Fic: The Avengers, "The Prototype" (Clint/Coulson)
Title: The Prototype
Fandom: Marvel's The Avengers
Pairing: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1517
Summary: Phil needs a guinea pig to test the functionality of the Captain America uniform he designed.
A/N: Beta: cruelest_month. Just a short piece of nonsense.
Clint was treating Natasha to a pre-mission, good-bye lunch. That entailed hanging out in the SHIELD HQ commissary, and the treat being that Clint wouldn't steal any of her fries. Well, not too many.
"There's a betting pool," he was telling her, "on how many bones you'll break in Stark's wrist when he tries to touch you."
"Now, that wouldn't be very professional of me," she said, lifting an eyebrow.
"I'm down for five. Complete breaks. Hairline fractures don't count."
"Are we counting both wrists or just one?"
"Sitwell's got three in each. Hendricks says all eight, left hand only."
Natasha chewed on her salad thoughtfully. "I'll see what I can do for you."
Clint grinned. "Cool. Could use the extra cash. Phil's been-"
Clint's earpiece beeped. "Barton." Speak of the devil. "Report to level 18."
Clint frowned and touched his comm to respond. "What, now?"
"Yes, now."
"But, Natasha's-"
"A big girl who doesn't need you on a pier, waving a hanky as she departs."
"I'm on my way," he replied with an eye-roll he wouldn't dare use had they been speaking in person. "Sorry, Nat, gotta cut this party short."
"Not much of a party. No vodka."
"Always next time," Clint said, standing.
Natasha walked him to the elevator. "What if I forgo the wrist area entirely, and just break Stark's neck?"
Clint smirked. "Oh, Phil's all over that one. I imagine it has something to do with a long-cherished fantasy."
"I'll keep that in mind." She waved good-bye as the elevator doors slid closed between them.
Level 18: R&D Weapons and Armor division. He was hoping they had some new arrows for him to test out. He found Phil in a sectioned-off corner with a small, blond scientist. Either Clint was getting old or SHIELD recruits were getting younger and younger. She looked to be about fourteen. And yet her clearance badge clearly read Doctor Klein.
Clint's hopes of new toys were thoroughly dashed when he saw laying out on a table a field uniform in an all-too-familiar color pallet. Phil rarely brought work home with him. But over the past two weeks he had been hunched over a tablet with a pen, his card collection spread out on the coffee table "for reference." And now the end result was before him, and he had no idea why.
"Oh, hey, turned out nice?"
Phil had his arms crossed over his chest. "This is just a prototype," he explained.
Klein piped-up. "Before we can finalize it, we need to test the design for optimal functionality in the field."
There was a glitter in Phil's eyes that finally made Clint realize what this was all about, and why he was called down. "Hell no!"
"We're not asking you to wear it out on a mission," Phil said. "Just make sure it's easy enough to get in and out of, and that it offers optimal mobility for combat."
"Can't this wait until the guy wakes-up? This isn't even going to fit me. Rogers is like three inches taller than me, according to you."
That Phil knew Steve Roger's measurements was disconcerting. It was about as disconcerting as that "Buy War Bonds" poster framed in Phil's living room. Nothing has ever killed the mood faster for Clint than to be fooling around on the couch only to glance up and have that stupid grin leering down at him.
"The prototype was made with your specifications. So, you see, it has to be you." The corners of Phil's lips lifted into the slightest of smirks.
"With all due respect, sir..."
"Whenever you start a sentence like that, it rarely is. Do I need to make it an order, specialist?"
Bastard.
Dr. Klein's eyes had been flicking between the two men as they argued. She clutched her clipboard to her chest, worrying the end of her pen between her teeth.
Clint's shoulders dropped in resignation. With a sigh he took his shirt off. "Okay, what's first?"
Klein handed him a blue shirt, long-sleeved and light-weight. She had trouble keeping her eyes on him, and her cheeks were turning pink. Definitely new, hadn't quite learned scientific detachment yet. Phil, on the other hand, who had seen Clint naked in both professional and intimate capacities just watched with his blandest expression.
Every bitch and moan Clint made about something being too tight, or a fastening being too awkward had Klein scribbling away on her clipboard. There were a lot of zippers and two layers of something kind of like Kevlar, but not. The boots were a bright red that made his eyes hurt. "Gloves, too?" He whined.
"All of it." Phil held out the gloves. When Clint didn't take them, Phil huffed and forced them on his hands. After, he took a step back and gave him an once-over.
"How does it feel?" Klein asked.
But Clint wasn't paying her any attention. He was too busy looking at his handler. Only someone with eyes as sharp as Clint's and long-time experience of Phil would notice the dilation in his eyes and the barely-there flush just visible above his white collar.
Clint groaned to himself. "I need to speak to Agent Coulson alone," he said to Klein.
"But, I-"
"Go on, Doogie."
Her face scrunched in confusion. She set her clipboard down. "I suppose I could take lunch now." She looked at Phil for confirmation.
Phil, never taking his eyes off Clint said, "It's okay, doctor."
She passed one more wide-eyed look between them and beat her retreat.
"Dammit, she's too young to even get that reference," Clint said, making sure she and anyone else was out of earshot. "And you," he rounded on his handler, "are a sick fetishist."
Phil blinked a couple times and actually looked at Clint's face again. "Excuse me?"
"This is nothing but an excuse to get me dolled-up like Captain America and fulfilling some fanboy fantasy of yours."
"My interest in this project has been nothing but professional. I had the prototype made for you, because I felt you'd best understand the importance of it, and would like to help me. I hadn't expected..." Phil's gaze raked down Clint's body again. "You do look really-"
"Moronic," Clint supplied. "And why are these so formfitting? There's no way I'm not going to get an atomic wedgie in this thing." He tugged and pulled at the pants.
Phil took it as an invitation to turn him around and continue the ogling. "It's no worse than your own field suit."
"But the materials different. I don't get ride with mine."
"I'll make a note of it."
Clint looked down at himself again, poked at the large white star on his chest. "Now I know what it feels like to be a Rocket Pop."
Phil lifted his eyebrows. "And won't feel it again unless you stop complaining so much."
Clint groaned. "I walked right into that one, didn't I?"
Phil only hummed in agreement as he actually made some more notes on Klein's clipboard.
"What's up with this zipper all exposed and off-center on my stomach? It's a little distracting, don't you think?"
Phil frowned and ran a finger down the metal strip. "Really? I thought it brought a sort of modern edge to the design, and the silver helps break-up the blocks of primary colors."
Clint grabbed Phil's shoulders and shook him a little until he looked him in the eye. "No more Project Runway for you," Clint told him in all seriousness.
Phil backed away. "You should get going."
"What, afraid you won't be able to control yourself any longer and take me over the table?"
It was obvious the image had firmly planted itself into Phil's mind. He shook it away. "It would be rather difficult with you in that, actually."
"Well, that is a design flaw."
Phil cleared his throat. He tried to bring the conversation back on track. "You're expected at the obstacle course."
"You expect me to walk out of here, down the hall, use the elevator, walk down another hall, and onto the obstacle course dressed like this? Am I being punished for something?"
"Maybe."
"Do I get to know what it is?"
"No. Now go, put this thing through its paces. Get it wrecked, torn, and dirty. We need to know what it can handle."
"This keeps getting kinkier and kinkier."
"If you don't leave now, I will force you to wear the helmet."
"The-?" Phil held up a mask, helmet, hood... thing with stupid little wings painted above the ears and an "A" smack in the middle of the forehead. "No! No way!" One, it was stupid as hell. Two, it would ruin Clint's hair. He reassuringly touched the spikes above his forehead. "Okay, I'm going."
Phil nodded and put the helmet down.
"But, before I do. One more thing." Clint grabbed Phil, bent him backwards into a dip and gave him a kiss worthy of Life magazine.
Clint stood him back up. "Never say I don't indulge you." Clint saluted with a wink and finally left, leaving Phil shocked and breathless.
Fandom: Marvel's The Avengers
Pairing: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1517
Summary: Phil needs a guinea pig to test the functionality of the Captain America uniform he designed.
A/N: Beta: cruelest_month. Just a short piece of nonsense.
Clint was treating Natasha to a pre-mission, good-bye lunch. That entailed hanging out in the SHIELD HQ commissary, and the treat being that Clint wouldn't steal any of her fries. Well, not too many.
"There's a betting pool," he was telling her, "on how many bones you'll break in Stark's wrist when he tries to touch you."
"Now, that wouldn't be very professional of me," she said, lifting an eyebrow.
"I'm down for five. Complete breaks. Hairline fractures don't count."
"Are we counting both wrists or just one?"
"Sitwell's got three in each. Hendricks says all eight, left hand only."
Natasha chewed on her salad thoughtfully. "I'll see what I can do for you."
Clint grinned. "Cool. Could use the extra cash. Phil's been-"
Clint's earpiece beeped. "Barton." Speak of the devil. "Report to level 18."
Clint frowned and touched his comm to respond. "What, now?"
"Yes, now."
"But, Natasha's-"
"A big girl who doesn't need you on a pier, waving a hanky as she departs."
"I'm on my way," he replied with an eye-roll he wouldn't dare use had they been speaking in person. "Sorry, Nat, gotta cut this party short."
"Not much of a party. No vodka."
"Always next time," Clint said, standing.
Natasha walked him to the elevator. "What if I forgo the wrist area entirely, and just break Stark's neck?"
Clint smirked. "Oh, Phil's all over that one. I imagine it has something to do with a long-cherished fantasy."
"I'll keep that in mind." She waved good-bye as the elevator doors slid closed between them.
Level 18: R&D Weapons and Armor division. He was hoping they had some new arrows for him to test out. He found Phil in a sectioned-off corner with a small, blond scientist. Either Clint was getting old or SHIELD recruits were getting younger and younger. She looked to be about fourteen. And yet her clearance badge clearly read Doctor Klein.
Clint's hopes of new toys were thoroughly dashed when he saw laying out on a table a field uniform in an all-too-familiar color pallet. Phil rarely brought work home with him. But over the past two weeks he had been hunched over a tablet with a pen, his card collection spread out on the coffee table "for reference." And now the end result was before him, and he had no idea why.
"Oh, hey, turned out nice?"
Phil had his arms crossed over his chest. "This is just a prototype," he explained.
Klein piped-up. "Before we can finalize it, we need to test the design for optimal functionality in the field."
There was a glitter in Phil's eyes that finally made Clint realize what this was all about, and why he was called down. "Hell no!"
"We're not asking you to wear it out on a mission," Phil said. "Just make sure it's easy enough to get in and out of, and that it offers optimal mobility for combat."
"Can't this wait until the guy wakes-up? This isn't even going to fit me. Rogers is like three inches taller than me, according to you."
That Phil knew Steve Roger's measurements was disconcerting. It was about as disconcerting as that "Buy War Bonds" poster framed in Phil's living room. Nothing has ever killed the mood faster for Clint than to be fooling around on the couch only to glance up and have that stupid grin leering down at him.
"The prototype was made with your specifications. So, you see, it has to be you." The corners of Phil's lips lifted into the slightest of smirks.
"With all due respect, sir..."
"Whenever you start a sentence like that, it rarely is. Do I need to make it an order, specialist?"
Bastard.
Dr. Klein's eyes had been flicking between the two men as they argued. She clutched her clipboard to her chest, worrying the end of her pen between her teeth.
Clint's shoulders dropped in resignation. With a sigh he took his shirt off. "Okay, what's first?"
Klein handed him a blue shirt, long-sleeved and light-weight. She had trouble keeping her eyes on him, and her cheeks were turning pink. Definitely new, hadn't quite learned scientific detachment yet. Phil, on the other hand, who had seen Clint naked in both professional and intimate capacities just watched with his blandest expression.
Every bitch and moan Clint made about something being too tight, or a fastening being too awkward had Klein scribbling away on her clipboard. There were a lot of zippers and two layers of something kind of like Kevlar, but not. The boots were a bright red that made his eyes hurt. "Gloves, too?" He whined.
"All of it." Phil held out the gloves. When Clint didn't take them, Phil huffed and forced them on his hands. After, he took a step back and gave him an once-over.
"How does it feel?" Klein asked.
But Clint wasn't paying her any attention. He was too busy looking at his handler. Only someone with eyes as sharp as Clint's and long-time experience of Phil would notice the dilation in his eyes and the barely-there flush just visible above his white collar.
Clint groaned to himself. "I need to speak to Agent Coulson alone," he said to Klein.
"But, I-"
"Go on, Doogie."
Her face scrunched in confusion. She set her clipboard down. "I suppose I could take lunch now." She looked at Phil for confirmation.
Phil, never taking his eyes off Clint said, "It's okay, doctor."
She passed one more wide-eyed look between them and beat her retreat.
"Dammit, she's too young to even get that reference," Clint said, making sure she and anyone else was out of earshot. "And you," he rounded on his handler, "are a sick fetishist."
Phil blinked a couple times and actually looked at Clint's face again. "Excuse me?"
"This is nothing but an excuse to get me dolled-up like Captain America and fulfilling some fanboy fantasy of yours."
"My interest in this project has been nothing but professional. I had the prototype made for you, because I felt you'd best understand the importance of it, and would like to help me. I hadn't expected..." Phil's gaze raked down Clint's body again. "You do look really-"
"Moronic," Clint supplied. "And why are these so formfitting? There's no way I'm not going to get an atomic wedgie in this thing." He tugged and pulled at the pants.
Phil took it as an invitation to turn him around and continue the ogling. "It's no worse than your own field suit."
"But the materials different. I don't get ride with mine."
"I'll make a note of it."
Clint looked down at himself again, poked at the large white star on his chest. "Now I know what it feels like to be a Rocket Pop."
Phil lifted his eyebrows. "And won't feel it again unless you stop complaining so much."
Clint groaned. "I walked right into that one, didn't I?"
Phil only hummed in agreement as he actually made some more notes on Klein's clipboard.
"What's up with this zipper all exposed and off-center on my stomach? It's a little distracting, don't you think?"
Phil frowned and ran a finger down the metal strip. "Really? I thought it brought a sort of modern edge to the design, and the silver helps break-up the blocks of primary colors."
Clint grabbed Phil's shoulders and shook him a little until he looked him in the eye. "No more Project Runway for you," Clint told him in all seriousness.
Phil backed away. "You should get going."
"What, afraid you won't be able to control yourself any longer and take me over the table?"
It was obvious the image had firmly planted itself into Phil's mind. He shook it away. "It would be rather difficult with you in that, actually."
"Well, that is a design flaw."
Phil cleared his throat. He tried to bring the conversation back on track. "You're expected at the obstacle course."
"You expect me to walk out of here, down the hall, use the elevator, walk down another hall, and onto the obstacle course dressed like this? Am I being punished for something?"
"Maybe."
"Do I get to know what it is?"
"No. Now go, put this thing through its paces. Get it wrecked, torn, and dirty. We need to know what it can handle."
"This keeps getting kinkier and kinkier."
"If you don't leave now, I will force you to wear the helmet."
"The-?" Phil held up a mask, helmet, hood... thing with stupid little wings painted above the ears and an "A" smack in the middle of the forehead. "No! No way!" One, it was stupid as hell. Two, it would ruin Clint's hair. He reassuringly touched the spikes above his forehead. "Okay, I'm going."
Phil nodded and put the helmet down.
"But, before I do. One more thing." Clint grabbed Phil, bent him backwards into a dip and gave him a kiss worthy of Life magazine.
Clint stood him back up. "Never say I don't indulge you." Clint saluted with a wink and finally left, leaving Phil shocked and breathless.