Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates
It's hot. Really freaking hot. Clint's spent the last twelve hours perched on a roof, staring down the scope of a rifle, sweltering under Kevlar and nylon and waiting for a target that never showed up. The dusty plaza he's surveying is empty, the cracked ground hazy with moonlight and streetlamps. He's overheated, covered in sand, and probably smells like an armpit (His deodorant's claims to be an antiperspirant were blatant lies).
He's starting to regret ever accepting the offer to work for a shady government agency.
"Barton, report."
He rolls stiff shoulders and presses a finger to the tiny, state-of-the-art comm. in his left ear. "I got nothing, sir. I think the bastard's a no-show."
Coulson sighs down the line. He must be just as tired of this as Clint is; being stuck staring at a computer screen in their cramped, sorry excuse for a safehouse isn't much better than being up on the roof. "I'm calling it. We'll have to go after him tomorrow."
Clint checks his watch. The digital numbers blink back at him, 2:14 AM. "I hate to break it to you, sir, but tomorrow's already here."
"Just get back inside, agent." Coulson's eye-roll is practically audible.
"Sir, yes sir."
The pieces of the rifle come apart easily, smooth and silent under Clint's hands as he disassembles the carefully oiled metal and slides it into the waiting briefcase. From there it's just a matter of shimmying down the fire escape, crawling along some brick ledges, and tapping at the third window he comes to. The curtain draws back and his handler's face pops into view, blank and solid as ever. He slides the window open and Clint maneuvers himself over the sill, catching the threadbare red fabric of the drapes to steady himself. It's been a few hours since he's had anything to eat. A year ago, that wouldn't have been a problem- a year ago Clint was eating every other day, and then only what he could scrounge from dumpsters- but he's spent the last twelve months letting SHIELD's crack team of nutritionists feed him protein bars and vitamin shakes in an effort to bulk up his skinny frame. After the initial week and a half of puking while his stomach adjusted, he'd re-discovered his affinity for nachos. Ever since, hunger has turned from an ever-present gnawing to a thing that bothers him sometimes. It's been a weird transition.
Coulson backs off to sit on the couch that takes up about three quarters of what passes for a living room. The low table in front of him is covered in laptops, wires, and half-drunk mugs of coffee. Even with the portable air conditioner whirring from a haphazard angle in the corner, it's still swelteringly humid. The Abu Dhabi night isn't as hot as the Abu Dhabi day, but the air feels like it's heavy, weighing down on everything and everyone. Coulson's got his jacket folded neatly over the back of the sofa (Of course) but his tie is loose, and the sleeves of his once-crisp, now wilted white shirt are rolled up to expose forearms muscled from filling out forms and karate-chopping HYDRA mooks. If Clint stares a little, he blames it on the lack of sleep.
"You should take a shower," Coulson says, not taking his eyes off the screens. Clint can see the blue light reflecting off his eyes. "We'll be in the car for four hours on the way to Sharjah. There's shampoo on the shelf."
Clint slinks into the bathroom, toeing off his boots and socks. The floor is slippery under his bare feet, and as he peels his shirt and bullet-proof vest over his head he allows himself a yawn.
The spray is cold on his back, and the water washing down the drain is a diluted red-brown. He isn't sure whether it's from the filth sluicing off his skin or if it came out of the tap that way. He doesn't really care. He can feel his muscles start to relax and unknot, and he presses his forehead to the slick, cool tiled wall with a groan of relief. The long day's tension is still coiled in his shoulders, in the pit of his stomach, and almost without thinking he reaches down to wrap a hand around his cock. He doesn't think of anything as he strokes himself; just falls into the steady, monotonous bliss of fingers over flesh. His nerves spark, really alive for the first time in hours, and he spills over his loose fist with a sigh.
He's blinking through the aftershocks when he notices a blurry shape outside the shower curtain. He tenses, tired body dropping into fight mode, but the figure doesn't come any nearer. It just stands, still, a haze of black and white.
Coulson carefully closes the bathroom door, and Clint is too exhausted to be embarrassed.