Fic: Extra Ordinary, part 1 (Hawkeye/Coulson)
Title: Extra Ordinary, part 1
Pairing: Hawkeye/Coulson
Rating: Eventual NC-17
Length: 5k
Warnings:
Because of/For: aliassmith, damn you!
Summary: Phil's always appreciated the way Hawkeye handles his weapon
A/N: Writing this concurrently with something else, so will update later in the week soon as I've made some progress elsewhere.
“Tightening your string?”
Hawkeye's back straightens an inch where he's sitting on the floor, feet tucked under his thighs, favorite bow laid out across them as he does complicated things to it involving small clamps, needlenose pliers, silicone spray, epoxy resin and hex keys. Each movement in the two minutes Phil's been observing him from the doorway while trying to remain interested in whatever Steve's talking about has been economical and efficient, none of the loving, almost sensual caresses or touches that Phil's noticed colleagues adopting in the care of their preferred arms. The concentration is total, no acknowledgment of Phil's arrival, of Steve's mundane concerns that don't matter in the bigger picture, or of Tony turning up the TV so he can make smart-alecky quips to his computer about his stock increases.
But, soon as Phil's finished with Rogers and heads over for a coffee, commenting to Hawkeye over his shoulder as he does so, attention is paid. Hawkeye's mouth twists in consideration as he lifts the bow and taps at a pulley with his pinkie finger. Steve's a little too overfond of what's basically a glorified frisbee, Thor's affection for Mjolnir can only be described as co-dependent, Bruce is one hissy fit away from knocking the whole place down around them and Tony's relationship with his tech is a matter best left to trained psychiatrists, but Hawkeye treats a weapon like a weapon, without emotion entering into the equation. It's tough for Phil not to privately appreciate that.
“This is a hard quad cam compound riser, ninety-nine point eight percent let off, capable of a two hundred pound draw weight resulting in five hundred and fifty six feet per second ballistic drive. No draw stops, no buss gables, targeted dampeners, AMO and IBO off the charts. High-modulus polyethylene single cable, five-pin fiber-optic and laser sights, not that I need them, fully customizable, and will pretty much chew the hand off anyone but me. One of a kind, hand-built.” Hawkeye squints at the pulley before rubbing at it with a microfiber cloth and blowing on it between pursed lips then clipping the guard back into place. “The more technical the bow, the higher the possibility point of failure. Maintenance is key.”
Phil's managed to drain half his mug during that little speech. “I'll take that as a yes. Pack it up.”
“'It'? Nobody ever listens. This is not simply an 'it'.” But Hawkeye complies anyhow, wrapping his maintenance kit back in its nylon roll before placing the hard quad whatever back in its case, snapping it shut and unfolding his legs. “We're going out?”
“Small job, bring your whole bag of tricks. No,” As Hawkeye opens his mouth to no doubt start listing precisely why his specialized quiver and its contents deserve a more dignified moniker. “No technical breakdown necessary, thank you.”
“It's not like I'm going out there with a bucket of sharpened twigs.”
Emo grumbling shouldn't be cute on a man a decade off comfortable middle age, but Phil finds himself smiling at Barton as he places his bow case down on the counter before heading off towards the door. Even a month or two back, Stark would've offered to suit up and called to the others, but things were beginning to gel and everyone seemed to be getting their fuzzy little superhero heads around the fact that sometimes the last thing S.H.I.E.L.D needs is to arrive on the scene looking like a particularly fabulous cabaret act getting ready to kick some ass. If he's after Hawkeye alone, something needs doing quickly and quietly, they get that now. Took long enough.
“One sec, okay?”
Phil checks his watch, to aggravate more than anything else, as they're not in any real hurry. He's found there's only one method of dealing with a team full of pre-schooler mentality and that's to preemptively out-annoy them first. “Do you have somewhere else important you need to be?”
“I don't know, boss, is this an emergency or am I allowed to take a piss first?”
He pauses long enough for a flicker of irritation to sour Barton's expression a shade further. There's not too many opportunities for fun in a job like his. Might as well make the most of them when they appear. “Does a full bladder have a negative effect on your aim?”
“Let the man pee, Coulson.”
Phil was already waving Hawkeye through the door, focusing down into the dregs of his coffee so his eyes won't follow Hawkeye's ass out through it. “Thank you for your ever-valuable contribution, Mr. Stark.”
“Don't mention it.” One of these days he was going to rip Tony's hand off at the wrist and smack him with it when it patronizingly pats his shoulder like this. One day. Soon. “Perhaps this is the time to discuss further applications of my suit's waste disposal systems.”
“I can reassure you that now is not that time.”
“I'll remind you of that next time we lose the upper hand because Barton's off busy draining the main vein.”
Phil shrugs Stark off, straightening his jacket. “Can't wait.”
Time slows down as he watches his own hand move to place his empty coffee mug on the counter, his elbow knocking against Hawkeye's bow case as he does so. Phil's reflexes aren't too shabby after years of training, and he almost manages to catch the case, grabbing at the corner of it but that only makes it spin over the back of his knuckles like a little girl's baton, ribbons streaming. They both watch as the bow case crashes to the floor, then both stand there, open-mouthed, staring down at it for a full second.
“Hoo, you're in trouble.” Stark doesn't look very upset with the idea. “Clint's going to pop a blood vessel.”
“This is an armored titanium anti-shock case. A small bump like that can't have done any harm.”
It's almost like Phil's trying to persuade himself as he scoops it up, impressed with how little the entire outfit weighs, and dusts it off to place it back on the counter in the same position as before. Another pat on the shoulder makes him grit his teeth before Stark's heading out of the room and away from a potential Barton meltdown.
“You keep telling yourself that. Happy landings.”
-
“Problem, Agent Barton?”
“There's a . . . goddammit, stupid fucking -”
“The bad guys are getting away, Hawkeye.”
“And you yabbering in my ear about it isn't helping. Jammed riser, gimme ten seconds . . .”
“You're off it, I'm sending in back-up. Agents McMichael and Downs, do you copy that?” There's the smallest pinch of guilt at the back of Phil's mind, but he shuts it off without a second thought, too in the moment to concentrate on anything that can be worried about later.
“No! Three, two seconds . . . I'm done, taking them out.”
“We can't afford another misfire. Agents McMuh . . .”
Phil's voice dries in his throat as he watches a pin-thin blur part the air in front of him as the three suspected HYDRA agents are felled with one shot, a carbon barb buried in the knee of one, through the thigh of another and the wrist of the third. It's not that it's an impossible shot, because of course it's not, as proven by the men rolling on the floor in a tangle of limbs, wailing in discomfort as their individual movements tug at each other's wounds. It's that nobody should have the ability to release a trigger at the precise split-second moment in time before those three limbs intersected with one another. A genetically-enhanced superhuman, maybe, or even a god, but not just a regular guy, the only thing keeping Hawkeye on a team of honest-to-Thor superheroes this uncanny ability of his that slightly skeeves Phil out. He's seen Hawkeye take out a bullet with both arrow and katana. It's not a matter of Hawkeye's equally unsettling reflexes. Barton somehow senses the moment immediately prior to a target becoming viable, and that goes way beyond a mere talent.
“You were off the job, Agent.”
“You're welcome and, yeah, I know I'm the awesomest, thanks.”
“We'll discuss this later. Get your,” Hot, round, pert, biteable butt. “Self back down here, we're off-scene in five.”
They're done in four, bad guys scooped up and tossed in the back of the truck, scene hosed down, Hawkeye loping over towards Phil from the billboard he'd shimmied up earlier with the casual ease of most people climbing a short flight of stairs.
“Seriously, Coulson? Three people with one shot doesn't get so much as a thumbs up? Or, like, there's this nifty thing divers do, making an okay symbol with their hand.”
How anyone can sarcastically demonstrate the 'okay' sign is beyond Phil, but Barton manages it regardless.
“I'm all out of gold stars, too.”
The thick fabric of Hawkeye's pants creaks as it stretches over his thigh, butt momentarily inches from Phil's face as Hawkeye hauls himself into the back of the SUV, settling back with his bow case held against his side as he ignores the presence of his seatbelt and turns on Phil again.
“No gold star. A small round of applause? Not even for a three-fer?”
“Not even.”
“I get no love around here, and that sucks. You suck.”
A little red devil dances on Phil's shoulder and asks what would happen if Phil were to reply, 'As a matter of fact, I swallow.' Very likely nothing good. So he takes the hit with a polite nod and a reminder that's really an order for Barton to buckle up before closing the door.
-
“You've been wanting to get your hands on it for a month, and the second my back's turned -”
“Let me assure you, Clint, that most of us grew out of playing cowboys and Native Americans age five.”
So maybe Phil could've taken two minutes to apologize to Hawkeye over the whole dropping-his-bow thing before reporting to Fury and checking in on their catch of the day. He passes Natasha on her way out, and she throws a bored look back over her shoulder towards where Barton's facing up to Stark, hands clenched.
“Calm it down, boys, the cavalry's arrived. I'm not sure,” to Phil, “But I think Stark stole Barton's lunch money or something, so we're moving into wedgie territory.”
Barton's red in the face, veins bulging in his neck and jaw as he swings around to glare at Phil, pointing accusingly at Stark. “He's been fucking with my equipment.”
Tony's looking more amused by it than anything else, but he pushes Barton's hand away from his chest with a snort. “You're not my type.”
“Stand down, Hawkeye. We can clear this up in one . . .”
Dammit. It hasn't worked, and Phil's lost Hawkeye's attention as he spins back towards Stark and takes a menacing step forward until he's butting chests with Tony, who's calmly regarding him under two raised eyebrows.
“Nobody. Touches. My shit. Can you understand that?”
“That's never been a kink of mine.”
It's getting out of hand, Tony's usual charming self winding Hawkeye tighter than Phil's seen him in awhile. “Stand down, that's an order. I can explain the misfire.”
“Don't get me wrong, I'll try pretty much anything else once. But actual shit?” Stark makes an 'ew' face, shudders then gives Barton an apologetic shrug. “I'm sorry, it's out of the question.”
“You're not fucking funny. Admit that you screwed with my bow.”
“I will not because I did not, and I am too fucking funny. I'm hilarious, the absolute pinnacle of wit.”
Enough's enough. Phil's faint smiles and snark gets the job done, most of the time, but sometimes he wishes people around here understood that he has definite bad-ass qualities, no matter how well hidden he keeps them. Same training as Natasha, who's more dangerous with her little finger than S.H.I.E.L.D's entire armory, but on him all anyone sees is the suit, which is exactly how Phil likes it. Most of the time.
Hawkeye's right up in Stark's face, his hand making a fist in preparation for a strike and, much as Phil would usually pay a month's salary to anyone willing to lay one on Tony Stark, he's responsible. He bumps Stark out of the way and takes Barton's wrist in a lock, rotating it upwards so that Barton's face down on the table before he's had a chance to so much as grunt.
“What the fu-”
It seemed like a good idea, right up until the point where he notices that Barton's bent over the table in front of him, inches from Phil's hips, ass jutting upwards in two muscular curves like he's waiting for Phil to start fucking into it. Phil's body decides to dump a truck-load of testosterone onto his bloodstream right at the moment he sees Barton's ready to twist out of the hold and probably kick Phil's legs out from under him, so it takes focusing a brain suddenly suffering a deficit of blood supply back into the moment to take out Barton's knees with a backward hook and get him onto the floor. It's all taken less than a second, and Phil's left with a boner that won't quit, a bitching Hawkeye rolling over onto his back at Phil's ankles, and Stark looking at him as if he's finally worthy of attention.
“What the hell was that for? And, ow.”
“Not bad, Coulson. So, you're, like, a ninja in your off-time?”
“Hawkeye, on your feet. I'm the problem with your bow.” He ignores Tony and reaches down to Barton, calloused fingers wrapping around his hand as he hauls Hawkeye upright and reminds himself to let the hand in his go rather than hanging onto it. “I dropped it. It was an accident, and I apologize.”
“You dropped it?”
“Yes. I'm sorry.”
“You dropped it. On the floor. My bow.”
“Yes.”
“That bow's my personal property.”
“Yes, it is.”
Hawkeye's rubbing at his hip, looking at Phil through narrowed, heavy-lidded eyes as he works his jaw. “You didn't have to knock me on my ass, too.”
“Didn't want you striking a fellow team member.”
“Aww, Phil, I'm touched.” He should've let Barton punch Stark, who's hovering in his peripheral vision with a hand laid over his chest, choked up with fake emotion. “Truly.”
“If we could have the room, Mr. Stark?”
He doesn't break eye contact with Barton, until a silent pause makes him look Tony's way to find those clever eyes looking back and forth from both of them, cogs turning in God only knows what direction inside Stark's over-active brain. Then Tony brightens, and gives Phil a smile that makes him feel all kinds of uneasy.
“Absolutely. You guys kiss and make up in private, no prying eyes needed, I get that.” He's halfway out the door when he turns back to them for more, Barton tonguing over his teeth in annoyance while Phil outwardly maintains his usual composure. “Never let it be said that Tony Stark stood in the way of romance.”
“Order me to take him out. I'll make it clean and fast. Nobody needs to know.”
If only. Phil watches Stark leave before giving Barton a wintery smile. “You can't go around breaking team members' noses simply because they're aggravating pricks. At least, not in front of me. What you do in your spare time's up to you.”
“Spare time?” Barton snickers, his nose crinkling as he grins, and Phil thinks again how nice a name Clint is. Which is why he never uses it. Not even in his head. “What's that?”
“I should've said something about your bow earlier.”
“Yeah, let me know if you're klutzy enough for there to be a next time.”
“We're good?” He shouldn't be asking, but Clint, strike that, Barton's grin makes it worthwhile.
“Sure thing, butterfingers. Seriously, you dropped it? Have you any idea how much that bow is worth, or how long it would take me to build another one?”
“Casualties are inevitable in our line of work.”
He nods a curt goodbye and turns to leave, needing to get away and back to his computer screen to file some dull reports and get his mind thoroughly away from the matter of Hawkeye, who cackles to himself suddenly as he's nearly gone. “Hey, can I quote you on calling Stark an aggravating prick?”
“That's not precisely what I said. Good afternoon, Agent Barton.”
“Damn, you're slippy.” Hawkeye stretches a knot out of his back and Phil pretends like he doesn't notice for the fiftieth time that day alone that armpit hair shouldn't be that attractive. “Catch you around, boss.”
-
He doesn't know what it is, but it's blue and in liquid form before it hits, at which point it foams. And stings, then begins to burn, Phil looking down at his jacket sleeve when it starts to sizzle. Bruce appears in the smoking doorway of his lab wearing goggles and an alarmed expression, which grows in severity when Natasha glares at him, plucking at her sweater.
“This is cashmere. Four ply, on sale, and the skirt's Donna Karan. Or, should I say, was.”
“Ooh.” Bruce winces sympathetically, although a worried look at Phil suggests he has no clue what or who the fuck a Donna Karan is. “Sorry. Uh, you guys might want to shower it off immediately. Using this. And use some hazardous waste bags for your clothes?”
He tosses a canister of clear fluid down the hallway after Phil, who catches it and continues to run after Natasha towards the bathroom block, swiping at the burning skin along the side of his face that was directed towards the lab door when it exploded outward without warning. He throws himself fully clothed into the shower once he gets there and wrenches it fully on, cold, digging his keys, tazer and phone out to throw them out of the cubicle and into a sink before uncapping Banner's canister and pouring half the contents over himself. The stinging subsides somewhat, the liquid turning into a viscous gel that's soothing the burns on his face, so Phil reaches around to stick the canister through next door's curtain.
“Here. It's messy and stinks, but seems to be helping.”
“I thought the lab was reinforced to contain Hyde, not Dr. Jekyll. Oh, my God, it's even eaten through my bra.”
“We always agreed too many geniuses in one place was going to get complicated.”
“Should stick them all in a bunker and be done with it.”
His jacket's ruined, as is his shirt, the foam having burned down to the skin in several areas. Phil lifts his elbow, fascinated to watch the skin beginning to blister as the gel calms the nerves beneath. “You know you'd only get buried down there with them.”
“You're the babysitter, not me.”
His tie's also screwed. Pity. Phil kind of liked this tie. “I'm not the one living here.”
You'd think Phil would be too jaded at this point in his career to jump at anything, but Tasha's face, mascara dripping down her blotchy, blistered cheeks appearing around Phil's shower curtain to fix him with the evil eye, makes him flinch. “I'm on active duty and have no idea what you think you're saying to me.”
“Active duty as a member of the Avengers Initiative, yes. If you don't mind . . .” His pants are smoking and he starts to unzip.
“Please, I've seen it before. I'm S.H.I.E.L.D, I'm support, not Avengers, and don't give me that look, I know that look, I invented that look.”
“What do I know, I'm the babysitter.” He lifts his hands in a 'not my fault' way and gives her a bland smile before she glares some more then disappears back into her stall. “Take it up with Fury if you don't like it.”
“Stop implying I'm an Avenger and I won't need to.”
There's a hole in his shorts under where a big splodge of foam had eaten through his pants. Phil doesn't want to look, but nothing's burning, yet, so he inches them down and checks, slumping against the stall's tiles in relief when everything looks normal, healthy and unfried. He then vows to keep his jacket buttoned from then on, under every circumstance. Even if digging in Death Valley turns up in a future detail, his jacket will remain buttoned. “I seem to be offending everyone today. My apologies.”
“Trust me, Coulson, you could offend the pope without saying a word.”
“Already met him. I think he liked me.”
“What does he know, he's a Nazi.”
“You should read his file sometime. Interesting guy.”
“Do I sound like I'm in the mood to discuss the actual pope? Ugh, this stuff is making me gag.”
The gel's solidified and sloughed off, Phil suspecting it's taken some of his skin with it. He tugs his damp shorts back up and turned off the shower, figuring that will have to do, his socks soaking and bunched up in his shoes as he abandons his other clothes and exits the shower, squelching his way over to a locker for some towels then handing Natasha a couple of the top of her stall.
“Thanks.” A moment later she appears, one towel wrapped armpit to armpit, flicking her head backward into a towel turban as she narrows her eyes at her reflection in the mirrors above the row of sinks. “I look like a leper. Hulk or no hulk, I'm kicking his ass. You want in?”
-
Their appearance stops the hum of conversation, Tony muting the TV with a terse order as his eyes pretty much pop out of his skull at the sight of Natasha in low-slung sweatpants and a white exercise singlet that does little to disguise her lack of bra, her eyes lethal as lasers as she dares anyone to mention it. Steve's turned the color of beetroot as he looks everywhere but at Natasha, Bruce is sidling towards the door like he hopes Tasha's not going to notice he's in there, and Thor comes across to thwack Phil on the back with a hearty blow which cures the crick in his neck he's had all day since waking up in his recliner at five am.
“I, too, once suffered the loss of my armor. It meant that I was no longer a god, but it does not make you less of a warrior.”
“Thank you, for sharing that with me, but I'm good.”
Yeah, so he's missing the suit, but armor's pushing it. Phil is starting to suspect Thor's getting the hang of sarcasm. Then Hawkeye comes in through the door, rubbing fingers through spiky wet hair, sliding to a halt as he notices Phil, blotchy and blister-covered all the way down one arm and that side of his face, a few circles of hair missing, in the same standard-issue gym sweats and shirt that Natasha's wearing.
“Did I miss a memo?” He blinks at Phil, then tilts his head. “Casual Wednesdays?”
“It's a thing now.” Tony's still staring at Natasha's unfettered rack like a man with a death-wish as he hikes a thumb towards his bedroom. “I've got a whole drawer full of sarongs back there if anyone wants to let it all hang out. Nobody? Stevo?”
Steve gives Stark a concerned glance. “Let what hang out, and what's a sarong?”
“Agent Romanoff and I participated in one of Dr. Banner's breakthroughs. If you'll all excuse me . . .”
He's got a shirt and jacket in his office. Yes, it will look stupid with the sweats, but Phil's tired and itching and wants to cover up, especially now with Barton's eyes picking out every last flaw visible over his exposed chest and arms. Hell, he's probably already counted every last one of Phil's few gray chest hairs. Maybe someone in the field agents' locker room will have a spare pair of those polyester slacks he got promoted out of a few years back.
“Wait, Coulson, wait up.”
Phil sighs and turns back, wanting to pick at the itching, oozing blisters and knowing he shouldn't. Sweats and a thin t-shirt aren't any kind of protection against the rush of vivid awareness he always gets when Hawkeye's up close, nothing compared to how he can usually hide behind a sharp suit and a smirk. Maybe Thor wasn't being so sarcastic after all. “Is there a problem, agent?”
“No, no problem. Just wanted to make sure you were, uh . . .” Hawkeye coughs and stares at the floor, rubbing his stubby fingers through his shower-damp hair again. At least he's changed, armpit hair covered up although the dips and planes of his muscled arm are still very much on show. Someone should take Barton shopping for anything with sleeves. “I guess you're human after all.”
“As opposed to . . . ?” There's a hint of irritability to it, the itching driving him nuts and Phil's control beginning to corrode.
“I've seen you shot at, blown up, caught under falling rubble and blasted at by killer robots, all without so much of a scratch, not to say running for ten minutes in a wool suit without breaking a sweat. Guess I'd started to believe you were invulnerable or something.”
“It's my job to keep out the way where possible, and I'm good at my job.”
Barton's eyes flick quickly to trace the length of a puckered scar running from Phil's ribs, into his armpit and down almost to the blisters on his elbow, before looking up to examine the worst of the burns over Phil's cheekbone. “Looks like it. But you're okay?”
The unexpected concern coloring Barton's hooded eyes a shade darker than usual all of a sudden makes Phil feel old, and stupid standing there in his singlet in a room full of superheroes. He's not badly built for a man of his age, the job demanding at least thirty minutes a day in the gym reading over reports on a cross-trainer before benching half of what he used to be able to for another ten, but he's deskbound for too many hours these days and it shows. He knows it must. It shouldn't matter, and without his suit, Hawkeye standing there looking all worried and sort of like he wants to kiss Phil's boo-boos better in a strictly heterosexual manner, it does.
“It's superficial, I'll survive. Team briefing in twenty.”
“I know.”
Phil slumps internally at how those two short words are flatly stated, no sass, no acknowledgment that his dismissal was bordering on rude. “I appreciate you checking up on me. I'm fine, thank you.”
“Sure, no problem.”
Steve would've said something toe curling and earnest about team mates looking out for one another. Tony would've pretended not to notice anything had happened and that Phil usually looked like he'd been barbequed because it's funny to him that less attractive people exist. Natasha would smother a yawn while checking for escape routes, and Bruce would feign concern while all the time his eyes would scream Whatever, man, I'm eternally cursed with fighting the living embodiment of my id so excuse me if I'm not weeping over giving you a rash. But Hawkeye simply nods and 'No problem's him before turning to leave, elegantly reminding Phil that there's so much more to him than those shoulders, those arms, and that unforgivable ass.
-
“What have I told you about sunscreen? Anything less than factor thirty and you might as well cover yourself in canola.”
“Director Fury.” Phil gets to his feet, Fury waving away the formalities as he perches on a corner of Phil's desk, pursing his lips at its contents.
“Nobody should maintain a desk this minimalist. It's unnatural.” Phil 'sir's and reaches out to push over the neatly-stacked memos in his out-tray so they flutter down to cover his desk in disarray, Fury giving a satisfied nod. “Better. We've got a problem.”
Phil groans and sits back down in his chair. “Oh, God, what did he do now?”
“Not Stark this time.”
“No? You're kidding.”
An eyebrow is raised at him above the patch. “You know me, Phil. Always a kidder.”
“Absolutely, sir. What's the problem?”
“It's Hawkeye.”
Phil feels his heart stutter in his chest. “What about him?”
Fury's leafing idly through the memos, picking them up randomly to read through, rolling his eye at one and screwing it up into a ball before tossing it back over his shoulder to land in the to-be-shredded box behind him without looking. “We've received some information that suggests we need to keep an eye on him. Nothing solid.”
“What's our source?”
“Classified.”
“Right. Keep an eye on him for . . . ?”
“Possible contacts within HYDRA.”
“No.” It's out of Phil's mouth before he thinks about it. “Not him.”
“You're sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, much as I'd like to be able to take your word for it . . .” Fury leans down to open up the drawer where Phil keeps his secret stash. “What is this, Wild Cherry? No Wintergreen?”
“I'll restock at my earliest opportunity.”
“You do that.” Fury pops a candy into his mouth and gets up, flipping the roll to Phil who catches it easily. “Take Barton to go check out that airstrip in Nevada.”
“I thought we'd decided that wasn't a priority.”
“It's not, but you know how I am about loose ends. Plus it'll give you the chance to get Barton talking. I don't believe he has the field experience to keep from tripping up once he's feeling chatty.”
“I don't know, sir. Hawkeye keeps his personal life pretty close to his chest.” This is not good. Fury glances significantly at Phil's fingers where he's picking at the candy wrapper without noticing. Phil stops, and raises his chin. “I believe Agent Romanoff would be a better choice.”
“Trust me on this.”
“But, sir -”
“You've got your assignment, agent. Keep me in the loop.”
Phil sighs, puffs out his cheeks and capitulates. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Pairing: Hawkeye/Coulson
Rating: Eventual NC-17
Length: 5k
Warnings:
Because of/For: aliassmith, damn you!
Summary: Phil's always appreciated the way Hawkeye handles his weapon
A/N: Writing this concurrently with something else, so will update later in the week soon as I've made some progress elsewhere.
“Tightening your string?”
Hawkeye's back straightens an inch where he's sitting on the floor, feet tucked under his thighs, favorite bow laid out across them as he does complicated things to it involving small clamps, needlenose pliers, silicone spray, epoxy resin and hex keys. Each movement in the two minutes Phil's been observing him from the doorway while trying to remain interested in whatever Steve's talking about has been economical and efficient, none of the loving, almost sensual caresses or touches that Phil's noticed colleagues adopting in the care of their preferred arms. The concentration is total, no acknowledgment of Phil's arrival, of Steve's mundane concerns that don't matter in the bigger picture, or of Tony turning up the TV so he can make smart-alecky quips to his computer about his stock increases.
But, soon as Phil's finished with Rogers and heads over for a coffee, commenting to Hawkeye over his shoulder as he does so, attention is paid. Hawkeye's mouth twists in consideration as he lifts the bow and taps at a pulley with his pinkie finger. Steve's a little too overfond of what's basically a glorified frisbee, Thor's affection for Mjolnir can only be described as co-dependent, Bruce is one hissy fit away from knocking the whole place down around them and Tony's relationship with his tech is a matter best left to trained psychiatrists, but Hawkeye treats a weapon like a weapon, without emotion entering into the equation. It's tough for Phil not to privately appreciate that.
“This is a hard quad cam compound riser, ninety-nine point eight percent let off, capable of a two hundred pound draw weight resulting in five hundred and fifty six feet per second ballistic drive. No draw stops, no buss gables, targeted dampeners, AMO and IBO off the charts. High-modulus polyethylene single cable, five-pin fiber-optic and laser sights, not that I need them, fully customizable, and will pretty much chew the hand off anyone but me. One of a kind, hand-built.” Hawkeye squints at the pulley before rubbing at it with a microfiber cloth and blowing on it between pursed lips then clipping the guard back into place. “The more technical the bow, the higher the possibility point of failure. Maintenance is key.”
Phil's managed to drain half his mug during that little speech. “I'll take that as a yes. Pack it up.”
“'It'? Nobody ever listens. This is not simply an 'it'.” But Hawkeye complies anyhow, wrapping his maintenance kit back in its nylon roll before placing the hard quad whatever back in its case, snapping it shut and unfolding his legs. “We're going out?”
“Small job, bring your whole bag of tricks. No,” As Hawkeye opens his mouth to no doubt start listing precisely why his specialized quiver and its contents deserve a more dignified moniker. “No technical breakdown necessary, thank you.”
“It's not like I'm going out there with a bucket of sharpened twigs.”
Emo grumbling shouldn't be cute on a man a decade off comfortable middle age, but Phil finds himself smiling at Barton as he places his bow case down on the counter before heading off towards the door. Even a month or two back, Stark would've offered to suit up and called to the others, but things were beginning to gel and everyone seemed to be getting their fuzzy little superhero heads around the fact that sometimes the last thing S.H.I.E.L.D needs is to arrive on the scene looking like a particularly fabulous cabaret act getting ready to kick some ass. If he's after Hawkeye alone, something needs doing quickly and quietly, they get that now. Took long enough.
“One sec, okay?”
Phil checks his watch, to aggravate more than anything else, as they're not in any real hurry. He's found there's only one method of dealing with a team full of pre-schooler mentality and that's to preemptively out-annoy them first. “Do you have somewhere else important you need to be?”
“I don't know, boss, is this an emergency or am I allowed to take a piss first?”
He pauses long enough for a flicker of irritation to sour Barton's expression a shade further. There's not too many opportunities for fun in a job like his. Might as well make the most of them when they appear. “Does a full bladder have a negative effect on your aim?”
“Let the man pee, Coulson.”
Phil was already waving Hawkeye through the door, focusing down into the dregs of his coffee so his eyes won't follow Hawkeye's ass out through it. “Thank you for your ever-valuable contribution, Mr. Stark.”
“Don't mention it.” One of these days he was going to rip Tony's hand off at the wrist and smack him with it when it patronizingly pats his shoulder like this. One day. Soon. “Perhaps this is the time to discuss further applications of my suit's waste disposal systems.”
“I can reassure you that now is not that time.”
“I'll remind you of that next time we lose the upper hand because Barton's off busy draining the main vein.”
Phil shrugs Stark off, straightening his jacket. “Can't wait.”
Time slows down as he watches his own hand move to place his empty coffee mug on the counter, his elbow knocking against Hawkeye's bow case as he does so. Phil's reflexes aren't too shabby after years of training, and he almost manages to catch the case, grabbing at the corner of it but that only makes it spin over the back of his knuckles like a little girl's baton, ribbons streaming. They both watch as the bow case crashes to the floor, then both stand there, open-mouthed, staring down at it for a full second.
“Hoo, you're in trouble.” Stark doesn't look very upset with the idea. “Clint's going to pop a blood vessel.”
“This is an armored titanium anti-shock case. A small bump like that can't have done any harm.”
It's almost like Phil's trying to persuade himself as he scoops it up, impressed with how little the entire outfit weighs, and dusts it off to place it back on the counter in the same position as before. Another pat on the shoulder makes him grit his teeth before Stark's heading out of the room and away from a potential Barton meltdown.
“You keep telling yourself that. Happy landings.”
-
“Problem, Agent Barton?”
“There's a . . . goddammit, stupid fucking -”
“The bad guys are getting away, Hawkeye.”
“And you yabbering in my ear about it isn't helping. Jammed riser, gimme ten seconds . . .”
“You're off it, I'm sending in back-up. Agents McMichael and Downs, do you copy that?” There's the smallest pinch of guilt at the back of Phil's mind, but he shuts it off without a second thought, too in the moment to concentrate on anything that can be worried about later.
“No! Three, two seconds . . . I'm done, taking them out.”
“We can't afford another misfire. Agents McMuh . . .”
Phil's voice dries in his throat as he watches a pin-thin blur part the air in front of him as the three suspected HYDRA agents are felled with one shot, a carbon barb buried in the knee of one, through the thigh of another and the wrist of the third. It's not that it's an impossible shot, because of course it's not, as proven by the men rolling on the floor in a tangle of limbs, wailing in discomfort as their individual movements tug at each other's wounds. It's that nobody should have the ability to release a trigger at the precise split-second moment in time before those three limbs intersected with one another. A genetically-enhanced superhuman, maybe, or even a god, but not just a regular guy, the only thing keeping Hawkeye on a team of honest-to-Thor superheroes this uncanny ability of his that slightly skeeves Phil out. He's seen Hawkeye take out a bullet with both arrow and katana. It's not a matter of Hawkeye's equally unsettling reflexes. Barton somehow senses the moment immediately prior to a target becoming viable, and that goes way beyond a mere talent.
“You were off the job, Agent.”
“You're welcome and, yeah, I know I'm the awesomest, thanks.”
“We'll discuss this later. Get your,” Hot, round, pert, biteable butt. “Self back down here, we're off-scene in five.”
They're done in four, bad guys scooped up and tossed in the back of the truck, scene hosed down, Hawkeye loping over towards Phil from the billboard he'd shimmied up earlier with the casual ease of most people climbing a short flight of stairs.
“Seriously, Coulson? Three people with one shot doesn't get so much as a thumbs up? Or, like, there's this nifty thing divers do, making an okay symbol with their hand.”
How anyone can sarcastically demonstrate the 'okay' sign is beyond Phil, but Barton manages it regardless.
“I'm all out of gold stars, too.”
The thick fabric of Hawkeye's pants creaks as it stretches over his thigh, butt momentarily inches from Phil's face as Hawkeye hauls himself into the back of the SUV, settling back with his bow case held against his side as he ignores the presence of his seatbelt and turns on Phil again.
“No gold star. A small round of applause? Not even for a three-fer?”
“Not even.”
“I get no love around here, and that sucks. You suck.”
A little red devil dances on Phil's shoulder and asks what would happen if Phil were to reply, 'As a matter of fact, I swallow.' Very likely nothing good. So he takes the hit with a polite nod and a reminder that's really an order for Barton to buckle up before closing the door.
-
“You've been wanting to get your hands on it for a month, and the second my back's turned -”
“Let me assure you, Clint, that most of us grew out of playing cowboys and Native Americans age five.”
So maybe Phil could've taken two minutes to apologize to Hawkeye over the whole dropping-his-bow thing before reporting to Fury and checking in on their catch of the day. He passes Natasha on her way out, and she throws a bored look back over her shoulder towards where Barton's facing up to Stark, hands clenched.
“Calm it down, boys, the cavalry's arrived. I'm not sure,” to Phil, “But I think Stark stole Barton's lunch money or something, so we're moving into wedgie territory.”
Barton's red in the face, veins bulging in his neck and jaw as he swings around to glare at Phil, pointing accusingly at Stark. “He's been fucking with my equipment.”
Tony's looking more amused by it than anything else, but he pushes Barton's hand away from his chest with a snort. “You're not my type.”
“Stand down, Hawkeye. We can clear this up in one . . .”
Dammit. It hasn't worked, and Phil's lost Hawkeye's attention as he spins back towards Stark and takes a menacing step forward until he's butting chests with Tony, who's calmly regarding him under two raised eyebrows.
“Nobody. Touches. My shit. Can you understand that?”
“That's never been a kink of mine.”
It's getting out of hand, Tony's usual charming self winding Hawkeye tighter than Phil's seen him in awhile. “Stand down, that's an order. I can explain the misfire.”
“Don't get me wrong, I'll try pretty much anything else once. But actual shit?” Stark makes an 'ew' face, shudders then gives Barton an apologetic shrug. “I'm sorry, it's out of the question.”
“You're not fucking funny. Admit that you screwed with my bow.”
“I will not because I did not, and I am too fucking funny. I'm hilarious, the absolute pinnacle of wit.”
Enough's enough. Phil's faint smiles and snark gets the job done, most of the time, but sometimes he wishes people around here understood that he has definite bad-ass qualities, no matter how well hidden he keeps them. Same training as Natasha, who's more dangerous with her little finger than S.H.I.E.L.D's entire armory, but on him all anyone sees is the suit, which is exactly how Phil likes it. Most of the time.
Hawkeye's right up in Stark's face, his hand making a fist in preparation for a strike and, much as Phil would usually pay a month's salary to anyone willing to lay one on Tony Stark, he's responsible. He bumps Stark out of the way and takes Barton's wrist in a lock, rotating it upwards so that Barton's face down on the table before he's had a chance to so much as grunt.
“What the fu-”
It seemed like a good idea, right up until the point where he notices that Barton's bent over the table in front of him, inches from Phil's hips, ass jutting upwards in two muscular curves like he's waiting for Phil to start fucking into it. Phil's body decides to dump a truck-load of testosterone onto his bloodstream right at the moment he sees Barton's ready to twist out of the hold and probably kick Phil's legs out from under him, so it takes focusing a brain suddenly suffering a deficit of blood supply back into the moment to take out Barton's knees with a backward hook and get him onto the floor. It's all taken less than a second, and Phil's left with a boner that won't quit, a bitching Hawkeye rolling over onto his back at Phil's ankles, and Stark looking at him as if he's finally worthy of attention.
“What the hell was that for? And, ow.”
“Not bad, Coulson. So, you're, like, a ninja in your off-time?”
“Hawkeye, on your feet. I'm the problem with your bow.” He ignores Tony and reaches down to Barton, calloused fingers wrapping around his hand as he hauls Hawkeye upright and reminds himself to let the hand in his go rather than hanging onto it. “I dropped it. It was an accident, and I apologize.”
“You dropped it?”
“Yes. I'm sorry.”
“You dropped it. On the floor. My bow.”
“Yes.”
“That bow's my personal property.”
“Yes, it is.”
Hawkeye's rubbing at his hip, looking at Phil through narrowed, heavy-lidded eyes as he works his jaw. “You didn't have to knock me on my ass, too.”
“Didn't want you striking a fellow team member.”
“Aww, Phil, I'm touched.” He should've let Barton punch Stark, who's hovering in his peripheral vision with a hand laid over his chest, choked up with fake emotion. “Truly.”
“If we could have the room, Mr. Stark?”
He doesn't break eye contact with Barton, until a silent pause makes him look Tony's way to find those clever eyes looking back and forth from both of them, cogs turning in God only knows what direction inside Stark's over-active brain. Then Tony brightens, and gives Phil a smile that makes him feel all kinds of uneasy.
“Absolutely. You guys kiss and make up in private, no prying eyes needed, I get that.” He's halfway out the door when he turns back to them for more, Barton tonguing over his teeth in annoyance while Phil outwardly maintains his usual composure. “Never let it be said that Tony Stark stood in the way of romance.”
“Order me to take him out. I'll make it clean and fast. Nobody needs to know.”
If only. Phil watches Stark leave before giving Barton a wintery smile. “You can't go around breaking team members' noses simply because they're aggravating pricks. At least, not in front of me. What you do in your spare time's up to you.”
“Spare time?” Barton snickers, his nose crinkling as he grins, and Phil thinks again how nice a name Clint is. Which is why he never uses it. Not even in his head. “What's that?”
“I should've said something about your bow earlier.”
“Yeah, let me know if you're klutzy enough for there to be a next time.”
“We're good?” He shouldn't be asking, but Clint, strike that, Barton's grin makes it worthwhile.
“Sure thing, butterfingers. Seriously, you dropped it? Have you any idea how much that bow is worth, or how long it would take me to build another one?”
“Casualties are inevitable in our line of work.”
He nods a curt goodbye and turns to leave, needing to get away and back to his computer screen to file some dull reports and get his mind thoroughly away from the matter of Hawkeye, who cackles to himself suddenly as he's nearly gone. “Hey, can I quote you on calling Stark an aggravating prick?”
“That's not precisely what I said. Good afternoon, Agent Barton.”
“Damn, you're slippy.” Hawkeye stretches a knot out of his back and Phil pretends like he doesn't notice for the fiftieth time that day alone that armpit hair shouldn't be that attractive. “Catch you around, boss.”
-
He doesn't know what it is, but it's blue and in liquid form before it hits, at which point it foams. And stings, then begins to burn, Phil looking down at his jacket sleeve when it starts to sizzle. Bruce appears in the smoking doorway of his lab wearing goggles and an alarmed expression, which grows in severity when Natasha glares at him, plucking at her sweater.
“This is cashmere. Four ply, on sale, and the skirt's Donna Karan. Or, should I say, was.”
“Ooh.” Bruce winces sympathetically, although a worried look at Phil suggests he has no clue what or who the fuck a Donna Karan is. “Sorry. Uh, you guys might want to shower it off immediately. Using this. And use some hazardous waste bags for your clothes?”
He tosses a canister of clear fluid down the hallway after Phil, who catches it and continues to run after Natasha towards the bathroom block, swiping at the burning skin along the side of his face that was directed towards the lab door when it exploded outward without warning. He throws himself fully clothed into the shower once he gets there and wrenches it fully on, cold, digging his keys, tazer and phone out to throw them out of the cubicle and into a sink before uncapping Banner's canister and pouring half the contents over himself. The stinging subsides somewhat, the liquid turning into a viscous gel that's soothing the burns on his face, so Phil reaches around to stick the canister through next door's curtain.
“Here. It's messy and stinks, but seems to be helping.”
“I thought the lab was reinforced to contain Hyde, not Dr. Jekyll. Oh, my God, it's even eaten through my bra.”
“We always agreed too many geniuses in one place was going to get complicated.”
“Should stick them all in a bunker and be done with it.”
His jacket's ruined, as is his shirt, the foam having burned down to the skin in several areas. Phil lifts his elbow, fascinated to watch the skin beginning to blister as the gel calms the nerves beneath. “You know you'd only get buried down there with them.”
“You're the babysitter, not me.”
His tie's also screwed. Pity. Phil kind of liked this tie. “I'm not the one living here.”
You'd think Phil would be too jaded at this point in his career to jump at anything, but Tasha's face, mascara dripping down her blotchy, blistered cheeks appearing around Phil's shower curtain to fix him with the evil eye, makes him flinch. “I'm on active duty and have no idea what you think you're saying to me.”
“Active duty as a member of the Avengers Initiative, yes. If you don't mind . . .” His pants are smoking and he starts to unzip.
“Please, I've seen it before. I'm S.H.I.E.L.D, I'm support, not Avengers, and don't give me that look, I know that look, I invented that look.”
“What do I know, I'm the babysitter.” He lifts his hands in a 'not my fault' way and gives her a bland smile before she glares some more then disappears back into her stall. “Take it up with Fury if you don't like it.”
“Stop implying I'm an Avenger and I won't need to.”
There's a hole in his shorts under where a big splodge of foam had eaten through his pants. Phil doesn't want to look, but nothing's burning, yet, so he inches them down and checks, slumping against the stall's tiles in relief when everything looks normal, healthy and unfried. He then vows to keep his jacket buttoned from then on, under every circumstance. Even if digging in Death Valley turns up in a future detail, his jacket will remain buttoned. “I seem to be offending everyone today. My apologies.”
“Trust me, Coulson, you could offend the pope without saying a word.”
“Already met him. I think he liked me.”
“What does he know, he's a Nazi.”
“You should read his file sometime. Interesting guy.”
“Do I sound like I'm in the mood to discuss the actual pope? Ugh, this stuff is making me gag.”
The gel's solidified and sloughed off, Phil suspecting it's taken some of his skin with it. He tugs his damp shorts back up and turned off the shower, figuring that will have to do, his socks soaking and bunched up in his shoes as he abandons his other clothes and exits the shower, squelching his way over to a locker for some towels then handing Natasha a couple of the top of her stall.
“Thanks.” A moment later she appears, one towel wrapped armpit to armpit, flicking her head backward into a towel turban as she narrows her eyes at her reflection in the mirrors above the row of sinks. “I look like a leper. Hulk or no hulk, I'm kicking his ass. You want in?”
-
Their appearance stops the hum of conversation, Tony muting the TV with a terse order as his eyes pretty much pop out of his skull at the sight of Natasha in low-slung sweatpants and a white exercise singlet that does little to disguise her lack of bra, her eyes lethal as lasers as she dares anyone to mention it. Steve's turned the color of beetroot as he looks everywhere but at Natasha, Bruce is sidling towards the door like he hopes Tasha's not going to notice he's in there, and Thor comes across to thwack Phil on the back with a hearty blow which cures the crick in his neck he's had all day since waking up in his recliner at five am.
“I, too, once suffered the loss of my armor. It meant that I was no longer a god, but it does not make you less of a warrior.”
“Thank you, for sharing that with me, but I'm good.”
Yeah, so he's missing the suit, but armor's pushing it. Phil is starting to suspect Thor's getting the hang of sarcasm. Then Hawkeye comes in through the door, rubbing fingers through spiky wet hair, sliding to a halt as he notices Phil, blotchy and blister-covered all the way down one arm and that side of his face, a few circles of hair missing, in the same standard-issue gym sweats and shirt that Natasha's wearing.
“Did I miss a memo?” He blinks at Phil, then tilts his head. “Casual Wednesdays?”
“It's a thing now.” Tony's still staring at Natasha's unfettered rack like a man with a death-wish as he hikes a thumb towards his bedroom. “I've got a whole drawer full of sarongs back there if anyone wants to let it all hang out. Nobody? Stevo?”
Steve gives Stark a concerned glance. “Let what hang out, and what's a sarong?”
“Agent Romanoff and I participated in one of Dr. Banner's breakthroughs. If you'll all excuse me . . .”
He's got a shirt and jacket in his office. Yes, it will look stupid with the sweats, but Phil's tired and itching and wants to cover up, especially now with Barton's eyes picking out every last flaw visible over his exposed chest and arms. Hell, he's probably already counted every last one of Phil's few gray chest hairs. Maybe someone in the field agents' locker room will have a spare pair of those polyester slacks he got promoted out of a few years back.
“Wait, Coulson, wait up.”
Phil sighs and turns back, wanting to pick at the itching, oozing blisters and knowing he shouldn't. Sweats and a thin t-shirt aren't any kind of protection against the rush of vivid awareness he always gets when Hawkeye's up close, nothing compared to how he can usually hide behind a sharp suit and a smirk. Maybe Thor wasn't being so sarcastic after all. “Is there a problem, agent?”
“No, no problem. Just wanted to make sure you were, uh . . .” Hawkeye coughs and stares at the floor, rubbing his stubby fingers through his shower-damp hair again. At least he's changed, armpit hair covered up although the dips and planes of his muscled arm are still very much on show. Someone should take Barton shopping for anything with sleeves. “I guess you're human after all.”
“As opposed to . . . ?” There's a hint of irritability to it, the itching driving him nuts and Phil's control beginning to corrode.
“I've seen you shot at, blown up, caught under falling rubble and blasted at by killer robots, all without so much of a scratch, not to say running for ten minutes in a wool suit without breaking a sweat. Guess I'd started to believe you were invulnerable or something.”
“It's my job to keep out the way where possible, and I'm good at my job.”
Barton's eyes flick quickly to trace the length of a puckered scar running from Phil's ribs, into his armpit and down almost to the blisters on his elbow, before looking up to examine the worst of the burns over Phil's cheekbone. “Looks like it. But you're okay?”
The unexpected concern coloring Barton's hooded eyes a shade darker than usual all of a sudden makes Phil feel old, and stupid standing there in his singlet in a room full of superheroes. He's not badly built for a man of his age, the job demanding at least thirty minutes a day in the gym reading over reports on a cross-trainer before benching half of what he used to be able to for another ten, but he's deskbound for too many hours these days and it shows. He knows it must. It shouldn't matter, and without his suit, Hawkeye standing there looking all worried and sort of like he wants to kiss Phil's boo-boos better in a strictly heterosexual manner, it does.
“It's superficial, I'll survive. Team briefing in twenty.”
“I know.”
Phil slumps internally at how those two short words are flatly stated, no sass, no acknowledgment that his dismissal was bordering on rude. “I appreciate you checking up on me. I'm fine, thank you.”
“Sure, no problem.”
Steve would've said something toe curling and earnest about team mates looking out for one another. Tony would've pretended not to notice anything had happened and that Phil usually looked like he'd been barbequed because it's funny to him that less attractive people exist. Natasha would smother a yawn while checking for escape routes, and Bruce would feign concern while all the time his eyes would scream Whatever, man, I'm eternally cursed with fighting the living embodiment of my id so excuse me if I'm not weeping over giving you a rash. But Hawkeye simply nods and 'No problem's him before turning to leave, elegantly reminding Phil that there's so much more to him than those shoulders, those arms, and that unforgivable ass.
-
“What have I told you about sunscreen? Anything less than factor thirty and you might as well cover yourself in canola.”
“Director Fury.” Phil gets to his feet, Fury waving away the formalities as he perches on a corner of Phil's desk, pursing his lips at its contents.
“Nobody should maintain a desk this minimalist. It's unnatural.” Phil 'sir's and reaches out to push over the neatly-stacked memos in his out-tray so they flutter down to cover his desk in disarray, Fury giving a satisfied nod. “Better. We've got a problem.”
Phil groans and sits back down in his chair. “Oh, God, what did he do now?”
“Not Stark this time.”
“No? You're kidding.”
An eyebrow is raised at him above the patch. “You know me, Phil. Always a kidder.”
“Absolutely, sir. What's the problem?”
“It's Hawkeye.”
Phil feels his heart stutter in his chest. “What about him?”
Fury's leafing idly through the memos, picking them up randomly to read through, rolling his eye at one and screwing it up into a ball before tossing it back over his shoulder to land in the to-be-shredded box behind him without looking. “We've received some information that suggests we need to keep an eye on him. Nothing solid.”
“What's our source?”
“Classified.”
“Right. Keep an eye on him for . . . ?”
“Possible contacts within HYDRA.”
“No.” It's out of Phil's mouth before he thinks about it. “Not him.”
“You're sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, much as I'd like to be able to take your word for it . . .” Fury leans down to open up the drawer where Phil keeps his secret stash. “What is this, Wild Cherry? No Wintergreen?”
“I'll restock at my earliest opportunity.”
“You do that.” Fury pops a candy into his mouth and gets up, flipping the roll to Phil who catches it easily. “Take Barton to go check out that airstrip in Nevada.”
“I thought we'd decided that wasn't a priority.”
“It's not, but you know how I am about loose ends. Plus it'll give you the chance to get Barton talking. I don't believe he has the field experience to keep from tripping up once he's feeling chatty.”
“I don't know, sir. Hawkeye keeps his personal life pretty close to his chest.” This is not good. Fury glances significantly at Phil's fingers where he's picking at the candy wrapper without noticing. Phil stops, and raises his chin. “I believe Agent Romanoff would be a better choice.”
“Trust me on this.”
“But, sir -”
“You've got your assignment, agent. Keep me in the loop.”
Phil sighs, puffs out his cheeks and capitulates. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”