Hey there! A new snapshot! Whoa, been a while! haha. So this one is for my beta Kylen. She said she wanted this one and I felt the inspiration so here we are. It's unbeta'd and just for fun. Enjoy! PS I'm working on the next part for the Bouclier Academy AU AND hopefully getting the last part of Not So Easily Defined out in time for V Day.

Prompt: Phil has to pick up Clint from a civilian hospital after a motorcycle accident.

Submitted by:Kylen

Phil slowly turned the page of the file he was reading, even as he finished running his eyes over the last sentence. He continued on to the next page, brows drawing together and eyes narrowing as he came across a new name. He shifted his attention to a second file, sitting next to him on his bed, and ran his finger down the text until he found the matching name.

"Got you, you little bastard," he murmured to himself, pleased that he'd found the corroborating evidence needed to present this mission to Fury. He was so caught up in his small victory that he almost didn't notice his phone vibrating on the bed next to him. He'd had the sound turned off during his last meeting of the day and had neglected to turn it back on.

He noticed the lit screen just as it clicked over to voicemail. Frowning because the short glimpse he'd gotten of the number hadn't seemed familiar, he reached for the device just as it started buzzing again.

He touched the screen to answer and brought it to his ear.

"This is Coulson."

"Phil."

Phil's eyebrows rocketed up in surprise.

"Clint?"

A glance at his watch showed the time at just past 2 in the morning. Last he'd known, Clint had been doing a session in the combat archery range with the intent of hitting the rack soon after. That was four hours ago.

"Where are you?" Phil demanded, an instinct – well-honed after all the years they'd worked together – flaring in warning.

"I need you to not freak out." Clint sounded almost normal. To anyone else he probably sounded completely fine. But Phil was well practiced in deciphering everything Clint managed to hide from everyone else.

There was pain in Clint's voice. It was well hidden, frustratingly well in fact, but it was there. It lingered just below the calm, almost lazy, way Clint was speaking.

"Clint," Phil ground out, reaching for his own calm center and for the his well renowned patience that always seemed fleeting when Clint was injured. "Where are you?"

A fraction of hesitation.

A moment where Clint was likely deciding whether it was worth it to lie.

Then,

"A hospital."

There was a moment of blinding, muscle seizing panic at those words and Phil forgot how to breath.

"Phil, I told you not to freak out. I'm obviously fine enough to be calling myself so calm the hell down and stop panicking. I can hear you not breathing."

Until he had visual confirmation of Clint's claim of 'fine', Phil would withhold judgument on the matter. But he was able to force himself to breath and beat the panic back into submission.

"Where?" he asked, climbing off the bed and reaching for his shoes.

"I just told you…"

"Not…" Phil sighed and rubbed at the rapidly manifesting ache in his temple, "what hospital, Clint?"

"Oh." Clint sounded so unaffected my his own misunderstanding of the question that Phil paused. Clint was sharp and he was perceptive as hell. He rarely truly misunderstood anything.

"Are you concussed?" Phil asked as he moved faster to gather his things and left his quarters at a jog.

"No."

An unhelpful answer even if it was a comforting one. But that comfort was ripped away a moment later.

"At least not really. I think it's the damn drugs they gave me while I was unconscious…I feel like my brain is moving through sludge."

Phil flashed his ID at the motor pool agent and snatched the keys tossed his way out of the air.

"You were unconscious?" he demanded as he hit the button the key chain to unlock the car – and consequently identify which one he'd been given.

"Only briefly."

Phil rolled his eyes and climbed into the SUV, connecting his phone to the blue tooth even as he drove out of the garage.

"You still haven't told me where you are."

"Some emergency clinic about 20 miles north of you."

"I need a specific place, Clint, so I know where to go."

There was a slight shuffling on the line and then Clint's voice again as he asked someone nearby what town he was in. Phil stamped down on both his irritation that Clint hadn't been paying attention to where he was and also his worry that he didn't know because he'd been unconscious.

"Beaver Ridge," Clint informed him a moment later. Phil put it into his GPS. "I'm willing to bet I've met most of the population during my short tenure in the clinic."

"What were you doing 20 miles north of the base at this time of night?" Phil asked, working hard not to sound like a scolding parent.

"You my keeper, Phil?"

And apparently failing.

"Technically, I'm your handler…so yes," Phil shot back.

"I'm a grown ass man, you know, I don't need a babysitter."

"That's a debate for another time, kid," Phil replied. "What happened?" he asked.

"Took my bike out for a drive…skidded out on some rough pavement."

"Tell me you were at least wearing your helmet," Phil questioned immediately and winced. So much for not sounding like a scolding parent.

"Yes mom," Clint snarked back. "I got tired of being lectured by you and my other two moms."

Bryan and Wilson had allied with Phil in his quest to get Clint to exercise some medium of safety on his frequent – and often spontaneous – motorcycle trips.

"And now you know why we hounded you so much," Phil pointed out.

There was silence on the line and Phil could just see Clint rolling his eyes.

But then the silence turned a little more weighted. And despite all his claims of being a 'grown ass man' Clint's next question sounded every bit the kid Phil had met all those years ago who desperately needed someone to care.

"How far away are you?"

Phil glanced at his GPS. He was too far, of course, for his liking. He'd have preferred instant teleportation. Much too far judging by the tone of Clint's voice.

"Not far," he promised. Then softer, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine…my bike is another story. And we'll need to arrange a funeral for my favorite pair of jeans."

"Clint," Phil pressed calmly, letting just the right amount of his concern bleed through.

"I was carrying, Phil, two kinds of weapons. The sheriff has me cuffed to the bed and they hit me with pain killers while I was out."

Forcibly restrained with weakened defenses and undisclosed injuries. Not a good combination.

"Stay calm and cooperative," he coached. "I'll be there soon."

He pressed the accelerator to the floor.

Clint absently swung the one leg he had hanging off the side of the bed as he carefully and meticulously crumbled bits of paper into small balls. Without looking up, he used his fingers to flick a ball of paper across the room.

The annoyed sigh that resulted drew a smirk to Clint's lips.

"I thought I took all the paper from you?" Sheriff Arnold grumbled.

"I'm resourceful." Clint glanced up with the most innocent, wide eyed expression he could manage. "I didn't hit you, did I?"

The sheriff's mustache twitched as he frowned and one bushy eyebrow arched.

"I think you know you didn't. I also think you know you've hit the exact same spot on the wall right next to my head every single time."

Clint smiled innocently. Now that the painkillers were starting to wear off his head was feeling clearer.

That smile slid away when the sheriff reached for Clint's confiscated knife where it sat on the empty chair next to him. His gun lay harmlessly next to it, clip ejected and barrel cleared. Arnold stared at the smooth, lethally sharpened steel. Clint let his own gaze slide across the familiar weapon too.

It really was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. The blade wasn't overly long, but it was wide. The sharp side was curved elegantly, widening the blade even more before narrowing up to a point. The handle, hand carved out of white bone, was smooth from years of use but still bore carefully carved etching.

Clint loved that knife, but not just for the way it looked.

Phil had given him that blade.

"What are you doing with a knife like this?" Arnold asked as he eyed the weapon warily.

Clint shrugged.

"I like to whittle."

That earned him a glare.

"I find it cathartic," Clint went on easily. "You should try it."

"Don't people usually whittle with smaller, more manageable blades?" Arnold challenged doubtfully.

Clint blinked innocently.

"The manageability of a blade is all in the hands of the wielder don't you think?" he replied cheerfully. "Besides, I whittle really big things."

Arnold stared at him, frowning deeply.

Clint added a charming smile to his wide eyed look of innocence.

Before the sheriff could reply, the swinging door to the room Clint had been sequestered to – until it could be determined if he was a danger apparently – swung open and Phil all but stormed in. He had a distinct air of pissed off authority in his posture and Clint couldn't help but smirk when Arnold immediately stood, spine stiffening.

Phil gave Clint a long once over and then, when he apparently determined Clint was not going to keel over, turned his attention to Arnold.

"Phil Coulson," he introduced himself smoothly. "Is he under arrest?"

"Well, no, not yet," Arnold admitted.

"Has he committed a crime?" Phil pressed.

"Not recently," Clint put in with a smug grin. Phil shot him a 'shut the hell up' glare that just made Clint smile wider.

"He was carrying a gun without a permit," Arnold pointed out.

Phil slid a slow glare in Clint's direction and he couldn't help but shrug sheepishly.

"I forgot my wallet."

Phil glared for an extra moment and then looked back at Arnold.

"He's got a permit," he assured.

Arnold crossed his arms – remembered at the last moment that he was still holding Clint's knife and quickly put it down on the chair – and puffed out his chest.

"Am I just supposed to take your word on that?"

Phil's own shoulders squared further and he straightened to his full height.

Clint looked back and forth between them, wishing absently for popcorn.

A moment later Phil was flashing a badge and ID.

"That should be enough to convince you," Phil assured. Then he looked at Clint. "Why are you still handcuffed?"

Clint huffed.

"You told me to cooperate."

"Get them off. We're leaving. I already called Dan and told him to expect you."

Clint scowled and manipulated the paperclip he'd stolen off his chart an hour ago, working dutifully on the handcuffs as he replied.

"I'm fine."

"We both know I'm way past taking your word on that," Phil shot back.

"Now wait a minute," Arnold spoke up. "I'm not uncuffing anybody until I get some answers."

Clint unlocked the handcuffs with a decisive 'click' and shook his wrist free of the metal.

"How did you…" Arnold blinked at him in shock.

"Honestly, I've unlocked and relocked them like six times already just to pass the time," Clint admitted as he hopped off the bed. He moved gingerly to retrieve his weapons, leather jacket, and helmet as Phil glared Arnold into submissive silence.

"How bad is it?" Phil asked, eyeing the stiffness in Clint's gait warily.

"I've got road rash from my ankle to my ass on the right side, but it's not as bad as that time in Edinburgh. My jacket saved my back and the helmet saved my head…mostly."

"You can't just…" Arnold tried again as Clint slid the knife back into the sheath and stowed it in the back of his borrowed scrub pants. He reached for his gun next.

"Thank you for your cooperation," Phil interrupted imperiously. "Your country thanks you."

"My country? What…"

Phil snatched Clint's chart off the end of the bed and hustled him towards the door.

"Have a nice night, Sheriff," Phil offered, shoving Clint out the door when he tried to add his own farewell.

"What? I was just going to…"

"I know exactly what you were going to do," Phil cut him off. "The situation didn't need your type of humor."

"I've never seen you railroad a local like that, Phil," Clint pointed out as they made a quick path towards the exit. "What happened to diplomacy?"

"You didn't give me much choice. You were carrying without your permit or your ID apparently. It was either railroad him or leave you here to go get those things." A quick scan of Clint's chart showed it to be a non-threat – he'd been checked in as a John Doe – and Phil tossed it in the trash on their way out the door.

"What about my bike?" Clint asked.

"I called Todd, he's sending someone to get it," Phil assured.

He opened the passenger door for Clint and waited to shut it for him too.

"I'm not an invalid, you know," Clint groused once Phil had climbed into the driver's side.

"No, just an idiot apparently. Forgot your wallet, Clint, really?"

"It wasn't like I was planning on wrecking my bike and bringing Johnny law down on my ass."

Phil shot him a side long look.

"What happened anyway? You've never even come close to wrecking on that thing."

Clint shifted in his seat, grimacing sheepishly and mumbled his response.

Phil glanced at him again.

"What was that?"

"I said there was a cow in the road."

"You wrecked your bike because of a cow?"

"It was a big cow."

"How fast were you going?"

"Jesus, Phil…what are you my mother?" Clint sighed and rested his head back on the headrest dramatically.

There was a beat of silence and then Phil spoke again, a teasing note to his voice.

"Well at least this will teach you to wear a helmet."

there you go! hope you enjoyed it :D