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owned_by_a_catSeries: Sane Safe Alive
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Clint/Coulson
Story Summary: With his left wrist in a cast, there’s little actual field work Clint can be sent on, so he trains his... chicks? Coulson had no idea he enjoyed bird watching and thinks he deserves a treat for that.
“You know you’re grinning, right?” Jasper asked as he stepped up to the one-way glass beside Coulson.
“When you’re looking at him,” Melinda May supplied helpfully from Phil’s other side, as if it hadn’t been obvious what they were talking about.
“You’re grinning like a loon.”
Phil Coulson’s smile just got wider as he watched Hawkeye put four young agents through a range of sandbox games. He’d never seen anything more unexpected – or adorable – than Clint Barton in charge in a classroom, especially knowing how hard it had been for the archer to add two students to his small and entirely unofficial training group.
He’d done it, though. Without making eye contact and scuffing his shoes like an embarrassed teen, he’d stood in Coulson’s office and demanded that Agents Meredith and Walsh be assigned to his training sessions. Only two of the four junior agents Clint had rescued had made it this far. Two had quit so fast they’d almost taken the doorframe with them in their rush. The other two had literally agonised hours over writing a letter. The conference room had been littered with discarded attempts when they’d finally handed over their account of the failed mission. The letters were in a file in Coulson’s desk. He hoped that Clint would ask to read them one day.
Clint was a hard taskmaster, as gruelling with his trainees as he was with himself. And judging by the way the four were scowling and surreptitiously wiping sweat from their brows, Clint’s theoretical lessons weren’t any less demanding than the physical ones.
Not that Clint was able to do anything physically strenuous right then. The archer’s left arm was covered by a light-weight cast from fingertip to mid forearm. The wrist wasn’t actually broken, but knowing Hawkeye the doctor hadn’t taken any chances. He’d had Clint sedated and the bright purple cast securely fitted before the man could open his mouth to protest. Now, Clint couldn’t shoot a bow, he couldn’t spar, he couldn’t even lift weights – and the enforced inactivity was driving him nuts.
So Clint had taken to haunting Coulson’s office. He’d settled on the sofa with several crappy romance novels, packets of crisps, tins of coke and even a stack of old mission reports and had refused to budge, however much Phil told him off for being a distraction.
And Clint Barton was a distraction, stretched out on Phil’s couch in ancient jeans that fit like a glove and slithered like silk on the worn leather of the cushions. The sleeveless deep blue t-shirt he wore was so tight it seemed painted on. Every time Clint reached for a coke or a new report, it would slide up and reveal tight, chiselled abs or catch across Clint’s chest. Really, Phil Coulson was sure he deserved a reward for getting any kind of work done the previous day.
“So when did he start training his chicks?”
Coulson shrugged. “Right after his gym session.”
“He’s on medical leave!”
“Yeah, well.” Giving Clint access to the range and gym to let him practice with a handgun and run on the treadmill had been sheer self-preservation on Coulson’s part. Or that’s what he was telling Sitwell. “He needs to burn off some of that excess energy or you’ll have to start checking your office for explosives.”
“My office?”
“You were the one who named his team the Hawk Chicks,” Melinda pointed out helpfully.
“Well, they are.”
“At the most, they’re Hawkeye’s Chicks,” Coulson corrected. “When it comes to birds, Barton’s touchy.”
“And Romanoff likes accuracy in her communications.” Melinda’s evil grin made Sitwell blanch and Coulson smile wider. “Come to think of it, so does Hill.”
Sitwell suddenly recalled a pressing appointment and turned for the door. “I really had no idea you were so fond of bird watching,” he managed before he disappeared.
“Neither did I,” May commented, thoughtful. “But it’s a lot more entertaining than watching you mope.”
“I don’t mope.”
“When you’ve figured out what you want to call it, let me know. But your Hawk’s been working pretty damn hard all day. Maybe you should feed him.”
On a normal day Phil Coulson liked having friends. Today didn’t feel like a normal day, but then ... he liked the crazy that came with Clint Barton’s presence. Even if it meant doing two gym sessions in a day and hurting in places he had no recollection of having. He remembered the look in Clint’s face when he’d asked to train Meredith and Walsh, recalled the soft “you gave me a second chance,” and suddenly he could take it all in stride: the ribbing, the grins and nudges and even Clint’s adorable blush.
Because Phil Coulson was so far ahead of Melinda May it was worth just a little smug grin.
“You’re supposed to be on medical leave, Barton,” Coulson had said in his best handler’s voice after they’d tumbled out of the gym. “And I just know that grin. I’m not letting you out of my sight. Fury will kill me if you dismantle his coffee machine again just because you’re bored.”
Clint had tried to look innocent. It failed as well as it usually did.
“I’m due for pizza and a movie tonight,” Phil said as casually as he could muster. “Why don’t you join me?”
The fact that Clint had agreed so easily – that adorable blush notwithstanding – amazed Coulson no end. Which was exactly why he kept an eye on his archer while said archer put a group of junior agents through their paces. Just in case it was a ruse and his hawk would slip the net.
Much, much later when they both lounged on Coulson’s couch, pizza boxes and beer cans on the coffee table, and argued over which movie to watch, Coulson finally asked the question he had wanted to ask all day.
“Apart from the silly name Sitwell came up with, do you regret asking to teach them?”
Clint considered that and Coulson didn’t push, just watched the younger man quietly and intently.
The pizza was gone by the time Clint finally shook his head. “I jumped into it,” he admitted, “but it’s ok now. This thing you say – you can save anyone if you catch them early enough – I’m hoping I was in time.” He drained his beer and suddenly there was a grin on his face. “So, how about The Towering Inferno?”
Coulson relented, glad to see the grin. And if, at some point during the evening, Clint Hawkeye Barton ended up fast asleep with his head on Coulson’s shoulder, Phil Coulson could have blamed that on Clint’s heavy workload and their poor choice of movie. If apportioning blame had been on his mind, that is.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Clint/Coulson
Story Summary: With his left wrist in a cast, there’s little actual field work Clint can be sent on, so he trains his... chicks? Coulson had no idea he enjoyed bird watching and thinks he deserves a treat for that.
***
“You know you’re grinning, right?” Jasper asked as he stepped up to the one-way glass beside Coulson.
“When you’re looking at him,” Melinda May supplied helpfully from Phil’s other side, as if it hadn’t been obvious what they were talking about.
“You’re grinning like a loon.”
Phil Coulson’s smile just got wider as he watched Hawkeye put four young agents through a range of sandbox games. He’d never seen anything more unexpected – or adorable – than Clint Barton in charge in a classroom, especially knowing how hard it had been for the archer to add two students to his small and entirely unofficial training group.
He’d done it, though. Without making eye contact and scuffing his shoes like an embarrassed teen, he’d stood in Coulson’s office and demanded that Agents Meredith and Walsh be assigned to his training sessions. Only two of the four junior agents Clint had rescued had made it this far. Two had quit so fast they’d almost taken the doorframe with them in their rush. The other two had literally agonised hours over writing a letter. The conference room had been littered with discarded attempts when they’d finally handed over their account of the failed mission. The letters were in a file in Coulson’s desk. He hoped that Clint would ask to read them one day.
Clint was a hard taskmaster, as gruelling with his trainees as he was with himself. And judging by the way the four were scowling and surreptitiously wiping sweat from their brows, Clint’s theoretical lessons weren’t any less demanding than the physical ones.
Not that Clint was able to do anything physically strenuous right then. The archer’s left arm was covered by a light-weight cast from fingertip to mid forearm. The wrist wasn’t actually broken, but knowing Hawkeye the doctor hadn’t taken any chances. He’d had Clint sedated and the bright purple cast securely fitted before the man could open his mouth to protest. Now, Clint couldn’t shoot a bow, he couldn’t spar, he couldn’t even lift weights – and the enforced inactivity was driving him nuts.
So Clint had taken to haunting Coulson’s office. He’d settled on the sofa with several crappy romance novels, packets of crisps, tins of coke and even a stack of old mission reports and had refused to budge, however much Phil told him off for being a distraction.
And Clint Barton was a distraction, stretched out on Phil’s couch in ancient jeans that fit like a glove and slithered like silk on the worn leather of the cushions. The sleeveless deep blue t-shirt he wore was so tight it seemed painted on. Every time Clint reached for a coke or a new report, it would slide up and reveal tight, chiselled abs or catch across Clint’s chest. Really, Phil Coulson was sure he deserved a reward for getting any kind of work done the previous day.
“So when did he start training his chicks?”
Coulson shrugged. “Right after his gym session.”
“He’s on medical leave!”
“Yeah, well.” Giving Clint access to the range and gym to let him practice with a handgun and run on the treadmill had been sheer self-preservation on Coulson’s part. Or that’s what he was telling Sitwell. “He needs to burn off some of that excess energy or you’ll have to start checking your office for explosives.”
“My office?”
“You were the one who named his team the Hawk Chicks,” Melinda pointed out helpfully.
“Well, they are.”
“At the most, they’re Hawkeye’s Chicks,” Coulson corrected. “When it comes to birds, Barton’s touchy.”
“And Romanoff likes accuracy in her communications.” Melinda’s evil grin made Sitwell blanch and Coulson smile wider. “Come to think of it, so does Hill.”
Sitwell suddenly recalled a pressing appointment and turned for the door. “I really had no idea you were so fond of bird watching,” he managed before he disappeared.
“Neither did I,” May commented, thoughtful. “But it’s a lot more entertaining than watching you mope.”
“I don’t mope.”
“When you’ve figured out what you want to call it, let me know. But your Hawk’s been working pretty damn hard all day. Maybe you should feed him.”
On a normal day Phil Coulson liked having friends. Today didn’t feel like a normal day, but then ... he liked the crazy that came with Clint Barton’s presence. Even if it meant doing two gym sessions in a day and hurting in places he had no recollection of having. He remembered the look in Clint’s face when he’d asked to train Meredith and Walsh, recalled the soft “you gave me a second chance,” and suddenly he could take it all in stride: the ribbing, the grins and nudges and even Clint’s adorable blush.
Because Phil Coulson was so far ahead of Melinda May it was worth just a little smug grin.
“You’re supposed to be on medical leave, Barton,” Coulson had said in his best handler’s voice after they’d tumbled out of the gym. “And I just know that grin. I’m not letting you out of my sight. Fury will kill me if you dismantle his coffee machine again just because you’re bored.”
Clint had tried to look innocent. It failed as well as it usually did.
“I’m due for pizza and a movie tonight,” Phil said as casually as he could muster. “Why don’t you join me?”
The fact that Clint had agreed so easily – that adorable blush notwithstanding – amazed Coulson no end. Which was exactly why he kept an eye on his archer while said archer put a group of junior agents through their paces. Just in case it was a ruse and his hawk would slip the net.
Much, much later when they both lounged on Coulson’s couch, pizza boxes and beer cans on the coffee table, and argued over which movie to watch, Coulson finally asked the question he had wanted to ask all day.
“Apart from the silly name Sitwell came up with, do you regret asking to teach them?”
Clint considered that and Coulson didn’t push, just watched the younger man quietly and intently.
The pizza was gone by the time Clint finally shook his head. “I jumped into it,” he admitted, “but it’s ok now. This thing you say – you can save anyone if you catch them early enough – I’m hoping I was in time.” He drained his beer and suddenly there was a grin on his face. “So, how about The Towering Inferno?”
Coulson relented, glad to see the grin. And if, at some point during the evening, Clint Hawkeye Barton ended up fast asleep with his head on Coulson’s shoulder, Phil Coulson could have blamed that on Clint’s heavy workload and their poor choice of movie. If apportioning blame had been on his mind, that is.
