A fucking lot of firsts happening here and I'm blaming Fox and the whole E-Mail crew for them ... what type of firsts? First time writing in months, first time EVER writing C/C, first time EVER writing Phil in any way ever, first time writing anything with the AoS crew in it ... but, gawd, it's C/C and an AoS meme and all YOU people and ... I just had to ... I needed to spread my wings and see what it would be like ... writing them.
Somehow, what in my head would be a short thing became ... this. Something caught between being an angsty semi-fix it and being a slightly rushed ... something. I don't know ... don't judge too harshly, maybe? *bites lip*
Approximation - Part 1/3
****
“Barton,” If he had been more awake, Clint might have cringed at the way his voice hitched, nearly squeaking at the end, sketchy from sleep. As it was, he was battling a serious case of “adrenalin vs. REM sleep”, which left him slightly dizzy and light headed. He fucking hated being called when he was out cold for once.
“Hawkeye, this is Agent May. We have a situation.”
Clint, who had been in the process of rubbing sleep from his eyes, still tangled in his sheets, at the same time as reaching for his alarm to check the time, sat up straight.
“Elaborate,” he snapped, immediately boxing the last traces of sleep away and letting adrenalin wash over, shaking him fully awake.
“It’s Agent Coulson, sir.” came the calm and professional response. “Your presence is required.”
Clint was on his feet and halfway in his jeans before he really realized what he was doing. For a split second, he hesitated, phone held to his ear with his left shoulder and hands nearly cramping where they gripped the fabric of his pants too tightly. Of course it was Phil, why else would Melinda fucking May be calling him at 0400 hours. Her calm response did nothing to keep his blood from running ice cold in his veins. Being friends with Natasha had taught him not to trust that kind of voice.
“Your location?” his voice was cold, clipped, as he jumped into his boots and wrangled a T-Shirt over his head. Somewhere, a voice told him to ignore the call. Everything had been done and said, his presence wasn’t required. “S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ New York, med center.”
Clint swore, yanking the shirt over his torso and grabbing his keys. He had never been all that good at listening to orders, least of all his own.
“Be there in 10,” he said, ending the call and jogging out of his apartment.
no subject
Somehow, what in my head would be a short thing became ... this. Something caught between being an angsty semi-fix it and being a slightly rushed ... something. I don't know ... don't judge too harshly, maybe? *bites lip*
Approximation - Part 1/3
****
“Barton,” If he had been more awake, Clint might have cringed at the way his voice hitched, nearly squeaking at the end, sketchy from sleep. As it was, he was battling a serious case of “adrenalin vs. REM sleep”, which left him slightly dizzy and light headed. He fucking hated being called when he was out cold for once.
“Hawkeye, this is Agent May. We have a situation.”
Clint, who had been in the process of rubbing sleep from his eyes, still tangled in his sheets, at the same time as reaching for his alarm to check the time, sat up straight.
“Elaborate,” he snapped, immediately boxing the last traces of sleep away and letting adrenalin wash over, shaking him fully awake.
“It’s Agent Coulson, sir.” came the calm and professional response. “Your presence is required.”
Clint was on his feet and halfway in his jeans before he really realized what he was doing. For a split second, he hesitated, phone held to his ear with his left shoulder and hands nearly cramping where they gripped the fabric of his pants too tightly. Of course it was Phil, why else would Melinda fucking May be calling him at 0400 hours. Her calm response did nothing to keep his blood from running ice cold in his veins. Being friends with Natasha had taught him not to trust that kind of voice.
“Your location?” his voice was cold, clipped, as he jumped into his boots and wrangled a T-Shirt over his head. Somewhere, a voice told him to ignore the call. Everything had been done and said, his presence wasn’t required.
“S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ New York, med center.”
Clint swore, yanking the shirt over his torso and grabbing his keys. He had never been all that good at listening to orders, least of all his own.
“Be there in 10,” he said, ending the call and jogging out of his apartment.