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Rolling his shoulders tightly, Clint adjusts his grip on the pipes below him. He’d been up here for six hours, but that barely touched his standing “frozen in one spot” record. No big deal. It was part of the job, scoping out a single location and waiting patiently. It was a lot like fishing, but he enjoyed this more than fishing. He had nothing against the fish; why should he stick a hook through their face and call it sport? That was dumb. It was unnecessary bloodshed, and his life was all about avoiding that. That and avoiding boredom. And at the moment he was accomplishing both things on this mission. He wonders what it says for his psyche that he’s not bored while perched in the ceiling above the kitchen for hours on end, but a few days sitting around watching television had him ready to crawl the walls.
Just three days ago, Agent Coulson strode into the rec room while never lifting his eyes from the files in his hand. “Barton, get off the bookcase.”
“It’s bolted to the wall, I checked,” Clint grumbled as he dropped back to the carpet. “Whatcha got boss? Please tell me someone needs help. Anyone. Middle school princesses need someone to spy on each other to see who’s been kissing whose boyfriend? Anything?”
“You’re part of another team, you don’t have to do grunt work anymore. I thought you would be pleased,” Coulson said as he sat on the huge (steel reinforced, dented) couch. Clint flopped down on the other end. “Besides, we can’t have you halfway around the world if and when we need you on task here.”
“Meh meh meh,” Clint mocked. “Sounds like Fury’s bullshit. You know I put Avengers stuff first. I’m going crazy sitting around here. Don’t you have anything local? I’d take grunt work, as long as no one asks me to get coffee.”
“The junior agents have a packet instructing them what they can and cannot say to you. Requests for coffee are banned.”
Clint grinned at the memory. “Slip a few testing-stage hallucinogens into some upstart’s coffee once, and I still hear about it four years later.”
If Phil smiles too, Clint wouldn't be the person to point it out. “I’ll see what I can do, Clint. We can’t have you hiding in the walls to try and spook your teammates. Some of them might not take kindly to that.” Smiling, Clint watched as the other man stood up, files in hand. Clint noticed something strange. It would never be said that he was modest, and it was only thanks to his many years of training that he had avoided being caught while staring at people around him. Particularly their assets. He liked to look, he probably had an unexplored (as of yet) voyeuristic kink. But as Coulson stood, his tailored jacket tail covered his ass perfectly. Clint’s brow creased as he realized he had no idea what the agent’s butt looked like. This bothered him.
He had examined the rest of his teammates often enough; it was hard not to. He had long been aware of Natasha’s spectacular body, had seen Thor in action before the guy had a name, Tony’s ass was old news (literally, there was a newscast the other day counting all the ‘Tony Stark Naked In Public’ stories over the past year), and what couldn’t be said about Cap’s tush, or the Hulk’s? Bruce’s butt was decent too, no matter how he tried to hide it under saggy slacks.
But Coulson’s ass was a mystery, he realized. There was nothing Clint hated more than not knowing something. So he asked Natasha the next time he saw her, sitting on top of a balcony rail. After all, she was better at casual espionage than him.
“Hey Tasha, got a question.”
“Depending on what it is, I may have an answer.”
He flipped over the rail, dangling over the edge for a moment before pulling himself back up effortlessly, wrapping his arms around the railing and looking up at her. She didn’t pause in her knitting as he asked, “What does Coulson’s butt look like?”
She gave him a searing look. “Really? That’s what has you so worked up?”
“It just occurred to me. I mean, we all know he works out; he keeps up with the rest of us. But he’s always-and I mean always-wearing those dumb blazers that conveniently keep his ass out of sight.”
“I don’t know what his butt looks like Clint. Can we end this conversation? It’s ridiculous.”
Clint was mercifully quiet for a few moments, watching Natasha finish a row and switch hands. As the needles started clicking again, he said, “It’s just not fair. I know what everyone else’s looks like! He’s an Avenger too, I got a right to know-“
“You know what, Clint,” Natasha said icily. “I dare you to find out. Go, do some recon, and somehow come back with a picture of Agent Coulson’s ass, or I’m teaching you how to knit. Now go pester someone else.”
“Length of mission?” he asked, his face splitting into a grin.
“A week from right now. And you cannot be compromised. Go.” Clint vaulted over the railing with a whoop, off to collect his materials, and Natasha tried not to laugh at his enthusiasm.
So here he was. Everyone’s room was equipped with their own bathroom, and Coulson never left without locking the door to his suite. Capturing him as he came out of the shower wasn’t going to happen. Clint thought about leaving cameras in the various bathrooms, but he didn’t really want to deal with Tony or someone else finding them and freaking out about a possible security breach. Also Natasha would beat him up. He wasn’t going to be able to use the bathrooms then.
He could scan the couch with some of Tony’s gizmos, reconstructing the shape of the imprint of Coulson’s butt on the cushion. But that would require talking to Tony about this mission, and he wasn’t about to fail because he had to bring Tony in. And Tony would absolutely try to help. So no high-tech quick fix.
He settles on a classic set up for the first attempt. He installs a pinhole camera in the west wall of the kitchen, making sure it’s invisible to everyone except him. There was already a small scuff mark there, so the camera shouldn’t look out of place. And now he waits in the ceiling touching the wall. Coulson usually grabs a cup of coffee when he returns from…wherever he goes all day. Exactly at 18:20, as usual, he enters the kitchen, setting a tablet on the island as he crosses over to the high-output Stark-altered coffee maker, unaware he’s being watched through a sliver in the ceiling. Clint relaxes his grip and just before he drops all his weight on the ceiling tile under him, he sees Coulson freeze. He’s already swung into movement; it’s too late to stop now.
The metal tile crashes down beneath him as Clint launches himself over Coulson. He rolls once and jumps up, laughing. Coulson’s bent over, one hand blocking his head and the other reaching for the gun under his jacket. “Whoops, man Stark really went cheap on those braces.” Coulson merely stares at him as he stands straight again, expression unreadable.
“Why were you in the ceiling, Barton?”
Clint shrugs as he dusts off his arms. There’s a little tension left in his muscles, but he doesn’t let it show. “Got bored. Wondered what Tony kept in the plenum space. The answer is: a lot of dust bunnies. And wiring. Mystery solved.”
Phil keeps staring at him, and it makes Clint twitchy. He walks around the agent, scooping up the metal tile behind him and wanders to the elevator. “Gonna have Thor hammer the dings out of this thing. Take it easy!”
Later that night, Clint removes the camera and sprints back to his room. Gleefully he plugs the tiny device into his computer. His glee dies when he sees that the camera only recorded for five and a half hours. He left that thing on all day. Shitty Stark tech, see if he ever borrowed things from Tony without asking again. Clint grumbles as he opens the video anyway, converting it into something watchable. The black screen blinks and suddenly Coulson’s face is up close and personal. Clint watches as the agent backs off and lifts up a piece of paper. Neat, measured handwriting is held steadily in front of the camera.
“I don’t know what you’re up to, but it ends now Barton.” The paper is lowered and Coulson smirks at him before turning and walking away, the usual jacket covering Clint’s target.
Clint stops the video there. How the hell had Phil even seen the camera, let alone reset the damn thing? Leaning back in his chair, Clint realizes he’ll need to rethink his whole plan. He had gotten too complicated too quickly. Some good old recon was needed here. He throws himself into bed, setting his alarm for five in the morning. He would just follow Phil around tomorrow, see when he’s most vulnerable and make a plan from there.
The next day is a chilly October Tuesday, which Clint is thankful for. It makes it easy for him to blend in with the other people around him, all bundled into a thick black canvas coat and dark blue hoodie. His sunglasses hide his eyes and a knitted hat covers his head and ears. His hands are shoved into his pockets and cheap earbuds keep people from addressing him. Clint walks at a leisurely pace, bookbag on his back bouncing slightly. Coulson’s twenty feet ahead of him, chattering away on his phone, seemingly oblivious to someone on his tail in the throng of people hurrying around him.
Predictably, Coulson heads into one of the many gleaming buildings around them. Clint crosses the street swiftly, hunkering down in a small café across the street. He orders a drink and finds a seat facing the windows with a wall at his back, the only security cam in the place nowhere near him. He’s probably being too cautious, but it’s always good to keep all these things in mind. He pulls out a laptop-one of Tony’s unfortunately, he didn’t want to chance it that he was being tracked by S.H.I.E.L.D.-and hacks swiftly into the surveillance cams. Familiarity with the system is only natural after being on their payroll for so long.
He finds Coulson easily enough. There’s no audio feed, it would be more of a security liability than anything useful anyway. So he watches Coulson go about his day, music thumping quietly in his headphones.
——
Bruce empties a can of chicken and rice soup into a hopefully clean sauce pan when Agent Coulson wanders into the kitchen. They give each other a friendly smile, neither really having anything to say. But Bruce-being always observant-notices a small twitch to the grin. Phil gets his usual cup of coffee and puts it in the microwave, making the plain black mug clank against the glass plate. Loudly.
Bruce looks over at the agent, clearing his throat before asking, “How was your day, Phil?” And damn did it feel weird to address him by Phil. But he’d been insistent that while he was off the clock, they could drop the ‘Agent’ stuff.
“It was good. The cantina at the Midtown office has finally mastered tuna salad.”
“Oh good. Nothing like a good sandwich huh?”
The microwave beeps once. Phil smiles a goodbye as he leaves with his coffee in hand. A few minutes later Clint wanders in, dropping a backpack gently on the floor. “Hey doc,” he greets quickly, foraging in the fridge determinedly. “Do we still have some take out left?”
Bruce stirs his soup as he answers. “No, Tony remembered to eat today.”
“That selfish bastard,” Clint swears under his breath, not meaning a word of it. Tony’s ability to forget food and sleep when he was on a roll was a source of concern for everyone. And Bruce’s nagging would only send Tony griping down to the garage. “PB&J for me then. Is Coulson back yet?” Clint resolutely refuses to call Phil anything other than Coulson. He’s just stubborn like that.
“Yeah. He seemed. Do you know if he’s doing all right?” Bruce asks haltingly. He didn’t want to worry Clint, but something seemed off about Phil.
Clint’s brow furrows in concern, pausing as he grabs the peanut butter. “I uh, I haven’t noticed anything. Why, did he say something?”
“No, he just seemed a little off-kilter. Earlier. It’s probably nothing.” Bruce reaches for a bowl, but Clint hands him one before he can reach up. “Thanks. But um. How are you holding up? I know you were going a little stir-crazy being stuck in the tower all the time.”
Clint grins disarmingly as he snags a plate for himself. “I’m better. I’ve got a sort of hobby now. It’s keeping me occupied.”
“A hobby?” Bruce asks, digging a spoon out of the drawer. He frowns as he shoves aside a flare, a throwing knife, and a pair of pliers. “Should I be concerned for the structural integrity of the tower?”
“Nah, you’re safe.” Clint shoots him a wink before strutting towards the elevators. “I already know how awesome your ass is.”
Bruce stares incredulously after him, holding his spoon up like a dagger. “Um. Thanks?” he says to the empty room.
——
Clint’s getting impatient. He’s been tailing Coulson for the entire week and he’s got nothing to show for it. His deadline is rapidly approaching. So he decides it’s time to be proactive again. Coulson always takes longer to get home from being a professional badass on Fridays. Clint discovers this entails running around the city, meeting up with various official looking people and other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. They’re easy to spot; they’re all smug looking nerds. At its heart, S.H.I.E.L.D. is an intelligence agency, probably the best organized one in the world, and it tends to make sure its agents are aware of their standing. Thus, smug nerds populate its roster. Coulson’s one of the few that are less smug, and more content in their knowledge of their own badassery. Who else can say they’ve shot an experimental weapon reverse engineered from Nazis at a Norse god who’s just stabbed them?
Phil nods goodbye to another agent, turning to cut across a wide courtyard. He skirts around the many decorative trees in the area, eyes on his phone. As he passes by a large water fountain, he pauses. He slips his phone back in his pocket as he steps closer to the fountain. He hears it again, a muffled but urgent squeaking. He circles the fountain, trying to pinpoint the noise. Stopping by a plastic cover on the top of the stone border around the pool, he listens carefully. The squeaking is definitely coming from here.
Coulson pulls out a small pocket knife/USB drive /socket wrench and pries the cover off. It’s obviously some sort of filter for the water. There are a few leaves, some trash, and-
“How did you squeeze in there, little guy?” Coulson says quietly as he picks a tiny wet bundle out of the cold water. The duckling just peeps happily at him. Phil puts it down on the ground and puts his pocket knife back in his pocket. The duck shakes itself off, shivering slightly. The shivering concerns him. It’s very small; could it be too young to have water repellant feathers yet? Phil suddenly wonders why he never learned how to properly care for young waterfowl. That could be pertinent information at some point in his life. For example, right now.
The duck doesn’t seem to be very upset about the shivering, waddling between his shoes and peeping contently. Phil can hear the possibility of leaving this thing to the elements dying with a snap. He removes his wool coat, scooping the duck into its warm folds. He smiles down at it, tucking it into the fabric better. He’s not busy for the next couple of hours, he can take it home and get it set up before going back to-
“AHAH!” comes a triumphant shout behind him. He sighs before turning around, finding Clint fiddling with his cell phone. And standing in a trashcan. “Finally! Oh hey, totally worth the effort. Nice buns, Coulson.”
“That’s why you’ve been shadowing me all week? For a picture of my ass?” Phil asks, glowering at him. “Did you plant this-the duck? That’s unacceptable. I could have missed him, he could have hypothermia or gotten sucked into the pipes-“
Clint looks positively insulted as he clambers out of the trashcan. “What-no! I didn’t have anything to do with the duck. And I didn’t hear him either. Otherwise I would have said screw the mission and gotten the little guy out myself.” He grins at the no-longer shaking duck and gives him a little chuck under the bill. “Thanks man, you just helped me out a ton. Wanna be my sidekick?”
The duck hisses at him, biting down on his finger. Clint jumps, his phone slipping from his fingers and splashing into the fountain. “Ow, fuck-what! No!” he cries dramatically. He dives into the fountain after the phone. “My evidence-glrugh-no-blub don’wanna knit!”
Phil watches the hero as he pulls out of the fountain, sopping wet and trying desperately to remove the battery from the phone. “Good luck with that, S.H.I.E.L.D. tech is infamously terrible when it’s damp.” He turns on his heel, giving the duckling a warm smile and a little head pat. “Good work Agent Henry,” he coos quietly.
“Ah-Phil, wait!” Clint shouts as he darts ahead of the agent. The sound of a wire snapping twangs through the courtyard just as he comes between the trashcan he had been hiding in and an adjacent tree. Clint trips and falls on his face as a small paintball shoots out of a nearby tree and pings his ass. The liquid that the thin capsule releases when it breaks on contact emits smoke with a hiss. Coulson stares as the fabric of Clint’s pants evaporates, just in the part that covered his ass. He stands with a sigh, explaining quietly. “That was intended for your stupid jacket, not my pants.”
Coulson indulges in a moment to take in Hawkeye Barton; best shot in the world and accomplished agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. with a soaking wet head of hair, dripping water from his dark brown jacket and pants that exposed his briefs-clad ass, clutching half a ruined phone. “See Henry, this is how to do it wrong. If you want a picture of someone else, I hope you’re smart enough just to ask.”
He steps around Clint without another word. Watching the agent leave, Clint shouts, “You already named him?! That’s how you get attached to things, Coulson! By naming them!”