Attachment Issues
A Word: This can best be summarized as me rolling around both movies while making incoherent squeeing noises and not giving one solid fuck about anything.
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Captain Thomas Fuller, LAPD. Born into old money and even older politics. Graduated top of his class in nearly every school he went to and fast tracked his way up the ranks with ease that's drawn more than a few suspicious looks over the years. Rumors of money greasing the tracks and good old boy strings being pulled behind the scenes are common and not entirely unfounded.
Nothing new or strange in the story. Until you ignored his rise and paid attention, real good attention, to the crimes under his watch.
Paid attention to the high numbers of arrests made and the low number of weapons and drugs impounded. The stellar track record of arresting local gangs and drug dealers, and their very low numbers of charges brought against the dealers from cartels or the gang members from international groups. Little discrepancies in the numbers and statistics that most people don't pay attention to. The first warning signs of something truly corrupt and rotten.
How SHIELD got interested in a matter best left to IA wasn't something that Clint is paid to wonder. He does that for free. Loudly and often during the briefing leading up to his mission. Coulson's mild paper-pusher stare informing him how very little a shit he gives for Clint's complaining and to get his bags packed.
Clint spends the trip to California hoping AIM is involved somehow, because he's been missing their special brand of crazy lately.
He finds a studio apartment waiting for him in a shithole neighborhood. The fridge is already filled with bottled lemonade and half-eaten Chinese food. Unobtrusively, on the bottom of each carton, Natahsa's slanted writing labels the dates each one had been bought. Clint heats up the one that looks newest, tosses his clothes around the apartment, noting the things that he hasn't brought but still look like they're his, and falls asleep in a bed that still smells like the plastic it'd been wrapped in at the store.
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Fuller is reorganizing his department and Brian Gamble comes highly recommended from various enough sources that the man hasn't poked too hard at the background SHIELD had pulled out of their asses for Clint. He walks into the Metropolitan Division wearing a crisp uniform and trying not to itch the reopened holes in his ears.
There are a lot of starched uniforms and nervous young looking officers in the small room he enters. SWAT is a pipe dream for most of them, and Clint easily picks out the ones that have no chance in hell of getting in. He ignores them and casually slouches next to a dark haired man with military written all over him who looks almost as bored as Clint already is, "Hey."
The man, Street according to his nametag, takes his time looking Clint over before giving his own nod back, "Hey."
And as easy as that, Brian Gamble blends right in.
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Compared to SHIELD conditioning the training is a joke and Clint has to concentrate hard on not being too good. Has to remember to act like it's his first time doing certain things. Pull his shots just a little. Just enough to be remarkable instead of extraordinary. Remember to trip over his feet a little when throwing the other trainees around on the mat. Keep his movements to a slow jog when clearing buildings instead of his usual sprint.
It's an exercise in frustration and having to do it all while acting as part of a team is a small blessing, because he's so used to how things are with him and Natasha that the constant presence of the others makes him fumble without having to think about it. Brian Gamble gets good marks in the training sessions and is chosen with a handful of others to work under Fuller's new Lieutenant.
Clint's not surprised when a grinning Street slouches next to him after the selections are made and gives him a friendly grin, "How about a beer to celebrate, man?"
"Fuck yeah," Clint grins and his sentiment is quickly echoed by the other men who have made the team.
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It quickly becomes apparent that none of the men in SWAT follow up on their paperwork. Clint does a warrant raid that recovers a fugitive along with a truly impressive armory of weapons and ammunition. He gives a lowball estimate in the report he sends up after the bust.
Over a weeks' time he watches silently as that low number is bounced around and gets lower and lower until the prosecution for the case only has possession of three unlicensed handguns to tack onto the man's list of crimes. A charge that is easily dismissed by the judge who is more intent on hammering the man for murder. No one from SWAT is called in to testify at all during the trial.
The weapons have already disappeared. Clint doubts they'd even made it into lockup after the SWAT team left the house with the fugitive in custody. There is no other reason why the evidence would be transferred between so many departments to scramble the paperwork before it all made its way back to Fuller.
It's a pattern that Clint sees continues over and over again. He watches as weapons and drugs disappear in the bureaucracy of the LAPD without a single alarm being raised. Recording each incident and quietly passing it along.
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The bar is loud and almost as trashy as the shithole he lives in. The light is low and the bartender is selectively deaf/mute/blind for the right price. It's a sketchy as hell place for a bunch of cops to be hanging out in after work, but Clint only gives the guy's Brian's cocky ass grin when they grumble about it.
"We found one of the AKs," Natasha giggles as she shifts in his lap. Taking a delicate sip of the flat hard-lemonade that she'd made him pay for before dragging him away from the others. Her hair is bubblegum pink and matches the rich looking clothes she's wearing like a second skin. Along with the coy way she slaps Clint's hands out from under her shirt she's the perfect picture of a rich daddy's girl going to the "bad" side to play a little. "Germany."
"Please tell me it's not Hydra," Clint gropes her through her clothes. Counting how many weapons she's brought with her to this meeting, and obviously enough that Street -meandering his way over with a couple of beers- veers sharply back around to get lost in the bar crowd.
"I would," Tasha says, drawing her hot pink nails through the fringe of his hair. Scratching like he's a battered alley cat looking for treats. "But someone made me swear to never lie to him."
"God damn it," Clint swears with feeling and leans forward to bury his face in the cleavage that her shirt leaves bare. Black lace scratching against his lower lip as Tasha continues to pet him. "Have I said how much I hate those fuckers lately?"
"Not since the last time they ruined one of your vacations," Tasha says as she unrepentantly plucks his beer out of his hand. The only sign she'll ever give about her distaste for the fruity drink she's been nursing along through the night.
Clint allows himself to rest against her for a few more minutes before Brian has to do something outrageous enough to get slapped and have the rich little girl bouncing out of the bar in a prissy huff never to be seen again.
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Clint starts tagging everything. Every weapon, wad of bills, or brick of coke gets their own special low powered tracker.
The money and drug trackers are almost useless. They get lost all too easily as the items are broken down, but last just long enough for SHIELD to map out the small players in the plot. Informants paid in hard cash for seemingly random rumors, or gangs given bricks shortly before they start something big and media attention worthy.
Something is going on, something too large and subtle for Clint to see in the position he's in. That's alright with him though. SHIELD has analysts to do all that work. All he has to do is keep feeding them the raw data, keep tracking down the threads Hydra has put down in LA.
"What the hell?" Street laughs as Clint changes out of a sweaty and slightly smoky smelling shirt. His eyes are trained on Clint's right arm. "Afraid you'll forget how to spell your own name?"
"Nah," Clint glances at the jagua ink Natasha had spent last night placing on his body. He thinks about telling the man it isn't permanent. The light, blocky letters look like the start of a tattoo though and he'll probably get more shit if he denies it. "Got it so your mother'd know which name to scream out."
"Asshole!" Street punches him hard as the locker room bursts into laughter. Clint laughs as well and gives a mocking bow.
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Jim Street is a good man. Clint learns that slowly as he gets a feel for the squad he's in now, and as the two of them are thrown together more and more often. He learns that as he learns that some of the other guys he's working with aren't good at all.
Clint has already caught Morgan and Riley shifting bags of drugs around twice after a bust, and their paperwork never mentions any solid numbers on anything. No matter how many times they've been bitched at for it. Their names have also turned up several times in the trail of shuffled paperwork that the analysts have been crunching down looking for patterns.
Goose does the same thing, but in smaller quantities. Tasha had quickly confirmed the man wasn't part of the web they were after. He's just a crooked cop selling on the side to supplement his income in one of the worst ways possible. Doler, the man's usual partner, is an idiot too wet behind the ears and awed of his position to do anything about it. Clint gives the guy three more months of exposure to Goose before he's doing to same thing.
Doley and Martin are sparkly clean in comparison. They're just the regular chest beating assholes that police departments always seem to attract. Still riding high on the position they've gotten and swaggering around like idiots. Clint aches some days to put them up against Natasha in a real fight, but knows that'll never happen. Not unless something goes horribly, spectacularly wrong.
Natasha had kicked him when he asked her about the probability of absolute catastrophe for the mission one night.
Street is an honest to god relief when compared to the rest of the squad he's on, and Clint doesn't mind being partnered with him one bit. The man is also good at his job, and Clint relishes not having to hold back as much. With the other man's background he wonders why he's in the LAPD at all. A SHIELD recruiter really should have been the first thing he'd seen after his contract with the military was up.
"Hey," Street calls out over the deafening fire of the indoor shooting range as they both step up to the line, "worst score foots the bill for dinner?" There's a smirk on his face and a challenge in his eyes that Clint finds himself responding to without thought.
"Why the fuck not?" Clint rolls his shoulders and draws. Firing slower than he'd like. He allows himself only one bullet dead center on the target, and clusters the rest loosely enough around it to look accidental. He gives Street the best smirk Gamble is capable of as he holsters his gun. "I ain't going to argue if you want to waste your money."
"Fuck you, I can beat that," Street bluffs as Clint flips the switch to bring the target in. Clint pulls it down and slaps it against Street's chest with a laugh. Already attaching the next target as the man eyes the holes and is almost visibly regretting his bet.
"The fuck you can," Clint steps back and mockingly waves Street up to take aim as the target resets.
To his credit, Street tries. Clint gleefully mocks him for the one stray round that fell just outside of the bullseye as he makes Street pay for a monstrous pizza after their shift is up. Street doesn't take it lying down though and gives back just as much as Clint can dish out.
Street is a good man, and that's why Clint lets himself enjoy working with him without feeling guilty.
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They're in the bar that's become "theirs" when familiar arms wrap around Clint's neck and a sultry voice says in his ear, just loud enough for the others to hear, "Well hello there handsome."
It takes everything Clint has not to give that cheesy line the beat down it so rightly deserves and instead turn a sleazy Brian Gamble smile on the woman as he snakes his arms around her. That struggle is the only reason why Natasha used that line and the wicked glint in her eyes as he lets his hands wander down into dangerous territory proves it.
Clint lets his grin widen as he asks, "Hey, wanna fuck?"
Clint doesn't flinch as Natasha's nails bite into the soft bits of his neck as she drags him off to the dark hallway that leads to the bathrooms. The both of them ignore the cacophony of catcalls from Brian's coworkers. Clint slams the blonde woman up against the wall the second they're out of the light and devours her showy moans in an equally showy kiss while being very careful to not pin her wrists in any way.
Natasha wraps her legs around him and rewards his regard by grinding down hard against his dick because she's a sadistic bitch like that. Clint shoves a hand up the scrap of cloth that's supposed to be a skirt, groping for the string of the thong he knows she's got to be wearing, and stops when he feels the scratchy line of stitches winding up the soft flesh of her inner thigh. A ladder of them that's too precise to be holding together a lucky shot.
"You've got an admirer," Nat says when he breaks the kiss to give her a look. Her nails scrape harshly through his hair and down his neck. There'll be welts left there for days. It's a warning and an answer all at once. She won't talk about it and she's perfectly fine. "Are you seducing the innocents again?"
Clint buries a sigh in her neck as he bites a reprimand for the wound and the words into her skin. She lets him get away with it.
He doesn't need to look back to know what she's talking about. Street's eyes are a heavy weight against his back and impossible to miss. It 's something that Clint has been ignoring for the better part of a month now. A hand that lingers to long, a stare that lasts just a hair too long, the way words seem to twist in strange ways when they're alone together.
It's something that's snuck up on him in the year he's been working this mission. "Not really my type, and I don't think I'm his either. Maybe he's just got a thing for smoking hot blondes?"
Natasha bucks away from the wall and breaks away with a smile that really doesn't belong on her face. She slips her hands into the front of his jeans and playfully pulls him into the men's room. Something small and cold is slipped into his back pocket, but Clint won't check what it is until he's alone in the apartment.
Natasha's laugh is close to her real one as he puts her up on a sink. One hand sliding under the elastic of her thong and the other carefully mapping out the extent of the stitches before he drops down to his knees. Her next comment comes out on a breathy moan, "You're such a liar."
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Brian brags the whole next day about the busty blonde who'd choked on his dick until Street not so playfully threatens to put his face through three separate panes of glass. Clint makes sure to needle the man about how much he obviously needs to get laid, and arranges another bar hop. Loudly so the others can hear, with the sole goal of getting Street sloshed and fucked.
Street nearly does slam his head through a locker for that, and Gamble only cackles at the man's horrified look as blood starts flowing from Clint's not-really broken nose.
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Fuller is not in on anything.
He's a gruff, privileged asshole who needs to get a reality check from the knuckles of a woman's fist, but he isn't in on any of the deals happening. The man's a patsy. One who is getting suspicious of the numbers going wrong all on his own.
Clint watches as the Captain begins requesting original copies of their reports. As he stays a little later at night, and looks a little more worn when Clint comes back in the morning. There are too many files on his desk most shifts, and the man starts looking at all the men under his command with an assessing gaze that brings Coulson to his mind.
Just a little bit.
It's a complication that he passes on to Natasha as she leaves the bed she sometimes shares with him before the sun has even risen.
"He could be useful," Natasha says as she manages to pull on the tightest pair of jeans Clint has ever seen without the aid of a crowbar. And without wincing. He's more impressed by that last bit.
"He could also wind up dead," Clint points out as he stretches out in the space that has opened up for him. Natasha tends to sprawl when asleep, and is not fond of stray limbs invading her space at night. Something she enforces with sharp elbows and even sharper teeth.
"I'll see what Coulson wants to do," she says as she steals the last edible bit of food from his kitchen. A muffin that he's mostly sure neither of them had purchased. "The analysts have been wanting him to bring in someone more organic to track some of the higher ups."
"Yeah," Clint closes his eyes and doesn't hear her leave. He lets himself drift in a half-sleep for five more hours before dragging himself up and into the station.
He's yanked into the locker room almost immediately by Street who hisses, "The fuck did you do, Brian?"
"You have no evidence, you can't prove nothing!" Clint cocks an amused eyebrow at the man who doesn't seem to find the quip funny. "What's crawled in your panties?"
"The Captain," Street scowls. One hand reaching out to touch Clint's shoulder. Unconsciously, or Clint'll eat his favorite bow. "He's been spitting fire and yelling that you need to be in his office the second your sorry ass shows up. What'd you do?"
Well, that was fast. Coulson must've already been planning to bring the man in. Clint wonders who'd gotten the job of waking Fuller up at ass o'clock in the morning to inform him of his future as a SHIELD volunteer.
He hopes it was Natasha.
"Huh, must've found out I've been screwing his wife and daughter on Saturdays," Clint says with a bright grin and a wink to the worried man. He shrugs Street off and whistles cheerfully as he wanders out and into Fuller's office. "Yo. Heard you wanted to talk with me?"
"Gamble," Fuller's eyes are furious and his voice is pitched not to carry outside of the room. A rarity from the man who has a truly impressive set of lungs for his age. "Shut the door and sit your ass down."
Clint complies and watches the man have a mental breakdown with a grin he doesn't bother hiding, wishing he'd had the foresight to bring popcorn.
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Street looks equal parts pole-axed and disgusted as Clint stumbles out of his bathroom. Clint looks at the tiny scrap of cloth that's obviously women's underwear and recognizes it as the pair Natasha had bled all over after some punk had gotten very, very lucky just before dying. Clint wonders how the fuck it'd ended up in the sagging mess of cushions he calls a couch.
"Jesus, Jim. Don't you know better than to rummage through a man's couch?" Clint slurs his words and meanders through the apartment. Stumbling over air and ignoring the way Street twitches every time Clint comes close to losing his balance. "Go the fuck home, man."
"You're tanked, Brian," Street still looks disgusted as he nudges the panties away with a boot. "Gotta make sure you don't drown in your own puke."
"Oh fuck you," Clint trips face first into the mattress he calls a bed and ignores the prickly feeling he gets at leaving his back exposed with no one to watch it. Street doesn't count, he's a civilian and doesn't have a clue about the dangers Clint deals with. "Let me have my rockstar death."
Street snorts and Clint hears the couch groan. "Sure, and then I'll have to let the world discover your secret panty collection under your couch. What'd you do? Fuck 'em and run with the goods?"
"Hey, those're mine, you asshole," Clint turned his head to face most of the apartment and feels the crawling sensation relax a bit as he gets a good view through his slit eyes. "Can't a guy feel pretty every once in a while without the peanut gallery chiming in?"
The silence is immediate and heavy and Clint closes his eyes cursing his own damn mouth. In Russian because Natasha isn't there to do it for him. Street is a silent black hole in the room. His tenseness radiating outward and bringing Clint up to high alert.
"Brian?" Street sounds uncertain and wary and a whole host of other things that Clint's just not going to deal with. No. No fucking way is he going to deal with it. He's undercover on a mission, and this right here is not part of the parameters of it. So he just isn't even going to start on it. The crouch groans again as Street shifts and doesn't speak again.
Clint stays silent and fakes sleep until the sun rises and Street climbs off his couch. The floor creaking under his heavy feet and Clint tracks him by sound as the man makes his way to the bed. He relaxes and breathes evenly, feeling the weight of eyes on him as the seconds stretch into minutes. The air stirring around Clint's face and for a moment he almost panics. Tension starts to bleed into his muscles despite his best effort and Clint knows he's seconds away from bolting when the floor creaks again.
Street leaves fairly quietly for a man not trained to be silent.
Clint's almost out of the bed when Natasha falls gracefully out of the open ceiling onto the mattress. He doesn't bother being surprised that she was there, or wonder how long she might have been up there. "What-?"
Natasha holds a hand up. Her fingers curled slightly as they hover just over his cheek in a slow stroke before dropping. The motion is graceful and makes him want to squirm. Clint falls back onto the bed. "Shit."
Natasha gracefully doesn't mention how she'd called it months ago.
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Brain Gamble disappears on his days off, and Clint resurfaces four hours away from LA in a SHIELD owned warehouse that's mostly used to house wrecked vehicles before they're shipped out to be fixed. Clint had equipped the place with eleven targets when he first arrived. There are closer to twenty now though.
Street is becoming a problem. Clint forces himself to think about it as he rolls across the hood of a firebombed sedan. Two arrows hit two different targets dead center.
Natasha had been needling Clint about the man's obvious interest for some time. Clint had pushed it off for longer than he should have as something the man would get over. A passing infatuation from an ex-military guy that'd amount to nothing.
It's an assumption that's been proven wrong by the almost touch that Clint can still feel even days later. He rolls under a gutted HUMVEE and sprints for the far side of the warehouse. Pushing himself as fast as he can just to feel the burn of it as he puts an arrow into every target in his path.
Emotional attachments are fine on missions. SHIELD doesn't care what, or who, Clint does so long as he gets his job done, and understands that whatever he has going is over with the mission.
Clint makes an effort to keep attachments to the bare minimum whenever possible. He isn't like Natasha. He can't turn it on and then turn it off as easily as she does. Hell, he feels guilty leaving behind people who call him friend never mind-
Clint cuts a corner too close, clipping his elbow against a rusted tractor, and the arrow hits slightly left of center. "Fuck!"
The word echoes in the warehouse and Clint freezes. He drops into a crouch and edges back into the nearest shadow. Holding completely still. Breathing slowly and evenly despite how much his lungs beg for more air.
There it is, the thing Clint's been trying so very hard to ignore. Street is interested alright, and so is Clint. The attraction had been inevitable really. The normal wonderings of any red-blooded man when he notices someone's eyes lingering a little too long. Complicated by a string of late night bar hops, shitty diners, and even a trip to the dentist that Clint tries not to think about out of context.
Mentally, Clint places a sentry up in the rafters of the warehouse and begins to make his way back across the building. Slow and calculated to avoid detection.
The problem, as Nat had so cruelly pointed out, isn't that Street is taking an interest in Clint, or that Clint isn't as opposed to that interest as he claims. It's that the man is taking an interest in Gamble and in the real world that is a set up for a tragedy not a romantic comedy that ends well for all involved.
Clint breathes out and worms his way under a low riding car, pausing to eye the open space between him and the exit. There's no way to cross it without being seen. There is another exit in the back that he can use. The crush of vehicles goes up to the door itself, and almost guarantees he won't be detected.
"Fuck it," Clint's tired of crawling around already though. He rolls his last arrow between two fingers and mentally places the sentry in his mind before sliding out into the open area. His bow is up and the arrow loosed almost before his eyes confirm the sentry's position.
He hits the target attached to the industrial fans on the warehouse, dead center, and is out the door before his imagined enemy even has the chance to fall. Sweaty and dusty, Clint strips off his gear. Stowing it in the shitty car he'd picked up from an ad a year back.
Music blares from the radio for three seconds before he cuts it off with a sharp jab. Clint sits behind the wheel and stares at the dusty road that leads him back to the highway, and back to LA.
Four hours. Clint shifts to drive, setting the time limit as the new parameter for his mission. He has four hours to come up with a plan.
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"Your plan is shitty," Natasha tells him later, but she doesn't say no. "I have a better plan."
"I came up with a plan first, so we're doing mine," Clint dodges a kick and gets the feeling that she approves of the distance his plan will gain him. She's never been one to tolerate most emotional attachments.
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The Chief of Police is a diehard Hydra agent. Clint wonders how the hell he'd made his way through the background checks and the public scrutiny for so long without that little fact pinging on anyone's radar. Coulson had sounded pleased over the phone about the facts that Fuller had managed to pull out, and Clint hopes like hell there won't be a recruitment speech in the man's near future.
Clint shrugs the thought off and drags Street out to a different bar. Just the two of them. It's crowded and dark, and Clint ignores the way Street sticks too close. Ignores the way his hands linger when he bends to shout something in Clint's ear.
A flash of red catches his eye and Clint leans away from where Street has him nearly pressed up against a wall to track Natasha as she pulls a stranger to the bar. Their eyes meet and Clint reminds himself to trust her judgment as he gives a sly wink to Street. Drawing his attention to the pretty women at the bar, "You get the one on the left and I'll get the one on the right."
It's an awkward night. Street and the woman, Lara Boxer, smile and flirt with very little heat. Their eyes wandering and their conversation stilted. Street is almost vibrating with the tense need to get away, and only Nat's vocal demanding of Clint's full attention keep their little party from breaking up too soon. She pulls them all along to the hotel room she'd rented for the night with little effort. Ignoring every attempt Street makes to first extract Clint and run, and then ignoring the man's attempts to sneak away on his own.
Clint doesn't get the chance to see the looks on Lara or Street's faces as they realize where this is going when the door shuts behind them. Natasha uses her speed and strength to put Clint onto the closest bed and straddles him with a wicked smirk. His jeans are already open and pushed down just enough for her hands to shock an honest moan out of him before he's even done bouncing.
The second bed creaks minutes or seconds after Clint groans as she slides over and around him. Slick and tight in the best possible ways. A tiny moan that isn't Natasha's echoes in the room, and Clint hisses as she digs her nails into the side of his face. Forcefully keeping his head from turning to look.
"Don't," she whispers as she pulls him up into a filthy kiss. Her palms flat against his ears, muffling the growing noises he's hearing. "It's better this way."
"Yeah," Clint groans as something hot and sick twists inside him. He closes his eyes and lets Natasha hold him still, lets her block out his senses as she rides him hard and fast. Concentrating on the pleasure of the sex and not the dropping of his stomach. "Fuck, yeah."
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Street isn't a talkative man at the best of times. He almost shuts down entirely for a week after the hotel. Clint would worry more about the man if Street didn't still regularly call Clint an asshole for throwing things at his head.
If he didn't call Brian an asshole.
Lara shows up at their regular bar four days into the week, and Clint is honestly surprised to see her. Either Nat's been meddling or the sex had been fantastic, because he doesn't think the two of them had hit it off that well to begin with. He ignores the one long look Street gives him as he plays pool and makes sure to throw out a crude comment or three when Street finally leaves the bar with the woman.
Lara sticks around after that. Street stops looking at Clint with anything but resignation in his eyes, and the stray touches stop happening so frequently. Which is what he'd been going for in the end, plan successful. Natasha lets him sleep one night on her lap. Her fingers soothing through his hair as neither of them talk about anything at all.
The mission goes on.
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Fuller and Coulson are terrifying together. Clint takes Natasha at her word when she reports about the lunch meetings the two have almost weekly now. He tries to imagine what the men would talk about outside of the mission when Fuller calls him in to give Brian Gamble his bi-weekly ass chewing.
"Your, handler," three years into this thing and the man still trips over the terminology in a way that lets Clint know exactly what the Captain had thought when he'd first heard the term, "has been talking about exit strategies."
Clint perks up, losing the habitual smirk he wears to see Fuller, because this is news to him, "Yeah?"
"Your people are ready to make their move," Fuller sneers and flips through a series of folders in a way that Clint knows means the man is holding something back. Usually, his emotions. Aww, Fuller's going to miss him. "But not until you're out of the way."
"Awesome," Clint stretches out in the chair. It's about time. They've had enough to take down the whole ring for five months now. "So, am I leaving in a body bag or what?"
"Do you know how much paper work that shit leaves me with?" Fuller barks out with a glare. The papers are dropped and irritation washes away any silly "softer" feelings the man might have had. "It's a God damned nightmare! Fuck you if you think I'm doing any of that for your scrawny ass. You're getting yourself fired like the mouthy little shit you are!"
"Aw," Clint coos partly because it's expected of him and partly because he's just that kind of an asshole, "you're going to miss me!"
"Shut up and get out of my office!" Fuller roars. Loud enough to have the guys outside snickering into their coffee and donuts. Clint grins and slides out of the office. Fuller's voice blaring out just before the door closes, "And do some fucking work for once, Gamble! Make it look like you're earning that paycheck we give you!"
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"A month," Natasha gives him the timeline as she carefully traces over Brian Gamble's tattoos with jagua ink.
"Coulson got a plan?" Clint lays back and admires the cobwebs that've taken up residence in the far corner of the apartment. They're intricate and pretty enough to look at in the dim light of the morning. Which is the only reason the two of them have been careful not to disturb them when climbing up the ceiling.
"Hit and run was his first plan," Nat flicks the thin brush she's using this time. Adding minuscule flourishes to the design that's stayed static for years. "Fuller got him to reconsider. They're looking into administrative dismissal. Something ugly and public."
"To be a fly on the wall for that conversation," Clint grins as he fails to imagine someone other than Fury making Coulson back down from a plan.
Natasha hums, eyes flickering to his briefly before going back to her work. "He might have also been acting on intel about certain attachment issues with Brian Gamble."
"Nat," Clint sucks in a sharp breath and closes his eyes for the exhale. "You didn't."
"He had to know," Nat doesn't sound sorry or regretful in the least, and Clint doesn't really expect her to. He's known her too long to expect that. "You know Street would have been an issue."
He would. A year into a live in arrangement with Lara, looking at fucking engagement rings, and Clint knows that Street would still be an issue. Clint ignores the hollow feeling in his gut as his mind finally catches onto the fact that he's about to be pulled out, away from Street. "He'll be an issue either way, Nat."
"Not if you give him a good reason not be an issue."
"No," Clint opens his eyes and stares up into cold steel. The grip on his arm tightens enough to be painful. "No, Natasha."
"Yes," there is no give in her face as she stares him down. "You're done Clint. This mission is over. It's time to destroy all your ties here and go back. You're not the only one who'll end up hurt if you don't. You know that."
And Clint does. Street is a good man, a good cop, and a loyal friend. No matter what out Clint takes, no matter what excuse he gives, the man will be there. Calling him Brian and sticking his nose into things that'll get him killed way too easily.
Clint unclenches his fists and closes his eyes. "This sucks."
Natasha rubs away the bloodless, crescent moons his nails have bit into his palms and says nothing.
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Natasha's initial plan to get Street to back off had been as simple and shitty as Clint's, and filled with about twenty more times mind fuckery. Clint wonders as he drags an unprotesting Street to a bar if it would've been simpler in the long run for him if he'd taken her advice in the first place.
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"So, so fucking," Street laughs as Clint pours him onto the bed. He bounces on the mattress, still sputtering about a lame joke from an hour ago. His face is flushed red with alcohol and he looks damn good on Clint's bed. "Muffins!"
"Yeah, buddy," Clint swallows thickly, preparing himself for the hurt that's coming as he kneels down to drag Street's boots off. He wishes he could be exactly as drunk as he's pretending to be. "Muffins. Aint't they a bitch?"
Street laughs and there isn't a single bit of tension or wariness in his body as Clint slides the man's belt off. Fingers working open the fly button of the man's jeans far too easily. Clint almost worries that he's poured too much alcohol down Street's throat before the man chokes on a laugh.
Street struggles up onto his elbows and gapes down at Clint with fuzzy but still alert eyes. Clint lets him stare as he works Street's jeans down his thighs. Not caring that it catches on his boxers and drags them down enough to reveal a dark trail of hair and sharp hipbones. "What're you doing?"
"What's it look like I'm doing?" Clint doesn't wince as he gives a patented and practiced Brian Gamble leer up at Street. His fingers curling under the elastic of the boxers and dragging those down even further. Unsurprised by the thick dick he's seen too many times out of the corner of his eyes in the locker room, but he's still not totally prepared for the surge of want that fills him. Almost strong enough to cancel out the way his chest is aching.
"You," Street has nothing to say. Only stares in disbelief as Clint runs his hands up his exposed thighs. Fingers curling around the hardening dick before Clint leans down and kisses the tip. Street collapses with a groan onto the bed. "Oh fuck, Bri-"
Clint swallows him down all the way, sucking hard enough to make Street buck and nearly scream. He has to back off as Street's dick grows fully hard and threatens to gag him. He wraps his left hand around the base and twists as he begins to bob his head. Riding the sharp buck of Street's hips easily.
"Oh fuck! Wait, wait," Street's fingers scrabble through Clint's hair. Trying and failing to find purchase. Clint swallows, and Street nearly keens. "Slow down. Fuck! Brian, slow the fuck down! I'm gonna."
Good. Clint closes his eyes and groans, listening to the incoherent sounds the vibration draw from Street. Using every dirty little trick he's learned to get the man off hard and fast. Clint sucks harder, edging into painful territory just slightly, but that little edge Clint knows will be enough to make it all better.
"Fuck, yes!" Street nearly screams and Clint chokes as the man bucks up hard. The only warning he gets before his mouth is filled with come. Clint coughs and turns his head away. His hand taking over, stroking Street through his orgasm, and feeling the warm slide of come dripping down his face. "Brian!"
Clint presses his face hard into Street's thigh, his breath coming faster than it has any right to be. He wants to turn back and lick the man clean. Get every last bit of him in his mouth and do it all over again. His jeans pop open, and Clint hisses as he gets a hand on his dick. Stripping his erection hard and fast and not giving one damn for what was coming next.
"Shit! Come on," Street's fingers pull Clint's head back, his voice awed as Clint shuts his eyes tight. Refusing to look as he feels his orgasm build up far faster than it should. "Lemme see. Let me see you Brian."
Clint whines at the words and pants as Street's rough fingers drag across his face. Thumb catching against his lips and Clint opens his mouth to suck it in. Tongue flat against the pad and tasting skin and salt as Clint bucks up into his own hand. Fingers tight as he twists his hand just under the head of his dick, catching the sensitive spot with each stroke
"Look at me. Brian, look at me," Street urges. Thumb pressing down on his tongue. Street's other hand playing with the cooling spunk on his face, drawing patterns and rubbing it into Clint's skin. "Brian, please."
Clint groans and bites down on the thumb in his mouth as he comes hard. Almost chewing on Street's hand as he milks himself dry. His come painting the side of the mattress and pooling onto the floor. Leaving Clint wrung out and gasping. Held up only by Street's hands cradling his face.
"Fuck, yes, Brian," Street's voice is rough and Clint can feel the words puff against his face as Street shifts under Clint's upper body. "This. That was-"
Clint Barton draws in a deep breath smelling sweat and sex and Street's sharp aftershave.
Brian Gamble blows that breath out with a sneer and opens his eyes.
.
.
Clint doesn't sleep in the bed again. He spends a week twisted around the exposed springs from the couch and Natasha's bony elbows when she joins him. Her hands are always cool against his head and chest when they curl together and don't talk. At all.
.
.
"Stay flexible," Coulson says over the phone, and Clint almost smiles to hear the big band music playing lowly in the background. Surprised to find that he's missed hearing it so much. "Something will come up, and you'll need to take advantage of it."
"Hope that fuck was better for you than it was for me."
"I don't want any details," Fuller is stressed and lashing out at the slightest provocation. Keeping Clint in his office longer and more often. Building up a record of behavioral problems for Gamble. "Just don't fuck this shit up!"
"Better have gotten it out of your system cause you're not getting it again."
"There's a situation," Natasha's voice is muffled and Clint can make out the echo of screams and gunshots through the phone. "Take the shot when you have it."
"Fucking fag."
.
.
Tension runs high when the call goes out for SWAT. No one notices the extra edge between Street and Gamble. The awkward fumbles between the two men who used to work almost flawlessly together. The way Gamble doesn't quite meet Street's eyes, or the decidedly cool edge to Street's words.
It's a little painful and a lot dangerous going into a situation with their broken dynamics, but when Clint sees a familiar face -not struggling as hard to escape as he knows she can- he only feels relief. It isn't the first time Clint's had to shoot another agent for a mission, and isn't even that high up there on the list of the worst things he's done for SHIELD.
The play that follows is a relief to Clint. Cementing Gamble's end. The final act could have gone better though. It'd taken some surprisingly dickish words to get Street to lash out with some of the anger that's been simmering between them. Clint stalks out aching from the punch Street hadn't took and glad to leave Brian Gamble behind.
.
.