(no subject)
sleep like the dead
rating: g
character: Clint Barton, Nick Fury, Natasha Romanoff
warnings: none
summary: Turns out SHIELD doesn't have a policy requiring naps before debriefings. Which is a real shame, because right now Clint could settle for one lasting a thousand years or so. Two, on the outside. Just without the 'shriveled and dead' part that usually comes with it.
author's note: For crazy4orcas, who prompted "Clint/Natasha - napping." All due respect and references to The Mummy.
He could blame his drifting attention during the debriefing on the fact that they’ve been up for the past forty-six hours. He could drag in the minimal downtime and high stress level associated with the time-sensitive intelligence mission; nothing like a simmering border feud to keep things interesting, right? He could even pin down the exact moment he last had a cup of coffee and calculate the steady decline in his caffeine level. With associated charts. Coulson would be so proud.
But really, what it boils down in the end to is that Agent Caffrey’s debriefs are the driest and deadest things on this earth since the Mummy went about terrorizing silver screen Cairo. The film itself is the exact opposite, and Clint's love for it knows few bounds. The same can't be said for his partner. Despite constant retesting, Natasha continues to fail to appreciate him holding stray cats in front of her and saying, “Look what I’ve got!”
”And so, in conclusion…”
Right. Debriefing.
Caffrey pauses in examining the projection of their extraction route (no engagement with local LEOs or undead creatures, gold star for them) and blinks owlishly at the two agents sitting obediently on one side of the conference room table. “Is she… Agent Romanoff?”
Forewarned by his attention, Clint bumps Natasha’s foot lightly with his boot. Natasha blinks, for all appearances absolutely no different than she had been a moment before, and switches her cool stare from the screen to Caffrey.
”Ah, sorry, I just thought - never mind.” Natasha’s stares usually have that kind of quelling effect. Clint knocks his boot into another outstretched foot under the table as Caffrey continues on relentlessly. “As I was saying, the information Strike Team Delta gathered will be very useful in determining the outcome of any actual skirmishes in the region going forward.”
“Glad to hear it,” Nick Fury says with a trailing sigh from the other side of the table. It’s good to know they’re not the only ones who dread these meetings. “With all that in mind, Agent Caffrey, can we finish this up? Agents Barton and Romanoff still need to unpack and get checked by Medical.”
“And shower,” Clint mutters. He’s pretty sure there’s still sand tucked into the crease of his ears. Natasha’s lips twitch.
“Of course. Thank you for your assistance,” Caffrey tells them stiffly, as if he’s been the one inconvenienced by the meeting’s timing. He inclines his head, and gathers up his tablet and papers. The projector whirs down as soon as the tablet is disconnected, casting a blue screen that turns the analyst into a theater group-worthy image. It might have even worked, if he had a single funny bone in his body.
“Good job,” Fury comments, standing slowly. “I’m glad you could make it on such short notice.”
“For the mission or the debriefing, sir?” Clint asks with what he considers an admirably minuscule amount of cheek. Nick gives him a level look as the door whooshes shut behind Caffrey.
“Check with Barton to see if you missed anything important, Romanoff. And get some shut-eye. Sleeping with your eyes open doesn’t count, as much as I'd like otherwise.”
“Yes, sir,” they reply, getting up themselves. Natasha covers a yawn and grabs her jacket.
“Speaking of which, sir.” A smattering of sand falls out of Clint’s hair as he runs his hand through it. He winces. “What’s your excuse for napping during a debrief, anyway?”
“It takes a lot of energy to put up with agents like you,” Fury replies succinctly. Which, fair enough. “Report in tomorrow afternoon, Hill has a few reports for you to look over.”
Clint gives Natasha a bright-eyed smile. ”You can either tag along with me or stay here and try to save the world. What’s it going to be?” This time he’s the one who gets his ankle kicked, not quite so gently, by his partner. “Ow! It was an accident?”
She rolls her eyes at that before heading out of the conference room, her dead-pan voice trailing behind her. “My darling archer, when Ramses destroyed Syria, that was an accident. You are a catastrophe.”
He grins, and follows.
rating: g
character: Clint Barton, Nick Fury, Natasha Romanoff
warnings: none
summary: Turns out SHIELD doesn't have a policy requiring naps before debriefings. Which is a real shame, because right now Clint could settle for one lasting a thousand years or so. Two, on the outside. Just without the 'shriveled and dead' part that usually comes with it.
author's note: For crazy4orcas, who prompted "Clint/Natasha - napping." All due respect and references to The Mummy.
He could blame his drifting attention during the debriefing on the fact that they’ve been up for the past forty-six hours. He could drag in the minimal downtime and high stress level associated with the time-sensitive intelligence mission; nothing like a simmering border feud to keep things interesting, right? He could even pin down the exact moment he last had a cup of coffee and calculate the steady decline in his caffeine level. With associated charts. Coulson would be so proud.
But really, what it boils down in the end to is that Agent Caffrey’s debriefs are the driest and deadest things on this earth since the Mummy went about terrorizing silver screen Cairo. The film itself is the exact opposite, and Clint's love for it knows few bounds. The same can't be said for his partner. Despite constant retesting, Natasha continues to fail to appreciate him holding stray cats in front of her and saying, “Look what I’ve got!”
”And so, in conclusion…”
Right. Debriefing.
Caffrey pauses in examining the projection of their extraction route (no engagement with local LEOs or undead creatures, gold star for them) and blinks owlishly at the two agents sitting obediently on one side of the conference room table. “Is she… Agent Romanoff?”
Forewarned by his attention, Clint bumps Natasha’s foot lightly with his boot. Natasha blinks, for all appearances absolutely no different than she had been a moment before, and switches her cool stare from the screen to Caffrey.
”Ah, sorry, I just thought - never mind.” Natasha’s stares usually have that kind of quelling effect. Clint knocks his boot into another outstretched foot under the table as Caffrey continues on relentlessly. “As I was saying, the information Strike Team Delta gathered will be very useful in determining the outcome of any actual skirmishes in the region going forward.”
“Glad to hear it,” Nick Fury says with a trailing sigh from the other side of the table. It’s good to know they’re not the only ones who dread these meetings. “With all that in mind, Agent Caffrey, can we finish this up? Agents Barton and Romanoff still need to unpack and get checked by Medical.”
“And shower,” Clint mutters. He’s pretty sure there’s still sand tucked into the crease of his ears. Natasha’s lips twitch.
“Of course. Thank you for your assistance,” Caffrey tells them stiffly, as if he’s been the one inconvenienced by the meeting’s timing. He inclines his head, and gathers up his tablet and papers. The projector whirs down as soon as the tablet is disconnected, casting a blue screen that turns the analyst into a theater group-worthy image. It might have even worked, if he had a single funny bone in his body.
“Good job,” Fury comments, standing slowly. “I’m glad you could make it on such short notice.”
“For the mission or the debriefing, sir?” Clint asks with what he considers an admirably minuscule amount of cheek. Nick gives him a level look as the door whooshes shut behind Caffrey.
“Check with Barton to see if you missed anything important, Romanoff. And get some shut-eye. Sleeping with your eyes open doesn’t count, as much as I'd like otherwise.”
“Yes, sir,” they reply, getting up themselves. Natasha covers a yawn and grabs her jacket.
“Speaking of which, sir.” A smattering of sand falls out of Clint’s hair as he runs his hand through it. He winces. “What’s your excuse for napping during a debrief, anyway?”
“It takes a lot of energy to put up with agents like you,” Fury replies succinctly. Which, fair enough. “Report in tomorrow afternoon, Hill has a few reports for you to look over.”
Clint gives Natasha a bright-eyed smile. ”You can either tag along with me or stay here and try to save the world. What’s it going to be?” This time he’s the one who gets his ankle kicked, not quite so gently, by his partner. “Ow! It was an accident?”
She rolls her eyes at that before heading out of the conference room, her dead-pan voice trailing behind her. “My darling archer, when Ramses destroyed Syria, that was an accident. You are a catastrophe.”
He grins, and follows.