"When they fly my white flag in the air; I'll shoot it down with arrows."
In a rare moment to himself, Natasha and Clint both out of the room, Phil lifted his shirt to check over his stitches. They could probably come out, he healed quickly, after all. So, he carefully sat, holding his side, sore from the gunshot, and rooted around in the side-table for something sharp to cut the stitches out with.
Clint came in with a tray and scowled.
"What exactly d’you think you’re doing?"
reblogged from my-name-is-not-agent
originally posted by my-name-is-not-agent