September 4th, 1989

SHIELD Base Triskelion, Washington DC

It was a couple weeks later before Coulson had decided that he was up to tinkering with Lola again. It was a Monday evening, the garage deserted except for the two of them. Lola's hood was open from some previous work on the engine block, but presently, Coulson was on his back on the underside of the car, his legs sticking out the side as he tinkered on something. Clint was nearby, leaning against the driver's side back door, steel brush in hand, scrubbing away at a... well, he actually wasn't sure what it was. Coulson had just told him to clean the grime off of it.

"Hey, can you hand me that canister I left out near the wheel?" Coulson called from the underside of the car.

"Yeah," Clint said, reaching for the canister in question and looking at it, "what is this, nitro? Isn't that kinda illegal?"

"Not kinda," said Coulson, reaching his hand out. Clint put the canister into it.

"It is illegal, but only for civilian vehicles."

"Isn't Lola a civilian vehicle?" Clint asked, leaning against the side of the car again.

"Nope, she's SHIELD," Coulson replied.

"News to me," Clint countered, "when'd that happen?"

"When I decided to put nitro in," Coulson said.

Clint scoffed and rolled his eyes. "You realize that logic is circular, right?"

"Not circular exactly," said Coulson, "it's maybe a little dented at the top. I just... really want nitro."

Things between them were still a little rough at times, but they had improved somewhat. The two of them had a bit of a better understanding of each other since Fixer's attack. They hadn't started back in on training just yet, though Clint was noticeably more trusting of Coulson and Coulson was more understanding of when Clint needed space. There were still rough spots, of course. Whenever Coulson's shoulder gave him trouble, Clint's stomach would tie up in knots again and he would look for ways to escape interacting with Coulson. It was still difficult for them to talk about everything that had happened. Clint kind of shut down whenever Coulson tried. But he reminded himself that Coulson was showing concern and not criticism, sometimes having to repeat it to himself several times

Oddly enough, Clint also felt sort of like he fit in at the place a little better, now. He wasn't sure if it was because word had gotten around that he had helped Carter take out Fixer, but it seemed like people didn't look at him all judgey any more. And also, he thought he saw a bit more of the weight that he thought he was the only one feeling in the eyes of many of the other agents. It was a little bit like he had been initiated into some sort of a mystery.

Or maybe it was just that he was blooded, now.

"He was a terrorist, my action was justified," Clint mumbled to himself at the thought of it. The man's face flashed in his memory again, Clint's arrow still lodged in his head.

Coulson must have heard him because he rolled out from under the car on his backboard and looked up. "You all right?" he asked.

Clint very nearly jumped at the question, covering it by pushing off of Lola and heading over to the workbench nearby, making it a point to exchange his steel brush for a rag. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Clint said, as nonchalantly as possible.

Coulson didn't buy it for a moment. He sat up on his backboard, the better to see the archer. "You know, I still think you should talk to someone," he said, earnestly, "most recruits have some preparation before-"

"Dammit, I don't need to talk to some stranger about my feelings!" Clint snapped, slamming his hands into the workbench and leaning against it. He instantly regretted it, of course. He took a long, calming breath, grateful that Coulson patiently waited in silence for him to collect himself. Finally, when he felt like he was back under control, he turned and leaned against the workbench, rubbing the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. "Look, I'm... I'm just not there yet, all right?"

"Okay," Coulson said in understanding, giving a nod, "but you'll let me know when you are."

Sliding his eyes away, Clint rubbed a finger along the back of his ear, self-consciously, and nodded.

"Why don't we knock this off for the night," said Coulson, getting to his feet and grabbing a rag to clean his hands a little, "I'm hungry."

"Yeah, I could eat," Clint agreed.

"Then I am just in time," came Bobbi's voice from the garage entrance. She walked in, holding up three paper bags with bravado, "didn't see either of you in the mess, so I figured you were down here again, playing with your toys and forgetting to eat."

"Hey, sweet!" Clint exclaimed. "Room service!"

"Yeah, just don't get used to it, sport," Bobbi said, peeking into the tops of the bags. She handed one to Coulson and one to Clint. "Reuben and chips with chocolate milk for Coulson and pizza rolls and blue jello with a coke for bird-boy."

"Ooh! Blue jello night!" Clint said, pulling the cup of jello from the bag and immediately cracking it open.

"I think you've been spending too much time with us," Coulson said, unwrapping the reuben.

"Yeah, Blake's already said you two are a bad influence," Bobbi replied, opening up her own bag and pulling out a burrito. "So what's shakin'? You guys gonna get off your butts and come back to training any time soon or what?"

"My shoulder needs a couple more weeks," said Coulson, "doc's orders. But Clint should be about ready. What do you say?"

"Well, if Birdie needs someone to put her on the mat, again," said Clint, "I understand if you miss it, an' all."

"Oh, that's a challenge!" Bobbi replied with a laugh. She took a few steps closer to him, getting right in his face with a bit of a hip swagger. "I got news for you, Clint. While you've been cooling your heels, I've been working hard. You won't get a hand on me."

"Oh yeah?" said Clint. "Well, I think you better prove it."

"Oh I will, sport," she replied, "tonight, in the gym, after we eat." She tapped his nose with a forefinger. "Unless you can think of something better to do." She wandered away from him and leaned against Lola's door.

"Nope," Clint said. Then he downed the rest of his blue jello in a gulp, knocking it back like a shot before tearing into the pizza rolls as quickly as he could.

No, things weren't perfect, Clint decided. And they certainly weren't normal, nor would they ever be in a place like SHIELD. But at least he belonged. And for now, that was workable.