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"The next move I'm going to demonstrate," Phil Coulson broke off as a hand went up among the trainee agents gathered around him in a rough circle on the practice mats. "Yes, Henderson?"
"Sir, I understand that this is good training, but how applicable are these moves you're teaching us in the real world, really? I mean, when we're out there we won't have mats and the people we're fighting will use all sorts of dirty tricks. What you're teaching us here is clean and... civilized."
"It's a good question, Henderson. What you need to understand is that the moves I'm teaching you will be useful in many situations, no matter what fighting style your opponent uses. I know that can be hard to visualize when you're doing exercises with a cooperative partner, though, so maybe a better demonstration is in order." Phil scanned the room, and gave a small smile when he saw Clint Barton on the other side of the gym, lifting weights.
"Barton!" he called, pitching his voice to carry across the space, "Got a minute?"
Barton finished his set, racked the barbell, picked up his towel and headed over.
"What's up, boss?"
"I was hoping you'd help me with a little demonstration for these trainees. They have some questions about the effectiveness of the techniques I'm teaching them."
Clint grinned widely at that. He knew that the main reason Coulson got called upon to teach this particular segment of the hand-to-hand combat training was that he looked like an accountant. Usually, when he started throwing the largest trainee in the group around like a rag doll, objections ceased.
"Be glad to."
"Just so our recruits here are clear, how often have we sparred together, Barton?"
"Um... maybe two or three times, years ago. Usually we're fighting next to each other instead."
"And who do you usually spar with?"
"Whoever's around when I'm in the gym. Williams sometimes, or Diaz. Oh, and of course Romanov makes a point of kicking my ass once or twice a week." Barton got a few grins and one appreciative low whistle for that.
"The point is that we're not particularly familiar with each other's fighting styles."
"Nope. What are the rules?"
"No severe injury, and respect a tap out."
"That's it, are you sure?"
"I'm afraid more rules than that would fail to convince Henderson here that what I'm trying to teach him will be useful in real life."
Barton shot the assembled trainees a glance that said, "How stupid could you be?" and then tossed his towel over to the corner of the mat.
"Ready when you are, boss."
Coulson just planted his feet and nodded, and Barton immediately launched himself through the air. He was familiar enough with Coulson's abilities to know that he didn't have much of a chance in a stand-up fight - Coulson did ju-jit-su or some such martial art, and Clint had seen him fight enough times to know that he had very little hope of getting near him, let alone landing a blow while they were on their feet.
Clint's quickness and agility managed to take Phil down, and within seconds they were grappling for position on the mats.
At first Clint was cockily confident. Though he and Coulson were of a similar size, he knew he had the advantage both in weight and physical strength, not to mention being almost ten years younger than Coulson. Add to that his agility and flexibility, and Clint couldn't figure out why he was having so much trouble getting a grip on his handler. Coulson was as slippery as an eel and seemed to be reading his mind, always anticipating Clint's next move before he made it, and shifting or twisting out of the way just in time.
'Concentrate Barton,' Clint told himself, and slowed himself down rather than continuing (futiliy) to go for a quick, showy pin.
Phil felt Barton slow down and he would have heaved a sigh of relief if it weren't for the fact that he was already breathing heavily. For the past couple of minutes, it had been all he could manage to keep up with anticipating Barton's every move based on Phil's own years of skill and practice, not to mention a detailed understanding of how Barton's mind worked.
Phil felt Barton trying to set up an arm lock and twisted out of it just in time, but ended up on his hands and knees, with Barton's body crossed over his, Olympic wrestling style. Too late, Phil realized that Barton had the strength and agility to flip him from that position, but he managed to throw himself sideways as Barton executed his move. He ended up with one thigh between Barton's legs and the other wrapped around, trying to limit Barton's mobility and slow him down while Phil squirmed out from underneath.
Clint was disappointed, but not surprised when he failed to pin Coulson with a flip. Coulson was still doing his slippery eel impression, working his way out of the grip that Clint tried in vain to tighten. In doing so, he squeezed his legs together and suddenly became very aware of Phil's muscular thigh trapped between his own. His concentration slipped just long enough for Coulson to wriggle free, and Clint shook his head. 'Now's not the time to be thinking about how it feels to have Phil Coulson writhing under me.' Clint made a grab for him and missed, and Coulson managed to scramble to his feet. Clint made a desperate scissoring sweep with his legs, catching Coulson and bringing him crashing back down to the mats. A fraction of a second later, Clint was on top of him, trying to press his advantage home.
Phil tried to keep from grinning as he squirmed out of Barton's grip once again. He couldn't remember the last time sparring had been this challenging, this exciting. 'Maybe we should make this a regular thing,' Phil thought as he scrambled to his feet, only to come crashing down again as Barton swept his legs out from under him. Phil tried to roll over and get his knees under him, but he was a tiny bit winded and Barton was too quick. The next thing Phil knew, Barton's body was pressing heavily on his, legs tangled together, one powerful arm pinning his shoulders down while the other was trying to lock his arms above his head. Part of Phil wanted to melt into the mat, to just revel in the feeling of Clint's strong body on top of his, pressing him down. 'I can't think about this now,' Phil told himself sternly, and executed one of the sneaky moves that he'd been teaching the recruits earlier.
Clint reacted to Phil jabbing his thumb into the nerve cluster at the hinge of his jaw with a grunt as his head snapped back. Coulson got his forearm under Clint's jaw and pressed back, giving himself enough room to start to wriggle out again. They grappled furiously for a minute, chests heaving, muscles straining and sweaty skin sliding across sweaty skin. Clint jabbed Phil hard in the solar plexus with his elbow. Phil caught Clint's knee in a lock and bent it back. Clint kept trying to overpower Phil and Phil kept slipping, squirming, and anticipating, until finally, he saw his opening.
Barton had one hand and one knee on the mat, the other arm and leg were wrapped around Phil's torso, again trying to pin him. Phil inched himself into position and with a move that would have made Natasha Romanov proud, suddenly went lax to throw Clint off balance, and then flipped him onto his back, landing squarely on top of him. Phil bore down with all his weight and put his hands around Clint's neck, thumbs pressing unerringly into the carotid arteries.
'Shit. I've lost,' thought Clint, then 'God, this feels amazing.' Phil was straddling him, his weight and heat and the scent of his sweat enveloping Clint. He stared up into Phil's eyes, which shone brightly back at him. The tight squeeze of Phil's hands around his neck felt like a caress rather than an attack. 'Lack of circulation to the brain,' reasoned Clint before briefly considering not bothering to tap out. Lying here, with his life literally in Phil's hands, staring into his eyes and slowly blacking out was one of the most erotic things he'd ever experienced. 'He'll be upset if I let him hurt me,' was the thought that forced Clint to make the effort to raise one hand a few inches and let it thump back to the mat. The pressure on his neck stopped immediately, but otherwise Phil didn't move, still watching his eyes as Clint swam back to full consciousness. He saw the look of concern, and answered it with a grin. Coulson gave him a small nod, rose gracefully off Clint's body, and then reached down a hand to help him up.
Clint sat up, waited a couple of seconds for the head rush to subside, then took the proffered hand and climbed to his feet.
"Next time you need help with a demonstration, boss," he said rubbing his neck more for effect than because he was actually hurt, "I'll be at the range instead."