Song: Across the Nation - The Union Underground.
Now get the guns, the drugs, From my generation.
I'll take the fall, the saints, across the nation.
And it's the sex, the gods, the freaks, the frauds.
They're messin' with me, Come on, come on, come on.
Let's get it on!
« Jesus, Clint, put that down ! » were the first words Clint heard as soon as he'd decided to turn on his boombox, blasting the WWE Monday Night Raw theme song he liked so much. Because, of course, Clint watched wrestling every now and then, and he even knew a few moves that could be performed as tricks on targets to take down. And, even though, who couldn't do a neat superplex ?
However, instead of turning down the music, Clint turned the button the other way, turning it even louder, and smirked at his friend, as he put his feet up on the table, simply watching the other one shake his head. His hair was neatly set with some hairgel, and he was wearing his usual dark purple suit, knowing that Coulson would come into the office anytime. He'd been called in a few hours earlier, and had taken a jet from London to headquarters as soon as the order had been called. He was unable to attend the debrief from his last mission because of the flight, but he was sure Coulson would get the paperwork done for him. Everybody knew that Clint hated paperwork.
As the music went on, Barton remembered the first time he'd watched a wrestling match on television and the first time he thought that it was all real. Of course not. Kayfabe, they called it. But it didn't change the fact that they were good athletes. Not as good as him, obviously, they couldn't kill you in a few moves, but they were good at what they did.
Clint's favourite wrestler was Chris Jericho. Not that it surprised anyone, with all the submission moves the wrestler had in his skillset. Clint liked the wrestler, and had promised himself that he'd go to a live show one day and meet the guy – who also happened to play in a band. Neat.
Besides, he'd tried the Walls of Jericho on one of his sparring partners one time, and as it turns out, if you twist the body a little more than what you see on television, it can clearly do a lot of damage and make said sparring buddy begin to scream out in pain. If he ever were to get a person into the submission hold, he would make sure to make them scream out in pain. Killer legs. He liked that expression. You could do so many things to hurt other people, Clint almost knew them all. And, if wrestling was a good thing to get time to go by quicker, it was also good inspiration for some moves he could use in the field.
However, when Phil Coulson's face appeared in the doorframe, Clint promptly turned down the music, knowing it was a new job to be done. He took the file he was handed and immediatly began turning the pages, looking for the picture of the target he was to take down. It appeared to be a woman, kissed by fire by the looks of it.
« You watch wrestling ? » Phil asked, as he pointed to the boombox, and Clint nodded. Of course he did. He knew Phil did so occasionnally too, but never commented on it. They kept it between them, wrestling wasn't exactly something they bragged about. Not unless they were sparring and wanted to try a superplex or a frogsplash on a partner – and fail, eventually ending up in a pair of bruised ribs. When they say don't try this at home, listen to them. But Clint had ended up learning a few moves, knowing Phil recognised them whenever he watched Clint spar with someone.
« Every now and then, » he answered, still turning the pages in the file, « I like to keep a day off when Wrestlemania's on, » he finished off as he closed the file again, eyeing his friend sitting next to him. « Do I get to take Mr. Whiney-bitch with me on this mission or am I going in alone ? »
« You're going alone. You'll have to figure out a way to get rid of her clean, Fury doesn't want a mess like you did when you helped that British agent in Madagascar. »
Rolling his eyes, Clint blew a kiss to his friend who had sunk back into his seat, but didn't get up from his seat. Madagascar had been quite the fiasco when Bond had blown up a whole fucking embassy, but at least he'd helped him get the information he needed. He'd been back in Mombassa less than three hours after Bond had gotten the so precious mobile phone, and repatriated back to US soil in less than 24 hours to get a verbal beating by same Mister Coulson standing in front of him right now. The same Coulson he was more or less ignoring thinking about which Diva he'd rather French kiss if he had the occasion.
« Fury wants it done yesterday, Barton. »
Nodding, Clint closed his eyes, as he remembered the last time he'd watched a wrestling match. Why was he suddenly feeling like he should tune in next Monday once the job was done ? He ignored Phil royally, but eventually came back down to Earth when the song hit its end. With one finger push, he hit the replay button, and the song started over again. And then he knew. Yeah, he'd kiss Stacy Keibler if he had the chance.
« When do I leave, then ? » he questionned, getting up, taking the file with him, under his arm, as he followed Coulson out of the office, down some of the corridors of SHIELD's headquarters. He never liked the place, too clean, too hospital like. It reminded him of that time he'd gone to Xavier's school for the young gifted handing over an artifact of great importance, and he hadn't liked it there.
« In an hour. You're going to Budapest, » Coulson answered firmly, as he turned left, into the weaponry where Clint's bow was hanging proud. « Please don't make a mess this time ? » Clint's handler asked, with a pleading look in his eyes – a look which also meant don't fuck it up this time. Was there something special about his target, Clint thought. Probably not.
Forget the lies, the money, we're in this together.
And through it all, they said nothing's forever.
And they refuse to see the change in me,
Why won't they wake up? Come on, come on, come on.
Let's get it on!