Budapest » [Clintasha]

Chapter Fifty-Three: Duty

He continued his jotting, remarking on me between recording his thoughts in his irritatingly indecipherable prose.

And for the first time, it seemed that Coulson was struck speechless. I wasn't sure if it was because he had nothing to say, or if I had everything to say. Whatever it was, going by the look plastered to his face, he was very pleased about it.

"What of any value can you possibly glean from that?!" I spluttered, unnerved by how quickly the page was filling up with script, blatantly about me. "You aren't even interrogating me!" His manner was irritating me like a tick under my skin.

He stopped scribbling for a split second, only to give me a snarky look. "On the contrary, mister Barton-"

"It's Clint or Hawkeye, take your pick, prick," I interjected; and I must have given him a wealth of information from that sentence because he noted down a wealth of information from that one sentence. "Is it my words or my body language you're reading?" I gritted.

"You're catching on fast, Clint... You'd make a valuable interrogator yet," Coulson complimented, and it took the edge off of my foul mood that he'd inflicted; but his voice was still oozing condescension.

I cracked a smile; he'd done me the courtesy of using my preferred title, and he smiled back for a moment before he took to his pen again. I never understood the phrase: 'the pen is mightier than the sword' until the smug bastard in front of me waggled his pen at me, and scripted what I was sure was more invasive information about me.

"Really?!" I exploded. "I smile and you have something to write about it?" That's when behind Coulson, I clocked the one way mirror. Its very presence stirred unpleasant feelings within me and made my skin crawl - I was being observed like a bug under a microscope. And like a bug pinned by the gaze of a scientist, I squirmed. "Enjoying the show in there? Behind your reflective glass?" I shouted over Coulson's shoulder and gave my interrogator more to log down, jangling my bindings vehemently, abhorrence written across my face.

"They're probably enjoying the audience interaction even more, Clint," Coulson informed me, his eyes not leaving the pad crammed with information. "It's not often we get people with the audacity to yell at the overseers." Coulson felt smug. He'd gotten me to blurt things, got me emotional, manipulated me. But now he was betraying himself.

I thought I'd play him at his own game.

"So you interrogate a lot of people in here?" I returned fire, merely picking up on the small detail in his sentence. Coulson lapped up the sentence like a thirsty puppy... Oh god, I'd left Lucky with Kate.

"Plenty. Though most aren't like you..." Coulson's voice was consumed with dynamicism at his duty, and I played with that; unlike him, not letting my pride getting the better of me by smirking when I thought the cards were in my hands. If there was anything I'd gained from an abusive childhood, it was a steely poker face.

"I suppose vigilante archers aren't an everyday occurrence-" A dialogue was building between us, and I even managed to elicit a titter. "Tights, britches and masks..." Coulson's titter became a small chuckle and he was momentarily diverted from his writing. I built a rapport with my captor. "What kinda felons do you normally have in here? Anything intriguing?" I asked with deplorable childish gusto: Coulson already considering me inferior, and referring to me with terms of endearment like 'son' or 'kid', as well as laughing at my vigilante spree, I used that self-righteousness against him.

The Junior Agent's eyes lit up and he bashfully smiled, twiddling the pen craftily in his hand. "We have had a spate of interesting characters; but our agency deals with the unusual..." Coulson was flush with pride about his position, and I played it.