Clint was tired of the stupid cast.
It wasn’t his fault that the vents decided to collapse in one day.
Now he had to deal with shit plastered on his broken arm for three whole weeks. Three weeks! That’s a long time when you are literally known for archery and combat, and after one week, he had had enough.
Well, after about five minutes it had started itching, and after ten he had lost two pens and a pencil down there, but /now/, after a week of torture, he had had enough.
He couldn’t do anything, all his classes were, ugh, /academic studies/.
It was even worse than when Phil took away his bow for five days because he ‘accidentally’ shot another trainee in the head. He didn’t die, it was just a soft one, sadly.
It was boring, and Clint was sick of it, so the only course of action was to go and steal from Medical. There was a plaster cutter in the second supply closet, and, seeing as it was two in the morning, the doctors and nurses had gone home or were in the after hours emergency rooms.
So Clint planned his journey, and knew exactly the vents to crawl through and the paths to avoid. Using his unbroken left hand dominantly, he pulled himself into the air vents, closing it behind.
Exactly two minutes and forty three seconds later, the vent cover to the second supply closet opened, and out came a teenage hawk child.
He lowered himself into the room and began to search for the cutter.
There were so many goddamn boxes! How many things to hospitals need? They were all so specific, like, what even were ‘endobeads’?
Clint /finally/ found the thing he was looking for in the sixth drawer. Perfect. He had seen the nurses use it before and where they put it away, and it didn’t look too hard to understand. Might as well give it a try.
He turned it on and managed to begin cutting, the saw part going through the plaster easily. He was about halfway through when the doodle opened.
“Clint Barton, what the hell do you think you’re doing in here?” A stern voice demanded.
Clint slowly turned around, grinning sheepishly. It was Dr. Lohan, Clint’s regular physician. “Uhh…”
“Put that down, now. And didn’t I tell you to keep it on for another two weeks?”
Clint exhaled loudly and dramatically, the only way he knew how. Dr. Lohan snatched the device out of his hand, turned it off and looked exasperatedly at him, awaiting an excuse or explanation.
“…It was itching?” Clint tried, but Lohan grabbed his arm and walked Clint down the corridor.
“Doctor, don’t send me to Coulson.” Clint whined, being dragged along by Logan’s surprisingly strong grip.
The doctor rapped two times on Phil’s office door, and a voice told them to enter.
“Phil, I have your pet project again.” Lohan pushed Clint forward, towards the agent’s desk.
Phil looked up from the pile of paperwork on his desk and sighed. “What did he do this time?”