Yeah, I really shouldn't be starting anything new... but enjoy the latest plot bunny.
In Phil Coulson's forty-three years of life, Mondays that began with a phone call at dark freakin' thirty in the morning from his boss generally didn't wind up going so well.
"Coulson, we needed you down here yesterday." Sergeant Fury sounded as alert as ever, even at such an ungodly hour. Phil allowed his half-conscious mind to wonder for a moment if the man ever slept. "Sitwell and his team just got in from a raid. They've got a dog - Belgian mala-something - and he needs a home and a vet."
"Sir, how does this involve me?" Cut him a little slack, it was three thirty in the morning – he checked.
"He needs a home. And a vet."
"So I heard. Did you call Richards? What about Hill?"
"She's in New York for the next three days. And even though the city council technically said no to starting a K-9 unit on the force, this is me unofficially saying that you absolutely do not have my permission to begin a covert unit. And I am completely not recommending Hill as your partner." Phil couldn't help but be just a little floored at the sudden turn of events. He had submitted a request to form a small K-9 unit to the city council months ago, but it had been denied (Phil was convinced the idiots hadn't even looked at it) on account of it being an impossibility to fund with the current budget.
"I'm on my way, sir," he replied, his tone efficient and businesslike despite the early hour. There was a small click on the other end of the line before he was even done speaking. Phil just sighed and rolled out of bed to get himself a cup of coffee.
"So this is him, huh?" A bedraggled tan-black dog lay on what looked like an emergency blanket in the corner of the police station, tail thumping occasionally.
"Yup. Don't ask me why a drug dealer would have a Belgian Malinois, but he did. Poor guy got caught up in the shootout – the dog, not the dealer. Look, you can see here –" Sitwell pushed the dog's front leg up to reveal a bloodstained gauze patch, "He got nicked by a bullet from one of them." The dog, apparently now feeling the need to express exactly how he felt about that, milked the moment for all it was worth. He flopped back dramatically and whined deep in his throat and gave Coulson a look that screamed poor me. Coulson just chuckled.
"He's got two different-colored eyes." His quiet observation was true - the dog had one chocolatey-brown eye, standard for a Belgian Malinois, and one sharply golden eye. Said dog, sensing he was not going to get any belly rubs out of the man, huffed a little and hauled himself back up into a laying position.
"He does. That's why we think the dealer kept him around – the guy was a collector of sorts, and a dog like this is apparently a novelty."
"What's his name?" That made Sitwell pause for a moment.
"He… doesn't exactly have one. Ward found a collar with 'Golden Eye' on it, but he doesn't listen to it." By way of example, the officer whistled at the Malinois. "Golden Eye! Here, boy!" The dog huffed again and shot Sitwell a look that plainly said, you're kidding, right? Coulson chuckled again.
"Sir?" It was Officer Ward, who was holding a thermos of coffee and a heavy leather collar. "This is the dog's… You can get the tags replaced, since you're his handler now… yeah, Fury told us," he said in response to Coulson's politely puzzled expression. "Congratulations." The younger officer tossed him the collar and turned to leave. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a bed with my name on it waiting at home. Can't the dealers at least wait until a decent hour to make illegal deals?"
But where's the fun in that? Coulson thought to himself as the corner of his mouth turned up at the comment.
"Officer Coulson." Fury had appeared behind the two men from seemingly nowhere, looking scary as heck in his leather duster and eyepatch. No one on the force quite knew the story behind the Sergeant's missing eye. One popular theory was that it was the result of a dinner date gone horribly wrong (the newbie who started the rumor was reassigned within a week of it spreading and they hadn't heard from him since).
"Sergeant Fury." Coulson rose to his feet, ignoring his stiff knees from crouching for so long.
"So this is our dog," Fury commented, staring down at the dog, who had rolled onto his back again, displaying the gauze patch. "What's his name?"
"He, uh, he doesn't have one yet, sir." Coulson was already running through a list of dog names he'd been compiling since he was a kid. "His, ah, previous owner called him Golden Eye." The dog seemed to roll his eyes, again, and there was practically a speech bubble above his head saying, will you people quit calling me that?
"Right. Well, you can take him home now and take him to the vet in the morning. I called Hill to let her know." Fury hefted a ten-pound bag of dog food into Sitwell's arms from its resting place by his feet and looked at Coulson. "And I had to call in a favor to get fricking dog food at four fricking thirty in the morning, so this K-9 thing better be damn good."
"Something tells me she wasn't too thrilled to find out. And it will be, sir." Coulson squatted down and lifted the dog into his arms, blanket and all. "By the way, thank you for the blanket." Sitwell looked between Fury and Coulson for a moment before trotting off after Coulson. Fury just shook his head slowly for a moment before beating a retreat to the break room. Four thirty was too early to deal with this stuff and he needed coffee like a dying man in the Sahara needed water.
"Thanks for the help," Coulson commented to Sitwell as he shut the back door of his SUV.
"No problem. Good luck with the whole K-9 thing," Sitwell replied, casually leaning against the side of the vehicle. He absentmindedly pushed his glasses up on his nose. "See you soon?"
"I don't know. Maybe. I might be taking an extended leave of absence to work with this guy." His hand moved in a casual indication of the backseat and the dog currently laying on it. "I'll have to talk to Hill."
By the time Phil had finished talking to Sitwell, the dog had wormed his way out of the blanket and up into the front seat. He settled there like he was born for it, smiling a big doggy grin at his new owner. Phil just yawned and downed the last of his now-cold coffee. As excited as he was about his unit being OK'd by Fury, it was now bordering on four-forty five in the morning and he was tired, dammit.
"So, dog," he said, just for the sake of talking, "how do you feel about being a police dog?"
Phil dropped the food in the pantry with a groan and leaned back, easing out the kinks that came with waking up at an ungodly hour. The dog looked hopeful about the possibility of food for about all of three seconds before he realized that he wasn't being fed. There was a large purple dog bed in the corner of the living room Phil had bought just in case something like this actually happened. The dog (he needed a name soon; Phil couldn't call him "The Dog" forever) padded over to it, emergency blanket in tow, and flopped down on it with a huff. Phil honestly hadn't been too terribly fond of the color, but he had to admit it looked good against the Malinois's coat.
"Goodnight, dog," Phil said, and flipped off the kitchen lights.
This new house smelled weird. As soon as the man had gone out of the kitchen, the dog jumped up and clacked his way across the living room, into the kitchen and through the dining room, sniffing here and there as he went. The Malinois let out a soft ruff of excitement at a sweatshirt he found draped over a chair; it smelled like cats! He liked cats. He nosed around the chair a little longer, just in case there was a cat hiding around there somewhere (one could never be too sure. Those cats are sneaky!), before clacking his way back to his bed. He could explore the rest of the house in the morning, but now he just wanted to sleep.
A heavy panting sort of noise dragged Phil out of his rather lovely dream, thank you very much, something about him winning the precinct's first annual Dog Cop award and was that Maria? He blinked blearily for a moment before trying to sit up, but something with a weight reminiscent of an elephant's was pinning him down. And hang on – oh. Oh. There was a dog staring at him. That explained a lot. His newly-acquired Malinois was grinning his signature doggy grin right in Phil's face, who wrinkled his nose at the smell.
"I thought you were injured?" he asked the dog, before pushing him off his legs because quite frankly, he was beginning to lose feeling in them. "Y'know, gunshot wound and all?" Phil shot a quick glance at the clock on his bedside table – seven-thirty? Really? – and the Malinois trotted back into the kitchen, nails going clackclackclackclack on the hardwood floor. "Just give me five minutes to shower."
Exactly seven minutes later, Phil stepped out of the shower and into a bathroom that hadn't quite had the chance to fully steam up yet. A quick shave later, the cop stepped out of the bathroom…
…and almost onto his dog. The dog was sitting just outside the door, food bowl in mouth and a seriously, bro? expression on his face. Phil wanted to facepalm.
"Kitchen," he said, pointing at the doorway. "Seriously, dog, I'll feed you, but can I get some pants on first?"
For a Saturday, the local vet clinic was remarkably empty. There was a lady with a miserable-looking hairless cat, who periodically let out pathetic mrraaws from inside the cat carrier; a couple with a large, empty birdcage; and what looked like a bodybuilder, who was cuddling a Pomeranian. As soon as Phil walked in the door, the Pomeranian started yapping his head off at the new arrivals, and the Malinois gave a few gruff barks in return. Phil had been waiting for all of five minutes when his phone buzzed with a new text from Maria.
Hiya there, partner.
So Fury had indeed let her know. Hi. How's New York? he typed back.
Boring. So you have a new dog, I heard. He sounds gorgeous.
Yeah, he is. He needs a name, though. Phil snapped a picture of the dog's unusually-colored eye and sent it with the text.
Ooh, pretty. It looks like a hawk's eye. Why don't you name him that? Came the return.
What, Hawk's Eye?
No, Hawkeye.
"Hawkeye," Phil mumbled to the newly-christened Malinois, whose ears pricked up. "You like that, huh?"
Sue, one of the technicians, called him back a couple minutes later. "So, you finally caved and got a dog, huh?" she inquired as she lifted Hawkeye up with a huff and placed him on the stainless steel table. "He's a beaut. Malinois, yeah?"
"It wasn't entirely my choice. Fury called me down around four this morning to come pick him up. Sitwell and Ward got him off a drug bust." Sue nodded. She, in addition to her fellow vet techs Johnny and Ben, and Doctor Richards himself were familiar with most of the local police force. It wasn't uncommon to see an officer, often times still in uniform, in the office with an animal they'd seized on a raid or rescue.
"I'll send Dr. Richards right in," she promised after noting Hawkeye's weight.
And there we go! Lemme know what you think. Next chapter: Maria and Phil begin their epic partnership, Hawkeye smells stuff and we meet Natasha.