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“Barton…this is a bad idea.” This was perhaps the fifth time that this statement was said in the course of three minutes, but Clint Barton didn’t care. Bad idea, or not, he was doing it.
Clint placed his hand on the shoulder of the other agent and smiled with false reassurance. “Look...whatever your name is-“
“Archie Durvall.”
“Whatever. I’m not asking you to do anything dangerous. I’m simply asking you to stand in that doorway there,” he pointed Durvall in the direction of the doorway, “and let me know if anyone is coming, especially Coulson. Got it?”
“Well, yes, but I think it’s a bad idea to mess with Agent Coulson…he’s intimidating.” Clint rolled his eyes and pushed Durvall at the doorway.
“That’s exactly why we’re doing this. Coulson needs to know that it’s not okay to fuck with us, even if we’re the newbies.”
-
It wasn’t a very elaborate, or particularly well-thought out plan. He knew which car was Coulson’s, the flashy red one, and he knew he wanted to mess with the guy.
Clint walked through the rows of cars in the official S.H.I.E.L.D. parking garage until he spotted the ostentatious hunk of metal. Clint ran his hand over the hood, admiring the cherry red paint job in spite of himself.
“Man, if this car belonged to anyone else, she’d be a beaut. Oh well.” He slung the pack he was carrying off his should and surveyed his supplies.
“Three industrial cans of S.H.I.E.L.D. issued shaving cream. Two rolls of the shitty excuse for toilet paper this agency has, one magic marker in purple and a pack of Saltine crackers. Perfect.”
Clint got to work placing toilet paper in strategic locations about the car. Among them, a wad in the tail pipe, a delightful bow wrapped around the rearview, and a pile of confetti in the seats.
Next he took out the shaving cream. Now, Clint wasn’t an artist and he knew this, but that didn’t matter. He had been a teenage boy once; he knew how to draw what he wanted to draw.
He uncapped the first can and drew a large capital “I” on the hood of the car. Grinning, he began to draw a large heart.
He was about to grab the second can when he heard a voice behind him. “Ahem, care to explain what you’re doing, Barton?”
Clint turned slowly, it was fucking Coulson. Of course. “I’m not doing anything Agent Coulson.”
Coulson stared pointedly at the can of shaving cream hanging loosely in Barton’s hand. “What is that in your hand?”
“Well, it’s called shaving cream. You use it to shave.”
“Was my car looking especially hairy this evening, Agent Barton?” Clint wasn’t really listening, he had just noticed that there was something in Coulson’s hand.
“What’s in your hand, Coulson?” Clint asked, his voiced tinged with suspicion and concern.
“Oh, you mean this? I just found it lying around. I was going to use it as fire wood.” He held up a bow.
Clint’s eyes widened. “No, give her back to me right now.” He held out the hand that wasn’t holding shaving cream.
Coulson smiled, “Her? Interesting. Now, I’ll make a deal with you, get away from my car, and I will give you this back.”
Clint didn’t even hesitate, his bow was more important than drawing “I heart dicks” on Coulson’s car.
He stepped in front of Coulson and held out his hand. Coulson nodded, smiling. He slung the bow over his shoulder and punched Clint in the face.
As Clint was reeling in shock, Coulson handed him a rag. “You sonofabitch, I think you broke my fucking nose!”
“Better take another rag then, so you don’t get blood on my car while you wash that shaving cream off, or better yet…” Coulson walked to the car and grabbed some of the toilet paper. He thrust it at Clint. “Here, now get washing.”
Clint took the rag, and the toilet paper and grumbled as he wiped off the shaving cream.
“This isn’t a very auspicious start to your career here at S.H.I.E.L.D. I have a few tips for you. They may help you to survive.”
“Fuck off, Coulson. I’m cleaning your car you don’t have to keep talking to me.”
Coulson took a rag from his pocket and began cleaning alongside of Clint.
“Tip one: Don’t be a dick.” Clint shot him a look, but said nothing.
“And tip two…” Coulson straightened up and, much to Clint’s surprise, handed him the bow. “Don’t touch Lola again.”
He clapped Clint on the back with a smile. “Good luck Barton. I have a feeling you’ll do well here.”