Clint barely managed eight days with Sitwell as his handler before he found himself sitting in his quarters with both knees jiggling, his fists clenching and unclenching as he itched for something to shoot at.
He’d broken some kind of obscure regulation by saying something (he had no fucking idea exactly what, because as far as he knew he’d said exactly the same things as he would have to Coulson; what was the problem?) over the comms while on a routine reconnaissance mission and had been restricted to quarters for the next week.
Yeah, like that had ever worked before.
He’d actually managed 48 whole hours obeying that order, and now he was about to crack.
He tugged his cell phone out of his pocket and dialled the third number down - he’d never changed Phil’s label, he was always ‘Coulson’ - waiting for the response.
“Clint, you’re not supposed to be calling me.”
“You answered, you’re just as culpable.”
“Don’t use big words.”
“You love it when I’m erudite don’t deny it.”
“What do you want, Specialist?”
“Don’t make me say it.”
“You know, I don’t out-rank Sitwell in any way, I can’t reverse Fury’s decision.”
“You can appeal to his better side.”
Phil just let that hang in the air for a moment, until Clint thought through what he’d just said.
“Okay, maybe not.” Clint admitted.
“It’s only two weeks, Barton.”
“You’ve called me three different names in the course of this conversation.”
“And you haven’t even referred to me by name at all.”
“I never do.”
“Valid point. You’re counting down the days, aren’t you?”
Clint sighed. “This is what you warned me about, isn’t it? We’re going to have to make a decision.”
“Yep. In six days time.”
“My legs won’t stop moving.”
Now it was Phil’s turn to sigh.
“My door isn’t locked.”
“It never is.”
“Not to you. Come on up; we’ll worry about the consequences tomorrow.”