Fic: The Avengers, "The Risk of Waiting" (Clint/Coulson)
Title: The Risk of Waiting
Fandom: Marvel's The Avengers
Pairing: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Rating: PG-13 (language, violence)
Word Count: 4254
Summary: Clint doesn't understand why he's been given an assignment babysitting scientists in the Mojave. Normally, having his handler along makes a mission better, but Coulson isn't quite being his unflappable self.
A/N: Non-linear story-telling, and set pre-movie. Forever abeta: cruelest_month.
Clint entered Natasha's quarters without knocking. "Fury's shipping me to the desert again," he groused, flopping onto the small bunk. "Hey, where are you going?"
Natasha had bags and suitcases open and was filling them with clothes. "I've been given a mission. Russia."
"Ah, the Mother Country." His accent was so terrible it made Natasha flinch. "I get stuck babysitting scientists in the Mojave, and you get the sexy job."
"There's nothing sexy about it."
"Whatever. I saw the bra you just packed."
She zipped up a duffel bag and threw it at his head. Clint made an obligatory hurt noise and removed it from his face.
Natasha started checking her weapons as she said, "You could always make your babysitting job sexy."
"Oh yeah?"
"Sure. Hasn't your favorite handler been assigned there, too?" Natasha teased. Clint grunted at her and turned his back to her. "Make up for your missed opportunity in New Mexico."
"I don't take opportunities because it's silly and just a phase."
"It's been how many years?"
"Since when do phases have time limits? Besides, I'll just sound like some dopey teenager hot for teacher. He's all suits and protocol and I'm blue jeans and 'cut the chatter, Barton.' So I'll thank you to let me wallow in my schoolboy crush."
"If I had a thing for him, and I'm definitely not saying I do, I wouldn't say anything because frankly, he's terrifying."
Clint laughed and rolled back over to look at her. "What? He scares you? Come on!"
She stared at the gray wall. "It's how he walks around here all 'suits and protocol' and pleasantness, but can kill you with the pen he had just been using to fill out form 82-B, section H without even looking up from his desk."
"So? Mild-mannered paper-pusher by day, secret ninja by night. We all do that. You're fantastic at it."
"That's different. I downplay my skills as part of a cover, to fool the bad guys. It's the way Stark looked at Natalie Rushman from Legal and the other way he looks at Agent Romanoff. They are two people. There is no difference between the man conducting boring debriefs and the killer who saved your ass in Venezuela."
Venezuela. Clint's mission had gone completely tits-up. He'd lost communication with his handler of five months. At first he had been relieved to not have that suit's voice nagging in his ear as if the manual-reading G-man had any idea of what it was like to be in the field.
But the loss of contact with Coulson also meant the loss of any hope for back-up.
The drug lord had Clint in a dark room with a dirt floor. His hands were chained to a damp concrete wall. Two goons had worked him over well. His face, chest and stomach were mottled with fist and foot-shaped bruises.
El Jeffe even put in a personal appearance. "Has he told you what who he is working for?" The boss-man asked, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a cigar.
"He's said nothing," one goon answered.
Yeah, that probably had something to do with the swollen jaw, loose teeth, and bleeding tongue. Morons didn't know Interrogation 101: If you want info from someone, you don't limit their ability to speak.
El Jeffe clamped the cigar between his teeth and took out a lighter and a cigar cutter. He snipped off the end and lit it up. "Perhaps we have not given him significant reason." He grinned and puffed. He crouched in front of Clint, blowing smoke in his face. "Perhaps we should take something precious from him. You have a very interesting choice of weapon, gringo, and use it well. But even someone with your skill can't use a bow with no fingers."
Clint jerked and tried to twist away despite knowing it was futile as the drug lord slid his cigar cutter around Clint's right index finger. "Now, tell us who you work for and where you got your information."
Clint could only mumble his vulgar reply.
El Jeffe clicked his tongue as if remorseful and Clint prepared himself for the pain.
But then the door was kicked in. Two shots rang out. Goon One went down with a double tap to the chest. Goon Two was about to return fire, but was too slow and received a bullet through the forehead.
El Jeffe didn't have time to stand and was sent sprawling to the floor by well-placed kick to the face.
"Can you walk?" Coulson was already on his knees, picking at the locks on Clint's wrists.
Clint tried to say "I think so," but it came out as a garbled muffle.
But apparently understanding garbled muffles was one of Coulson's secret abilities. "Good, I can't carry you both."
Both? Now free, Clint braced himself against the wall and stood. He hurt everywhere, but yeah, he could walk. Coulson turned to the prone body of the drug lord over and zip-tied his hands behind his back. Ah. Both.
"We have three minutes to reach the extraction point," Coulson said, lifting El Jeffe into a fireman's carry.
Clint nodded and followed Coulson out of the makeshift cell. He wanted to be, knew he should have been, embarrassed and angry that it took his stuffy handler to complete his mission. But he wasn't. He was too confused and in awe. The new twist in his gut he attributed to his injuries.
Natasha was saying, "Anyone in SHIELD who doesn't know better always makes the same assumptions about him. I get wanting to make your target underestimate your abilities. Why do that to your own colleagues?"
"So they can get embarrassingly turned-on when they do find it?"
"You wish."
Clint sighed. "Yeah."
One, two quick shots in succession both unerringly hit their targets. The smallest flicker of movement made him turn and nocked another arrow. Not even a pair of black, polished shoes appearing in his line of vision could distract him. He let loose the arrow and it pierced straight through the body of the small lizard and embedded itself in the sand right next to those shiny shoes.
"Agent Barton, what are you doing?" Coulson called up to Clint's position on the roof on an outlying building.
"Taking care of several perimeter breaches, sir," he shouted back.
"So, I see." Coulson wrapped his fingers around the arrow's shaft and, with a hardy yank, pulled it from the ground.
Six months ago, in a different desert, Clint crouched and cocked his head, looking at the alien object that had Fury's panties in such a twist. "Can I touch it?" Clint asked.
"Our scientists say it isn't emitting nor made of anything lethal," said Coulson.
"Just extremely heavy." Clint stood, hands on hips and smirked. "Given it a try, boss?"
"Didn't see the point."
Clint grinned. "Come on, I'm sure even a guy like you can't resist grasping the ol' handle and giving it a few tugs."
Coulson betrayed the slightest amusement. "If that's what satisfies you, Barton, be my guest." Coulson turned and walked away to supervise the continued construction of their temporary base.
Another flirting-attempt thwarted, Clint's arms and smile fell. He looked down at the strange hammer thing, grabbed, and pulled. Ah well, nothing wrong with giving it the old college try.
He didn't think he had been reminiscing long, but suddenly Coulson was on the roof next to him. He held out the retrieved arrow with the lizard still attached.
"Are you bored, Hawkeye?"
Clint took the arrow and removed his kill. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"
Coulson's eyebrows rose above his sunglasses. "You're not known to do otherwise."
Clint chuckled. "I'm bored to death, sir."
"So, you've decided to take it out on the local wildlife?"
"Pest control. Need the practice."
"There are facilities on campus."
Clint sighed and sat down on the roof's edge, resting his bow on a raised knee. "Why am I here, sir? Surely there's some junior lackey you can get to play nanny."
Coulson's shadow fell over him, moving to block the afternoon sun. "In this entire facility, only a handful of staff knows the full truth about Dr. Selvig's work here. The sensitivity of this project requires the presence of only the most trusted agents."
That made Clint laugh. "Then why did Fury send me here and not, say, Natasha?"
There was a long silence before Coulson answered. "Fury needed her skills elsewhere." Another pause. "And I did not request her."
Silently, the shadow moved away and the sun once again warmed Clint's back.
"Good morning, Agent Barton!" Selvig called cheerfully as he passed under Clint's nest.
"Morning," Clint replied. He needed more coffee before he could consider it "good." Clint scanned each face as the scientists filed in the for the day's work. Sure, they each had to perform a retinal scan before entering the hangar, but Clint trusted his own eyes better than a computer, no matter how sophisticated.
The blue cube was at its place of honor, hooked up to all sorts of equipment and sensors. Dr. Tan brushed against Selvig as she joined him at a console. They spoke to each other, Clint understanding only about every third word.
Maybe that was the real reason Coulson requested Hawkeye for the job. He was bright enough to catch a general gist of what they were trying to do, but dim enough that even under duress could never reveal classified details, even if he wanted to.
When he expressed this theory to Coulson, the senior agent shook his head. "Not too dim, but not too bright? I suppose that makes you, what, a warm glow?"
Well, he was now. But he was not going to duck his head and bite his lip like a schoolgirl. Clint loved and hated when Coulson did that. He loved that they were that comfortable now, that Coulson could return a friendly barb, acknowledge a playful flirtatious remark every now and then. What he hated was the lack of intent behind Coulson's words.
"Do you have anything to report, Agent Barton?"
Clint slouched in the chair across from Coulson's desk. It was amazing. Somehow between this place, New York, and the helicarrier, Coulson's offices were all identical. They all had the same desk, chairs, walls, even the same shelves with the same black binders. Well, not all the same. There was a slim, unmarked binder that was conspicuously missing from the rows.
"Agent Barton."
"Huh?"
Coulson gave him an exasperated look.
Clint shrugged. "Nothing different than any other day. The scientists come in, they use big words, press some buttons. There's been no suspect behavior, no unauthorized contact." He smirked. "Unless you count the increased 'casual' touching Selvig's getting from Dr. Tan. I think somebody has a crush."
"And you're an expert on identifying that?"
"I am, sir. Speaking of, where's your..." He pointed to the binders behind Coulson's head and clicked his tongue.
"I decided to keep them in New York."
"Close to the real-deal."
To his credit, Coulson didn't blush as much anymore when the subject of his card collection was brought up.
Clint had only found out after he had brought Natasha in. He was left alone in Coulson's office. His handler was late. That had Clint worried and fidgety. He was in deep enough shit for disobeying orders, what more trouble could he get into just for poking around the boss' office? He tried the desk drawers. They were locked of course, thumbprint activated. He would just have to go back to that later if he had time.
He turned his attention to the bookshelves. The black binders were thick and neatly labeled with SHIELD insignia. There were rows of procedure manuals, regulation, policy, and a disturbing amount of hard-copies for all the forms Clint never filled out before nor after a mission. There was one binder though, unlike the others. It was slim, unmarked, and tucked snugly between two other binders, almost hidden.
Clint slid it out and opened it. "You've got to be kidding me!"
Inside were plastic pages with nine pockets. Almost every slot contained a glossy card. Glossy Captain America cards. Clint chuckled to himself. "What the hell?" He stuck a thumb into one of the pockets and was about to slide out a card with a saluting Captain America grinning like a goofball.
"Don't remove that."
Clint jumped. Fucking ninja.
"They depreciate in value the more they are handled." Coulson held out his hand. Clint obligingly handed the binder over. "I'm still missing three," Coulson said, mostly to himself as he stroked a hand over the black cover.
Damn, now Clint was feeling jealous over a dead guy.
Coulson came around to the same side Clint was standing and said: "I suppose you think these can be used as leverage in this disciplinary meeting."
"What! No! I wouldn't..." He wouldn't even use the way Coulson's face had gone pink when he saw Clint handling his little secret. Clint cleared his throat and grinned. "It's perfect."
Coulson narrowed his eyes, assessing, waiting for Clint to make the obvious jokes. Clint didn't have any. It just made sense. Determined, hard-working, bad-ass, protector of the innocent, Phil Coulson, idolized Captain America. It was insanely cute, but Clint knew full well that if he were to say it, Coulson would take it as sarcasm.
Coulson pressed his thumb to a drawer's lock. It popped open with a beep and a click. He slid his collection into it and removed a manila folder. Sitting down, he motioned for Clint to do the same. When he didn't, Coulson raised his eyebrows and carried on. "Miss Romanoff has been extremely cooperative and informative. Should she prove trustworthy, you may have brought in one of our most valuable assets."
"Thank you, sir," Clint said, allowing himself the smallest of smug smirks.
"However, you disobeyed direct orders."
"But you just said-"
"You are therefore suspended-"
"Hey, now!" Clint heavily leaned forward, allowing his hands to slap on the wood desktop.
Unfazed, Coulson continued, "From active field duty for an indefinite period."
"Oh." Clint straightened and sheepishly let his arms hang loosely at his side.
"While you are not in the field, you will be spending your time orienting and training Miss Romanoff on what it means to be SHIELD. You brought her in, she'll be your responsibility... For now."
Relief and gratitude spread through every muscle, making him relax for the first time since he returned from Russia. Coulson nodded once and started filling out the forms in the folder.
"Is that all, sir?"
"Just one question." Coulson closed the folder and looked back up at Clint. "Why?"
Clint let out a long breath and ran a hand through his hair as he tried to come up with the words. "I recognized the look in her eyes, sir. She wants to stop running, and thought there was only one thing that could make that happen. She needed to know that there were other options than being on the wrong end of my arrow."
"Thank you, Barton. You're dismissed."
Clint caught the pride in Coulson's voice and face. He had to stamp down on the urge to skip out the office.
Back in an identical office years and miles away, Clint said, "I bet you wish you were back there, too, now that Sleeping Beauty is up and about."
"I'm where I'm needed."
"Yeah, like you're not as bored as I am. Unless... What exactly are you overseeing here? It's not just me and Team Cube."
Coulson's face was a picture of trained inscrutability.
"It's need-to-know and I don't need to."
Coulson smiled a little. "Something like that."
One morning Clint climbed up to his post and was surprised to find it already occupied. "Coulson? What the hell are you doing?"
"Hiding from moral ambiguity."
"So, should I leave?"
Coulson laughed. "No. I brought coffee."
"Oh, boss, you know how to make a girl feel special." He pulled himself over the last rung on the ladder and up on the catwalk. Clint took the coffee greedily, even if it was just the same old crap from the cafeteria. Coulson was standing, Clint sat as he normally did, cross-legged, leaning over the rail.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Clint asked as he watched the morning shift file in, same as always, day-in; day-out. He took a drink from his Styrofoam cup. It wasn't that bad! Must have been another one of Coulson's secret superpowers: the ability to turn boiled mud into coffee.
"I'm sorry."
Clint's grip on his drink tightened. "For what?"
"I'm sorry that you're unhappy. I know you rather be in the field, on some exciting assignment with Black Widow. And I'm sorry that I'm not sorry you're here. I requested your presence for purely selfish reasons."
Clint tried to clear the sudden block in his throat. "Sir..."
"I knew I'd probably go mad out here without someone like..." Coulson stopped himself. "If I didn't have you here to talk to."
Clint's heart started hammering and he knew it wasn't the caffeine. He struggled to normalize his breathing, knowing full-well Coulson was observant enough to notice something as subtle as that even if he was tactful enough to not mention it.
Clint tried laughing, going for nonchalant, but it still came out shaky. "I thought talking to me is what drives you mad."
"It is. I just happen to like your madness."
"You've never shown it."
"I thought it would be inappropriate to encourage you. But since you persist anyway... Clint..."
The use of his name made something inside Clint break. He could feel Coulson step closer to him. Really? Now? What the hell was wrong with him? They were on duty, it was barely morning. He needed to focus on other things, like his job, and not the soft way his handler said his name or the warmth of his body at his back. Clint couldn't turn around, even when Coulson repeated his name.
"Sir, I-"
Coulson's phone went off, dispersing the tension from the air. Clint had never been so happy to hear the tinny version of "Star Spangled Man" in his life. Coulson answered immediately. After a couple quick words, the call ended.
"We need to talk. Later." Coulson said to Clint, stepping around him.
"That's probably for the best, sir."
Coulson hummed in agreement and descended from the nest as quickly and smoothly as Clint himself. Clint loved it. He let a deep breath out, relieved at being able to get on with the day's job, pushing aside all the distracting thoughts that Coulson had to bring in. The senior agent had not chosen his moment well; it was worrying. Clint finished his coffee and set the empty cup down only to find that Coulson had left his half-finished cup beside him. Either he had done it on purpose, or it was another sign of his distraction. Clint took it anyway.
Shift over, Clint expected to find Coulson waiting for him outside the hangar. He wasn't. Clint tried to be glad for it. Maybe whatever the hell was going on that morning had passed and Clint would be allowed to live in the status quo of avoiding having any deep, emotional conversations with Agent Coulson. Instead, Clint found himself wanting to seek Coulson out now. Something was bothering his usually put-together handler, and Clint could only think of needing to help him, even if it meant the end of their professional acquaintance.
Clint went directly to Coulson's office. He wasn't there. So, Clint decided to wait. And waited. He decided to start rifling through the filing cabinets. That usually brought Coulson right in. it didn't. Clint took a walk across the landing field to the building he wasn't supposed to know Coulson was spending most of his time in. Two armed guards blocked his path to the entrance.
"Hey, guys!" Clint greeted. "Is Agent Coulson here?"
"This area is for authorized personnel only," was the not-so-friendly reply.
"Yeah, I know. Just wondering if you've seen Agent Coulson lately."
"This area is for authorized personnel only."
"I'm not trying to access your special area, trust me. I'm just asking if you've seen a guy."
"This area is for-"
"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Clint turned around, throwing his arms up.
The last place Clint could look was the agents' dorms. It also happened to be the last place Clint wanted to be to continue the awkward conversation started that morning. Clint raised his fist to knock on the door to Coulson's quarters. He hesitated. What if Coulson had decided he didn't want to finish the conversation? What if he saw this as Clint grossly violating his privacy? What if he wanted an extra day to sort himself and Clint was about to make everything worse? What if-
Hand still raised in mid-air, the door opened. "I could hear your indecision through the door." Clint believed him. "Come in, Agent Barton."
Coulson opened the door wider and motioned for Clint to step through. The room was no different than his own. Not as if he expected a senior agent's to be like a hotel suite, but he would have thought something a little bit nicer than the cramped room with a twin bed and a small desk. His suits were hanging in the open on what looked like an improvised closet bar.
"Sorry, I know I said I wanted to talk. I should have come for you." Coulson sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. He was sans jacket and tie, his shirt sleeves rolled-up (Hello, nice arms!) his collar open (Hello throat!). He looked tired, and distressed. He'd never seen Coulson looking so vulnerable. It made Clint's stomach turn with concern. And arousal. And shame for being both concerned and aroused.
Clint sat on the bed next to him. "Something's wrong."
Coulson sighed. "What isn't? After Stark and Puente Antiguo, we're barreling down a new direction, pushed by the World Security Council, and Fury desperately trying to keep a grip on the reigns while me and Hill cling to his coattails trying-"
"Whoa, whoa, slow down. Your metaphors are getting out of control."
Coulson took a deep breath. "With everything that is happening and the inevitable culmination, at least if Fury's theories are correct, and they usually are... It's a bit much. I wanted, needed, to be able to sort out what was most important to me before we all get buried in the fallout of living in a world with super-tech, super serums, and alien gods."
Clint frowned in concentration, trying to make sense of Coulson's rambling. "Is this about the Avengers Initiative again?"
Coulson shook his head. "It's about what makes the Avengers, and other projects, necessary. It's facing an enemy, the possibility of a death from beyond our worst nightmares. And it's about facing that death, not with fear, but regrets."
Coulson didn't give him time to reply, which was good since Clint wasn't sure what to say to that. There was just a hand on his jaw, fingers tilting his face, then warm lips pressed against his own. Coulson kissed with the same confidence and command he exuded in the field. Clint submitted to it, groaning into Coulson's mouth when lips parted and tongues met. Clint brought his hands up, first gripping Coulson's shoulders then sliding his palms down to rest on his chest, feeling the racing heartbeat keeping pace with his own.
"Boss..." Clint started, breathlessly.
"I really need you to be calling me 'Phil' now." Coulson-Phil-muttered with Clint's lower lip between his teeth.
"Phil," Clint obeyed. He repeated the name between quick kisses. It felt like a forbidden word on his tongue, and saying it made him a little giddy. He pulled back only far enough to look the other man in the eye. "I love you, Phil."
Phil grinned, his skin a deeper shade of pink than when Clint found those cards. Phil carded a hand through Clint's hair. Clint could feel his own skin flushing. "But you knew that. How long?"
"A long time."
"And you never-"
"After Venezuela..." Phil sighed. "It happens, newer recruits developing a kind of hero-worship for a senior agent. I had assumed it was a phase that would run its course and not become a problem."
"But then, I love being a problem. I suppose it would be stupid to presume that you hadn't been, uh, requiting for the same amount of time."
"Of course not. I could never love someone that stupid."
"Thanks. So..."
Phil licked his drying lips before answering. Clint suddenly stopped caring about the answer and wanted to get back to the kissing. "When you didn't kill the Black Widow."
Clint's eyes widened. "What? But... Oh, man, you are such an asshole."
"I don't deny it."
But he was Clint’s asshole now. They kissed again. Phil started working on Clint's clothes while simultaneously guiding him back onto the bed. "Really? Right now? Here?"
"No regrets, Clint, and we have so much time to make-up for. In our line of work, tomorrow's never a certainty, sometimes not even the next hour."
Wow, Phil was really worried. Clint had to distract him, get him back on track, so he reached for Phil's fly. Clint grinned and tried to lighten the mood. "Come on, we're on a boring baby-sit. What could possibly happen here tomorrow?"
Fandom: Marvel's The Avengers
Pairing: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Rating: PG-13 (language, violence)
Word Count: 4254
Summary: Clint doesn't understand why he's been given an assignment babysitting scientists in the Mojave. Normally, having his handler along makes a mission better, but Coulson isn't quite being his unflappable self.
A/N: Non-linear story-telling, and set pre-movie. Forever abeta: cruelest_month.
Clint entered Natasha's quarters without knocking. "Fury's shipping me to the desert again," he groused, flopping onto the small bunk. "Hey, where are you going?"
Natasha had bags and suitcases open and was filling them with clothes. "I've been given a mission. Russia."
"Ah, the Mother Country." His accent was so terrible it made Natasha flinch. "I get stuck babysitting scientists in the Mojave, and you get the sexy job."
"There's nothing sexy about it."
"Whatever. I saw the bra you just packed."
She zipped up a duffel bag and threw it at his head. Clint made an obligatory hurt noise and removed it from his face.
Natasha started checking her weapons as she said, "You could always make your babysitting job sexy."
"Oh yeah?"
"Sure. Hasn't your favorite handler been assigned there, too?" Natasha teased. Clint grunted at her and turned his back to her. "Make up for your missed opportunity in New Mexico."
"I don't take opportunities because it's silly and just a phase."
"It's been how many years?"
"Since when do phases have time limits? Besides, I'll just sound like some dopey teenager hot for teacher. He's all suits and protocol and I'm blue jeans and 'cut the chatter, Barton.' So I'll thank you to let me wallow in my schoolboy crush."
"If I had a thing for him, and I'm definitely not saying I do, I wouldn't say anything because frankly, he's terrifying."
Clint laughed and rolled back over to look at her. "What? He scares you? Come on!"
She stared at the gray wall. "It's how he walks around here all 'suits and protocol' and pleasantness, but can kill you with the pen he had just been using to fill out form 82-B, section H without even looking up from his desk."
"So? Mild-mannered paper-pusher by day, secret ninja by night. We all do that. You're fantastic at it."
"That's different. I downplay my skills as part of a cover, to fool the bad guys. It's the way Stark looked at Natalie Rushman from Legal and the other way he looks at Agent Romanoff. They are two people. There is no difference between the man conducting boring debriefs and the killer who saved your ass in Venezuela."
Venezuela. Clint's mission had gone completely tits-up. He'd lost communication with his handler of five months. At first he had been relieved to not have that suit's voice nagging in his ear as if the manual-reading G-man had any idea of what it was like to be in the field.
But the loss of contact with Coulson also meant the loss of any hope for back-up.
The drug lord had Clint in a dark room with a dirt floor. His hands were chained to a damp concrete wall. Two goons had worked him over well. His face, chest and stomach were mottled with fist and foot-shaped bruises.
El Jeffe even put in a personal appearance. "Has he told you what who he is working for?" The boss-man asked, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a cigar.
"He's said nothing," one goon answered.
Yeah, that probably had something to do with the swollen jaw, loose teeth, and bleeding tongue. Morons didn't know Interrogation 101: If you want info from someone, you don't limit their ability to speak.
El Jeffe clamped the cigar between his teeth and took out a lighter and a cigar cutter. He snipped off the end and lit it up. "Perhaps we have not given him significant reason." He grinned and puffed. He crouched in front of Clint, blowing smoke in his face. "Perhaps we should take something precious from him. You have a very interesting choice of weapon, gringo, and use it well. But even someone with your skill can't use a bow with no fingers."
Clint jerked and tried to twist away despite knowing it was futile as the drug lord slid his cigar cutter around Clint's right index finger. "Now, tell us who you work for and where you got your information."
Clint could only mumble his vulgar reply.
El Jeffe clicked his tongue as if remorseful and Clint prepared himself for the pain.
But then the door was kicked in. Two shots rang out. Goon One went down with a double tap to the chest. Goon Two was about to return fire, but was too slow and received a bullet through the forehead.
El Jeffe didn't have time to stand and was sent sprawling to the floor by well-placed kick to the face.
"Can you walk?" Coulson was already on his knees, picking at the locks on Clint's wrists.
Clint tried to say "I think so," but it came out as a garbled muffle.
But apparently understanding garbled muffles was one of Coulson's secret abilities. "Good, I can't carry you both."
Both? Now free, Clint braced himself against the wall and stood. He hurt everywhere, but yeah, he could walk. Coulson turned to the prone body of the drug lord over and zip-tied his hands behind his back. Ah. Both.
"We have three minutes to reach the extraction point," Coulson said, lifting El Jeffe into a fireman's carry.
Clint nodded and followed Coulson out of the makeshift cell. He wanted to be, knew he should have been, embarrassed and angry that it took his stuffy handler to complete his mission. But he wasn't. He was too confused and in awe. The new twist in his gut he attributed to his injuries.
Natasha was saying, "Anyone in SHIELD who doesn't know better always makes the same assumptions about him. I get wanting to make your target underestimate your abilities. Why do that to your own colleagues?"
"So they can get embarrassingly turned-on when they do find it?"
"You wish."
Clint sighed. "Yeah."
One, two quick shots in succession both unerringly hit their targets. The smallest flicker of movement made him turn and nocked another arrow. Not even a pair of black, polished shoes appearing in his line of vision could distract him. He let loose the arrow and it pierced straight through the body of the small lizard and embedded itself in the sand right next to those shiny shoes.
"Agent Barton, what are you doing?" Coulson called up to Clint's position on the roof on an outlying building.
"Taking care of several perimeter breaches, sir," he shouted back.
"So, I see." Coulson wrapped his fingers around the arrow's shaft and, with a hardy yank, pulled it from the ground.
Six months ago, in a different desert, Clint crouched and cocked his head, looking at the alien object that had Fury's panties in such a twist. "Can I touch it?" Clint asked.
"Our scientists say it isn't emitting nor made of anything lethal," said Coulson.
"Just extremely heavy." Clint stood, hands on hips and smirked. "Given it a try, boss?"
"Didn't see the point."
Clint grinned. "Come on, I'm sure even a guy like you can't resist grasping the ol' handle and giving it a few tugs."
Coulson betrayed the slightest amusement. "If that's what satisfies you, Barton, be my guest." Coulson turned and walked away to supervise the continued construction of their temporary base.
Another flirting-attempt thwarted, Clint's arms and smile fell. He looked down at the strange hammer thing, grabbed, and pulled. Ah well, nothing wrong with giving it the old college try.
He didn't think he had been reminiscing long, but suddenly Coulson was on the roof next to him. He held out the retrieved arrow with the lizard still attached.
"Are you bored, Hawkeye?"
Clint took the arrow and removed his kill. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"
Coulson's eyebrows rose above his sunglasses. "You're not known to do otherwise."
Clint chuckled. "I'm bored to death, sir."
"So, you've decided to take it out on the local wildlife?"
"Pest control. Need the practice."
"There are facilities on campus."
Clint sighed and sat down on the roof's edge, resting his bow on a raised knee. "Why am I here, sir? Surely there's some junior lackey you can get to play nanny."
Coulson's shadow fell over him, moving to block the afternoon sun. "In this entire facility, only a handful of staff knows the full truth about Dr. Selvig's work here. The sensitivity of this project requires the presence of only the most trusted agents."
That made Clint laugh. "Then why did Fury send me here and not, say, Natasha?"
There was a long silence before Coulson answered. "Fury needed her skills elsewhere." Another pause. "And I did not request her."
Silently, the shadow moved away and the sun once again warmed Clint's back.
"Good morning, Agent Barton!" Selvig called cheerfully as he passed under Clint's nest.
"Morning," Clint replied. He needed more coffee before he could consider it "good." Clint scanned each face as the scientists filed in the for the day's work. Sure, they each had to perform a retinal scan before entering the hangar, but Clint trusted his own eyes better than a computer, no matter how sophisticated.
The blue cube was at its place of honor, hooked up to all sorts of equipment and sensors. Dr. Tan brushed against Selvig as she joined him at a console. They spoke to each other, Clint understanding only about every third word.
Maybe that was the real reason Coulson requested Hawkeye for the job. He was bright enough to catch a general gist of what they were trying to do, but dim enough that even under duress could never reveal classified details, even if he wanted to.
When he expressed this theory to Coulson, the senior agent shook his head. "Not too dim, but not too bright? I suppose that makes you, what, a warm glow?"
Well, he was now. But he was not going to duck his head and bite his lip like a schoolgirl. Clint loved and hated when Coulson did that. He loved that they were that comfortable now, that Coulson could return a friendly barb, acknowledge a playful flirtatious remark every now and then. What he hated was the lack of intent behind Coulson's words.
"Do you have anything to report, Agent Barton?"
Clint slouched in the chair across from Coulson's desk. It was amazing. Somehow between this place, New York, and the helicarrier, Coulson's offices were all identical. They all had the same desk, chairs, walls, even the same shelves with the same black binders. Well, not all the same. There was a slim, unmarked binder that was conspicuously missing from the rows.
"Agent Barton."
"Huh?"
Coulson gave him an exasperated look.
Clint shrugged. "Nothing different than any other day. The scientists come in, they use big words, press some buttons. There's been no suspect behavior, no unauthorized contact." He smirked. "Unless you count the increased 'casual' touching Selvig's getting from Dr. Tan. I think somebody has a crush."
"And you're an expert on identifying that?"
"I am, sir. Speaking of, where's your..." He pointed to the binders behind Coulson's head and clicked his tongue.
"I decided to keep them in New York."
"Close to the real-deal."
To his credit, Coulson didn't blush as much anymore when the subject of his card collection was brought up.
Clint had only found out after he had brought Natasha in. He was left alone in Coulson's office. His handler was late. That had Clint worried and fidgety. He was in deep enough shit for disobeying orders, what more trouble could he get into just for poking around the boss' office? He tried the desk drawers. They were locked of course, thumbprint activated. He would just have to go back to that later if he had time.
He turned his attention to the bookshelves. The black binders were thick and neatly labeled with SHIELD insignia. There were rows of procedure manuals, regulation, policy, and a disturbing amount of hard-copies for all the forms Clint never filled out before nor after a mission. There was one binder though, unlike the others. It was slim, unmarked, and tucked snugly between two other binders, almost hidden.
Clint slid it out and opened it. "You've got to be kidding me!"
Inside were plastic pages with nine pockets. Almost every slot contained a glossy card. Glossy Captain America cards. Clint chuckled to himself. "What the hell?" He stuck a thumb into one of the pockets and was about to slide out a card with a saluting Captain America grinning like a goofball.
"Don't remove that."
Clint jumped. Fucking ninja.
"They depreciate in value the more they are handled." Coulson held out his hand. Clint obligingly handed the binder over. "I'm still missing three," Coulson said, mostly to himself as he stroked a hand over the black cover.
Damn, now Clint was feeling jealous over a dead guy.
Coulson came around to the same side Clint was standing and said: "I suppose you think these can be used as leverage in this disciplinary meeting."
"What! No! I wouldn't..." He wouldn't even use the way Coulson's face had gone pink when he saw Clint handling his little secret. Clint cleared his throat and grinned. "It's perfect."
Coulson narrowed his eyes, assessing, waiting for Clint to make the obvious jokes. Clint didn't have any. It just made sense. Determined, hard-working, bad-ass, protector of the innocent, Phil Coulson, idolized Captain America. It was insanely cute, but Clint knew full well that if he were to say it, Coulson would take it as sarcasm.
Coulson pressed his thumb to a drawer's lock. It popped open with a beep and a click. He slid his collection into it and removed a manila folder. Sitting down, he motioned for Clint to do the same. When he didn't, Coulson raised his eyebrows and carried on. "Miss Romanoff has been extremely cooperative and informative. Should she prove trustworthy, you may have brought in one of our most valuable assets."
"Thank you, sir," Clint said, allowing himself the smallest of smug smirks.
"However, you disobeyed direct orders."
"But you just said-"
"You are therefore suspended-"
"Hey, now!" Clint heavily leaned forward, allowing his hands to slap on the wood desktop.
Unfazed, Coulson continued, "From active field duty for an indefinite period."
"Oh." Clint straightened and sheepishly let his arms hang loosely at his side.
"While you are not in the field, you will be spending your time orienting and training Miss Romanoff on what it means to be SHIELD. You brought her in, she'll be your responsibility... For now."
Relief and gratitude spread through every muscle, making him relax for the first time since he returned from Russia. Coulson nodded once and started filling out the forms in the folder.
"Is that all, sir?"
"Just one question." Coulson closed the folder and looked back up at Clint. "Why?"
Clint let out a long breath and ran a hand through his hair as he tried to come up with the words. "I recognized the look in her eyes, sir. She wants to stop running, and thought there was only one thing that could make that happen. She needed to know that there were other options than being on the wrong end of my arrow."
"Thank you, Barton. You're dismissed."
Clint caught the pride in Coulson's voice and face. He had to stamp down on the urge to skip out the office.
Back in an identical office years and miles away, Clint said, "I bet you wish you were back there, too, now that Sleeping Beauty is up and about."
"I'm where I'm needed."
"Yeah, like you're not as bored as I am. Unless... What exactly are you overseeing here? It's not just me and Team Cube."
Coulson's face was a picture of trained inscrutability.
"It's need-to-know and I don't need to."
Coulson smiled a little. "Something like that."
One morning Clint climbed up to his post and was surprised to find it already occupied. "Coulson? What the hell are you doing?"
"Hiding from moral ambiguity."
"So, should I leave?"
Coulson laughed. "No. I brought coffee."
"Oh, boss, you know how to make a girl feel special." He pulled himself over the last rung on the ladder and up on the catwalk. Clint took the coffee greedily, even if it was just the same old crap from the cafeteria. Coulson was standing, Clint sat as he normally did, cross-legged, leaning over the rail.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Clint asked as he watched the morning shift file in, same as always, day-in; day-out. He took a drink from his Styrofoam cup. It wasn't that bad! Must have been another one of Coulson's secret superpowers: the ability to turn boiled mud into coffee.
"I'm sorry."
Clint's grip on his drink tightened. "For what?"
"I'm sorry that you're unhappy. I know you rather be in the field, on some exciting assignment with Black Widow. And I'm sorry that I'm not sorry you're here. I requested your presence for purely selfish reasons."
Clint tried to clear the sudden block in his throat. "Sir..."
"I knew I'd probably go mad out here without someone like..." Coulson stopped himself. "If I didn't have you here to talk to."
Clint's heart started hammering and he knew it wasn't the caffeine. He struggled to normalize his breathing, knowing full-well Coulson was observant enough to notice something as subtle as that even if he was tactful enough to not mention it.
Clint tried laughing, going for nonchalant, but it still came out shaky. "I thought talking to me is what drives you mad."
"It is. I just happen to like your madness."
"You've never shown it."
"I thought it would be inappropriate to encourage you. But since you persist anyway... Clint..."
The use of his name made something inside Clint break. He could feel Coulson step closer to him. Really? Now? What the hell was wrong with him? They were on duty, it was barely morning. He needed to focus on other things, like his job, and not the soft way his handler said his name or the warmth of his body at his back. Clint couldn't turn around, even when Coulson repeated his name.
"Sir, I-"
Coulson's phone went off, dispersing the tension from the air. Clint had never been so happy to hear the tinny version of "Star Spangled Man" in his life. Coulson answered immediately. After a couple quick words, the call ended.
"We need to talk. Later." Coulson said to Clint, stepping around him.
"That's probably for the best, sir."
Coulson hummed in agreement and descended from the nest as quickly and smoothly as Clint himself. Clint loved it. He let a deep breath out, relieved at being able to get on with the day's job, pushing aside all the distracting thoughts that Coulson had to bring in. The senior agent had not chosen his moment well; it was worrying. Clint finished his coffee and set the empty cup down only to find that Coulson had left his half-finished cup beside him. Either he had done it on purpose, or it was another sign of his distraction. Clint took it anyway.
Shift over, Clint expected to find Coulson waiting for him outside the hangar. He wasn't. Clint tried to be glad for it. Maybe whatever the hell was going on that morning had passed and Clint would be allowed to live in the status quo of avoiding having any deep, emotional conversations with Agent Coulson. Instead, Clint found himself wanting to seek Coulson out now. Something was bothering his usually put-together handler, and Clint could only think of needing to help him, even if it meant the end of their professional acquaintance.
Clint went directly to Coulson's office. He wasn't there. So, Clint decided to wait. And waited. He decided to start rifling through the filing cabinets. That usually brought Coulson right in. it didn't. Clint took a walk across the landing field to the building he wasn't supposed to know Coulson was spending most of his time in. Two armed guards blocked his path to the entrance.
"Hey, guys!" Clint greeted. "Is Agent Coulson here?"
"This area is for authorized personnel only," was the not-so-friendly reply.
"Yeah, I know. Just wondering if you've seen Agent Coulson lately."
"This area is for authorized personnel only."
"I'm not trying to access your special area, trust me. I'm just asking if you've seen a guy."
"This area is for-"
"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Clint turned around, throwing his arms up.
The last place Clint could look was the agents' dorms. It also happened to be the last place Clint wanted to be to continue the awkward conversation started that morning. Clint raised his fist to knock on the door to Coulson's quarters. He hesitated. What if Coulson had decided he didn't want to finish the conversation? What if he saw this as Clint grossly violating his privacy? What if he wanted an extra day to sort himself and Clint was about to make everything worse? What if-
Hand still raised in mid-air, the door opened. "I could hear your indecision through the door." Clint believed him. "Come in, Agent Barton."
Coulson opened the door wider and motioned for Clint to step through. The room was no different than his own. Not as if he expected a senior agent's to be like a hotel suite, but he would have thought something a little bit nicer than the cramped room with a twin bed and a small desk. His suits were hanging in the open on what looked like an improvised closet bar.
"Sorry, I know I said I wanted to talk. I should have come for you." Coulson sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. He was sans jacket and tie, his shirt sleeves rolled-up (Hello, nice arms!) his collar open (Hello throat!). He looked tired, and distressed. He'd never seen Coulson looking so vulnerable. It made Clint's stomach turn with concern. And arousal. And shame for being both concerned and aroused.
Clint sat on the bed next to him. "Something's wrong."
Coulson sighed. "What isn't? After Stark and Puente Antiguo, we're barreling down a new direction, pushed by the World Security Council, and Fury desperately trying to keep a grip on the reigns while me and Hill cling to his coattails trying-"
"Whoa, whoa, slow down. Your metaphors are getting out of control."
Coulson took a deep breath. "With everything that is happening and the inevitable culmination, at least if Fury's theories are correct, and they usually are... It's a bit much. I wanted, needed, to be able to sort out what was most important to me before we all get buried in the fallout of living in a world with super-tech, super serums, and alien gods."
Clint frowned in concentration, trying to make sense of Coulson's rambling. "Is this about the Avengers Initiative again?"
Coulson shook his head. "It's about what makes the Avengers, and other projects, necessary. It's facing an enemy, the possibility of a death from beyond our worst nightmares. And it's about facing that death, not with fear, but regrets."
Coulson didn't give him time to reply, which was good since Clint wasn't sure what to say to that. There was just a hand on his jaw, fingers tilting his face, then warm lips pressed against his own. Coulson kissed with the same confidence and command he exuded in the field. Clint submitted to it, groaning into Coulson's mouth when lips parted and tongues met. Clint brought his hands up, first gripping Coulson's shoulders then sliding his palms down to rest on his chest, feeling the racing heartbeat keeping pace with his own.
"Boss..." Clint started, breathlessly.
"I really need you to be calling me 'Phil' now." Coulson-Phil-muttered with Clint's lower lip between his teeth.
"Phil," Clint obeyed. He repeated the name between quick kisses. It felt like a forbidden word on his tongue, and saying it made him a little giddy. He pulled back only far enough to look the other man in the eye. "I love you, Phil."
Phil grinned, his skin a deeper shade of pink than when Clint found those cards. Phil carded a hand through Clint's hair. Clint could feel his own skin flushing. "But you knew that. How long?"
"A long time."
"And you never-"
"After Venezuela..." Phil sighed. "It happens, newer recruits developing a kind of hero-worship for a senior agent. I had assumed it was a phase that would run its course and not become a problem."
"But then, I love being a problem. I suppose it would be stupid to presume that you hadn't been, uh, requiting for the same amount of time."
"Of course not. I could never love someone that stupid."
"Thanks. So..."
Phil licked his drying lips before answering. Clint suddenly stopped caring about the answer and wanted to get back to the kissing. "When you didn't kill the Black Widow."
Clint's eyes widened. "What? But... Oh, man, you are such an asshole."
"I don't deny it."
But he was Clint’s asshole now. They kissed again. Phil started working on Clint's clothes while simultaneously guiding him back onto the bed. "Really? Right now? Here?"
"No regrets, Clint, and we have so much time to make-up for. In our line of work, tomorrow's never a certainty, sometimes not even the next hour."
Wow, Phil was really worried. Clint had to distract him, get him back on track, so he reached for Phil's fly. Clint grinned and tried to lighten the mood. "Come on, we're on a boring baby-sit. What could possibly happen here tomorrow?"