Jealous
It feels so good to finally be back to work. Of course, he’s only on limited duty for now – probably will be for at least another month. Phil sighs. Who’s he kidding? It’ll probably be three months – maybe more - before he’s testing as field-ready. He still has a long way to go in his physical recovery.
There may be some lingering psych issues, too, but he’s pretty sure he can overcome them without actually going to Psych. He just needs time to get over the fact that he had a spear violently shoved all the way through his chest. Who wouldn’t? And possibly it’s not a great sign that he’s having a recurring dream about Clint and Loki. Okay, maybe it’s a nightmare that wakes him every night with his heart feeling like it’s pounding out of his chest (which is admittedly kind of disturbing, all things considered) because in that dream-world, Natasha isn’t able to ‘cognitively recalibrate’ Clint and is forced to kill him instead. Phil shivers at just the memory.
Sometimes he can’t believe how lucky they all are to have escaped the worst possible outcome. Phil has come to appreciate that life doesn’t give you second chances like this very often and he fully intends to take advantage of the one he’s been given. Probably. Some day. Eventually. Although he has no idea what that means in a tangible sense.
Until he figures it out, he’s trying to make himself useful by filling some holes that Loki’s attack left in SHIELD by assessing new recruit performance. It’s low impact and only requires a few hours a day, leaving the remainder for Phil to continue his rest and recovery. God, it’s awful.
Today, he’s supposed to evaluate pistol skills for a batch of recruits who’re a few weeks into training. He’s purposely lagging behind the group as they pile into the shooting range because they’re just so… enthusiastic, and Phil hardly has the energy for it. They’re pumped up with excitement, happy to be out of the classroom for the day and moving on to more adrenaline-fueled exercises.
If there’s a benefit to being a senior agent it’s that you get to work with skilled, experienced agents like Hawkeye and Black Widow and don’t have to deal with new recruits. They’re just so… young.
When he enters the range, he perks up a little when he spots Hawkeye in the farthest lane, but then feels the tug of disappointment to see that he’s packing up his gear. Phil loves to watch the graceful flow of Clint with his weapon; there’s something rather entrancing about it. But the archer hates an audience - unless it’s him or Natasha - so he no doubt quit his practice because the recruits came in. Phil catches his eye and gives a small nod. Clint’s concerned gaze rakes over his body and Phil gives him a quelling look; he’s fine. He’s been out of the hospital for weeks, but Clint sometimes acts as though he’s still on death’s door.
The recruits have spotted Hawkeye and are whispering rather unsubtly. God, they’re just so… green. Phil sighs and turns reluctantly back to the task at hand. “Mr. Anderson,” he calls. “Would you please show us how many shots it takes you to hit the center ring on the target?” He hands a pistol to the young man, who looks around nervously before stepping forward and taking the gun.
Anderson’s an up-and-comer that SHIELD’s had their eye on for a while; military-trained and consistently scoring among the highest in riflery. He’s been surprisingly inconsistent since coming to SHIELD though, and Phil’s been tasked with trying to figure out what the problem is. Could be performance anxiety and if so, he needs to get over that fast. Phil putting him on the spot here should shake him a little and be a good indicator if that’s the problem. Possibly all he needs is a little time to settle in and get rid of his nerves.
Or maybe the problem is that any idiot with a good rifle and a high-quality scope can make a great shot. Today’s target is 75 yards out and it’s a lot harder to shoot a pistol at this distance with consistent accuracy.
Or an arrow, but that’s probably irrelevant.
The young man grips the pistol and sets his stance. “Shooting,” he calls, and fires a single bullet which punches a hole near the middle of the body-target.
It’s not a bad shot. It’s well within the smallest oval, probably no more than an inch off dead-center. If he can keep that up, they might not bounce him back to the military. Anderson looks back toward Phil expectantly. He’s probably waiting for Phil to offer some kind of praise. God, they’re just so… needy. He wants to roll his eyes, but doesn’t. Instead, he smiles mildly at the man. “Nice shot, Specialist.”
The space is fairly quiet, the other trainees murmuring their agreement, when they all hear the distinctive sound of someone racking the slide of a pistol to chamber a first round.
“Shooting,” Hawkeye says in a conversational tone, and Phil takes a step back to peer down the aisle just as he hears the familiar retort of a Sig Sauer P229 and fifteen rapid-fire shots echo through the range. He’s about to ask Clint if he’d like to demonstrate technique, but in a flash, Clint drops the clip out of his handgun and slides another home, and says, “shooting”, again. After glancing down the firing lane at the target for a split-second, he turns and smiles at Phil while he fires fifteen more shots. The whole thing doesn’t take more than ten seconds.
There is stunned silence in the room.
“He missed!” someone gasps behind Phil.
Phil hears the shocked whispering and he’s pretty sure Clint does, too. Behind him, Phil can feel the eyes of the entire group of recruits staring at Clint.
Clint cocks an eyebrow at Phil, who rolls his eyes pointedly before turning back to the gathered group of trainees, who are still murmuring excitedly. Anderson, in particular, is looking rather smug, no doubt feeling superior because he thinks he showed up Hawkeye on the firing range. God, they’re all just so… idiotic. The murmuring stops as Clint saunters past the group on his way out, his eyes on Phil the entire time.
As soon as the door closes behind Clint, the trainees erupt in boisterous congratulatory words and back-slaps for Anderson.
“Dude, you’re better than Hawkeye!”
“Did you see that? He missed every shot!”
“I didn’t think that was possible!”
Phil steps back and squints down the lane for the first time, confirming what he suspected. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he starts and the collected group silences. “Before you get too excited, I might suggest you think again about what just happened and consider other possibilities to the conclusion you’ve reached.” He gives them his best bland, scary-agent smile.
The group looks around at one another, questioning and confused. They all stare down the lane Clint was on, looking at the unmarred target, murmuring. God, they’re all so… oblivious.
After a moment, one of the young women finally shifts her gaze down Anderson’s lane. A second later her eyes go wide. “Body on the range, cease fire!” she yells as per range protocol, even though their group is the only one there and no one is shooting. She sprints 75 yards down to the far end where the targets are situated. She’s fast, Phil notes. And possibly more astute than the others; Phil’s going to keep his eye on her.
“Holy SHIT!” she gasps as she looks behind Anderson’s target. “He put 30 shots right through the same hole as Anderson’s!” she yells to them, pulling the target aside and revealing the high-impact gel behind it that stops the projectiles. It had been unmarred when they began, but now it’s clearly been pulverized by many more than one bullet.
Anderson’s face falls and he looks a little stunned. The rest of the recruits chatter excitedly, quickly dismissing their classmate, their respect for Hawkeye clearly renewed. Which it should be; the man is terrifyingly gifted.
Phil turns his head and looks up at the gallery at the shadow tucked back in the corner, cocking an eyebrow and trying to suppress the grin that twitches at his lips. A second later, the shadow disappears.
He hasn’t the slightest idea what to make of Clint’s behavior. It’s almost like he was showing off, which is… very uncharacteristic. From the time he’d joined SHIELD nearly fifteen years ago, Clint’s never felt a need to prove himself; he knew he was the best in the world and he didn't need validation from anyone. He did his job without flare or drama, and let his skill speak for itself, silencing the skeptics.
Phil supposes that after what happened with Loki, Clint might feel like he needs to prove himself. It’s the only explanation he can come up with for Clint’s performance. The strange thing, though, is that Clint hadn’t given a second glance to the recruits; it was almost as though he was performing for Phil, which doesn’t make any sense at all. Phil knows exactly how good Clint is, and Clint knows he knows.
Phil keeps watching the darkened gallery, knowing Clint is likely long gone. Secretly, a little part of Phil loved Clint’s display of skill. The man’s extraordinary and uncanny abilities have always made Phil’s stomach flip a little, from the first time he saw 20-year-old Hawkeye split an arrow with an arrow. He should probably admonish Clint for his little exhibition here today. But thirty bullets through a single hole at 75 yards, and from an oblique angle? There’s no way Phil would criticize anyone for that.
Phil turns back to the recruits who are now debating if it was somehow a trick. God, they’re just so… annoying. He sighs. He needs a nap. Goddamn it.
**
Clint watches from the gallery as the female trainee sprints down the lane and reveals his prowess. He has no idea why he had put on that display a few moments ago; he’s never felt a need to prove himself to anyone before.
But, nice shot? Nice shot? The first time Phil had said that to him, he’d just split an arrow with an arrow from 200 yards. One lousy bullet at least 7/8th-inch off the mark… pssshht. Please! Thirty bullets through the same hole are nice shots. What that kid did was mediocre shooting at best.
Phil turns and looks his way, and even though Clint knows he probably can’t see him, he gives a small salute, and slips quietly out of the gallery, smug grin still on his face.