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the_wordbutler"Putting Out Fires"
Avengers
Phil Coulson/Clint Barton; 1,032 words
Rated PG for light language
Some days, things go according to plan. Other days, things . . . do not.
At the start of Phil Coulson’s Tuesday, his to do-list reads as follows:
- Call Stark
- Meet with Hill
- Vet résumés
- Finish presentation
- Dinner w/ CB
At the end of Phil Coulson’s Tuesday, what he’s actually accomplished is as follows:
- Call Stark three different times: once for testing the new (unregistered) Mark-Whatever suit in a no-fly zone, once for commenting to press that the United States Air Force could be “out-maneuvered by a ninety-year-old in a hot air balloon—kinda like in Up?”, and once for sending an e-mail consisting entirely of LOLcats with photoshopped eye patches to Director Fury
- Forget why a call to Stark was originally needed
- Show up to Hill’s office four different times before finding out from her personal assistant that she and the Black Widow are on a top-secret operation somewhere else
- Suspect “top-secret operation” is a euphemism
- Suspect it even more when there are strange noises coming from inside Hill’s closed office
- Discover that there is not a single military or para-military officer, recruit, or hopeful recruit in all of America who can write a decent cover letter
- Or who can spell “facilitated” correctly
- Briefly wish Captain America could be cloned and fill every needed position—forever
- Complete a shortlist of résumés anyway
- Spend three hours swearing at PowerPoint, only to have the damn thing crash
- Call IT
- Be condescendingly instructed to reboot
- Be condescendingly instructed through a troubleshooting menu that any fourth-grader could figure out without help
- Be condescendingly asked whether you actually rebooted
- Hang up in anger and—
“Boss?”
Phil Coulson is seriously considering throwing the phone against the wall hard enough to break something. He’s just not certain whether he wants to break the phone, the wall, or both.
But when he looks up, Clint Barton is standing in his doorway. Standing, then leaning, his shoulder against the doorjamb. He’s wearing the clothes he usually wears to the practice range, black cargo pants and an old black t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, and Phil—
Phil closes his eyes just long enough to exhale. “Seven?” he asks.
“Seven-forty-five,” Clint replies, shrugging. “Heard you having a meltdown at IT, figured I should get some practice in.”
“I’m sorry,” Phil says, shaking his head. He tells himself it’s to clear the cobwebs, but it’s not. He reaches for the notes he’s been typing into his presentation. His recently-eradicated presentation. “Give me another twenty minutes.” Ten Phil Coulsons could not type up all his notes in twenty minutes. Thirty might have a fighting chance.
“Still down for the Mexican place?”
“You sent me thirty-five texts from Sinuiju complaining that you missed Mexican.”
“It wasn’t thirty-five.”
“I counted.” Phil glances up from his notes. Clint’s mouth is twisted into this tiny smile. God, he wishes he had those thirty other Phil Coulsons, right now. “I’ll meet you in twenty minutes,” he promises.
Clint nods and ducks out of his doorway.
At the end of an hour and twenty minutes, Phil Coulson has accomplished:
“Mr. Stark. I need you to listen to me very carefully. If you want to continue receiving specifically earmarked S.H.I.E.L.D. funds, I— Yes. I understand completely. But you need to understand that it’s more complicated than which boy has the biggest sandbox toy.”
The sound of something tapping on Phil’s office door makes him spin around in his desk chair. It’s dark outside his office, the sort of black-on-black you only ever get in the desert. He usually likes watching the dark. Right now, he likes the idea of depositing Tony Stark in the middle of it, and letting him find his own way out.
Clint Barton is standing halfway in his doorway. Phil glances at his watch and—
“Mr. Stark. No, I haven’t read your paper on— What exactly does that have to do with Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes— Please explain, yes.”
Phil presses the mute button on his phone and sets it down. “Listen, I—”
“C’mon, boss,” Clint interrupts. He purses his lips like something’s secretly . . . funny. “Gimme a little credit.”
“Excuse me?”
He bends at the waist—and Phil tries very hard not to focus too long on that element of the equation—and then comes through the doorway with a massive paper bag. The smell of enchiladas hits Phil almost immediately. His stomach rumbles, and he swears he can taste the queso.
“Remember the first thing you said to me?” Clint asks while he unloads foil trays.
Phil glances up from the tortilla chips he’s eyeing. “This is S.H.I.E.L.D., not the Humane Society, so please stop bringing us strays?”
The little snort of laughter is about all he could ask for, tonight. “Okay, so, second thing.”
“Is it because she’s—” The look Clint gives him could freeze a lava flow, and Phil finally smiles. Smiles aren’t easy, not on days like today. On days like today, it’s hard for any expression to find the corners of his eyes, or warm his whole face. This one does. Phil feels it, and sees it reflected in Clint’s expression. “My job is to put out fires,” he recites. He’d said it to dozens of new agents before Clint Barton, but the others never remembered it.
“And my job’s to carry the extra extinguisher, just in case. Consider this your ‘just in case.’” Clint pops open the tray of enchiladas, then the dish of rice and cup of queso. Phil watches his fingers, his hands, and the little sliver of tongue that peeks out to lick a stray smear of salsa off a knuckle. When Clint catches him watching, he pauses. “What?”
“Nothing new,” Phil says, and reaches for a chip.
They’ve made a healthy dent in the enchiladas and nearly finished the queso—sitting next to each other on the wrong side of Phil’s desk, knees bumping occasionally and forks battling for stray shreds of chicken—when Clint nods toward the phone.
“Aren’t you worried about Stark figuring out you’re not there?” he asks.
“Even firefighters get a dinner break,” Phil replies, and mentally crosses dinner w/ CB off his to-do list.
Avengers
Phil Coulson/Clint Barton; 1,032 words
Rated PG for light language
Some days, things go according to plan. Other days, things . . . do not.
At the start of Phil Coulson’s Tuesday, his to do-list reads as follows:
- Call Stark
- Meet with Hill
- Vet résumés
- Finish presentation
- Dinner w/ CB
At the end of Phil Coulson’s Tuesday, what he’s actually accomplished is as follows:
- Call Stark three different times: once for testing the new (unregistered) Mark-Whatever suit in a no-fly zone, once for commenting to press that the United States Air Force could be “out-maneuvered by a ninety-year-old in a hot air balloon—kinda like in Up?”, and once for sending an e-mail consisting entirely of LOLcats with photoshopped eye patches to Director Fury
- Forget why a call to Stark was originally needed
- Show up to Hill’s office four different times before finding out from her personal assistant that she and the Black Widow are on a top-secret operation somewhere else
- Suspect “top-secret operation” is a euphemism
- Suspect it even more when there are strange noises coming from inside Hill’s closed office
- Discover that there is not a single military or para-military officer, recruit, or hopeful recruit in all of America who can write a decent cover letter
- Or who can spell “facilitated” correctly
- Briefly wish Captain America could be cloned and fill every needed position—forever
- Complete a shortlist of résumés anyway
- Spend three hours swearing at PowerPoint, only to have the damn thing crash
- Call IT
- Be condescendingly instructed to reboot
- Be condescendingly instructed through a troubleshooting menu that any fourth-grader could figure out without help
- Be condescendingly asked whether you actually rebooted
- Hang up in anger and—
“Boss?”
Phil Coulson is seriously considering throwing the phone against the wall hard enough to break something. He’s just not certain whether he wants to break the phone, the wall, or both.
But when he looks up, Clint Barton is standing in his doorway. Standing, then leaning, his shoulder against the doorjamb. He’s wearing the clothes he usually wears to the practice range, black cargo pants and an old black t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, and Phil—
Phil closes his eyes just long enough to exhale. “Seven?” he asks.
“Seven-forty-five,” Clint replies, shrugging. “Heard you having a meltdown at IT, figured I should get some practice in.”
“I’m sorry,” Phil says, shaking his head. He tells himself it’s to clear the cobwebs, but it’s not. He reaches for the notes he’s been typing into his presentation. His recently-eradicated presentation. “Give me another twenty minutes.” Ten Phil Coulsons could not type up all his notes in twenty minutes. Thirty might have a fighting chance.
“Still down for the Mexican place?”
“You sent me thirty-five texts from Sinuiju complaining that you missed Mexican.”
“It wasn’t thirty-five.”
“I counted.” Phil glances up from his notes. Clint’s mouth is twisted into this tiny smile. God, he wishes he had those thirty other Phil Coulsons, right now. “I’ll meet you in twenty minutes,” he promises.
Clint nods and ducks out of his doorway.
At the end of an hour and twenty minutes, Phil Coulson has accomplished:
“Mr. Stark. I need you to listen to me very carefully. If you want to continue receiving specifically earmarked S.H.I.E.L.D. funds, I— Yes. I understand completely. But you need to understand that it’s more complicated than which boy has the biggest sandbox toy.”
The sound of something tapping on Phil’s office door makes him spin around in his desk chair. It’s dark outside his office, the sort of black-on-black you only ever get in the desert. He usually likes watching the dark. Right now, he likes the idea of depositing Tony Stark in the middle of it, and letting him find his own way out.
Clint Barton is standing halfway in his doorway. Phil glances at his watch and—
“Mr. Stark. No, I haven’t read your paper on— What exactly does that have to do with Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes— Please explain, yes.”
Phil presses the mute button on his phone and sets it down. “Listen, I—”
“C’mon, boss,” Clint interrupts. He purses his lips like something’s secretly . . . funny. “Gimme a little credit.”
“Excuse me?”
He bends at the waist—and Phil tries very hard not to focus too long on that element of the equation—and then comes through the doorway with a massive paper bag. The smell of enchiladas hits Phil almost immediately. His stomach rumbles, and he swears he can taste the queso.
“Remember the first thing you said to me?” Clint asks while he unloads foil trays.
Phil glances up from the tortilla chips he’s eyeing. “This is S.H.I.E.L.D., not the Humane Society, so please stop bringing us strays?”
The little snort of laughter is about all he could ask for, tonight. “Okay, so, second thing.”
“Is it because she’s—” The look Clint gives him could freeze a lava flow, and Phil finally smiles. Smiles aren’t easy, not on days like today. On days like today, it’s hard for any expression to find the corners of his eyes, or warm his whole face. This one does. Phil feels it, and sees it reflected in Clint’s expression. “My job is to put out fires,” he recites. He’d said it to dozens of new agents before Clint Barton, but the others never remembered it.
“And my job’s to carry the extra extinguisher, just in case. Consider this your ‘just in case.’” Clint pops open the tray of enchiladas, then the dish of rice and cup of queso. Phil watches his fingers, his hands, and the little sliver of tongue that peeks out to lick a stray smear of salsa off a knuckle. When Clint catches him watching, he pauses. “What?”
“Nothing new,” Phil says, and reaches for a chip.
They’ve made a healthy dent in the enchiladas and nearly finished the queso—sitting next to each other on the wrong side of Phil’s desk, knees bumping occasionally and forks battling for stray shreds of chicken—when Clint nods toward the phone.
“Aren’t you worried about Stark figuring out you’re not there?” he asks.
“Even firefighters get a dinner break,” Phil replies, and mentally crosses dinner w/ CB off his to-do list.
