7. Chapter 7

Warehouse twenty-three had two small planes and a single shipping container along one wall. It was pretty obviously their target even without the large "W-4077" labeled on every side. Phil guessed it to be about six by six feet, but whatever the actual measurement, it was a box big enough to hold several people. It was also completely silent.

Clint tapped the container with an odd, uneven pattern then waited with his ear pressed up against it. After a few moments he sighed and stood back. "You're sure?"

"How many warehouse twenty-threes containing a box labeled W-4077 could there be?" Phil shrugged.

"Probably just the one, I guess," Hawkeye answered thoughtfully, and Phil got another snapshot of why so many of Team Delta's expense reports were thirty pages long.

"It's very well locked." Phil stared at the locking mechanism, which involved a heavy bar and several chains.

"Also rigged." Hawkeye inspected the locks for something Phil couldn't even see given the darkness of the warehouse. "We break the manual locks, the whole thing will light up. Maybe explode, this doesn't look too sophisticated. They were expecting the contents to stay quiet, so our people are either really heavily sedated, or dead." Hawkeye rubbed the side of his nose. "Damn it. Our primary tech guy is probably inside."

"You can't…undo it?"

"Man, I learned a lot of things in the circus, but not bomb disposal."

Phil sighed, because of course this is where they ended up. It was just like the Great Inventory Audit of '99, when SHIELD headquarters was moved three blocks over. "Fine, we just take the container with us." Phil peered around at the warehouse. The two planes in the hanger were too small, but he remembered the one open hanger with the larger plane inside and the rear loading ramp open.

"What?" Hawkeye was staring at him.

"That hanger with the small shipping plane in it. We'll just put the container in that and fly out."

Hawkeye opened his mouth and closed it exactly four times before shaking his head. "One, when a plane is in a hanger, even if it is wide open for cleaning or loading or whatever, it is not gassed up. Every single one of these beauties is dry as a desert. And B, we can't move this thing." He knocked at it with a fist. "We have to get it open, drag them out, and find a truck or something."

"That's…no, we're not doing that."

"Do you just like to veto every plan I make for fun?"

"That wasn't a plan, that was wishful thinking. Neither one of us is a tech expert, which you've already admitted we need if we're going to get that container open without killing everyone. Second, even if we could do that, did you see a truck around here? All I saw was that one beat up Datsun by the guard booth."

"Datsun?" Hawkeye's face crinkled up.

"I know my cars," Phil answered stiffly, not bothering to mention that he had driven an even older model than that back when he was an undergrad. Back when those old models were new.

"I can go back for the car we ditched." Hawkeye squared his shoulders.

"Why bother? We have better transportation right here, in warehouse 17."

"Who's gonna fly it, huh?"

Phil rolled his eyes. "You are. I have to personally approve the costs for recertification training of our fighter pilots, and you're always on the list."

"You're really starting to annoy me," Hawkeye hissed.

"Take a number."

"How are we going to move the crate?"

"I thought you were Hawkeye, with the good eyesight? Did you miss the tractor sitting up against the fence we cut through?"

Hawkeye groaned and rolled his eyes and Phil hit his limit. He grabbed Hawkeye's jacket and shook him. "You listen to me. We are taking the crate, we are putting it on that plane, and we are flying out of here. Do you fucking understand the words coming out of my damn mouth?"

Hawkeye was on his toes, leaning in towards Phil, silent and wide-eyed. He was panting, and Phil really had not thought his plan of action through because he yanked on the jacket until Clint collapsed against him, limp and pliant, his mouth opening easily to Phil's demand. The kiss tore the air out of Phil's lungs, pure and bright and painful in a way that hadn't sparked for Phil in years. Clint tugged on his jacket with clenched fists and Phil set his feet, pulling Clint into the curve of his body. It was that moment of feeling like a giant, protecting and ravishing the man in his arms, which made Phil's senses snap back online and remember that they were in the middle of a mission and Hawkeye didn't need Phil's protection, or really, his anything. He shoved Hawkeye backwards and they stared at each other in surprise for a few seconds until Phil straightened up.

"Do you understand?"

Hawkeye's eyes were dark and unreadable, and he stood frozen solid for a long moment before he shook himself like a dog. He started pacing back and forth in front of Phil as he whispered loudly. "Oh for fucks sake, fine! Fine, we'll move the crate! Now to just steal the tractor, gas up the plane, load up the container, and fly out! Piece of cake!"

Phil nodded. "Yep." He turned back towards the door. "Get me to the front office."

"Phil, seriously, we're running out of time, I think we just need to take a chance cracking the crate--"

"Do not. Fuck. With me." Phil raised a finger. "I have looked Fury in the eye and cut ten million dollars from his car pool budget. I get my way." He headed for the door, and as expected, Hawkeye fell into not-very-quiet grumbling next to him. Hawkeye took the lead when they were outside again, guiding them silently and quickly past where they had broken in and up to the main office, which was part of warehouse one. The guard shack was in direct sight line of it, so Hawkeye crouched down at the corner to peer around.

"Last we saw he was coming up the other side," Hawkeye said, then turned to Phil. "What now?"

"Get me into the office."

"Right. Sure." Hawkeye sighed heavily, shouldered his bow, and slunk around the pick the lock. He slowly opened the door so it didn't creak, and motioned Phil to him. Phil stood up, straightened his jacket, and marched around the corner like he meant business, swinging the door wide open and punching the lights so the whole place was flooded. Hawkeye, still crouched on the floor like a low-rent burglar, looked up at him, stunned speechless.

"Stash your bow." Phil peeled off his SHIELD issue jacket, holster and backpack, looking around. Like every other small office on earth, it was piled up with bags people used and left behind, and a company jacket hanging by the door. He pulled it on and stuffed his things into a very beat-up duffle bag, dumping out the sneakers he found moldering inside. By the time he was flipping papers around on the desks, the security guard had run up with his walkie-talkie in his hand, looking panic stricken and yelling in Hungarian. Hawkeye was Clint again, a baseball cap from nowhere perched on his head. He was chewing gum and he sagged against one of the desks, looking like a disgruntled blue collar worker.

"Shut up!" Phil yelled, and the guard's mouth snapped shut. "I don't speak Hungarian! I'm here to load up and fly out. I have orders, and we were supposed to be in the air thirty minutes ago. For fucks sake, tell me you speak English!"

"I speak English!" The guard yelled back at him.

Hawkeye tensed a little, but didn't move.

"Good! Now help me find the damn paperwork." Phil shoved at the files on the cluttered desk, purposefully messing it up more while trying to look like he was searching for something.

"No one told me this." The guard peered at them.

"Not my problem. Warehouse twenty-three? Container W-4077? We've got a plane--"

"That sweet old C-23B Sherpa in warehouse seventeen, man, you know the one? It was supposed to be cleaned and refueled." Clint sounded bored, and kicked a foot out, crossing it over his other leg, lazy and slow.

The guard frowned. "I was told it is waiting for Rennie to fly out."

Phil straightened up slowly, and the guard wilted under his gaze. "Again, not my fucking problem. I have orders, we're flying out."

Clint smiled at the guard as if they were old buddies. "Hey, man, look, just help me fuel and load. Peter's got the paperwork." He jerked a thumb towards Phil. "He's filing the flight plan and all that shit."

The guard glanced between them, and Phil concentrated on looking like a really pissed off bureaucrat. It wasn't much of a reach.

"Or not!" Clint shrugged, heading for the door. "Help him out all you want, your funeral. I'll be working."

"I drive the tractor," the guard barked, grabbing a set of keys by the door and hustling out behind Clint.

Phil had nothing to do while Clint schmoozed the guard into helping them, so he looked around the office. Everything was written in Hungarian, which Phil couldn't read, and he was scared of turning on any of the radio equipment for fear of somehow alerting someone—he had no idea who—of the property theft that was going on. The area was a combination flight control center and business office, but Phil was pretty sure it was exactly as advertised and didn't have any secrets to reveal. Sighing, he picked up his duffle bag and walked out the door, right into Culbreath. They stared at each other in mutual shock for a moment.

"Damn it." Culbreath snarled, shoving Phil backwards back the office. "I heard you guys rabbited, but I sure as shit didn't think that'd bring you here."

Phil let himself be manhandled, but kicked the chair away that Culbreath tried to push him into. He yanked his arm free. "Do you seriously believe that you're going to get away with this kind of betrayal? Fury will personally see to it that you get taken down."

"Oh, you mean killed? Fucking civilians, can't even stomach the idea of what we do. Look, Coulson, everyone knows you're Fury's right hand man, but you're still a desk jockey. Shut up and sit down."

Phil stepped backwards, running into the desk behind him. He gave Culbreath a long once over, thinking about what was happening, then shook his head. "No. You're not pulling the strings here. You were just offered a decent payout, enough to take whatever grudge you have against SHIELD and turn it into a chance to walk away. You realize you just sold the Black Widow into slavery? You think she's going to, what, forgive and forget?"

"Doesn't matter, if she can't find me. Now stop with the superhero monologuing and sit down. I've got work to do." He angled for the radio equipment that took up most of the interior wall. Phil knew his opportunities were slim to none so he grabbed a stapler and hurled it. He was aiming for Culbreath's head but he got him squarely in the elbow, probably the funny bone from the way Culbreath curled up with an agonizing scream. Phil gave himself a mental shrug because at least the stapler had hit something, before diving forward to tackle Culbreath in what was certainly his least thought-out decision in the last five hours, which was saying a lot.

As a field team operative, Culbreath was trained to fight in ways that Phil was not, so it wasn't surprising when Phil found himself being slammed into the radio equipment. The knobs and switches stabbed at him ruthlessly and he yelled as Culbreath grabbed his shirt, his other arm pulled back in preparation to deliver a deadly blow to Phil's head. Then suddenly Culbreath was spinning away, flying over two desks. Phil slid down onto the ledge of the equipment bank and watched while the Tasmanian Devil known as Hawkeye pummeled Culbreath half to death. Hawkeye's hits were awe inspiring, his solid arms throwing weight into the punches that broke bones. Culbreath was spewing blood when he finally went down, and two office desks were kindling. But Hawkeye kept going.

Phil lunged forward as Hawkeye kicked the fallen man. "Stop! Stop! Damn it!" He grabbed Hawkeye around the waist and yanked him backwards, sending them both sprawling to the ground. "He's down! Stop it!"

"Fucker! I trusted you!" Hawkeye yelled at Culbreath. He pushed Phil off but didn't move towards where Culbreath was spilling blood out on the floor, his eyes glazed with pain and shock.

Phil crawled up, using a chair for leverage. "Oh." He looked at the guard, who was staring at them in horror as he moved into the room and pointed at Culbreath.

"He is hurt! I know him! He—" The man dropped like a stone. Behind him, Hawkeye held the heavy Soviet-era manual three-hole punch he had used to knock the guy out.

"Never say I don't know how to use office equipment correctly." He gave Phil a bloody grin before tossing it aside.

"He was working for someone, Culbreath didn't act alone, we could—"

"Time to go, Phil," Hawkeye said crisply, grabbing Phil by the shirt and picking up the duffle bag as he pulled him out of the office.

As they crawled into the prepped plane, Phil could have sworn that he heard a lot of noise coming towards them from the highway, as if traffic had tripled all of a sudden in the early morning hours. He turned to Clint. "I guess now is not the time to ask if we're sure of our cargo?"

Hawkeye was snapping his harness in place and running through the steps to get the plane moving. "Nope, worst time ever. Lucky for us Natasha pulled out of the drugs long enough to tap a signal while we were loading the crate. Our buddy the guard wasn't too gentle moving it, must've woke her up."

Phil clipped his own harness around himself in the co-pilot's seat, not that he could do more than hold a flashlight or point during the trip. "That's good. I'd hate to have to go back and do this all over again." He adjusted the harness where it was biting into his sore ribs.

Hawkeye looked over at him, his gaze steady despite his hands moving over the console as if by their own accord. "You are one hell of a piece of work, Coulson."

Phil turned to face him, and it was the way Clint's eyes gazed back at him, sharp and pleased and interested, that finally brought on the inevitable. Phil fumbled for his inhaler as his lungs froze up, taking a double shot in quick succession as Clint pushed the plane into takeoff as fast and as hard as it could go.