He never sits in the chair.
It's a sign of submission, of admitting weakness and following orders and even though he's worked there for two years now, he likes to think he has some shred of freedom and free thought left.
When the door to the office opens and his exhausted and irritated looking handler stalks in, collapsing in his own chair and mumbling under his breath, he steps forward from his nonchalant and relaxed position on the wall, standing behind the brown leather.
"Sit down, Barton," Coulson says with an overly calm and almost robotic voice, tapping his fingers on the desk.
He eyes the seat with a look of hatred and crosses his arms, emphasizing his refusal to comply.
"Do you have any idea what a pain in the ass you are?" Coulson sighs.
Clint opens his mouth to answer, no doubt with some snarky sarcastic remark, but Coulson raises his hand for silence. "You disobeyed a direct order, Barton. A simple order, to eliminate a direct threat to the stability of the peace we've worked so hard to maintain. But is she eliminated? No. Instead we have said direct threat under heavy sedation and locked up the psychoanalytical ward of the Med Center, 24 hour video surveillance on the subject and guards standing watch with orders to kill if she does anything other than lay there and breathe."
"Phil, listen-"
"The Council wants your head on a platter, Barton. They're opting to have you listed as a 'threat to the institution' and removed immediately from service; you brought the Black Widow into SHIELD and have put everyone in danger." His voice has raised the slightest notch and Clint shifts from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable. "Agent Hill is arguing for suspension or probation, reformation classes and organized training under her own surveillance until you learn to follow the rules."
They stare at each other for a second. "And what does Fury want?" Clint asks, dreading the answer.
Catching him off guard, Coulson lets out a short laugh. "Director Fury wants to shake your hand and pat you on the back because he believes you've given him a tool with an unending array of possibilities, guaranteed if we can undo whatever mess the Red Room has turned her mind into."
"Then I don't see what-"
"What the problem is? The problem is that you're a loose cannon and we can't have that. If everyone just decided to show up at their extraction point with an ex-KGB, ex-Red Room Assassin-for-hire in tow, what would we have then?" Coulson stands and walks to the other side of the room, picking up a manila folder from the top of a filing cabinet. "Chaos, Barton. We'd have chaos."
He drops the folder on the desk. "This should say terminated on it, but it doesn't. And now I have to file a report explain why. So that way if tomorrow morning she wakes up and kills six people and blows up half the facility, we'll have someone to blame."
"Me," Clint says, almost as if he's realizing this for the first time.
Coulson nods and returns to his seat. "So. What are you going to do about it?"
He knows he should say that he's going to finish his job, follow his original orders and eliminate the target and the threat she poses. But he thinks again about what he saw in Paris, about how her eyes were dead and the way she told him to kill her with the hint of pleading in her voice, and he remembers that following orders isn't really his style.
"Give me a year."
"What?"
"Six months then. I'll watch her, I'll train her. She can go on mission under my direct command. And if she strays even slightly, I'll take care of her once and for all."
"This isn't a compromise, Barton. You broke the rules; you don't get to make new ones!" He's close to yelling now, staring his charge down with unwavering authority. "She's not some teenager you can just rehabilitate! She's dangerous, and one way or the other she's going to be eliminated!"
"Everyone deserves a second chance!" Clint yells back, banging his fist on the back of the chair. "Are you telling me that all this 'looking for the music' nonsense you're always spouting at me doesn't apply to a 25 year old girl who's been brainwashed and tortured her entire life? Or have you forgotten that you're the one who fucking taught me that?"
Coulson seems drained of all the sudden anger and he collapses a little more in his chair, running his hands up and down his face. As much as he hates to admit it, and would argue against admitting it for as long as he could, Clint's words ring with truth.
The atmosphere of the room shifts and Coulson's voice has lost its intimidating tone.
"She's broken, Clint," he says less like a boss and more like a friend. "You can't fix her."
"We're all broken," Clint growls back, still fuming. "And I can fix her."
"You can try. That's all you can do."
"I can," Clint says with a new determination. "I can, and I will."
Coulson looks up, surveying his agent again. Something has changed- there's a sense of devotion to him now, of caring, and Phil knows he is fighting a lost cause. He even admires him a little in this moment, in his unwavering stand over what he believes is the right decision, but he would never say that.
He sighs, frowning. "Just be careful, Clint."
"She's not going to hurt me."
"You have to be careful when you're fixing broken people," he continues like Clint hadn't interrupted, "so you don't hurt yourself on their shattered pieces."
He stands, throwing Clint one last 'I'm still mad at you' look, and leaves the confused and bewildered archer alone in the office.