Taking Initiative (PG)
Title: Taking Initiative
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1310
Summary: Clint is the only one to notice and therefore, the only one to act.
Notes: written for delicatale
Clint watches from the ceiling as junior agents stream in and out of Phil’s office, bringing reports and bad news and all their toils of the life they chose. They dump their problems on his lap, since to them he exists in the space between senior agent and liaison, viewed as a blank featureless body who is capable of solving anything. Or so the others think - Clint knows the truth of the man he lies beside at night.
The marksman is the only who sees as the older man sinks lower in his seat, weighed down by the albatross around his neck. He’s soon hidden behind paperwork of requests and sitreps and incoming faxes and Clint stays, observing silently in the ceiling until he can’t take it any more.
He shifts on his stomach so he’s over the vent that looks into the hallway outside the office, pulling a dart gun from his belt and the small tranqs R&D equipped him with last week. It’s unfortunate that this has to happen, but it’s unlikely that Phil will get a break if Clint doesn’t act. He can afford another disciplinary notice on his record, he thinks. (He can and will do anything for Phil.) So Clint takes aim and blows; an agent falls a half-minute later. The men around him look around, left, right, everywhere but up and the marksman chuckles in his head. These junior agents of SHIELD still have a lot to learn.
Four more agents become friends with the industrial carpeting in short order, hitting it face first without warning. Then Clint realizes someone has calculated the trajectory of his blowgun; it’s a safe bet that one of the agents has figured out he’s in the pipes above their head. They’re walking outside the radius, at angles even Clint can’t hit without becoming a contortionist. Agents still queue up by the door to steal more of Phil’s time and Clint decides on another plan of attack.
He crawls back down the air duct, slithering on his belly and pushing with his legs. It’s graceless but well-practiced; Clint ends up at the vent above the photocopier room down the hallway from Phil’s office. He drops down in a matter of seconds, boots landing on the lid of the machine. The junior agent halts in the doorway, looks at Clint, back at the stack of papers in her hand, and wisely decides to use the photocopier on the next hallway over.
Clearly being hidden and scaring them off didn’t work, since Clint still notices there are two people waiting for Phil’s office door to open for every one that walks out. He strolls up to the middle of the line and leans against the wall opposite, hands in his pockets. The men and women stare, more than a few connecting the dots of their sleeping comrades to the man in black that lounges in front of them.
“What's your business with Agent Coulson?” Clint asks. He makes sure his tone is just this side of friendly though the accompanying grin is anything but. Another agent exits and the one in the front of the line edges through the door quickly without looking at the marksman.
An answer comes soon enough when Clint decides to pick at his nails with the small throwing knife that's usually strapped to the underside of his right arm. It's pathetically Hollywood but that's what these people are used to. They're green around the edges, wet behind the ears and so Clint plays into stereotypes because they wouldn't understand that no sound is just as dangerous as a loud one, that just because you aren't armed doesn't mean you're without power.
“We have reports to give him.”
“Coulson said we can come to him with anything.”
“He asked for the sitrep of the mission three weeks ago.”
“I have his coffee.”
Clint's blue eyes snap to the woman holding the steaming cup and he points silently. She walks to the head of the line and someone opens the door for her. Clint spots Phil's tired face before it swings shut and he frowns. Just over an hour has passed since Clint was watching the man from above a ceiling panel and he already looks like he’s aged a few years.
“Here are a few lessons for you all to remember,” the man announces. “Coffee is always immediate. He likes it black in the morning, one sugar in the afternoon. Real sugar, none of that fake stuff.” Clint judges the line of people in front of him, the agents hanging onto every word. “Who has sitreps?” He watches a small portion of the line raise their hand. “Good, give them all to her-” he points to the woman with black hair who is also raising her hand, “and get back to work. Missions reports go to him.” That gets rid of over half the line and Clint breathes a small sigh of relief.
“Who has a complaint or a problem, either with a colleague or how something was handled in the field?” Three people raise their hand. Clint looks at all of them, standing together in a huddle, and scoffs. “Go back to your desks, find your immediate superior. Agent Coulson is not your nanny, your parent or your watchdog. He has enough to deal with and is certainly not here to supervise your schoolyard fights. If it was a problem in the field, think about why that call was made. You're none of you seasoned veterans and there are plenty of things you probably aren't aware of. After you've finished considering every single angle, then you can take it up with Coulson.” Clint's voice drops. “Is that clear enough?” The three nod and scurry away.
The door opens and Clint catches the arm of the agent about to enter. “Nope, not today. Office is closed until further notice to anyone without a Level 14 security clearance.” He grins cheerfully. “Spread the word, would you?” He shuts the door in the man's face before he can rebuke that no one on the floor is above Level 6.
Phil stares steadily at Clint, not saying a word as the marksman crosses the room and takes the seat beside his desk.
“You aren't Supernanny,” Clint chastises mildly. Phil reaches for his coffee mug. “Their problems are not yours.”
“You may be unaware of what it means to be a team,” Clint feels like Phil has stabbed him with a knife with his unassuming tone because he’s trying, he really is, but people like him learn early on that trust is just a smokescreen, easy words with no follow through. “but I see you are learning what it means to be a leader.”
“I doubt that.” Clint laughs, emotions on a rollercoaster from the bland judgement and then quick praise. It's nothing that can't be worked through on the range, which is where he plans to go after this. “I'm nothing more than a foot soldier with damn good aim.”
“Be that as it may, you handled the junior agents efficiently. It’s been noted.”
“Does that mean I finally get a gold star on my record?” Clint's grin is so wide it almost hurts. He’s succeeding in bringing Phil back to himself, even if it’s for a few moments.
“I'm not promising anything,” Phil says and drinks his coffee. “Do you owe me paperwork, Barton?”
“I owe you dinner at seven,” the younger man responds.
Phil nods and picks up his pen. “I’ll be there.” Clint stands, leans over the desk to kiss Phil and then wanders back out into the hallway. He reckons he’s done his good deed for the day and he knows it’ll be a few more days before the agents start to pester Phil again. At least he was able to give him that much.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1310
Summary: Clint is the only one to notice and therefore, the only one to act.
Notes: written for delicatale
Clint watches from the ceiling as junior agents stream in and out of Phil’s office, bringing reports and bad news and all their toils of the life they chose. They dump their problems on his lap, since to them he exists in the space between senior agent and liaison, viewed as a blank featureless body who is capable of solving anything. Or so the others think - Clint knows the truth of the man he lies beside at night.
The marksman is the only who sees as the older man sinks lower in his seat, weighed down by the albatross around his neck. He’s soon hidden behind paperwork of requests and sitreps and incoming faxes and Clint stays, observing silently in the ceiling until he can’t take it any more.
He shifts on his stomach so he’s over the vent that looks into the hallway outside the office, pulling a dart gun from his belt and the small tranqs R&D equipped him with last week. It’s unfortunate that this has to happen, but it’s unlikely that Phil will get a break if Clint doesn’t act. He can afford another disciplinary notice on his record, he thinks. (He can and will do anything for Phil.) So Clint takes aim and blows; an agent falls a half-minute later. The men around him look around, left, right, everywhere but up and the marksman chuckles in his head. These junior agents of SHIELD still have a lot to learn.
Four more agents become friends with the industrial carpeting in short order, hitting it face first without warning. Then Clint realizes someone has calculated the trajectory of his blowgun; it’s a safe bet that one of the agents has figured out he’s in the pipes above their head. They’re walking outside the radius, at angles even Clint can’t hit without becoming a contortionist. Agents still queue up by the door to steal more of Phil’s time and Clint decides on another plan of attack.
He crawls back down the air duct, slithering on his belly and pushing with his legs. It’s graceless but well-practiced; Clint ends up at the vent above the photocopier room down the hallway from Phil’s office. He drops down in a matter of seconds, boots landing on the lid of the machine. The junior agent halts in the doorway, looks at Clint, back at the stack of papers in her hand, and wisely decides to use the photocopier on the next hallway over.
Clearly being hidden and scaring them off didn’t work, since Clint still notices there are two people waiting for Phil’s office door to open for every one that walks out. He strolls up to the middle of the line and leans against the wall opposite, hands in his pockets. The men and women stare, more than a few connecting the dots of their sleeping comrades to the man in black that lounges in front of them.
“What's your business with Agent Coulson?” Clint asks. He makes sure his tone is just this side of friendly though the accompanying grin is anything but. Another agent exits and the one in the front of the line edges through the door quickly without looking at the marksman.
An answer comes soon enough when Clint decides to pick at his nails with the small throwing knife that's usually strapped to the underside of his right arm. It's pathetically Hollywood but that's what these people are used to. They're green around the edges, wet behind the ears and so Clint plays into stereotypes because they wouldn't understand that no sound is just as dangerous as a loud one, that just because you aren't armed doesn't mean you're without power.
“We have reports to give him.”
“Coulson said we can come to him with anything.”
“He asked for the sitrep of the mission three weeks ago.”
“I have his coffee.”
Clint's blue eyes snap to the woman holding the steaming cup and he points silently. She walks to the head of the line and someone opens the door for her. Clint spots Phil's tired face before it swings shut and he frowns. Just over an hour has passed since Clint was watching the man from above a ceiling panel and he already looks like he’s aged a few years.
“Here are a few lessons for you all to remember,” the man announces. “Coffee is always immediate. He likes it black in the morning, one sugar in the afternoon. Real sugar, none of that fake stuff.” Clint judges the line of people in front of him, the agents hanging onto every word. “Who has sitreps?” He watches a small portion of the line raise their hand. “Good, give them all to her-” he points to the woman with black hair who is also raising her hand, “and get back to work. Missions reports go to him.” That gets rid of over half the line and Clint breathes a small sigh of relief.
“Who has a complaint or a problem, either with a colleague or how something was handled in the field?” Three people raise their hand. Clint looks at all of them, standing together in a huddle, and scoffs. “Go back to your desks, find your immediate superior. Agent Coulson is not your nanny, your parent or your watchdog. He has enough to deal with and is certainly not here to supervise your schoolyard fights. If it was a problem in the field, think about why that call was made. You're none of you seasoned veterans and there are plenty of things you probably aren't aware of. After you've finished considering every single angle, then you can take it up with Coulson.” Clint's voice drops. “Is that clear enough?” The three nod and scurry away.
The door opens and Clint catches the arm of the agent about to enter. “Nope, not today. Office is closed until further notice to anyone without a Level 14 security clearance.” He grins cheerfully. “Spread the word, would you?” He shuts the door in the man's face before he can rebuke that no one on the floor is above Level 6.
Phil stares steadily at Clint, not saying a word as the marksman crosses the room and takes the seat beside his desk.
“You aren't Supernanny,” Clint chastises mildly. Phil reaches for his coffee mug. “Their problems are not yours.”
“You may be unaware of what it means to be a team,” Clint feels like Phil has stabbed him with a knife with his unassuming tone because he’s trying, he really is, but people like him learn early on that trust is just a smokescreen, easy words with no follow through. “but I see you are learning what it means to be a leader.”
“I doubt that.” Clint laughs, emotions on a rollercoaster from the bland judgement and then quick praise. It's nothing that can't be worked through on the range, which is where he plans to go after this. “I'm nothing more than a foot soldier with damn good aim.”
“Be that as it may, you handled the junior agents efficiently. It’s been noted.”
“Does that mean I finally get a gold star on my record?” Clint's grin is so wide it almost hurts. He’s succeeding in bringing Phil back to himself, even if it’s for a few moments.
“I'm not promising anything,” Phil says and drinks his coffee. “Do you owe me paperwork, Barton?”
“I owe you dinner at seven,” the younger man responds.
Phil nods and picks up his pen. “I’ll be there.” Clint stands, leans over the desk to kiss Phil and then wanders back out into the hallway. He reckons he’s done his good deed for the day and he knows it’ll be a few more days before the agents start to pester Phil again. At least he was able to give him that much.