Clint was not enjoying this mission. This was a problem, because when Clint didn't like the mission, he tended to do things to upset his handlers. This time around, his handler was Agent White, and Clint detested the man with a passion. And so, he started doing things. He chattered incessantly, keeping up a running commentary of what he could see, his situation and really anything else he could think of.
"Really, who thought putting a sniper up here was a good idea." He grumbled into the open comms line, "I mean, there are pine-needles everywhere, I smell like its freaking Christmas, and the thing moves, like, how am I meant to take the shot when this is pitching like a ship in a storm." Clint whined. He could make the shot. Easily. He's taken shots on boats before, too, but White was a new handler Clint knew the other Agent hadn't read his file.
None of them ever read his file. Not that Clint had many other handlers that Coulson now, because he was utterly intolerable with anyone else. Most times, Director Fury got sick of Agents taking psych leave after working with Barton, and had dumped him onto Coulson.
Clint was bored, put simply. Yes, this was an important mission for S.H.I.E.L.D, but he'd been up this tree for nearly ten hours, with no food other than protein bars that tasted like cardboard, caffeine pills which he'd slipped into a pocket at the last moment – and Coulson would have a fit if he found out, but it was worth is to stay awake – and some water. That and his bow, of course.
The wind, which had been lashing the tree for the last nine and a half out of the ten hours he'd been there suddenly intensified, and there was a distant rumble of thunder.
"Great." Clint muttered, this time more to himself than to annoy White. He abruptly decided that White hadn't listened to nearly enough showtunes, and began singing Anything Goes through the open line. Over his own singing he was just able to detect the sound of Agent White letting out a faint, defeated groan. Awesome.
Rain started to fall, drenching Clint almost immediately. Grumbling to himself, Clint re-checked his harness that bound him to the tree. Now would not be a good time to slip and fall. By now he was cold, soaked, hungry and all in all not a happy sniper.
All he really wanted was to make the damn shot, and get out of the tree, back on the ground and into a hot shower then bed. Preferably with – well he wasn't going think about someone he couldn't have because of stupid S.H.I.E.L.D. regulations, because that was just going to depress him further, and he needed to stay sharp on this one.
The wind howled louder, and a barrage of icy rain stung his face. Clint reached up with one hand to wipe the droplets away before they ran down under his collar, but only succeed in smearing water across his protective glasses. Cold, soaked and at this point thoroughly miserable, Clint hunched deeper underneath the branches and shivered, constantly on the watch for his target.
He'd been up the stupid tree for a further four hours before he sighted the target. He was a small, untidy man, with unruly dark hair, wearing a labcoat and glasses. For a brief second, Clint was reminded of Dr Banner, and his aim wavered. But his pulled his focus back to target.
"I have the target in my sights." He reported, his voice a little rough, because in the end, he'd stop talking and singing for the three hours, "Permission to b fire?"
"Granted, Agent Barton." The voice wasn't Agent White's. It was a voice that was more familiar, and Clint pretended that his heart didn't start to race a little when he heard it.
"Thank-you, Sir." He said, grinning just a little bit stupidly, and he could imagine the look Coulson has on his face, a mix of exasperation and something Clint didn't have a name for. Not that anyone else could pick it, except maybe Natasha of Director Fury. No-one else knew Coulson well enough to understand the myriad of emotions he was capable to displaying while still looking perfectly emotionless.
Clint took a deep breath and held it as he drew back the bowstring until it brushed against the corner of his mouth. He took a moment to calculate the shot to account for the movement of the tree, adjusting his aim ever so slightly. Clint fired, releasing his breath and the arrow in a single moment.
With a vicious kind of satisfaction, Clint watched he arrow find its mark, and watched the man fall. He turned away and triggered the explosive in the arrow he'd fired, erasing evidence that he'd ever been there at all.
Clint sailed downwards on his rappel line, to tired and shaky to trust himself to climb down in the rain with this wind still blowing. His feet hit the ground and for the first time in fourteen hours he was standing on stable, solid ground. He only stood for a moment though, before his legs practically collapsed under him, and he went down in a tangled and undignified heap.
But an arm wrapped around his shoulders, tugging him up to his feet, and he leant heavily on a familiar shoulder.
"No falling down on the job, Agent Barton." Coulson told him. He was holding an umbrella in the other hand, keeping the rain off, even though he had a soaking wet field agent leaning against his side.
"Guys dead," Clint mumbled, "I'm off the clock."
Coulson led Clint away from the tree and back towards where his car was parked, a short way back down the hill. Clint noted somewhere in his brain that it was Coulson's personal car, not a S.H.I.E.L.D. vehicle, and he wondered where Coulson had been before coming to find him.
"I was at home, actually." Coulson replied, and Clint realized that he'd said that out loud, "But you were giving White hell over the comms and honestly? You were only meant to be up that tree for two, three hours max, and after about eight I figured things were getting excessive."
"Aw, Sir," Clint teases, "You come to rescue me?"
Coulson bopped him lightly on the back of the head, but it didn't hurt and had no malice behind it. "I came to save Agent White from you." He replied, and there's almost a smile there, "I know what you're like on long ops."
Clint rolled his eyes, "This wasn't long."
"It was longer than it was meant to be." Coulson replied, and Clint could hear a note of steel in his voice, the thinly veiled anger that Clint didn't understand, and couldn't see a cause for. Ops go longer than planned all the time. He didn't have enough fingers to count the time that the briefing has said three days and a week later he'd still been in the middle of things. It's not unusual. So why the hell was Coulson so annoyed?
They've reached the car, and Coulson opened the back door for Clint, who basically sprawls in, lying across the back seats, which have been covered by a couple of towels. There's also a blanket folded up on one seat, which Clint was surprised by, but he was so tired that he didn't care enough to question it. Coulson shut the door behind him, and got into the driver's seat, starting the car and turning to go back down the hill.
"Where are we going, Sir?" Clint asked, sitting up. He had taken off his quiver and shooting gloves and shrugged out of his soaked jacket. His hair was dripping water, but he was rubbing it dry with one of the towels.
"Home." Coulson said, "Base is on lockdown. Biohazard leak in one of the labs. You can stay at my place. If that's alright."
The last part was delivered more like a question, and Clint nodded approvingly, "Sure." He said, "I'm cool with the couch."
Coulson practically rolled his eyes, "I have a spare room." He replied, as if this should have been obvious. "It's a long drive, get comfy."
"I plan to." Clint replied, smothering yawn and went back to getting dry. Once he had mostly towelled off, Clint kicked off his boots and lay down across the back seats, ignoring Coulson's mutterings about seatbelts in favour of closing his eyes and drifting off to sleep.
