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a boy with a coin
[ there are a lot of advantages to working for SHIELD, despite the occasional discomfort with their hush hush business. they give their operatives a lot of autonomy, both in conducting missions and dealing with their downtime. do the job as you please, spend your time as you please, as long as it doesn't involve a ton of collateral damage or anything that will terribly impair function the next day. for a secret organization, they give their agents a lot of trust - probably, clint muses, because all of them know failure and betrayal tends to be looked on very harshly. kind of borders movie-villain material, if he considers it long enough. that and you've got access to some of the most high end facilities and equipment on the planet.
picking up the pieces after the fight with loki and the chitauri hasn't exactly been easy. though SHIELD itself has mostly recovered, repairing things quickly and quietly as ever and already hiring new recruits, clint's still adjusting. to his new handler, to hearing someone other than coulson talk to him over the earpiece, to the guilt that still haunts him over the things he'd done and people he'd killed while under loki's influence. natasha had told him don't do that to yourself but he'd always kind of been shit at listening to advice, to shrugging off these kinds of blows and it weighs on his mind and heart when no one's paying attention. he can't let it go. not just yet.
that's where the 'high end facilities' come in.
usually he spends his day in the firing range, keeping his aim sharp, but that's not where he wants to put his mind today. SHIELD headquarters has more than a few training grounds for its agents, and the gym it houses is expansive, full of equipment for all kinds of exercise. it's quiet today, as clint sometimes find it, empty of anyone when he steps inside. it's perfect. he doesn't exactly need an audience for what he's about to do.
he plugs his mp3 player ('starkpod', he calls it when tony's around, because the expression on his face is priceless) into the stereo system, scrolls through songs. he finds an instrumental consisting of a fast-paced acoustic guitar and chattering castanets that pick up a little while in, nods in satisfaction and rocks back on his feet as it blares through the empty gym. he stretches first, loosens up muscles and limbs as he counts beats in his head as easily as he calculates for wind force and other factors when taking aim. takes a breath in and lets it out slow before he lets himself move with the music, stomping feet on the hardwood accentuating the tempo of the guitar, eyes closed as he remembers the steps, the style. he idly thinks on antonia's words back when she'd been teaching him as a young boy, how she told him he wouldn't really master it until he was older, how he didn't know the soul and emotion the steps required just yet.
he likes to hope that if the bearded lady saw him now, she'd think he was doing her country's dance justice.
you learn a lot of unusual things when you lived in a circus for a lot of your childhood and adolescence. it's clint's story and he's going to stick to it, but hopefully it's one that won't have to be told. 'hawkeye, the world's greatest marksman and flamenco enthusiast' isn't exactly something he wants anyone knowing if it can be helped. ]
picking up the pieces after the fight with loki and the chitauri hasn't exactly been easy. though SHIELD itself has mostly recovered, repairing things quickly and quietly as ever and already hiring new recruits, clint's still adjusting. to his new handler, to hearing someone other than coulson talk to him over the earpiece, to the guilt that still haunts him over the things he'd done and people he'd killed while under loki's influence. natasha had told him don't do that to yourself but he'd always kind of been shit at listening to advice, to shrugging off these kinds of blows and it weighs on his mind and heart when no one's paying attention. he can't let it go. not just yet.
that's where the 'high end facilities' come in.
usually he spends his day in the firing range, keeping his aim sharp, but that's not where he wants to put his mind today. SHIELD headquarters has more than a few training grounds for its agents, and the gym it houses is expansive, full of equipment for all kinds of exercise. it's quiet today, as clint sometimes find it, empty of anyone when he steps inside. it's perfect. he doesn't exactly need an audience for what he's about to do.
he plugs his mp3 player ('starkpod', he calls it when tony's around, because the expression on his face is priceless) into the stereo system, scrolls through songs. he finds an instrumental consisting of a fast-paced acoustic guitar and chattering castanets that pick up a little while in, nods in satisfaction and rocks back on his feet as it blares through the empty gym. he stretches first, loosens up muscles and limbs as he counts beats in his head as easily as he calculates for wind force and other factors when taking aim. takes a breath in and lets it out slow before he lets himself move with the music, stomping feet on the hardwood accentuating the tempo of the guitar, eyes closed as he remembers the steps, the style. he idly thinks on antonia's words back when she'd been teaching him as a young boy, how she told him he wouldn't really master it until he was older, how he didn't know the soul and emotion the steps required just yet.
he likes to hope that if the bearded lady saw him now, she'd think he was doing her country's dance justice.
you learn a lot of unusual things when you lived in a circus for a lot of your childhood and adolescence. it's clint's story and he's going to stick to it, but hopefully it's one that won't have to be told. 'hawkeye, the world's greatest marksman and flamenco enthusiast' isn't exactly something he wants anyone knowing if it can be helped. ]