B is for boring
'This is like Budapest all over again!" Natasha shouted at him over the gunfire and screams. Clint gave a dry chuckle as he fired another arrow. "You and I remember Budapest differently."
...
"Ah, Agent Barton, Agent Romanov, how good of you two to finally grace us with your presence."
Phil plastered a phony smile on his face as the two slunk in. Barton was caked in dust, blood smeared across his face, bruises and duct-tape everywhere. (The duct-tape hid the more serious wounds from S.H.E.L.I.D.'s medical personal's sight. Or so it was supposed to do. It really just attracted more attention to the archer.) Romanov however, had fared better. No bruises were visible and her make-up and red hair was flawless.
These facts pleased Phil, for he liked to think of the Assassins' as his kids; Nat as a princess, and Clint was the knight in not-so shinning armor. Not to mention that he was missing a super nanny marathon to talk to them and was hoping to avoid chewing the two out about their appearance. Barton threw himself into a hard chair opposite of of Phil's desk, grunting something intelligible at Phil. Romanov sank down in the comfortable chair next to him, a slightly inane smirk crossing her lips. They had obviously gotten no sleep whatsoever.
"'Ello Agent Coulson. Wot 'ave you called us 'ere for?" Natasha asked in an extragrated English accent.
Phil shook his head at her. "Your accent is terrible, and Barton's probably isn't much better. I can't even imagine how the two of you managed to blend in this mission."
"We didn't." Clint yawned from the corner, oblivious to his partners' slicing motions at her neck.
"I botched it, so Nat did her death-by-thighs thing, I played dead, and boom! The information was ours."
Phil coughed slightly. "Um...impressive."
"Thank you." Clint said smugly. Natasha rolled her eyes. "You just sat there and did nothing, Clint." She said.
"I prefer the term, 'playing opossum'." He countered.
"And why is that?"
"Because it makes me sound more intelligent than you, that's why!"
Phil cleared his throat, catching the twosome's attention.
"As amusing as this spat is, I have more important matters to discuss with the both of you, so if you would kindly close your mouths-thank you Clint. Director Fury is in need of two agents to pick up some important files for him. Normally we would just encrypt them and send it over a private network on the web. This time is different. I need the two of you to drive to a rendezvous-You'll receive the coordinates on the way-and wait for an agent to show up. You will know that it is him by his appearance and password-which you will also receive on the way. Any questions?"
Barton raised his hand. "How long will we have to wait for this agent to arrive?"
Coulson felt his eyes glazing over. How long did Fury say the mission would take? He quickly reviewed what Fury had said in his head. Something about Captain America-Oooooh CAPTAIN AMERIC-focus Phil, Budapest, embarrassing pictures, stakeout, I'm not a Jedi, and how Agent Hill was going to make a lot of money off this. There was nothing about time...oH...Natasha was not going to like this.
"Unfortunately Clint, we do not know how long it will take for the agent to get there." He saw the redheads eye twitch and hurried on with his speech. The sooner this was over, the sooner he could finish his super nanny marathon. The last episode was a cliff hanger!
"That is all you guys can know for now. Director Fury himself will send the information later, so get the move on!"
Ignoring Natasha's protests and threats, (they were some deadly ones indeed, involving defacing some mint condition trading cards,) Phil pushed the two out of his office, and returned to his desk. Mopping his forehead with a red, white, and blue handkerchief,(a white star was in the middle of it,) he tapped the screen in front of him, pulling up Netflix.
It was time for some fun.
... Ten hours later...
"I'm bored."
"You're supposed to be. It's a stakeout. Stakeouts are boring."
"I have a paper cut."
"Clint..."
"No, seriously. I do. It hurts."
"Have a donut."
"I ate them all hours ago. And my finger hurttttsss..."
"Take a nap."
"It's bleeding."
"Clint, it's just a paper cut. On our last mission you took at least ten bullets and didn't complain."
"It wasn't a matter of life or death then."
"This is not a matter of life or death!"
"Yes, it is!"
Silence.
"Natasha?"
"Natasha, it's still bleeding."
"I need a band-aid."
"Nat?"
... Five hours later.
"Are we there yet?"
"No"
"Ok."
"Are we there yet?"
"Clint, you asked me that 5 seconds ago."
"I'm bored."
"Watch a movie then."
"I'm not watching Dora the explorer!"
"Isn't there anything else you can watch?"
"No. And I still need a bandaid!"
"Clint, I swear, if that tv is not turned on by the time I count to three, I will teach your kids to-"
"I'm turning, I'm turning!"
... Ten hours later.
'This is the worse assignment ever.' Natasha bemoaned to herself. The car was finally noise free, after at least five hours of Dora the Explorer. Clint had fallen asleep by the time it had played for the 20th time. Now all she had to suffer through was the occasional 'Swiper no swiping!' and 'Aww man!"mumbled from the backseat.
They were parked in the parking lot of a rundown gas station. All of the windows were boarded up and the pumps looked like they were from the 1800s. (Which is pretty bad considering that the 1800s didn't have cars.) Natasha had leaned back her seat and was currently trying to catch some well earned shut eye. This was not the best place to sleep, thus the word 'trying.'
The only way Clint had even managed to sleep was because it was the alternative to Dora the explorer. Bored out her mind, Natasha returned her seat to its original upright position. She drummed her fingers on the dashboard and sighed. What was taking their contact so long?
"Are we there yet?" A sleepy voice asked from the backseat.
Natasha smirked to herself. "His highness has awoken!"
She directed her comment at her bleary eyed, drool in hair friend, who was blinking against the sun.
"Very funny 'Tasha. Has the courier arrived yet?"
"Not yet. But he'll probably be arriving soon." Stretching his various limbs Clint yawned. "I have to use the restroom."
Natasha closed her eyes as if in pain. "Again?"
"Yea."
"I told you to go before we left!"
"I didn't have to go then!"
"Fine then. But you should know that I'll place all the blame on you if you mess this up!" She yelled as the car's door slammed shut behind him. Left alone in silence, she reviewed their instructions, go to the rendezvous, meet courier, get package, and go home.
Simple and easy. She just didn't expect it to be so boring.
A knock on the window drew the spies attention. With a glance she saw a man standing there in a ski mask, the eye holes replaced with a tinted plastic covering. Natasha unrolled her window. This was her contact.
"Jacob wrestled the Angel." He hissed, his voice no longer human.
"And he was no longer called Jacob, but Israel." Natasha responded.
The password thus confirmed, the man took from his pocket a thick envelope, which he then poked through window into Natasha's hands. Having delivered the package, the man melted away again into their surroundings, and Natasha settled back for another long drive, waiting impatiently for Clint.
Thankfully, she didn't have long to wait, as Clint reappeared, walking as if he didn't have a signal care in the world. He slid into the backseat-not after trying the passenger seat's door, which Natasha had conveniently locked-and Natasha took off.
"Uhh... Nat?"
"Yes Clint."
"Where are we going?"
"To the post office."
"But we haven't even picked up our package yet!"
...The next day
Phil shuffled into his office, coffee in one hand, and holding back a ferocious yawn with the other. He had been up late the night before finishing up some important binge business that had required all of his attention. Thus the need for his special pick-me-up coffee mug, with its beautiful patriotic markings.
Easing himself down into his desk's easy chair, Phil relaxed, lazily shuffling through the morning's mail. Any thought of relaxation diminished in importance however, when he spotted a thick letter postmarked from several different places. His interest perked, Phil gently slit it open with his letter opener Fury had gotten him as an apology present. (Fury did that a lot.) Three photographs fell onto the desk.
Slowly Phil turned them over and stared at them in dismay. A grumpy Fury in a tutu, a sleeping Fury with markers and shaving cream covering his face, and a smug Fury holding a purple lightsaber stared up at him. Gaping open mouthed at the photos, an idea occurred to him.
"Was Fury blackmailed?" He asked himself, slowly taking out his phone. He snapped a picture of them, and said aloud, "Nah."
Then he took another photo.