Chapter Text
When Clint opened his eyes, the small apartment smelled like coffee and turpentine. Which wasn’t totally unusual; both he and Coulson lived on coffee as though it were the nectar of the gods, and really, the worst ops were the ones where they were stranded in some small, hole-in-the-wall sort of place without a decent Starbucks, or at least some local place that knew a good brew if it bit them in the ass. But this was heavenly--pure Columbian, strong, hearty-- and it drew Clint out of bed like one of those old cartoons where the scent of good food led the unsuspecting buffoon by the nose.
Or maybe he just rolled over, said “murgle,” and stumbled his way toward the door like a zombie with a broken leg. In either case, there was coffee, black as obsidian and strong as brimstone, just waiting to be poured and caressed and loved like the wonderful beautiful creation it was. Clint poured a mug full, held the cup beneath his nose, and inhaled. He sighed in pleasure, then tipped his head back, ignoring the scalding sensation at the back of his throat for the more pleasant sensation of coffee going straight into his gullet.
There was also Coulson in the kitchen, his own mug of coffee on the plywood table in front of him, a sheaf of papers splayed out against the grainy wood. “One of these days I’m going to record you doing that,” he said mildly.
“Why? Is there a form for that?” Clint smirked and dropped his face for a quick kiss before hoping up to perch on the counter. The corner of Coulson’s mouth twitched upward, which was akin to a full-body laugh. Clint grinned, and swung his legs slowly as he cradled the mug between both hands. “What are you working on, anyway? I thought today was your day off?”
It’d been a rare cold day in the hell that was their relationship that they’d both managed to get a day with no obligations, no missions, no travel plans or debriefs, no one trying to destroy the world, or the economy or upset some world power hierarchy in a way that only SHIELD could deal with. Clint had done the math (he could be persuaded to do so, given the appropriate incentive), had known this day was coming, and had been looking forward to it for months.
“It is,” Coulson closed the folder and leaned back in his chair. “Or it was supposed to be,” he amended with a quiet sigh. “Instead, I’m trying to patch together the history of one Natalie Rushman.”
Clint frowned for a moment before the pieces fell into place. Natalie Rushman. NR. Nat R.
Natasha. “That’s not the most original of cover names, sir.” Which was a bad sign. Obvious cover names-- the ones that stood out like brick dust against concrete, that practically guaranteed to bleed, were always a bad sign.
Coulson shrugged. “It’s the one she chose. We’re sending her in undercover to deal with the Iron Man incident.”
Clint lifted an eyebrow and sipped on his coffee. Now that he was more awake, he could tell that the pot had been sitting for a while, cooler than it usually was when fresh brewed. It was also twice as strong. He wondered how long Coulson had been awake; his handler had the rare ability to slip out of bed undetected. Not that it would have been hard; Clint had stumbled home late last night, still smelling of the pressurized air from the red eye flight and feeling as though he’d been run through a chipper. “Undercover? What, is she supposed to be some intern or something like that?”
Coulson shook his head. “No. The rumor mill has it that Stark is stepping down as CEO of his company in favor for Ms. Potts. He’ll need a new assistant, someone who is capable, efficient, can handle anything thrown at her.” Someone who was Pepper Potts, apparently.
Therefore, the Black Widow. Because Stark’s reputation for enjoying pretty and needing efficient ensured that Natasha would probably be a shoe in. However, it was that reputation-- chrome-covered and larger than life-- that was the biggest issue of all. “Well, shit.” Clint closed his eyes. His fingers traced around the rim of his coffee mug, stalling at the sticky-sweet residue of saliva his mouth had left. “How did Nat respond?” He didn’t need to outline it for Coulson. Any spy--any handler-- could tell what an assignment shaped like Stark meant.
Telling Natasha that they needed her to go undercover to be Tony Stark’s new assistant would have been one of the hardest that Coulson would ever have to do. Not because it was hard or life-threatening, but because of what it would mean. For better or worse, this assignment meant that things were changing. She would never again be the unknown spy, the shadow in the night, the face that no one could match. By becoming Natalie Rushman, becoming anything in Tony Stark’s world, she would gain instant notoriety. The man was well known for his trysts with women and had fansites dedicated to everything from his cars to what sort of watches he wore; there was no way Natasha was going to manage to stay under the radar with this one.
“She was… unimpressed.” Coulson decided on after a long moment of consideration. “She knows what this means, and she’s still willing to go with it.
Clint dropped his head back against the cabinet behind him and gazed up at the ceiling. “And SHIELD is willing to scrap years of work for this Initiative?” Years of work, years of tears, sweat and blood, of ops gone bad and successful missions, of nights spent laying with each other and lying to each other. All for the idea that only by sacrificing everything could you have anything. “All due respect, sir, but that’s bullshit.”
It was bullshit for a lot a different reasons. Because Natasha could never be the same spy. Because all these personalities would clash with one another, could hate and disdain each other. They were even considering criminals, men who were locked away deep in the SHIELD cages. As if they could control such creatures. Clint knew more than he should, knew that the Council were considering each meta-human, weighing them all together, but they didn’t -- couldn’t-- know what he and the other agents of SHIELD knew. It didn’t matter what tests were run, or what analysis were made. No superhero worked well with another one.
And if he were truly being honest, he’d admit that there was also a certain amount of nostalgia. Nat would be moving on, to better things surely, but Clint could still remember those cold nights in Russia, the hard times in Budapest, and the staggering loneliness that came when Clint heard another woman’s voice on the comm and realized that it wasn’t Natasha.
Coulson shrugged and began gathering up his files. “It wasn’t my call to make. In any case, I’m due at the warehouse in about half an hour to start working on Agent Romanov’s back-story.” He tapped the files into a neat pile before shifting them to the crook of his arm. “Eat some breakfast; it’s not healthy to start the day on coffee alone.”
Clint took another long swallow and gave a lazy salute. “Aye, aye, black pot.” Which was entirely fair; Coulson had probably been up doing paper work for hours and had nothing but an entire pot of coffee to fuel him. Medical had probably been onto him about upcoming physicals, which really only meant that Clint needed to bribe someone into hacking the system to bypass him. “What does a warehouse have to do with Nat’s back-story?” he asked, genuinely curious.
Coulson sighed. “SHIELD did some research about the type of woman Stark would be interested in. Other than “attractive,” anyways. The analysts came up with ‘efficient,’ ‘capable,’ ‘steady’.”
Clint nodded, sagely. “Tasha is all of those things. The analysts have done well, grasshopper,”
Coulson rolled his eyes. “They also came up with ‘tall,’ but we’re out of luck there.”
“Well, you can’t always get what you want.” Not even when the ‘you’ in question was Tony Stark. “But I still don’t see what that has to do with a warehouse.”
“The other thing that the analysts came up with is ’model.’
Clint considered for a moment. He vaguely remembered some chatter about how Stark had gone twelve-for-twelve with all the Playboy models in one year, and knew from various newspapers and magazines on long cross-continental flights that Stark constantly had some piece of arm-candy about him at all times. “Wait a moment. You mean Nat’s actually going to model. As in, become girly, take pictures, pout at the camera? No CGI, or stand-ins, or anything?”
Coulson sighed again. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”
Well, that was true enough; even Clint could recognize that. “It’s like Christmas come early. Only with more death and destruction waiting to happen.” His mug hit the tabletop with a thud and he leapt to his feet. “What are we waiting for? These photographers have a schedule, you know. You shouldn’t keep the talent waiting.”
Coulson leveled him with a look. It was nowhere near his on-op glare that meant ‘shut up and do what I say, or you’ll be doing paperwork for a month,’ so Clint figured he was pretty much in the clear. “You aren’t going. It’s a closed set,” his mouth twisted slightly as he said it.
“Of course I am, sir." Watching Nat get made over like a starlet? Priceless, regardless of how he felt about the whole thing. He herded Coulson out the door, only pausing once they were outside and Coulson was locking up. “So what, is this the full thing? Hair, make-up, lots of assistants running around, all worrying about Nat getting her latte and salad at the right time?”
Coulson shook his head. “Just the photographer. Agent Romanoff refused the stylists.”
“Doing it herself?” It sounded enough like Nat.
“No. She said she knew someone.”
~~~
It wasn’t as if Clint didn’t understand the importance of the Avengers Initiative. He did. And he knew why Coulson was the one setting it up, and he knew why Natasha, who was admittedly one of the best assets that SHIELD had, was involved. But it didn’t mean he had to like it. Because it would change everything, and not just for the better.
The warehouse was located a few miles outside New York, far enough away that the flush of people had dwindled dramatically. It was practically empty, save for an area with cameras and lights that must be for the actual photo shoot and another, well lit spot that had mirrors and clothes surrounding it.
Coulson had just pulled the door shut behind them when his phone chirped. He pulled it out, and made a face at the screen. “I have to take this. I’ll catch up in a moment.”
Clint nodded. Natasha sat before one of the mirrors, her hair styled away from her face so that it tumbled in red waves down her shoulders. She wore a fluffy white bathrobe that made her look remarkably well padded and almost domestic, while a thin woman leaned over her, wearing a suit with hair so short that it almost looked buzzed. Off to the side, a photographer fondled his camera, crooning and caressing the hunk of plastic intimately. “No problem. I’ll just go join them.”
For a moment, Coulson looked like he wanted to say something. Then his phone chirped again, and the moment was lost, dissolved in the humid air and unexpected heat of the room. “I’ll join you soon,” he reiterated before stepping outside.
Clint nodded once to the empty air where he’d been, then strode across the room to Natasha and her impromptu make-up artist. “Nat, looking prettier than usual.”
Natasha opened her eyes briefly, then closed them again. “Oh, good,” she deadpanned, “Coulson brought you.” Beside her, the make-up artist shushed her and started painting her lips in a color that reminded Clint of blood. He glanced at her in surprise.
“Agent Raylan.” The agent didn’t turn toward him, but Clint could see the uplifted eyebrow gracing the corner of her face. “I didn’t know the intel unit was involved in this.”
Raylan snorted as she carefully outlined Natasha’s lips. “I’m not; in fact, this is my day off.” Apparently, SHIELD gave days off in bushels, letting every agent off on the same day. It seemed to be working well for them; Clint could count at least two who were doing something useful (he refused to consider himself; after all, he was just along for the ride). “I’m just here as a favor to Agent Romanoff.”
“Of course.” Natasha’s eyes slid open, as if daring him to comment. He ignored the obvious favor jokes for a more important question. “How do you know how to do…” he gestured to the two of them, the make-up and the outfits; Natasha, poised and patient and Raylan, painting on a disguise as if she were about to sneak into some secure location. “…this, anyway?”
The corner of Raylan’s mouth twitched up into a smile, though her gaze never left Nat’s face. She was a plain woman, androgynous and unremarkable. She blended into any crowd with ease. “I was an art major in college,” she said simply. Clint believed her. He’d heard the rumors about how she could fool the facial recognition programs using eyeliner alone.
There were so many reasons he loved working at SHIELD. That they had agents who could get him in and out of countries he had a death sentence in by simply painting his face was only a minor issue. Raylan worked as a handler for several assets, including Natasha some of the time (Clint had often joked that Raylan and Coulson shared custody of a couple of agents. So far, no one else seemed to enjoy the joke).
Across the room, the photographer left off messing with his camera to shout at Natasha, waving her toward the lighted mats with way too much impatience for a man who’d just spent the past five minutes talking to his camera. Natasha sighed and stood. Her hands went to the tie of the white bathrobe, and as it fell to the floor, so did Clint’s jaw followed. Apparently, the analysts had done more than find out what type of woman Tony Stark liked, they’d also studied what sort of lingerie he liked. Natasha had always been pretty curvy, but this was ridiculous; a lacy, sheer black bra with a pair of matching panties. With the blood red lips and black lined eyes, Natasha looked every inch the femme fatale that Clint knew she was.
“Voila,” Agent Raylan said, and closed her make-up kit with a snap. “My work here is done.”
“You mean you took an attractive woman and made her naked? I’m willing to bet that your file doesn’t list that particular skill set.” Clint waggled his eyebrows. “Why did you ever wear this when we dated, Nat?”
“Possibly because I always figured you liked me for my mind,” Natasha threw the robe at her chair before turning and heading toward the backdrops. “But mostly because I was always trying to kill you with my thighs, and you were too squirmy for me to get a good grip.”
“I always thought that we just had really, really weird sex,” Clint muttered and stole her seat. Nat waved a hand at him, turning to talk to the photographer.
Raylan snorted from where she was currently packing up her things. “It’s people like you that make SHIELD the happy place it is. Now, if you’ll excuse me, today’s my day off and there’s a Russian arms dealer that I want to get a bit more intimate with.”
Clint grinned. Across the room Natasha lounged on the floor, a white fur rug beneath her. “Sounds like a kinky evening.”
Raylan snorted. “It might be, if he knew about it. But since it’s just me getting snuggly with his finances, I’m afraid it’ll be a rather PG-13 sort of night. Don’t ruin my work, because I’m not coming back, and tell Romanoff that she’s not getting out of her end of this deal just because her face is going to be famous for a while. I can work around that.”
Clint saluted her as Raylan threw her bag over her shoulder and headed for the door. She paused and glanced back at him, her gaze considering. “Then again, I also have something which you might be able to help with.”
Interested, Clint leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees. Raylan gave some of the more interesting missions, the ones that didn’t involve shooting things at a distance. Reconnaissance work, usually, but sometimes more basic defense issues. “What did you have in mind?”
The sound of the door clanging shut caused her to jerk her head around, startled. Coulson headed toward them, shutting his phone as he walked. Raylan turned back to Clint. “Basic info gathering. Ever infiltrated a men’s club before?”
Clint grinned. “Maybe a time or two. How about you?”
Raylan’s mouth twitched up. “Successfully. I’ll send you some of the info tonight. If you’re in, then let me know and I’ll send the rest.”
Clint frowned. Usually, there’s a procedure. If other agents want his skills, need an impossible shot or sentient eyes in the sky, then they go through his handler. According to Coulson, there’s paperwork, there’s issues with passports and medical and profiles. He suspects part of it is Coulson’s need for control over all that is SHIELD. But other agents didn’t just send him the info. After all, what was the point in having a handler, if other agents did all the work? “That’s a bit under the table, isn’t it?”
Raylan’s small smile faded. “Of course not. Fury’s aware of what I’m working on, as are other level seven agents. In fact, I have a pool going against Sitwell; if I get to this guy first, then he has to buy my coffee for an entire month.” Raylan’s love of iced coffee was legendary amid SHIELD agents.
Clint’s gaze flickered to Coulson and instantly the haze of confusion fled Raylan’s face. “He’s going to be busy for a bit handling the Avenger’s thing. You’re probably going to be free-lancing until things settle. He’ll be Stark-sitting before the month’s out.” She smiled. “Poor bastard. Thank God he’s capable of it all. That many headstrong people; I’d shoot myself within the week.
“Wait, what?” As far as Clint had heard, Coulson was just putting things into motion. To actually be on site, to be pegged to watch Stark already, meant a lot more about this op than what was being let on. They expected it to fail. They expected Nat to be exposed. They expected Coulson to be a part of it.
The level of bullshit just kept rising.
But Raylan was already gone, passing Coulson as he headed in. She gave a lazy wave and he nodded in response. “That was the research department,” Coulson said as he stopped next to Clint’s inert form. “Natalie Rushman’s back story is complete; anyone who does any background research on her will discover that she is accomplished academically, extracurricularly, and is linguistically proficient.” His gaze raked across Clint’s tense shoulders, over his rigid spine and clenched hands.
“Sounds like the star of a horrible porno, sir,” Clint forced himself to relax. He leaned back in the chair, crossed his ankles, folded his hands behind his neck. “In fact, all of this seems…” Behind Coulson, the photographer was gesticulating rapidly, hands sketching out a smiley face. Natasha lifted an eyebrow, and even at fifty feet Clint could read the suggestion of pain in that simple movement. “like way too much work.”
Too much work. When the payoff wasn’t worth the sacrifice. Clint wondered how permanent this change would be, if Coulson would only handle the Initiative members or if he would stay with any of his assets. He wondered how long until he too became too much work. For the first time since learning about the Initiative, a small worm of doubt began to trace its way through him.
Coulson shrugged and slipped his phone into his pocket. Clint could feel him studying him, feel the weight of his gaze on his skin. “We need to get close to Stark. A man who has people to do his research for him, and robots to make sure that those people don’t make mistakes. This is the best way to manage it.” Clint shifted slightly in his chair, positive that any moment Coulson would ask what was wrong, and he’d have to admit that, barring a sudden jealousy that he was being left behind, that Clint didn’t know. And that was a conversation that he really didn’t want to have with an audience. The seconds ticked by, punctuated by the click of the camera and the shouted instructions of the photographer.
And then Coulson glanced away, and the weight lifted He cast a critical eye over Natasha’s posed figure. “Do you think the photographer can get her to actually smile?”
Clint wasn’t sure if he was happy about the unexpected reprieve or not. “I don’t think Nat smiles. Not unless someone’s dying. Or she’s killing someone.”
“Of course not,” Coulson sighed again. “Black Widow, please stop strangling the photographer. We still need him.”
~~~
Clint was certain that most photo shoots didn’t go anything like that, and hoped that most models didn’t actually try to annihilate their photographers. But then, what did he know about the industry? He’d only assassinated two agents, an ex model and a man who used to photograph trees. The guy hadn’t even been a professional.
Behind him, Coulson tossed his keys into the bowl on the table and opened the fridge. “So, that’s a couple of steps toward the Initiative taking off. Not held up at all by the fact that we just got back from staging the accidental death of a pushy photographer.”
“Still don’t know we’re going to fake car accident from a stab wound in the neck.” Clint pulled the chair out from the table, and cringed as the feet scraped against the tile floor. He sat down heavily, moving the chair a few inches further.
“We have people for that,” Coulson frowned into the depth of the fridge, then pulled out two beers and pushed the door shut. “Want to just order out?” he asked, cracking the tab off one can and putting it in front of Clint. Clint made an uninterested noise, and took a long swig. “It’s either that, or we’re eating sandwiches.” He waited, other beer still in hand, starting down at Clint.
Clint crinkled his nose. He knew it was weird, but he hated sandwiches. It felt like he was in third grade, instead of an actual adult.
He knew he should say something, suggest pizza from that little place on third where the grease practically dripped from the slice, but it’d been a long day and food in general really didn’t sound appetizing. Not when he knew that in a few months, if not sooner, that Natasha and Coulson would be moving on to something bigger and badder and better. And he’d be stuck with a different handler, Sitwell who he liked and Coulson trusted, or Raylan and her information networks if he was lucky, but more than likely he’d end up in wet-works. Because there aren’t so many uses for a guy who could shoot other than making things dead.
Coulson said nothing, didn’t even open up his own beer, and Clint stared down at the tabletop. He wondered how long they’d last, when Coulson was too busy handling people who were actually saving the world to come home.
Coulson sighed and sank down into one of the chairs across from him Clint kept his gaze on the table, knowing he couldn’t stave off the conversation, hating that it was coming. They sat in stony silence, broken only by the scrape of Clint’s bear can across the top of the table. “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” Coulson finally asked. “I can’t fix a problem unless I have all the information.”
And good God, they lived their jobs. It was the uncomfortable third wheel in their lives, the naggy friend and pushy relative all rolled into one dysfunctional basket. Clint wondered when Coulson would start wondering all these same things, and call this off. He must know how this ended; Coulson was nothing if not well prepared. He thought steps ahead, had back up plans for his contingency plans, and knew every possible outcome to every possible action. He didn’t waste time.
So then, what were they doing?
Coulson cleared his throat. “At the moment, we’re trying to decide what to do for dinner,” he said mildly. Clint’s eyes jerked up from the tabletop in horror as he realized he’d actually spoken the thought out loud. “Then I figured, after we ate, we could do something horribly domestic, like watch television or something. I thought we’d enjoy what was left of our time together, and then we’d go to bed where I might be convinced to engage in sexual activities.” Usually, the way Coulson phrased “let’s go fuck” would get a laugh out of Clint. He wasn’t feeling it today. “But it doesn’t look like that’s what you want to do.”
He should disagree. Say that of course he wants sex, and the rest of it doesn’t sound too bad either. But the words were hollow and stuck in his throat when he tried, and he knew that Coulson would know too. So what’s the point? After all, they live their jobs-- and you don’t lie to your handler unless you’re expecting to die up in the tree. “Are you going to be the Avenger’s handler?” Are you going to leave me?
Oh, God, could he be any more needy? He could spontaneously turn into a thirteen year old with separation anxiety and Clint wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.
Coulson’s eyebrow went up. “There aren’t any Avengers yet, Clint.” His voice was unexpectedly gently, and Clint was happy that he didn’t stave off time and ask how Clint even knew about that. “They haven’t assembled yet. But I’ll probably be a part of any liaison with it.”
“And Natasha will be what? A recruiting agent, sent to play secretary with each new member?”
Coulson shook his head. “I don’t know. We aren’t entirely certain who will make up the task force yet. Honestly, we aren’t sure there will actually even be a task force at this point.”
“Yeah, like Fury’s going to scrap this.” The man was worse than a dog with a bone about some things. Some things being any mission that he personally spent a good amount of time. This task force would succeed, and Fury would do anything to make sure it did. The only way the Avenger’s Initiative was getting scrapped was if someone came down and scraped the Director off the planet with a spatula. And even then, he probably had enough contingency plans that Maria Hill could finish the job. “He’s not going to risk losing his best spy or wasting your time on an idea that won’t pan out.”
Coulson shook his head. “It’s more complicated than that. Personality profiles, for instance. There’s a reason we do them, Clint.” A flicker of a smile across his face. “other than to piss you off, of course.” Coulson crossed his arms over his chest and tipped his chin down. His eyes remained solidly on Clint’s face. “This Initiative won’t do anyone any good if the members can’t work together.”
Clint chugged the rest of his beer and set the empty can down on the tabletop with a hollow clink. “A whole bunch of guys who have issues with authority.” Stark in a nutshell. Same with that guy down in the SHIELD catacombs, the one Coulson refused to work with. Same with any other name that had crossed the Director’s mind when considering the Avengers. Hell, a good chunk of SHIELD in general fit into that category. “What if they can’t work with you? Can‘t follow directions, aren‘t good with orders?”
One of Coulson’s eyebrows arched up, as if to ask what Clint was thinking with that question. “I’ve worked with some headstrong agents before. If I’m actually going to be involved, then I’ll do what I can to convince them I’m trustworthy.”
Clint laughed hollowly and dropped his gaze to the table. “You’re going to shoot all of them, sir? Or maybe you’ll just wait for a mission to go south and then swoop in and save them. Refuse to give up and all that.” What should have been a compliment-- because Coulson was all of that, was loyal and steady and Clint trusted him beyond anyone else at SHIELD (save Nat at times, but it was Coulson’s job to have his back at all times, and Nat’s to have it only when they were near one another). He trusted Coulson beyond anyone else he’d ever trusted since his brother.
But instead of complimentary, he sounded bitter. Harsh, stormy, angry. Mocking. Hurtful. Because even though he was proud of Coulson’s achievements, he was also unmoored by this.
Because all three of them lived, breathed and would die for this job. Because Clint still called Coulson by his surname, even at home, even when watching television or in their bed, because the Coulson at work at Coulson at home was the same. Because he called his handler “sir,” out of habit, out of respect, and not a single other person at SHIELD could claim the same thing by Hawkeye.
Because Coulson would no longer be his handler. No matter that they would still see each other at home, or at least they would if they were able to. Perhaps Coulson would move to another town, or live in SHIELD headquarters again. Perhaps they’d break up.
When Coulson didn’t say anything, didn’t give his usual dry ‘I save that for my favorite agents,’ or ‘Only the ones who really piss me off,’ Clint looked up. Coulson was still looking at him, still had that mild, expectant expression, but there was something lost there, and for a moment he thought that this was it, that Coulson would reach out and hold his hand and say ‘sorry, kid, it was fun while it lasted.’ Not that it would be that casual, he’d give Coulson that. They’d done well, lasted too long for it to be so casual.
Instead, before Coulson could say anything, before Clint could beat him to it just to save himself the indignity of losing, Clint stood up. “The normal?” Pizza. Pizza would help. Maybe he was stalling. Maybe he was putting off what needed to be said now. He didn’t care. “I’m going for that weird Thai-Italian thing that they’ve got listed in the specials. You know, peanuts and peppers and all that.”
Coulson stood up as well. “The normal is fine.” He hesitated, then closed the distance between them for the first time since they’d come home, tipped Clint’s chin up and pressed his mouth to the corner of his lips. “I’ll call it in for you,” he said, staring hard into Clint’s eyes, and suddenly Clint got the feeling that there was something else being said, something important. He nodded, and Coulson looked wary. Coulson turned, plucking his phone from his pocket and dialing a number they both knew by heart, striding into the living room as he spoke to the teenager who always answered the phone.
Clint’s eyes dropped down to the tabletop. Coulson’s beer still sat near the edge, untouched, unopened. A drop of condensation inched its way down to the small puddle at its base. He sighed, groped about in his pocket for his keys, and headed toward the door.