Sunday Six

An excerpt from some pure fluff I’m writing:

“Hey, Coulson,” Clint said, stepping into the office of his supervising officer, “Sitwell said I need to fill out an AR-05 for those new arrows but I thought…”

Clint stopped, all thoughts of arrow requisition forms disappearing as Phil Coulson turned to face him.

Coulson’s Dolce jacket hung on the back of his desk chair. His tie was missing from its usual spot around his collar, instead neatly folded on his desk. And the first two buttons of his royal blue shirt were unbuttoned.

On anyone else, such a nice shirt combined with his Dolce slacks would look nice and dressed up, but on Coulson…Clint had never, in the six months he had known the man, seen him so underdressed.