Lovely," Natasha muttered, before mumbling something in Russian under her breath. Clint was pretty sure it wasn't anything complementary to either him or Phil.
Coulson reached down and picked up his satchel. "We've arranged for you two to work his favorite club tonight," he said. "Barton will be your doorman, you'll be the dominatrix. I think you'll find everything you need in here," he sat the satchel down on the bed, then glanced at his watch. "You've got about a half hour."
Natasha opened the satchel, looked in side, and Clint could tell she'd resisted groaning. "Great," she muttered. "Just great."
Clint wasn't exactly loving the gear he'd been handed for this job. Sure, he got to wear a knife in plain sight, but the rest of him… Frankly, men should not wear leather pants this tight. If Coulson was taking any pictures, he'd have to kill him.
Clint crossed his arms over the open vest that was the only thing covering his bare chest and huffed. "Come on, Nat," he muttered into the coms, "the guy'll be here any minute." She'd refused to change before they got to the sex club, stating that there was no way in hell she was traveling across Berlin wearing the get-up in the bag. Which, to be honest, Clint was really starting to be curious about. After all, HE was stuck in leather pants. He'd very much like to see what his partner was wearing.
"Shut-up, Hawkeye, or it won't be your wings I clip," came back at him. "Coulson, you are so on my shit list for this."
He could hear the smile in Phil's voice. "Just giving you the proper tools, Widow," he said. Coulson was out of sight, around the corner in the sealed off office of the club.
Clint leaned back against the doorframe, propping one booted foot behind him. "Women," he taunted. "You take so damn long to get ready…" his voice trailed off as the door behind him opened and his partner stepped out. Oh dear god in merciful heaven.
Two years they'd been partners. During that time, Clint had been privileged to see Natasha Romanoff dressed in all manner of disguises, generally designed to make her even more seductive and sexy than she already was. Which was a lot, he had to admit. Not that he'd tell Nat that, after all, he'd spent the last two years relentlessly pretending that she was sexless in order to get her to trust him. She'd only just started coming around in the last year, and he was really starting to enjoy the fact that she was treating him like a person, maybe even a friend, rather than just a no-name co-worker. But he'd had to look away from a lot of really hot outfits in the past. This one, there was no way.
His gaze started at her toes. Stiletto boots with lethal looking points, black leather and clinging tightly to her admittedly fantastic legs. His eyes tracked the boots up, up, up over her knees to where they ended mid-thigh. The creamy flesh of her thighs was wrapped in black fishnet stockings. Then there was the corset. Slick black leather, boned with metal, nipped in at the waist and sloping up to lift and cup those perfect porcelain breasts. Her shoulders were bare, and a black studded collar was snug around her throat. Her hair was wild and red and loose and her eyes smudged with wicked intent. She was sex on two legs. She was every man's most dangerous fantasy. When he'd first heard the name 'Black Widow' years ago, this was what he'd pictured.
This op was going to set a new speed record.
Clint swallowed, hopefully not obviously. Natasha raised an eyebrow at him, face cool and yet impatient. "Well?" she demanded.
"That'll work," Clint said, a touch hoarsely.
And of course, it did. Grudenhaff showed up, Clint ushered him into the little room with Natasha, and the Black Widow had him singing the location of the weapons cache in less than ten minutes, along with the names and locations of practically every member of the Sanchez organization the guy knew. Actually it was seven minutes, twelve seconds. He'd timed it.
Afterward, Coulson stepped out of the little office with a small smirk as back-up SHIELD agents took the blubbering fool away. He looked at Clint and his eyes glinted. "You're welcome," he said.
Clint didn't bother to pretend that he didn't know what Phil was talking about. He grinned back, and then swallowed his tongue again as Natasha stalked by him, one extremely sexy hip at a time. "Men," she said with disgust.