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Awaiting Target

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Clint Barton had to do jobs like this under pretty much every condition imaginable. Jobs like this were his specialty, after all; long-range, well-concealed, easy take downs. He was a sniper, who got the job done efficiently, better with his bow and arrow than most were with guns.

He was adjusted to extreme temperatures on both ends of the spectrum, long waits, difficult angles, everything. No matter what was thrown at him during jobs, he could handle it. There was nothing that he couldn't take.

Though a full bladder was a pretty big inconvenience, he realized.

It wasn't as if he hadn't needed a piss on missions before. It happened every now and then, but it had just never been this severe. He wasn't sure why things were so bad this time; maybe he had just forgotten to go the last chance he had. No matter what the case was, he was going to be stuck in that position until the target had been taken out, no questions asked.

That did not seem like much of a problem in theory. Just hold it until the job was done, make it that long and there was no problem. But that was something that was much easier said than done. Sure, he could think about how he didn't need to go that urgently all he wanted, but that did not change the fact that it was getting pretty damn urgent and he would have to wait a lot longer, meaning it was going to get a lot worse.

Still, he could handle it. He had to handle it, and it would not make this more difficult on him. He wouldn't let it.

He tried to take his mind off of things by directing all of his focus on what Agent Coulson said to him over the small headset he wore. They were going to be in constant contact throughout this job, in order to ensure that things went seamlessly. Clint never minded the “company”, and now he could use it as a distraction.

He could not stop himself, however, from asking, “Do we have any clear idea of when the target will arrive?”

“Sadly, no. It could be anywhere from an hour to all night. We got you in as early as possible to be on the safe side, but we really don't have a clue,” was the unfortunate response that he got. He hoped that it would be on the sooner side of that estimate, though there was nothing he could do if it wasn't.

The conversation tapered off after that, which meant that he no longer had anything to distract him from the throbbing in his bladder. It was hard to hold still as the urge to squirm and fidget came over him. Jesus, this was getting bad. This was getting unbelievably bad.

He felt a sharp pang and clenched his fists, holding back a whimper. He did not want to entertain the possibility of not being able to make it, but his bladder had its own ideas and he would not be able to hold back forever. Eventually, it would let go, regardless of if he gave it permission to do so.

He could only hold so much, and even if that was more than average due to his job, that limit was still very real, and not very far off at this point. He tapped his foot lightly enough that it barely made a sound, but it also barely helped the situation. A quick fidget here or there was better, but not by much. This was verging on painful and he let out a low hiss.

“Something the matter?”

“No, nothing,” he responded quickly, cursing his brief lapse in control. But there was nothing he could do to stop himself from wiggling around, and he hoped that it did not creating a shuffling sound in the headset. It was necessary for him to move, and he wondered if he would be able to hold still long enough to make the shot. Not that he had a choice there; he had to make the shot.

Luck was not on his side, either. This damn target was taking their sweet time, making it more and more apparent that he really might not make it. He wanted to adamantly deny it, say that it would most definitely not happen, but he knew, in the back of his mind, that if he was powerless to stop it, that was all there was to it.

A sharp spasm caused him to hiss again, involuntarily, and he felt a small leak escape him. It was not enough to show on his pants in any way, but he could feel a definite dampness that was not there before. He was going to leak again soon, he knew, and though he hated to do it, he grabbed at his crotch to hopefully slow things down a little bit.

“Are you sure nothing's wrong?” asked Coulson. “Your breathing sounds off, and it sounds like your headset is getting jostled.”

“It's...” He paused. There wasn't any point in denying the problem, especially considering it would be found out eventually. “I need to piss pretty badly, alright? But it's no big deal, I'm fine.”

“Are you sure? There's...not really much I can do about that, but...”

“Really, it's fine. I'm not going to let it hinder the mission or anything like that,” was all Clint said. He was grateful when Coulson fell silent again, ending that conversation. It didn't really matter, since he knew the situation now, but it was nice to not have to discuss it. His throbbing bladder was enough of an inconvenience without adding an awkward discussion about it.

He was not fine, really. He knew that he was going to lose control, even with his hand down there, holding back the torrent. It was only a temporary solution, and soon it would all be over. But, then, he supposed he was fine after all; once he had his relief, nothing would distract him from the job. It was be mortifying, yes, but not as mortifying as it would be to mess this up over a full bladder.

It was as he was coming to terms with this and accepting the inevitable that that inevitable began. It started with a few more leaks that even his hand could not stop, until he felt that hand grow damp. He dropped it just as one of the spurts turned into a full-on stream, soaking through his pants with ease.

He groaned and the warm liquid ran down one of his legs, puddling on the ground beneath him. The sound of it hitting the ground was obvious, and he was glad that there was no one to hear it and catch on to his presence. Getting it cleaned up would be another matter entirely, but he wasn't thinking about that just yet.

This went on for longer than he could count, and when it was done, he stood in silence as he caught his breath. He knew that Coulson had to have heard it all and had to know what had happened, but the man on the other line said nothing. Clint was grateful for that, but he knew the subject could not be completely avoided.

“After I've taken out the target, how do you want me to...take care of this?”

“Don't worry about it. I'll have it taken care of.”

“Thank you,” he said, and he meant it. It was humiliating as hell that he had been forced to wet himself, and that someone else knew about it and would be cleaning up after his mess, but the job had not been compromised, and that was all that really matter. And he was somewhat happy, despite it all, to know that Coulson was going to help him out and treat it like it was no big deal.