Blue High Heels

Three fuckin' years of being partners, and this was how he was stuck spending the evening. Clint was not happy. After all, not a lot of SHIELD agents made it to the multi-year mark. Sanchez and Fuller, over in Weapons Development, they had the current record. Five years and counting. Frankly, Clint was of the opinion that he and Natasha should have gotten to do something a little nicer than this.

"This", of course, was the op they were currently stuck in. The one where he was the inside man and the Black Widow was the backup. It was weird. He didn't like it. She didn't like it. Coulson, as a result, didn't like it. But the damn drug runner was a woman, with a brother who had a thing for the ponies and a phobia of other women. That meant Natasha's skills were next to useless as someone undercover and he was sent in as the sacrificial lamb. And considering the way Alia Roderiguez had been eyeing him recently, he just might get to feel how that damn lamb really felt.

Clint swallowed another mouthful of beer and stayed where he was against the bar. "Jesus, how much longer," he muttered.

"You act like you've never gone under before," the Black Widow came in his ear. "Stop whining like a little girl."

"I'd say 'you should know', except I'm not sure you ever were a little girl," he muttered back, bottle blocking his lips from the rest of the room.

"Ha, ha," she shot back without heat. "Coulson says we're nearly there. Ten more minutes, and the B-team will have the safe open."

"Well, Jesus, tell them to get a move on. I'm not sure Alia's going to wait another ten to demand I show her what kind of a man I am." He hunched a little more, trying to stay out of the criminal boss' line of sight. The woman was a man-eater, and not in a good way. He had no desire to be forced into bed and then have his dick cut off if he didn't satisfy. Which, considering how little attraction the admittedly good-looking Latino woman held for him, was probably a forgone conclusion. "You'd get me out of there, right? BEFORE she gets her hands on me?"

There was humming in his ear. "Nat? Natasha? SO not funny," he growled back. "Might I remind you of Cannes, and that guy with the manicure?"

There was a snort. "As I recall, I had that under control. YOU were the one who decided I needed a hand. So to speak."

"Better my hand than his," Clint muttered and hastily drank his beer again. Crap. Brother was coming his way.

"Marco!" Juan Rodriguez was clearly pushing drunk. "Why you hiding in the corner, man? We got a game going."

Clint smiled easily and raised his beer. "Not fair to the rest of you if I'm not a little drunk first," he drawled, playing up the accent. Juan seemed to trust the accent.

Juan bellowed a laugh and turned to order another beer, calling the barkeep and banging his fist on the bar for emphasis.

"Do you want me to start singing?" the dry voice of his partner came. "This is usually where you are at your most distracting. I believe I know a tune or two in Spanish. Let me see..."

He nearly spit out his mouthful of beer and had to really fight not to react at all when her voice came all husky and warm in his ear. "De la Sierra Morena, Cielito lindo, vienen bajando, Un par de ojitos negros, Cielito lindo, de contrabando." Holy crap. It was like listening to liquid sex. Smoky, warm and husky, her voice was caressing the words of the simple folk tune like a lover running her hand down her man's back. It made his whole body tighten.

Juan was turning back to him and holding out another beer. "Marco, drink up!" the other man urged, chugging some of his own beer back. Clint took the beer almost gratefully.

"Ay, ay, ay, ay, Canta y no llores," Natasha was definitely in a mood right now. Christ. He'd bet she was doing this on purpose. He knew that song wasn't supposed to sound so damn sexy. And what the hell? Since when did his partner, someone he'd spent waaaaayyy too long trying to pretend was sexless, start using her feminine whiles against him? "Porque cantando se alegran, Cielito lindo, los corazones." Apparently since now.

"Not drunk enough yet," Clint drawled back at Juan. The other guy finally, finally, took the hint and left him alone. "Christ, Nat, how much longer?" he hissed behind his bottle.

"Coulson says they've got the goods. I'm coming in to get you out, be ready," she finally said after a very, very long few seconds. Alia was starting to get up and head in his direction. Dammit.

"Wait, what..." he started, but then she walked in the door. And the whole damn place went silent.

Well, hell, it was no wonder. When a smokin' hot redhead like Natasha Romanoff walks into a bar, wearing a scrap of a skirt and a white blouse that seemed to fall off her shoulders more than it stayed on, you paid attention. Didn't matter if you were a guy or a girl, you paid attention. Even Alia had changed direction. Now she was heading for the competition, as she probably saw it. Poor Alia.

"Oh, shit," he muttered, and could all but hear his partner's smirk.

"Sorry, boys," she announced in a clear, cool voice, sauntering one hip at a time into the room. She stopped, cocked a hip and posed there, surrounded by dumfounded and staring men. And one irritated woman. "Party's over." Shit, she was wearing heels. Electric blue heels that made her legs look twelve miles of perfection long.

"You! Out!" Alia wasn't taking this threat to her turf lightly. "Domino! Juan! Get her out!" The drug-running bitch, yes, bitch, you could all but see the claws, Clint thought, she preferred her little world of being the only queen.

The Black Widow looked bored and examined her nails. "Please. Bring it, bitch." Clint set down his beer and took a breath. And of course, it was just in time.

All hell broke loose a second later as bodies started flying, chairs started breaking, heads started cracking. Clint ducked and wove and started taking them down from his place in the back, working his way toward his partner. Dammit, she just loved to make a mess, didn't she?

"Hell of a way to celebrate three years together," he grumbled into the com. The guy he had in a headlock finally went down and he ducked, avoiding a beer bottle to the head. "A bar brawl? Really? We could've had cake or something."

"Who says we don't have cake? Coulson was in charge of the cake," Natasha's voice in his ear, from about fifteen feet and twelve meatheads away said. "I'm in charge of the entertainment."

"Thanks," he grumbled. He cracked a broken chair leg against one skull, the back of a leg, another's lower back. Clint kicked out with his right foot, then spun and punched a one-two combo, wincing at the toughness of the other guy's skull.

He came up against Natasha's back. "Nice shoes, by the way," he said. She ducked and he grabbed the fist that sailed over her head, sending the grunt flying over his own shoulder. At the same time, he leaned left and Natasha swept a long, slim leg with one of those killer heels out and practically impaled the dude who was trying to come up with a knife on his right.

"I wore them just for the occasion," she said, twisting sideways and impaling an elbow into another guy's throat. He gurgled a second before going down. Clint braced but no one else rushed at them. He looked around.

"Huh," he said. "Well, that was quick."

Natasha was smoothing her hands over her hips, straightening her skirt. "Coulson? Go ahead and send the team in," she said, before looking over at Clint. "Well, there you have it. Mission over, drug runners arrested and I'm going to go take a bath."

Clint blinked. She was walking away, long and slow and one hip at a time. Was she... nah. Nope. Not a chance. "Not even a drink?" he called after her as the place started to fill with SHIELD agents. Alia was already in cuffs, sporting a lovely shiner that he was pretty sure one of her own guys gave her by accident. "Three years! We're in something like, second place!"

A wave was all he got, a wave and those legs and then the door swung shut. Clint sighed and flexed his hands before following. Guess he might as well head in, too.

That night, he dreamed. Not the usual dreams of blood and guilt and bodies and pain, but one that was soft and warm and made his stomach tremble. Pale skin bathed in moonlight, shadows and secrets and scents that shivered inside him. Soft moans and hard touches, heat and dampness and the smell of sweat and musk. Clint woke with a raging hard-on and a racing heart and the absolute knowledge that he'd better never let his partner know what his sleeping brain had conjured up for him on their three-year anniversary. Not if he wanted to see their fourth.

AN - Still looking for more good ideas... Thanks for the reviews! Keep 'em coming!

Next Chapter: Clint's SHIELD Jacket.