Caught In A Net

Clint swore it was an accident.

He was roaming the vents, making his way steadily towards the higher-up offices. In case he was asked, he was mapping the vents as a precaution, because SHIELD sure as hell wasn’t going to do that. Clint was being generous, right?

Okay, so, he hadn’t actually told anyone he was mapping the vents, but it still was perfectly reasonable, because in case of unfriendly attention, high-level offices were most likely be targeted. Hence, trying to find his way into Fury’s office wasn’t insubordination or a direct death wish, but actually a purely altruistic act.

Right?

Anyway. Clint was crawling forward, drawing up mental blueprints as he went, making notes about all vent hatches, possible nesting corners, and the perfect places to launch a counter-attack. Or to drop on some unsuspecting baby agent, in a completely educational way, of course. Every now and then, he paused to listen, because it was important to know which corridors carried sound well, and gathering intelligence was what secret spies did. And Clint was totally secret. And a spy.

So, he was on a mission to find the straightest route to the water cooler for gossi— ah, intel, when he glanced down at the office he was passing and blinked at the sight of a familiar Dolce-clad form with thinning hair.

Seemed like Coulson was about to have a bald spot on the back of his head in the not-so-distant future.

See? Important information.

After a split-second consideration, Clint grinned and curled into a slightly more comfortable position, the kind he could hold for hours if necessary.

Stumbling into Coulson’s space was a pure coincident, but a lucky one. He couldn’t wait to learn his handler’s secrets, like where he kept his seemingly endless supply of powdered doughnuts or what his computer password was.

What he didn’t expect at all was the way Coulson was sitting on the edge of his chair, his feet crossed from the ankles. He looked like a copy of the posh ladies Clint had once seen while on a mission in London, except he wasn’t a lady.

Frowning, Clint leaned forward a bit, trying to figure out why Coulson was sitting like that.

Then he saw it: a bright flash of red in Coulson’s feet.

The fuck?

Narrowing his eyes, he realized he was looking at shoes.

Why the fuck did Coulson’s shoes have red soles?

Clint swore it was a coincident he ended up above Coulson’s office again. At least it had nothing to do with the flash of red he had seen the last time. Of course not.

Being friends with Natasha — who was friends with Pepper Potts — benefited Clint in many ways. Mostly it was that he was very well versed in all things he was an idiot, but sometimes he learned new things too. Like the fact that shoes with bright red undersides were something Special.

He wasn’t surprised, because Coulson would settle for nothing less than Special.

However, when he finally peered into the office, it was empty.

Clint quelled his disappointment and decided he would wait for an hour. After all, it was still early, and usually Coulson didn’t go home until seven or eight. He might just be out for coffee or a snack. Or for a battery recharge, who the hell knew. So, Clint closed his eyes and dozed.

He jolted awake when the office door closed with a loud click and the electric lock snapped to place. Coulson walked briskly to his desk, dumped there a thick pile of files, and blew out a frustrated breath. It was as keyed up as Clint had ever seen Coulson.

Interesting.

After a couple of more deep breaths, Coulson turned, walked to his closet, and took out a cardboard box.

Curious, Clint watched as Coulson sat on his couch, put the box beside him, and bent to take off his shoes and black socks. Then he opened the box and took something out. It took Clint a moment to realize what it was, and when he did, his jaw dropped.

Fishnet socks.

He could only gape as Coulson rolled the socks on carefully, with practiced ease, a small smile on his lips. Then he took a pair of shoes from the box, and Clint’s mouth went dry.

They were black peephole pumps with ridiculously high heels and blood-red soles. They fit perfectly in Coulson’s feet, and, when he stood up and walked to his desk, he looked so much better, like a weight had dropped from his shoulders. He was more relaxed, and, oh yeah, fucking hot. Clint’s dick enthusiastically agreed.

Clint had never had a thing about cross-dressing, but he had never imagined his handler in any kind of drag either.

Coulson sat down, crossed his ankles, and set to work on the pile of files.

As silently as he could, Clint fled from the vent to have an emergency meeting with his right hand. Or left.

Whatever, he was ambidextrous.

”Is something wrong, Barton?”

Coulson’s voice was perfectly professional and calm, and nothing indicated that he was wearing fishnet socks and Loboutins, safely hidden behind his desk. Yes, Loboutins, because Clint had checked the brand and then spent an exhausting afternoon fantasizing about his handler in different heels.

”Nope. No. Everything is great. Why?”

Clearly not buying any of his bullshit, Coulson raised a brow but said nothing.

Clint stared at the front of the desk, trying to burn holes to it. Alas, he only managed to make his eyes sting and Coulson to glance at him with a worried frown.

”Whatever my desk did to offend you, I’m sure it didn’t do it on purpose,” he said flatly.

”It’s solid.” Clint definitely didn’t whine.

Coulson blinked. ”Yes, it is,” he said slowly. ”I’ll make sure it apologizes you properly. If there was nothing else, I’d like to continue my reports.” He paused and cocked his head. ”Unless you volunteer to help? You do have several dozen due.”

As reports were possibly the worst thing in the world after the slime the canteen called mashed potatoes, Clint suddenly remembered he had urgent business on the range.

A couple of days later, when he was lying on his bed with his dick in hand, Clint wondered how Coulson would look like in fishnet stockings instead of socks.

He came so hard he had to climb a chair to wipe the ceiling.

One day, after Coulson had again donned his fishnet socks and Loboutins, he didn’t stand up and walk to his desk like he had done before. Instead, he leaned back on the couch and crossed his knees so that his pant leg rode up to reveal his ankle. He rested his other hand on his lap and stretched the other along the couch’s backrest. His feet looked amazing.

In the vent above him, Clint nearly choked.

Coulson sighed and looked up.

”Get down here, Barton.”

As it turned out, Phil looked fucking gorgeous in fishnet stockings.