Untitled (Clint/Coulson)
"I am not a motherfucking matchmaker, Coulson!" Fury scowled at his friend, "Your non-corporeal ass can handle that!"
"You're the only person who can see my non-corporeal ass. Sir."
(The patented Coulson Bitchface #11 was a little disturbing to see on a ghost and yet somehow comforting. Well, comforting despite the fact that said ghost was attempting to corral the director of a multi-million dollar government espionage agency into arranging a love interest for his dead best friend's widower.
How the fuck was this his life?)
"No."
Coulson cocked his head to the side, gave a tiny smile, and with his usual aplomb, settled hovered in a chair.
Waiting.
And waiting.
And waiting.
He waited for a whole three hours before Fury growled and slammed his pen back to the surface of the desk. "Fine! Who the hell do you have in mind and where the fuck are they so I can get this goddamn idiotic plan of yours completed?"