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“Would you imbeciles care to explain yourselves and the fucking mountain of paperwork that you’ve just caused?”
Clint had to give the woman next to him credit. Bobbi didn’t fidget under Fury’s glare, didn’t even so much as twitch the finger that bore the weight of last night’s impulsive behavior. Instead, she had the gall to smile at him and shrug, “It seemed like a good idea at the time, Director.”
He bit the inside of his cheek to stifle the laugh that threatened to sway Fury’s ire back towards himself. He and Bobbi hadn’t really gotten a chance to talk since they’d been abruptly rousted from bed just before dawn (only a couple of hours after finally succumbing to sleep by his estimation), ordered to dress and escorted back to base by Agent Hill and a pack of twitchy junior agents.
The ride had given him enough time to wonder if maybe this whole mess was a bit much, even for him. Hell, two weeks ago, the mysterious Agent 19 was little more than a notation on a handful of mission reports that he’d seen over the years when they’d been relevant to his own assignments. It wasn’t until their duties had caused them to cross paths nine days ago that he’d finally been introduced to Agent 19 aka Mockingbird aka Dr. “It’s Bobbi, don’t you dare call me Barbara” Morse. And since Bobbi had apparently graduated from Coulson’s School of Epic Poker Faces, he hadn’t been able to get a good read on her mood since they’d been shuffled out of the hotel and she’d slid her sunglasses on. Damned woman was a class act.
“A good idea would have been to try some yoga or catch up on your summer reading, Agent Morse. I do not consider hijacking one of the quinjets for a field trip to Vegas and getting married by an Elvis impersonator to be a good idea.”
“Most convincing King I’ve ever seen, sir,” Clint figured he might as well join his smirking bride on their little ride into hell, “And for the record, we didn’t hijack the quinjet. We simply had yet to return it following our mission.”
“I don’t care if it was his actual reanimated fucking corpse, Barton,” Fury finally took a seat, though it did nothing to diminish his presence in the room. “As for you two, Agent Hill has already gathered the forms necessary to take care of your little drunken escapade. The next time you do something this stupid, you’ll be fixing it on your own.”
There was an edge to Bobbi’s voice that had Clint turning to her as she frowned down at their superior, “I wasn’t aware anything needed fixing, Director Fury, sir.” She finally turned to meet his gaze, annoyance evident in her eyes, “I don’t much care for the assumption we had to be drunk and while we didn’t exactly raise the banns or come asking for permission, I don’t regret my decision. SHIELD does not get to dictate who I can or cannot marry outside of part of my cover for a mission.”
Clint tucked her hand into his, thumbing the band on her finger with a hint of pride in his expression, “Same goes for me. Respectfully, sir, you’re just going to have to deal with it. Us. Right, Birdie?” He was too distracted by the way her lips quirked up into a pleased grin and how her eyes flicked briefly to his mouth and back up again, promise lingering in her gaze, to see Fury’s eye roll in exasperation.
“Fine. But you and your stupid ass antics are back to being Coulson’s problem. You’ve got an hour before your debriefing and honeymooning is not a valid excuse for tardiness. Now get the fuck out of my office.”