I'm really sorry for not continuing this fic. A lot of you have stuck by it and I feel horrible for letting you down. I've been too focused on the PJO fandom nowadays. Here's the second part of Fake Mission Alert and once again, sorry! I won't be continuing this any more but I just want to say that it means a lot that you guys still care and I felt so bad I had to finish it up. Still a huge Captasha fan though :) Hope you like it!

The jet, expertly piloted by one Natasha Romanoff, landed 13 minutes ahead of schedule. The spy smiled to herself in triumph. It was her best record yet. Thank God she managed to convince Fury to let her use a SHIELD transport or else she'd still be stuck on an airplane for another five hours.

Moving to unlatch the heavy metal door, she swung her long, black leather clad legs down towards the ground and dropped, landing gracefully on her brown boots. Swinging the keys around her finger, Natasha hauled some supplies out of the jet and went back down to ground to check in with her hotel.

"Ein Einzelzimmer, bitte," she said in fluent German to the blonde female receptionist.

"Name?" the receptionist eyed Natasha as she typed on a computer.

"Helena Holtzapfel," Natasha answered, not skipping a beat.

In her head, she berated SHIELD for giving her such a stupid cover. Holtzapfel literally meant wood apple. Seriously, the guys at SHIELD were such Saukerls (filthy pigs).

"You don't look German," the woman said skeptically, eyeing Natasha's choice of clothing. The spy smiled back.

"I take that as a compliment."

Room key in hand, she trudged up the stairs with her supplies. Flinging them down onto the carpet, she surveyed the small room. It had a rather nice view of the small city of Rothenburg, and she could feel her stomach rumbling at the sight of some small restaurants. It wouldn't hurt to eat a little before investigating the case.

Tugging off the blonde wig she'd managed to put on to avoid detection—red hair wasn't so common in Germany—Natasha changed. The receptionist had said that she didn't look German. Well, she'd show 'em German. She swapped leather for jeans and a checkered blouse, and dyed her hair blonde so no wig accidents could happen. Gathering her room key and some money, Helena Holtzapfel (she cringed) was ready for lunch.

She walked casually around the streets, looking like she belonged there but actually keeping her eyes peeled for any strange movements. The smell of fresh bread and bacon wafted into her nose, and she couldn't wait any longer.

The restaurant was small but cozy. It had an assortment of breads to choose from behind a counter, along with sausages and any other kind of meat, you name it. There were also some nice salads that Natasha really wanted (it wasn't easy keeping her figure like this), but she knew it would be a little out of the ordinary, so she opted for a meat, cheese and bread platter. Her stomach growled in agreement.

After paying, she sat down at a table, munching and reading a German magazine. Suddenly, someone walked in and paused next to her table. She didn't react.

"Excuse me, ma'am, have you seen a black man, five foot eight, loud and thinks he's funny? I think he might have run away from me for lunch."

The man spoke good German with a little bit of an accent and had a deep voice. Natasha sighed and decided that anything was better than reading stupid German magazines about celebrities she didn't even care about. Her sex life was way more scandalous than any of these hotshots'.

She put down the magazine and looked up. "Sorry, I was too engrossed in these dumb celebrities' lives to notice anyone walk in."

The man laughed and slid into the chair opposite her. His baseball cap—Yankees, she noticed—covered his eyes. "I'm Hans."

"Helena."

"Nice to meet you," he said, extending a hand. She shook it. A question stayed in her mind. Why was he trying to cover up his face? Maybe he had something to hide.

"You know," Natasha began, "I like to talk to people's faces. Don't know about you, but in Germany, that's called being polite."

The man seemed surprised. "How did you know?"

"Your hat," she replied, in English this time. "Yankees. New York."

"You speak English?" the man swapped languages to keep up with her. There was something familiar about this guy.

"Yes. If you can speak German, surely I can speak your language." Woah, Helena was starting to become sassy, Natasha thought.

The man hesitated, then took hold of the brim of his cap. "Can I trust you, Helena?" he asked warily.

"Of course," she answered. "You're not German, you're definitely not Hans, and I'm still sitting here talking to you instead of reporting you to the police, imposter. I think that means I can be trusted."

Again, he chuckled, and took off his cap with a flourish.

"The name's Steve," he said. "Some call me Captain America."

Natasha's eyes widened. She gaped. Her cover couldn't be blown yet, though.

"I know," she gasped. "I can't believe it! You're here! Yet you cannot find your friend."

Steve grinned. "I'm not perfect. Thanks for your help, though, Helena. It was nice talking to you. Do you mind, um, giving me your… number? We could meet up again sometime." He said this as more of a question instead of a suggestion.

Natasha was more than shocked. Did Steve just ask a German girl out? Wait, what? Natasha's insides boiled as she realised that her kind-of boyfriend had just asked another girl out and was kind-of cheating on her. That Arschloch (asshole)!

Outside, she smiled charmingly at him. "Yes, of course, but only if it's a date."

The soldier's brows flew upwards. "Oh, um, miss… Look, I'm sorry if it sounded different to you, but… It's not a date. I wanted to get to know you better, as friends. I'm really sorry… I have a kind-of girlfriend at home and I don't want anything to come between us. I understand if you don't want to see me again, Helena… I—"

Natasha's insides stopped boiling and started bubbling instead. Steve wasn't cheating on her. Now that was the soldier she knew. Always true north.

She set a hand on his arm. "It's fine, Steve. I understand. Will you come with me to where I'm staying? As friends, of course," she added upon seeing his expression.

Steve agreed and allowed Helena to lead him away.

"So, you're not from here?" he observed, sitting on the bed.

"No." Helena confirmed. Suddenly, she turned her body from where she was sitting beside him and put a leg over to his other side so that she was straddling him. She tugged her hair out of its messy bun and smirked at him.

"My name isn't Helena either."

Steve was pinned under her. He didn't know what to do. What could he do? Who was she? Was she an assassin sent to kill him? Oh, crap. Just his luck—lose his friend and lose his life on the same day. And even if he survived, Natasha would kill him.

Helena ran her hands from his face down to his chest. "Helena—or whatever your name is—I can't."

"Yes, you can." Helena leaned closer and kissed him. At first, Steve was too shocked to act. Then, he grabbed her by the waist and pushed her off his lap.

"Steve, sometimes I wish you weren't so moral," Helena sighed, rolling her eyes. She then reached into her pocket and pulled out something. A cred pack.

"Natasha Romanoff, SHIELD."

Steve gaped. "Natasha? But how? You're blonde," he said accusingly. Yet it fit—same bright green eyes, same delicious smirk, same tough attitude. "I can't believe I didn't see it sooner."

"I can't believe you didn't," Natasha echoed.

And so the soldier and the spy abandoned their respective missions for a while as they made up for lost time.

"Mission accomplished," Sam reported to Coulson and Tony, his new partners in crime, as he popped out from under the counter, waving thanks to the owners of the restaurant. "Should we relieve her from her mission?"

"Nah," Coulson replied. "We'll keep her there for a week. She needs some rest anyway."

"More like no rest," Tony snickered. The other two men couldn't help but laugh.

"So, when's the next mission not-so-impossible?"

Coulson paused, thinking. "Well… if you two are up for it, I've got these agents on my team that need a shove in the right direction. Bobbi Morse and Lance Hunter. Ex-wife and husband, though there seems to be something going on there."

"Let's do it!" Sam and Tony exclaimed.

Yes, I do love Huntingbird. Leave a review if you like them too! I hope this was enough to make you satisfied... I hate when people give up on fics. I hope you enjoyed the ride and thank you so much for all the love! Maybe those of you who are also into the PJO fandom (especially Percabeth and JEYNA) will check out my other fics!

Alexa