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out_thereStill Better than I Spy (1655 words) by out_there
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Additional Tags: Locked In
Notes: Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine. (But feel free to let me know if you spot them.)
Summary: "Natasha will get us out." Clint has no idea how she’ll do it, but come hell or high water, that woman will find a way. "In the meantime, we can play I Spy."
The look he gets in response to that is pure Agent Stone Cold Coulson, willing and able to kill you with his bare hands.
“We’ve been in worse situations,” Clint says, because it’s true. Oh, sure, the reinforced steel elevator locked behind them and something clearly went wrong with the detonator timer, but no one’s bleeding. That’s always a good thing.
In the not so good column, those doors are definitely locked. Even if they could unlock it, they’re too heavy to move manually and the building has no power. From the sound of the explosions and the sudden drop, the building doesn’t have a lot of building left. So they’re locked in a reinforced steel box and buried under the rubble of a collapsed building, but things could be worse.
In the dim glow of refracted torchlight, Coulson gives him a pointed look. “You’re sure about that?”
There’s dust floating down through the torch beam, so the elevator – strangely reinforced as it is – isn’t air-tight. All they have to do is wait. “It’s not Budapest.”
“You can’t compare every mission to Budapest.”
“Until one goes worse than that, Budapest is the ten on my FUBARed-Mission scale.”
There’s a softening of Coulson’s scowl. It’s not a smile, but it’s definitely a step closer to one. “Okay, it’s not Budapest.”
Even Budapest wasn’t all bad. A lot of bad: dozens of guards, a lot of machine guns and underground levels of heavily fortified weapons labs where they’d been expecting three floors of mid-level weapon smugglers. Plus, there’d been a messy gut wound that Clint was reasonably sure would end him. But after a ridiculously lengthy hospital stay, that wound healed to an awesomely badass scar and left Clint with a clear memory of Coulson stripping off his shirt and using it to staunch the bleeding, kneeling over Clint with a Glock in one hand and the other holding that shirt in place.
If you had to pick a last sight before you checked out, a shirtless Coulson leaning over you and shooting bad guys with deadly competence wasn’t a bad way to go.
“Natasha will get us out.” Clint has no idea how she’ll do it, but come hell or high water, that woman will find a way. “In the meantime, we can play I Spy.”
The look he gets in response to that is pure Agent Stone Cold Coulson, willing and able to kill you with his bare hands.
Clint could take him, but it’d be a close thing. And it’d ruin the nobody’s bleeding upside of this mission. “Or not,” Clint offers, holding his hands up in surrender. “Feel free to suggest something else.”
“Is silence a possibility?” Coulson asks, and he might sound completely unimpressed but Clint knows better. Working with Coulson and Tasha for years has given him the ability to read amusement in the tiniest of verbal cues.
“You’d get bored.”
“I’m willing to take the risk.”
“I’m not. I remember what happened the last time you got bored.” When Coulson raises a questioning eyebrow, Clint adds, “Debrecen,” and Coulson nods in acknowledgement. The end result had been impressively explosive, even by Clint and Natasha’s standards. Strike Team Delta does not have a good track record in Hungary. It’s probably not a coincidence that they haven’t been sent back since.
“Before you suggest Truth or Dare, please remember that I’m armed.”
Truth or Dare is something Clint only plays with Natasha when they’re both very drunk and/or homicidally bored. It honestly wasn’t going to be his next suggestion. “We’re stuck in a 6 by 6 metal box. That limits the possible dares.”
“It certainly shows the limits of your imagination,” Coulson replies mildly.
“I’m confused, sir,” Clint says. “Are you arguing for or against Truth or Dare right now?”
“Against. Always against.”
There’s a scuffle of movement outside and they both hold their breath. Coulson thumbs off the safety on his Beretta, and Clint raises his bow towards the sound. He breathes slowly, listening for footsteps or shouts. The only thing he hears is a scraping sound.
They keep weapons aimed at the doors, until Coulson says softly, “It’s the rubble settling.” Clint keeps his bow raised until the safety is back on Coulson’s gun and the wary tension has melted from his shoulders. Then Clint returns the arrow to the case and lowers his bow.
It doesn’t change the fact that they’re still stuck in a lift. As with most lifts, there is nothing to do in a lift but stand around, waiting. Clint decides to change things up a bit by sliding to the floor, crossing his legs and trying to get as comfortable as he can. “This is going to be a really boring rescue mission, isn’t it?”
“I expect so.”
Clint almost brings up the idea of I Spy again, but he’s not an idiot. While Coulson does well in unexpected situations – there isn’t another handler who can roll with the punches like Coulson, who can face the nasty surprises and adjust the next three contingency plans on the fly – he doesn’t actually like them. Coulson prefers it when the world remembers to follow plans. “Do you have contingency plans for dates?”
“Barton?”
It’s not like the question was in Mandarin. There is no reason for Coulson to so obviously scan his head for signs of injury. “You seem like the type that would. So… do you? Do you know the exit points going in? Are there secret escapes planned for bad dates and boring conversations?”
“For blind dates, yes.” Coulson’s lips purse in a distracted little frown, like he’s trying to correlate this conversation within a wider context. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I’m bored,” Clint lets himself whine. “And you’re here.”
“So you thought you’d ask for dating tips?”
“I don’t need tips. I do fine.” It’s true. For broad definitions of the word. Clint dates plenty. Well, he hooks up a lot, and that’s close to the same thing. Although lately there hasn’t been much of that, but that’s mostly because Strike Team Delta keeps jet-setting around the world and Tasha’s killer curves put all other women to shame and Coulson… Coulson has broad shoulders and kind eyes, deadly aim and a terrible sense of humour, a truly pathetic love of reality television and the ability to be politely terrifying. That’s not an easy comparison to live up to.
“You were overwhelmingly curious about my love life?” Coulson asks carelessly, like he’s sitting in a debriefing and questioning the number of guards on a patrol or the angles needed for a shot. It’s casual and routine, so Clint just needs to be cool.
He can be calm and cool. He can be ice. Just watch him.
“I’m allowed to be curious. No harm in it.” Well done, Barton. That impression of a defensive teenager was pitch perfect.
Coulson, unfortunately, catches it. Clint can tell by the slow way he looks over at Clint and then grins. No, not grins, it’s not hard and smug and patronising enough to be a grin. This is a smile, sharply pleased and almost hopeful. “You're curious about my love life?”
“Can we stop saying the phrase love life? This isn’t a Hallmark movie.”
“I thought Hallmark made cards,” Coulson says, distracted for a moment.
“Lifetime. Whatever.” Clint waves the thought away, knowing that the real topic of conversation hasn’t been forgotten. Which is a pity, because having a crush on your handler might be embarrassing but it doesn’t hit mortifying until they know about it. “And, fine, I was curious. I was prying into something that isn’t any of my business.”
In the refracted light of the small torch, Clint picks at his fingernails. There’s dirt caught under his thumb and it’s a great way to avoid Coulson’s gaze.
After a silence that Clint was starting to appreciate, Coulson says gently, “It could be.”
“Could be what?”
“It could be your business. Who I date.” It’s an amazing and slightly terrifying thing to see Phil Coulson so awkward. The man has saved Clint’s life more than once, been shot twice and nearly succumbed to hypothermia, and he still managed to be competent Agent Coulson. He didn’t fold his arms around himself or shrug his shoulders, didn’t swallow loudly before talking. “Assuming that you want to date me.”
“Was that a question, sir? Because it didn’t sound like a question. I’ve got to say, every time I’ve imagined you asking me out, there was a lot more asking actually involved.”
“Have you finished critiquing my actions?” Coulson asks, his tone as dry as the Sahara.
“See, that was a question. Not so hard.” Clint grins and gets up to his feet. He flexes his arms a little as he gets up. He knows how to sell his best assets. “It goes like this. Do you want to go out on Friday? I’ll pick you up at 8 and show you the best Korean food in New York?”
“You’re in Austria on Friday.”
“Fine, Tuesday but the atmosphere may be lacking.”
There’s a crackle in Clint’s ear. From Coulson’s suddenly focused expression, he heard a crackle of his own.
“We’re digging you out.” Natasha’s voice comes through their earpieces, static-laden but understandable. “Just so you know, we’re picking up your comm signals now.”
“Thanks,” Clint says like the adult he pretends to be. “You’ve got great timing, you know.”
“If you prefer, I can stay up here and wait until the two of you have finished arranging your social lives. Sitwell’s suggested that Korean might be a bit messy for a first date. He thinks Italian’s an easy winner.”
“Garlic breath,” Coulson says.
“You know Coulson won’t eat New York pizza,” Clint adds because Coulson has firm – and ridiculous – opinions on pizza. It’s why he’s always happy when a mission sends him to Chicago.
“Continue, Romanov,” Coulson says, voice completely professional but a self-satisfied smile caught in the creases around his eyes. It’s a good look on the man. “We’ll wait for extraction.”
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Additional Tags: Locked In
Notes: Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine. (But feel free to let me know if you spot them.)
Summary: "Natasha will get us out." Clint has no idea how she’ll do it, but come hell or high water, that woman will find a way. "In the meantime, we can play I Spy."
The look he gets in response to that is pure Agent Stone Cold Coulson, willing and able to kill you with his bare hands.
“We’ve been in worse situations,” Clint says, because it’s true. Oh, sure, the reinforced steel elevator locked behind them and something clearly went wrong with the detonator timer, but no one’s bleeding. That’s always a good thing.
In the not so good column, those doors are definitely locked. Even if they could unlock it, they’re too heavy to move manually and the building has no power. From the sound of the explosions and the sudden drop, the building doesn’t have a lot of building left. So they’re locked in a reinforced steel box and buried under the rubble of a collapsed building, but things could be worse.
In the dim glow of refracted torchlight, Coulson gives him a pointed look. “You’re sure about that?”
There’s dust floating down through the torch beam, so the elevator – strangely reinforced as it is – isn’t air-tight. All they have to do is wait. “It’s not Budapest.”
“You can’t compare every mission to Budapest.”
“Until one goes worse than that, Budapest is the ten on my FUBARed-Mission scale.”
There’s a softening of Coulson’s scowl. It’s not a smile, but it’s definitely a step closer to one. “Okay, it’s not Budapest.”
Even Budapest wasn’t all bad. A lot of bad: dozens of guards, a lot of machine guns and underground levels of heavily fortified weapons labs where they’d been expecting three floors of mid-level weapon smugglers. Plus, there’d been a messy gut wound that Clint was reasonably sure would end him. But after a ridiculously lengthy hospital stay, that wound healed to an awesomely badass scar and left Clint with a clear memory of Coulson stripping off his shirt and using it to staunch the bleeding, kneeling over Clint with a Glock in one hand and the other holding that shirt in place.
If you had to pick a last sight before you checked out, a shirtless Coulson leaning over you and shooting bad guys with deadly competence wasn’t a bad way to go.
“Natasha will get us out.” Clint has no idea how she’ll do it, but come hell or high water, that woman will find a way. “In the meantime, we can play I Spy.”
The look he gets in response to that is pure Agent Stone Cold Coulson, willing and able to kill you with his bare hands.
Clint could take him, but it’d be a close thing. And it’d ruin the nobody’s bleeding upside of this mission. “Or not,” Clint offers, holding his hands up in surrender. “Feel free to suggest something else.”
“Is silence a possibility?” Coulson asks, and he might sound completely unimpressed but Clint knows better. Working with Coulson and Tasha for years has given him the ability to read amusement in the tiniest of verbal cues.
“You’d get bored.”
“I’m willing to take the risk.”
“I’m not. I remember what happened the last time you got bored.” When Coulson raises a questioning eyebrow, Clint adds, “Debrecen,” and Coulson nods in acknowledgement. The end result had been impressively explosive, even by Clint and Natasha’s standards. Strike Team Delta does not have a good track record in Hungary. It’s probably not a coincidence that they haven’t been sent back since.
“Before you suggest Truth or Dare, please remember that I’m armed.”
Truth or Dare is something Clint only plays with Natasha when they’re both very drunk and/or homicidally bored. It honestly wasn’t going to be his next suggestion. “We’re stuck in a 6 by 6 metal box. That limits the possible dares.”
“It certainly shows the limits of your imagination,” Coulson replies mildly.
“I’m confused, sir,” Clint says. “Are you arguing for or against Truth or Dare right now?”
“Against. Always against.”
There’s a scuffle of movement outside and they both hold their breath. Coulson thumbs off the safety on his Beretta, and Clint raises his bow towards the sound. He breathes slowly, listening for footsteps or shouts. The only thing he hears is a scraping sound.
They keep weapons aimed at the doors, until Coulson says softly, “It’s the rubble settling.” Clint keeps his bow raised until the safety is back on Coulson’s gun and the wary tension has melted from his shoulders. Then Clint returns the arrow to the case and lowers his bow.
It doesn’t change the fact that they’re still stuck in a lift. As with most lifts, there is nothing to do in a lift but stand around, waiting. Clint decides to change things up a bit by sliding to the floor, crossing his legs and trying to get as comfortable as he can. “This is going to be a really boring rescue mission, isn’t it?”
“I expect so.”
Clint almost brings up the idea of I Spy again, but he’s not an idiot. While Coulson does well in unexpected situations – there isn’t another handler who can roll with the punches like Coulson, who can face the nasty surprises and adjust the next three contingency plans on the fly – he doesn’t actually like them. Coulson prefers it when the world remembers to follow plans. “Do you have contingency plans for dates?”
“Barton?”
It’s not like the question was in Mandarin. There is no reason for Coulson to so obviously scan his head for signs of injury. “You seem like the type that would. So… do you? Do you know the exit points going in? Are there secret escapes planned for bad dates and boring conversations?”
“For blind dates, yes.” Coulson’s lips purse in a distracted little frown, like he’s trying to correlate this conversation within a wider context. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I’m bored,” Clint lets himself whine. “And you’re here.”
“So you thought you’d ask for dating tips?”
“I don’t need tips. I do fine.” It’s true. For broad definitions of the word. Clint dates plenty. Well, he hooks up a lot, and that’s close to the same thing. Although lately there hasn’t been much of that, but that’s mostly because Strike Team Delta keeps jet-setting around the world and Tasha’s killer curves put all other women to shame and Coulson… Coulson has broad shoulders and kind eyes, deadly aim and a terrible sense of humour, a truly pathetic love of reality television and the ability to be politely terrifying. That’s not an easy comparison to live up to.
“You were overwhelmingly curious about my love life?” Coulson asks carelessly, like he’s sitting in a debriefing and questioning the number of guards on a patrol or the angles needed for a shot. It’s casual and routine, so Clint just needs to be cool.
He can be calm and cool. He can be ice. Just watch him.
“I’m allowed to be curious. No harm in it.” Well done, Barton. That impression of a defensive teenager was pitch perfect.
Coulson, unfortunately, catches it. Clint can tell by the slow way he looks over at Clint and then grins. No, not grins, it’s not hard and smug and patronising enough to be a grin. This is a smile, sharply pleased and almost hopeful. “You're curious about my love life?”
“Can we stop saying the phrase love life? This isn’t a Hallmark movie.”
“I thought Hallmark made cards,” Coulson says, distracted for a moment.
“Lifetime. Whatever.” Clint waves the thought away, knowing that the real topic of conversation hasn’t been forgotten. Which is a pity, because having a crush on your handler might be embarrassing but it doesn’t hit mortifying until they know about it. “And, fine, I was curious. I was prying into something that isn’t any of my business.”
In the refracted light of the small torch, Clint picks at his fingernails. There’s dirt caught under his thumb and it’s a great way to avoid Coulson’s gaze.
After a silence that Clint was starting to appreciate, Coulson says gently, “It could be.”
“Could be what?”
“It could be your business. Who I date.” It’s an amazing and slightly terrifying thing to see Phil Coulson so awkward. The man has saved Clint’s life more than once, been shot twice and nearly succumbed to hypothermia, and he still managed to be competent Agent Coulson. He didn’t fold his arms around himself or shrug his shoulders, didn’t swallow loudly before talking. “Assuming that you want to date me.”
“Was that a question, sir? Because it didn’t sound like a question. I’ve got to say, every time I’ve imagined you asking me out, there was a lot more asking actually involved.”
“Have you finished critiquing my actions?” Coulson asks, his tone as dry as the Sahara.
“See, that was a question. Not so hard.” Clint grins and gets up to his feet. He flexes his arms a little as he gets up. He knows how to sell his best assets. “It goes like this. Do you want to go out on Friday? I’ll pick you up at 8 and show you the best Korean food in New York?”
“You’re in Austria on Friday.”
“Fine, Tuesday but the atmosphere may be lacking.”
There’s a crackle in Clint’s ear. From Coulson’s suddenly focused expression, he heard a crackle of his own.
“We’re digging you out.” Natasha’s voice comes through their earpieces, static-laden but understandable. “Just so you know, we’re picking up your comm signals now.”
“Thanks,” Clint says like the adult he pretends to be. “You’ve got great timing, you know.”
“If you prefer, I can stay up here and wait until the two of you have finished arranging your social lives. Sitwell’s suggested that Korean might be a bit messy for a first date. He thinks Italian’s an easy winner.”
“Garlic breath,” Coulson says.
“You know Coulson won’t eat New York pizza,” Clint adds because Coulson has firm – and ridiculous – opinions on pizza. It’s why he’s always happy when a mission sends him to Chicago.
“Continue, Romanov,” Coulson says, voice completely professional but a self-satisfied smile caught in the creases around his eyes. It’s a good look on the man. “We’ll wait for extraction.”
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Date: 2014-06-01 02:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-06-01 02:14 pm (UTC)