64
Your arrival at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters is triumphant, even in a Hydra transport truck somewhat the worse for wear (even more so when one rash junior agent takes a couple of shots at you before he realizes who’s at the wheel). You screech to a halt in front of the main entrance, and are met by Coulson and his patented look of mild disapproval.
“The team was just re-deploying on your rescue mission,” he says.
You shrug. “You want we should go back?”
He tries to graduate to a look of increased annoyance, but it’s kind of ruined by the fact that his relief is completely obvious. He’s glad you’re all back safely; this is just his way of showing it.
“Come on,” he says to Bruce, “let’s get that thing off you.”
You start to slip off to one side, thinking of the range and your bow and your quarters and how soft your pillow’s going to feel in about ten seconds.
“Hawkeye,” says Coulson, without turning. “Debrief, my office, twenty minutes.”
You should have known you weren’t going to get out of it that easily.