Summary: Coulson's love of classic, red-blooded American cars should not have shocked Clint as much as it did, what with the senior agent's deep patriotism and quiet obsession with Captain America, but Phil's reverence for the cherry-red Corvette in the warehouse was oddly surprising. Rated for language.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Lola

"Oh, that's gorgeous," Phil breathed reverently in his ear, and Clint paused in his approach, taking in the scene before him.

Half a dozen burly guards stood in formation on the opposite side of the warehouse, behind a sleaze of a black market dealer who was sporting a clichéd linen suit and an oily grin. Another twelve backed the buyer, a Hungarian arms dealer with ties to HYDRA and a love for all things East German. Clint ripped off the night-vision glasses that Phil had insisted he wear and peered at the camera embedded in the bridge.

"Please tell me that you mean something other than the skeezy marks I'm about to drop. I thought you had better taste than that."

He could hear the exasperated disdain in Phil's voice and he grinned. "I meant the car, Hawkeye. Classic Corvette. Nineteen sixty, if I'm not mistaken."

The car in question was gleaming to his left in the warehouse lights, a brilliant cherry red with cream seats. The convertible top was down, a dust cover folded neatly on the hood.

"I'm a little impressed," Clint muttered, replacing the glasses on his face and returning his attention to the deal being brokered. "You're almost entertaining the idea that you might be wrong, Mother."

"Don't die of shock," Phil advised wryly. "You still have a job to do."

"On it," Clint assured absently, sneaking down an aisle that ran the length of the building. Stopping behind a shelving unit, he peered around a cluster of Grecian vases and assessed the situation. "How invisible do you really want me to be?"

"It's preferred that this look like a deal gone bad, which is why I told you to leave your bow with me."

Clint nodded to himself, carefully easing his Glock from the holster and slipping into position in the aisle behind the arms dealer and his bodyguards. "I wasn't really listening to you."

"That's new."

Clint frowned and resisted the urge to glare into the glasses camera again. "Sarcasm does not become you."

"Don't be a child. Go do your job."

Clint ignored his handler and softly clicked the safety off, cocking the weapon with minimal noise. Sliding one of the boxes to the right, he took aim through the opening. He breathed deeply, narrowed his gaze on his target, and waited. Arms Dealer was casually listening while Sleaze Ball tried vainly to impress him with the lengths his goons had gone to in order to acquire the old East German flag and Clint tuned them out, keeping his eyes on Arms Dealer's guards, instead.

They were oddly fidgety, their slight movements telling of a different plan for Sleaze than he probably had in mind. Clint watched as their weapons were shifted into better positions, fingers toying with triggers and the one towards the back that relaxed minutely, one hand dropping to rest on the butt of his handgun. With a grin, Clint checked his aim and gently squeezed the trigger.

Sleaze Ball dropped like a sack of rocks, a brilliant crimson blossoming over the lapels of his suit, and Clint ducked away. All eyes turned towards the fall guy, who was holding out his hands entreatingly. Sleaze Ball's goons began shouting as Clint slipped past the confrontation, Arms Dealer raising his palms up in surrender. There was the sudden sound of a gunshot behind him and Clint darted behind a set of large crates.

Poking his head over the top, he was pleased to see that Head Sleaze Goon had taken it upon himself to shoot Arms Dealer between the eyes, and that the guards on both sides had broken ranks in their haste to take revenge for their respective leader's death.

"Mission accomplished, Mother. I'm out," Clint murmured, tuning out Phil's affirmative. The fight was quickly escalating, expanding into other areas of the warehouse, and he decided that sneaking out was going to be difficult. He left his cover for a moment, aiming to slide behind another stack of boxes, when gunfire suddenly sprayed the floor at his feet. "Shit!"

"Hawkeye?" Phil's voice sounded through his commlink, slightly concerned and verging on frantic as Clint retreated to his original position and the goons began shouting against in earnest. "What happened?"

"Might be getting shot at," Clint hedged, mentally contemplating his quiver and running a hand along his belt for a count of his extra handgun magazines. "Again."

Phil swore. "Get out of there. Whatever way possible."

"Copy that, Mother." He popped over the crate and fired a few quick shots at the approaching men, not bothering to see which side they were from. Taking stock of his position, his gaze darted around the area and lit on the Corvette, sitting innocently to his right. Another short burst of bullets ripped into the crate and a few fragments of wood flew into the air.

He fired over the container again, hissing as he sliced his arm on a splinter, and weighed the risks of his newfound plan. The voices were growing louder and the commotion at the other end of the warehouse sounded like it was drawing to a close. A third volley ripping into the crate made his decision for him.

"Oh, he's going to kill me," Clint muttered to himself, bolting away from his cover and diving into the car. He fumbled for the knife he kept in his boot when something glinted in the ignition, drawing his attention. The car keys dangled innocently in his vision and an experimental twist turned the engine over. Clint grinned. "There is a God."

The loud growl from the engine drew the attention of the entire warehouse. Clint righted himself somewhat, just enough to throw the car into drive and slam his boot into the accelerator. The car shot forward, barreling towards and through the large roll-down door, goons trailing after him and shouting.

Clint laughed exultantly, turning down the alleyway and out into traffic, noting the police cars flying past him with satisfaction. "Hawkeye to Mother, I am en route to the rendezvous. No stragglers."

"Noted, Hawkeye," Phil replied, breathing a sigh of relief. "We'll see you when you get here."

Clint coasted through the streets, the old Corvette handling like a dream, and soon arrived at the tarmac. The ramp of the B52 cargo plane was dropped in anticipation of his arrival, a team of foot soldiers milling around and enjoying the afternoon sun. Clint gave them a wave as he drove directly into the belly of the plane.

Phil stood in the center of the cargo hold, arms crossed sternly, and Clint gave him a wild grin as he eschewed the door handle in favor of vaulting over the door itself. Phil's mouth dropped, his gaze focused on the car.

"What the hell happened?"

"I'm a little scathed, but they're just scratches," Clint assured him, wiping at a drop of blood on his arm. "No need to fuss."

"This is not a scratch, Barton," Phil retorted, his voice pitching higher in his agitation. Clint was prepared to mollify his friend, secretly amused by his handler's obvious concern, when Phil brushed past him and pointed one shaky finger at the Corvette. "Half the grill is dented and you've busted out the headlights. It looks like you had a street fight with a Hummer and lost!"

"Yes, let's worry about the inanimate object, not your friend and agent," Clint muttered petulantly as the foot team retreated inside and the ramp rose. "And it was the warehouse door, actually."

Phil whirled on him. "The what?"

Clint raised his hands in defense as Phil shook his head disbelievingly at him, stalking over to the fuselage wall and selecting a few lengths of cord. "You said whatever way possible!"

"Did you have to destroy the car?" Clint sighed dramatically at Phil's irritation.

"It is not destroyed, Phil, it's just a little -," he trailed off at the angrily expectant look he was receiving. "Damaged."

"Crushed," Phil corrected with a narrowed gaze.

Clint rolled his eyes, holding out one hand, palm up. "Injured."

Phil returned his attention to the car, running one finger along a particularly deep scratch as the foot team look on with amusement. "Mangled."

"Broken," Clint retorted, crossing his arms.

"Pulverized," Phil shot back, and Clint threw up his hands.

"Jesus!"

"Sir?" Phil raised a brow at the foot team's leader. "The pilot would like to know when you're ready."

"Tell him to begin his taxi while I secure the car," Phil said. "Then we can take off."

Clint watched Phil block the wheels and gently strap the car to the floor. Sighing to himself, he stepped forward. "Do you need any help?"

"I think you've done enough to this poor car," Phil replied, but shot Clint a half smile to show that he was teasing.

"You need medication," Clint informed him, settling into a bucket seat and stretching his legs out.

"Tell that to the director," Phil quipped. He gave the car one last, longing pat and eased himself into the seat beside Clint. The archer simply watched Phil unashamedly while the older agent tried to surreptitiously ogle the car in the middle of the hold on the trip home.

The agents that greeted them at headquarters were given strict instructions in regards to the Corvette when they landed, and Clint nearly had to drag Phil into their post-mission meeting. The older agent seemed to collect himself enough to debrief Director Fury, relying on Clint for a few of the additional details, and Fury finally nodded when they stopped speaking.

"Anything else?"

"I've got a question, Director," Clint offered, a gleam in his eyes that was not reassuring. "What should we do about the car?"

Fury stared blankly at him. "What car?"

"In order to escape the melee, I ended up stealing the mark's classic Corvette. I drove it right onto the plane, where it still is," Clint explained, acutely aware of Phil's minute glare on the side of his face. Fury seemed to consider the information and Clint continued helpfully. "I think it's a nineteen sixty make, if I'm not mistaken."

"Keep it," Fury declared, shooting Phil a look at the latter's strangled noise. "Take it home, Barton. I don't need something that conspicuous anywhere near my facility."

Clint bit back on a gleeful smirk. "Of course, sir."

Fury waved a dismissal at them and turned back to his paperwork. Clint slipped out of the door behind Phil and quickly caught up.

"Jealous?"

"Of?"

Clint rolled his eyes. "Oh come on. You're going to pitch a fit about how dented the car was on the plane, but you want me to believe that you suddenly don't care about it?"

"Do you want me to believe that you suddenly do?" Phil raised an eyebrow at his charge and Clint faltered. "Let's be honest. The only reason you even brought it up to Fury was to annoy me."

Clint paused for a moment while Phil continued on, and hurried to catch up with him. "That wasn't the only reason."

"I'm hard-pressed to believe you, Clint," Phil replied lightly, turning the corner and taking them back to the airstrip. "Are you planning on driving or hauling this back to your safehouse?"

Clint stared blankly at him, the thought of what to do after acquiring the car never having occurred to him, when a fleeting idea came to him. "Actually, I was wondering if I could keep it at your house."

"Seriously?"

Clint shrugged off Phil's incredulous look. "Your garage is bigger than mine. I'll need the space if I'm going to fix it up."

"Alright," Phil capitulated, nodding at the plane's crew and stepping up into the cargo hold. "But I get to drive it home."

The plan wasn't as sudden as what he usually came up with on a battlefield, which was probably why it was so much better thought out. Clint barged into Phil's bunk on Christmas morning, his enthusiasm childlike.

"Do you ever knock, Barton?" Phil pulled the pillow over his head and disappeared beneath the covers. Clint rolled his eyes and slapped a hand on the end of the mattress.

"Get up so I can give you your Christmas present."

Phil glared blearily at his friend. "I'm tempted to say no."

"I have been sitting on this present for over six months," Clint informed him. "And my patience is running thin."

"You're a sniper," Phil grumbled peevishly, swatting at Clint with his pillow and sitting up in bed. The archer suddenly snickered.

"You wear Captain America pajamas?"

Phil glared outright. "I will break your bow," he threatened flatly.

"Ben will make me a new one," Clint retorted confidently, tossing a small wrapped box that Phil caught reflexively. "He likes me. Open it."

Phil sighed heavily, but indulged his agent, ripping the simple paper from the box and lifting the lid. He paused, staring at the key set nestled on crumpled tissue paper. After a few moments, he finally turned an inscrutable gaze back to Clint. "You bought me a car?"

"Well, technically, I didn't buy it," Clint hedged, a grin in his eyes as Phil's tired brain connected the dots.

"You're giving me the Corvette?"

"Yes, I am," Clint admitted, returning Phil's happy grin with one of his own. He pulled the desk chair out and straddled it. "Even if I did the actual restoration, you got the parts and she's still in your garage. Possession is nine tenths of the law, so I think it's only fair that you have Lola."

Phil looked up suddenly at Clint's revelation. "You named the car?"

"So fucking what?" Clint crossed his arms, immediately defensive. "We've spent a lot of time together."

Phil bit back chuckle and glanced questioningly at his friend. "Lola?"

"It worked," Clint maintained staunchly.

Phil grinned knowingly. "You were watching Mexican soap operas again, weren't you?"

Clint's eyes narrowed. "Shut up."

"I mean, don't get me wrong," Phil began with a laugh. "They are very entertaining."

"Phil."

Phil stopped teasing, returning his gaze to the car keys. "Not to seem ungrateful," he murmured. "But why?"

"I grew up on a farm, where vehicles were meant to get you from Point A to Point B without a whole lot of fuss. They were tools." He shrugged picking at a spot on his jeans. "You'll appreciate it more than I will."

Phil knew Clint well enough to recognize the sentiment behind the gesture and smiled softly. "Thanks, Clint. I don't know how I'm going to top this."

"You won't." Clint smacked the end of the bed again. "Get dressed. Ben gave me a Super Soaker and I want to go wake up Hill."

Phil grinned as Clint ducked back into the hallway. He pulled the keys from the box, smirking at the American flag keychain. Ripping the covers off, he called out into the hall, "After I take Lola for a test drive."

Fin.