In Defense of Honor
It’s become a routine now; Clint badgers Marla into making a special lunch for Phil and then he badgers Phil into eating it. They usually eat in his office but Phil feels a need to stretch his legs today so he suggests they walk down to the mess instead. They get their food and take a table in the corner, behind a large pillar. These days, they both find it preferable to go unnoticed; Phil, because he’s tired of all the concerned looks, and Clint, because ever since Loki… well, suffice it to say, Phil thinks Clint’s an idiot on that score.
Phil tucks into his loaded salad (lightly dressed) with broiled chicken. He’s surprised to find that he actually kind of likes it. What’s more surprising is that Barton is sitting across from him eating the same, and he seems to like it, too. A second later, Clint’s face contorts and, okay, maybe ‘likes it’ is a stretch, but at least he’s not complaining about eating it.
When Clint had shown up in his office the week before with a plate of steamed fish and quinoa, Phil had taken one look and told Clint that the only way he was going to eat it was if Clint did, too. Hawkeye had left his office and Phil had assumed he wouldn’t be seeing the man again any time soon. But twenty minutes later, Clint came back with an identical plate, gave Phil the hot one, then sat down and started eating. What else could Phil do but humor him?
Phil’s seen Hawkeye push more leafy-green vegetables into his mouth in the last week (since he apparently appointed himself as Phil’s personal nutritional advisor) than he has in the 15 years he’s known the man. Except maybe for that year when Bobbi was hounding him to eat better. At the time, when Phil had raised a questioning eyebrow at his asset, Clint had shrugged and Phil thought he saw the hint of a blush. “She said she loves me and she wants me to stay alive a little longer.” His pleasure at the mere thought of someone caring that much about him was unmistakable. Phil sighs at the memories of Clint’s previous marriage and actively pushes the thoughts aside.
Phil’s enjoying his lunch and his lunch company when nearby voices filter through and he realizes that people are talking about him. He stops chewing for a moment and focuses on the conversation.
“ …wish we’d gotten a better recruitment trainer.”
“You’re such an ass, Burkhorst.”
“I’m just saying out loud what we’re all thinking and you know it.”
“No, we’re not all thinking that. Coulson seems like a good teacher to me.”
“He’s a suit,” Burkhorst says dismissively. “A washed-up suit. He’ll probably never be able to re-pass the field qualification tests. You know what they say, those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.”
One of the group groans. “That’s such bullshit. I mean, if that’s the case, then who taught the people who are so good at ‘doing’?”
They move too far away for Phil to catch any more of the conversation and he starts chewing again. When he looks over at Clint, the man is practically vibrating with anger.
“Clint. It’s okay. They’re not entirely wrong and you and I both know it. I’m not back up to speed here.”
“You’re still recovering,” Clint grits out through clenched teeth.
“Let it go, Clint,” Phil coaxes. He’s not ashamed; he had a spear brutally shoved through his chest, after all. He’s still recovering and may never get back to where he was. Frankly, most days he’s just happy to be alive. And really, he has nothing to prove to a bunch of green trainees.
Clint lets it go but his eyes track the group out the door. That probably doesn’t bode well.
**
Phil walks into the training room, eyes skimming over the assembled group looking for Chen but he doesn’t see him. “Good afternoon. Today we are going to begin working on the basics of hand-to-hand fighting. Unfortunately, as much as I’d like to, I’m not able to give practical instruction at this time, so I’ve asked Agent Chen to assist us today. He should be here shortly.”
A few seconds later, the door to the gym opens and Hawkeye saunters through. “Agent Barton,” Phil says with mild surprise. “What can we do for you?”
“Chen asked me if I could stand in for him today. He’s… busy.” Phil narrows his eyes at Clint, who puts on an innocent face. Phil raises an eyebrow at Clint, sending a silent question. What are you up to? Hawkeye gives him a bland smile in return.
Phil huffs and turns back to the recruits. “Alright,” Phil says. “Apparently, we have a slight change of plans. Agent Barton will be demonstrating hand-to-hand technique today. Agent Barton?”
Clint drops his gear and steps forward. “I’ll need a volunteer to help me demonstrate. How about you?” Clint says, immediately pointing to Burkhorst.
Warning bells scream in Phil’s head and he knows he should probably put an immediate stop to whatever it is Clint is planning, but he doesn’t. Despite his better judgement, he’s curious to see what Barton does.
Burkhorst shoots a smug grin to his cohort and steps forward. “Sure.”
“Great,” Clint answers, a friendly smile on his face, but Phil knows this is his wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing smile, and he groans internally. This idiot has no idea what he’s getting into.
“So, Recruit… what’s your name?”
“Burkhorst, Sir.”
“Burkhorst. Good. Okay. So, Burkhorst, do you have much experience in hand-to-hand?”
“Top of my class at Quantico,” he answers, still looking smug.
“Alright, great! So, I don’t need to pull my punches, right?” he says, amiably faking a jab at the man. Burkhorst flinches and his smile falters.
There’s that wolf’s smile again. This is going to be bad. Phil should definitely step in, but Burkhorst is arrogant and it might not be the worst thing in the world for him to learn a little humility.
“Okay, let’s start with the basics: anticipating your opponent’s attack.”
Clint smiles at the assembled group then shifts his attention back to Burkhorst and Phil sees the grin turn more feral. Hawkeye raises his right arm and Burkhorst’s eyes follow it, only to have Clint simply flick his foot out and buckle the recruit’s knee. Burkhorst falls to the ground in a heap.
“See, right there,” Clint says to the other recruits. “He wasn’t anticipating.” Clint smiles down at Burkhorst. “Sorry. I know I caught you off guard with that one.” He reaches out a hand to pull the other man up.
Burkhorst grips Clint’s fist and Clint pulls him up, then twists and tosses him to the ground again in a simple move that any idiot should have seen coming a mile away. “Now, that one, you should have anticipated,” Clint taunts, a dark expression on his face.
Burkhorst gets up slowly, swallowing noticeably.
After thirty minutes of using Burkhorst to demonstrate various offensive attacks (each one increasingly complex and painful for the trainee), Clint stares down at where the man is sprawled on the ground. “You look tired. Are you tired, Burkhorst? You need to stop?” Clint gives him a positively insincere smile.
The recruit looks worn and he winces noticeably as he stands.
“Sir,” one of the other recruits steps forward. “I can stand in.”
It’s Mendez again. Phil adds ‘team player’ to her ‘pro’ column.
“How about that, Burkhorst. You need your classmate to step in for you?”
He sticks out his chin defiantly, glaring at Clint. “I’m fine,” he asserts.
Even if he weren’t, the way Clint framed the question made it virtually impossible for Burkhorst to step out. Still, Phil puts a ‘con’ tick in his mental file; Burkhorst is too proud for his own good.
“Okay, then, I’ll tell you what. You initiate the attack now; I’ll demonstrate defensive moves.” Clint stands back a step and spreads his arms wide in a ‘come at me’ gesture.
Burkhorst takes a breath and then crouches a little and circles Clint; Clint turns with him. A few seconds later, the recruit lashes out, but Clint easily side-steps the attack and the next instant, Burkhorst is back on the mat.
After another half hour of Burkhorst going on the offensive, only to land flat on his back (or face) every time, Clint apparently decides that the trainee has had enough. Or maybe Clint has. Either way, the ‘demonstration’ is over. Burkhorst gets up slowly, his body visibly stiff and Phil has no doubt that the man will barely be able to move tomorrow. There’s not a single, lasting mark on him, though. He stumbles over to the rest of the group, who all seem a little unsure of what to make of the previous hour’s instruction and are murmuring among themselves.
“By the way,” Clint says, and everyone quickly stills. “Everything I showed you here today, I learned from Agent Coulson over there,” Clint nods toward Phil. “You should count yourselves lucky to have him as your recruit-class trainer.”
The trainees all stare at Phil and he really wishes he could roll his eyes. Instead, he dismisses the group and they start to filter toward the door. Before they get there, though, Clint stops them. “Hey, recruit!” Clint calls out, and the group turns as one. He pins Burkhorst with a steely glare. “There’s a saying…” Clint starts, “…those who can, do. Those who can’t, run their mouths and are just generally assholes.” He’s calm but his face is pure animus, and Burkhorst flushes a deep red before he pushes through the crowd and out the door. The others follow quickly behind.
Clint flicks a glance at Phil and then turns and starts to walk across the room.
“That was unnecessary,” Phil points out.
Clint grabs his gear bag. “That guy’s a dick. He needed to be taken down a peg.”
Phil watches as Clint grabs a bottle of water and drinks it all down in one go; it’s the only indication Phil’s seen that Clint just exerted himself in any way. He’s perplexed. Clint never gets this bothered when people are talking about him, and god knows there’s been a lot of talk about Hawkeye since Loki’s attack. The only time he’s really seen Clint get like this was when someone told him that another agent questioned whether Mockingbird really had the skills or if she was just advancing because of her relationship with Hawkeye. After he’d heard that, he’d sought out the indiscreet agent and took him apart, piece by piece.
Huh. “Clint, were you defending my honor here today?”
“Of course not, Sir. You would never need anyone to do that for you,” Clint says, stuffing his towel into his bag, but avoiding Phil’s eyes.
“I’m not worried about what a group of recruits think about me and you shouldn’t let it bother you, either,” he assures his friend.
Clint finally turns and locks eyes with him. “They should have more respect for you.”
There’s a sudden tension in the room that Phil has no explanation for. He feels himself flush and he quickly breaks eye contact, his glance skittering toward the entrance. When he looks back at Clint, he’s squatting down next to his bag, zipping it up. Phil clears his throat. “Will Agent Chen be back with us next time or do you have more instruction you want to give?”
Clint stands up and swings his bag over his shoulder. “I think I got my point across.”
Phil stares after him when he leaves, not sure if he should pursue it further. He’s part fondly-amused and part disconcerted - at Clint for doing what he did, but also at himself for his moment of schadenfreude. In the end, it’s easier not to examine either of their behavior too closely and so he doesn't.
**
Clint tosses a crumpled fifty-dollar-bill onto the table. “Thanks,” he says as he sets his tray down and drops into the chair.
Chen looks up from his tablet as he pockets the money. “Is Coulson pissed?” he asks as he sits back, but he doesn’t sound particularly worried.
“Nah. You’re good,” Clint assures him, then shovels a forkful of macaroni and cheese into his mouth. God, that’s good.
Chen’s about to say something more when a shadow falls across the table and both men look up to see Fury standing over them. Whatever Chen was going to say never materializes. “Sir?” Chen says instead.
“Agent,” he says, staring at Chen. He doesn’t elaborate but his intent is clear.
“Right,” Chen says, then scoops up his tray and tablet and disappears.
Fury takes the seat Chen vacated and eyes Clint, who stares back as he chews his food.
“If you’re done playing with the recruits, Barton, I could use an agent.”
Clint leans over his plate and shakes his head. “They’re not ready,” he says absently, then takes another huge bite. He’s distracted by how deliciously not-healthy it tastes when he realizes that Fury hasn’t responded and looks up. Fury raises the eyebrow above his eyepatch at him, and that’s just… weird.
Clint sits up straight and swallows the thick mass in his mouth. “You’re putting me back on active duty?”
“If you think you can tear yourself away from your current… preoccupation,” he says with a note of humor in his voice.
Clint has no idea what that means. He pushes his plate aside. “When do I leave?”
“Don’t get too excited, Agent. This is a recon job. Two weeks watching the site to see who come and goes. You will not, under any circumstances, engage. Am I clear?”
“Do not engage. Copy that, Sir.”
Fury eyes him for anther moment. “Go,” he says, with a small jerk of his head. “You leave at 1800 hours.”
Clint bolts. He’s got a half hour to get his gear and get to the plane, and adrenaline is singing in his veins already.
**
Fury watches him go. He almost regrets sending him out because watching Coulson and Barton stumble around their repressed emotions is the best entertainment he’s had in years. But he needs the best set of eyes he has on this mission and that's still Hawkeye, hands down, even if the idiot is completely blind to what’s right in front of him.