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It’s three in the morning when both Phil Coulson and Clint Barton trudge in, the latter soaked through from the sudden rainstorm with a stray splash of mud that is starting to dry and flake off when Clint runs his fingers through his hair from prolonged hours lying in a trench waiting for their target to show up. (The man had eventually emerged from whatever rock he’d been hiding under, two hours off schedule, for which Clint had promptly put two bullets through his skull. What can he say. He’s a little vindictive).
“Shower,” the archer mumbles, tucking the bow away. Clint had cleaned it while on the bumpy ride back to Central, but there’d only been so much the man can do for the mud that’s undoubtedly caking in-between the grooves of his Kevlar vest and his skin without taking the whole damn thing off or going out there into the chilly rain, neither of which Phil would have allowed anyway.
Coulson nods. He’s got a folder tucked under his arm that’s probably a post-mission report destined for Fury’s desk the next morning, and it’s obvious that Barton’s mind is somewhere else. He doesn’t blame the archer, having witnessed first-hand the amount of muted swearing on the comms when the mud had first gotten on Clint.
The shower stalls are almost empty when he returns five minutes later, empty-handed and jacket-less, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
What Phil expects is the sound of running water and a messy pile of clothing piled haphazardly on top of a nearby bench.
What Phil sees (and hears) however, is a different story.
The only article of clothing on the bench is Clint’s boots, set neatly right beside the towels that are stacked there for them to use. Clint is standing under the shower-head fully clothed, body swaying a little as he belts out a very tone-accurate version of Billy Joel’s Uptown Girl. It takes a moment for Coulson to remember that he’d had one of the singer’s discs in the car earlier, probably where Clint had heard the song to begin with.
Phil doesn’t know if Clint is doing this deliberately, or if it’s something he does regularly but Phil never notices. The latter notion sends a spike of what he thinks is jealousy through him, something possessive in him disliking the notion of Clint doing this where any other agent can see. But Phil stands rooted to the spot, transfixed when Barton reaches up to run fingers through now mud-free hair, beads of water rolling down his arm as he does.
The vest is next to go, zipper dragged down so slowly that Phil is very sure this is definitely all deliberate and possibly planned on the archer’s part.
Bulletproof Kevlar slides impossibly slowly off Clint’s shoulders, exposing broad, muscular shoulders spattered with remnants of mud that the water hadn’t managed to get to yet.
Phil’s mouth is now dry, staring at Clint Barton sing at the top of his lungs while doing what can be sufficiently classified as a strip-tease in the middle of SHIELD’s shower-stall, water sluicing off the muscles of his arms and back and washing off flakes of dried mud.
The pants are next, Clint’s fingers hooking in the waistband of soaked-through uniform pants, flicking the button open with a practiced ease that leaves no doubt to how deft Clint’s fingers really are.
Clint is halfway through the second verse when Phil takes a deep breath.
“Barton!”
Any lesser agent would have stopped, froze, and possibly cowered under Coulson’s glare. But not Clint Barton. Definitely not Clint Barton.
The archer slides out of his uniform pants, letting the now-soggy material drop to the floor with a muted splat before turning to face Phil. There’s an impossibly wide grin on his face (which means he’s clearly aware of what he’s doing and the effect it’s having on Phil), leaning too casually against the wall clad only in a pair of boxer-shorts.
Phil wonders how his voice is still steady. “Decontamination showers are not excuses for strip-tease shows, Barton. Or as your own personal karaoke box.”
“They should be. The acoustics are great in here.”
Clint gets a fluffy towel to the face in response.