Blackwood Academy

New work. Inspired by a few photos of our Darling Ben dressed in a lovely suit and vest combination that *someone* said made him look like a hot professor.

Also, Sherlock with his ruler, as cosplayed by overconfidence-and-a-screwdriver, will be making an appearance before long.

Welcome to my insanity, beta-read by the lovely timelordy-teganbreann.

Blackwood Academy.


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.

Two rings.

“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?”
“Right. ”
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.”

for sugar-coated-cricket-bat

“Ammy? Ammy is that you?”
“Ammy, why are you in London?”
“William, why are you in a broom closet?”
“I could ask the same of you.”
“I heard gunfire and decided to take cover! Please tell me that it wasn’t you or your idiot mates?”
“No, no… I don’t think so. But hey! What are the odds? Us, ending up in the same broom closet, in London! Last time I saw you-”

Ammy cut him off with a palm over his mouth and rolled her eyes when she felt him smiling.

“Brandt, much as I love your reminiscing, please will you shut up, for once in your life?" 

He muttered something that Ammy was pretty certain would have offended her, so she kneed him in the thigh for good measure and he winced, but shut up.

Another gunshot sounded and Brandt’s eyes narrowed.

"That’s not my mates… that’s a Beretta.”
“I’m not even going to question that. Do you even know what’s going on?”
“No idea, but I’m about to find out.”

And as quickly as he’d arrived, William departed the broom closet, removing his own handgun from the waistband of his pants and stalking down the corridor in search of whoever was causing all the ruckus.