Fanfiction: Five Times Phil Coulson Surprised Clint Barton (And One Time They Surprised Each Other)
Title: Five Times Phil Coulson Surprised Clint Barton (And One Time They Surprised Each Other)
Writer: Sporadic_Writer
Status of work: Complete.
Disclaimer: I don't own this.
Fandom: The Avengers movie.
Characters and/or pairings: Phil Coulson/Clint Barton; Natasha; Tony, Steve, and Bruce cameos.
Rating: PG-13.
Warnings, kinks & contents: Description of past torture. Sexual situations. Potential The Avengers spoiler.
Length: 4,412 words.
A/N: This fic is a counterpart to Five Times Clint Barton Surprised Phil Coulson. I developed both stories roughly at the same time, but I wrote and posted the aforementioned a little earlier. Both stories are distinct and can stand on their own, but I think it makes for a nice compare and contrast.
Summary: Phil shows his depths to Clint as their relationship develops from professional to personal.
Clint knew that Coulson probably spent some time in various other government agencies before winding up in SHIELD, either because he was an amazing worker, or, judging by other SHIELD recruits, because he was somehow an oddball who didn't fit the usual government archetype. Which was pretty funny since on the outside Coulson had the straight man look completely down.
Coulson just gave up this impression of being a calm, uncurious man. Of course, since he was a spook, everyone knew it was just his cover. But they all still expected him to be more psychological than physical. It was all about the neatly pressed suit and tie combination, Clint figured.
When Coulson found the biological terrorist on the 6:20 train, Clint was five meters away on top of the 6:45 train. Besides their trains' going in opposite directions, Coulson's train also seemed to be chugging along a little faster than a wine train should be. Still, Clint hopped along each boxcar until he reached the end of his train and had a two second chance to fall into the abyss or land safely onto the second train. Naturally, he made it.
He made it right on time to watch as Coulson drew back his right fist and gave the terrorist the beating of a lifetime, starting with a right hook that Clint thought nothing short of impressive. In case Coulson was still in hair-trigger action mode, Clint respectfully kept his distance and gave a long piercing wolf whistle to show his appreciation.
“Barton,” Coulson acknowledged, without turning around, keeping his eyes on the fallen man, bleeding in front of him.
“No gun, no taser?” Clint asked as he slowly approached, keeping his bow out in case he had to play backup. It didn't look likely though; Mr. Smallpox was still lying there, looking half-dazed and gingerly touching his bloody nose.
“He kicked my taser out of my hand, and I would have liked to shoot him for it, but we do need him alive to tell us where he hid the samples of smallpox.” Coulson rubbed his knuckles before leaning forward and jerking Mr. Smallpox forward with impatience. “Now that I have your full attention, Mr. Trenton, I'm going to ask you a few questions, and you're going to answer them.”
Coulson didn't bother adding anything else, not even some hefty threats to ensure compliance, and Clint figured that psychological tactics had just come back in style. Smiling pleasantly in unnerving contrast to the chill in his eyes, Coulson made it quite clear without a single word said that it would really be in Trenton's interests to cooperate.
But of course, Trenton had a twisted ideological purpose to his plans and wouldn't give up easily; he snarled incomprehensibly at them, words jumbled by the nasal tone of his broken nose. Clint stepped up beside Coulson and filched an arrow from his hidden quiver before throwing and catching it with deliberate menace.
Coulson didn't say anything, but Clint could sense the wordless approval by now anyway. Together they loomed over Trenton, but the showdown ended before it even started when the com flickered to life, and Agent Kapur's satisfied voice came through. “We got it, sir. Over.”
They were walking back to the SHIELD van when Clint thought to ask. “So, what happened? Normally, you talk to them really nicely and gently explain about their future demise in a tiny room buried in the middle of nowhere.”
Coulson stayed quiet for so long that Clint was about to give up on an answer and chalk it up to G-man ineffability. “I really don't like jokes about little kids and their families being blown up on a nice quiet Sunday,” the quiet response finally came.
Clint blinked at the utterly human response and could think of nothing else to say but, “Yeah, me too.”
And judging by Coulson's sudden smile, it was somehow enough.
Clint blinked at the blurry green until it resolved itself into the cracked ceiling of SHIELD's infirmary; he felt rather insulted. Here he was, lying injured after doing his duty, and they put him in a room with a cracked ceiling? Then he remembered who had cracked the ceiling.
Three fingers waved abruptly in his face. “How many fingers?” Natasha asked before moving them even faster.
“You can't trick me,” Clint told her petulantly. “Three.”
Natasha didn't say anything. Her fingers stopped waving, and Clint could see that she had been holding up only one. “Crap,” he muttered.
“Crap is right, Barton,” Coulson said tersely from his seat right next to Natasha. Huh, when did he get here? Must be his sneaky agent powers. All the better to creep out junior agents and members of the public.
“I'm injured,” Clint told him, stubbornly closing his eyes. “You can't be mean to me right now. It's in the SHIELD handbook.”
Coulson shook his head in utter exasperation. “Why did you throw away your earpiece? You know we need it for the honing devices. What if we couldn't get you back?”
“Mission comes first, sir,” Clint reminded him, wondering why Coulson was being so dense lately. “I couldn't let them know who I really worked for.”
Coulson looked at him like he was an idiot. “The amount of information they'd receive would be miniscule, and in any case, SHIELD could deal with it.”
“Uh huh,” Clint agreed half-heartedly. He'd go with it for Coulson's sake, though really, being a senior agent, shouldn't he be less idealistic and naïve? Clint steered away from the word “dumb.”
Natasha tapped his left forehead, the part of his body that hurt the least. He tried not to whimper in pain and wondered if the doctors were being stingy again with the painkillers. “Don't be a dummy,” she told him, her eyes as serious as they were the first time he saw her.
She rolled up her sleeve and put his hand on the thick scarring on the crook of her arm. “The first time I worked with a group after I escaped the Red Room? I was young and dumb, and I got caught. My partners didn't bother coming back for me. I thought I'd lose the arm and maybe some other things before I finally escaped. After two days of continuous torture.” She paused before adding in a furious whisper. “I wouldn't leave someone I cared about in the enemy's hands.”
“Nat, I-” Clint shook his head helplessly and reached out for her. Natasha ignored him; she turned to Coulson and demanded, “Show him.”
Forehead slightly wrinkled, Coulson looked reluctant to participate, but instead of demurring and leaving, he pulled his tie away from his neck and unbuttoned the top of his dress shirt enough to clearly show the middle of his neck. “Acapulco, Mexico. Two years before Nick Fury created SHIELD. As an agent for a government group that I won't name, I was captured when my contact was compromised by his contact.” He sounded like he was giving a sample debriefing, calm and succinct. Coulson lightly touched the patches of darker skin before folding his hands together and concluding, “The interrogator had a penchant for nail guns.”
Clint just stared at them both: Natasha and Coulson had always struck him as being beyond the usual mess that came with being part of a covert law enforcement agency. He knew that Natasha had gone through horrifying brainwashing in the enigmatic Red Room, but he had assumed that the training had excised any sense of trust in her. The idea that she would have tried to trust and be burnt so badly for it...He loved her, and this was one more time his heart hurt for her.
And Coulson. Clint examined him from head to toe, what he could see of the man, and he tried to imagine the senior agent in torn clothing, covered in blood and sweat, and screaming in humiliation and agony. He really couldn't see that kind of vulnerability, not at first; then as he moved his eyes slowly over Coulson's face, he could see small bags under the man's eyes, the beginnings of early gray, and most of all, the tightness to his lips at having to share that moment of weakness.
Clint coughed painfully, clearing his throat of bloody phlegm, and apparently, Natasha was willing to be forgiving. After she gave him two brief sips from the water bottle, he hesitated, trying to find the right words, and then settled on making the best apology he could. He looked Natasha first and then Coulson straight in the eyes. “We don't leave our people behind,” he said softly in agreement, trying to taste the shape of those promising words.
“Think that Lovers' Shtick really works?” Clint wondered aloud to whoever's listening. When he didn't hear a response, he turned around to see that Natasha had left sometime in the past five minutes, and he pouted at the idea that she had just left without him. He mentally prepared himself and then gave the back of Coulson's head his best care bear stare, eyes boring into Coulson until the man felt pressured to play Q&A with him.
“That depends on what you mean by 'Lovers' Shtick,'” Coulson answered without stopping his clicking, and Clint tried to peer suspiciously at his screen. Coulson wasn't above playing Tetris, or even Sims, in his office when he could get away with it. Natasha had made him a bet that Sims Clint and Natasha regularly suffered from such accidents as drowning in the public swimming pool, especially after their real selves had pissed off Coulson on some mission or other.
Coulson moved his head neatly, blocking Clint's view, and he was too lazy to move from the bean bag chair (his wonderful idea). “You know, like in movies, the secret agents are running from the bad guys, they run into a dead end or something, so they start making out, and the bad guys don't even bother checking. Would real bad guys even fall for that junk?”
“Ah, you're talking about doing 'IT.'”
“Whoa, what?”
Coulson turned around in his chair, and he looked perfectly composed, but small spots of pink flared on his cheekbones, as he tried to recoup. “'FIT.' I misspoke. 'Faux Intimacy Tactics.'”
Clint rocked in his bean bag chair as he struggled not to fall to the floor while he laughed his ass off at Coulson's reaction. “Doing IT! That's priceless!”
Coulson rolled his eyes. “Doing FIT. That's the proper term for-that's the proper term.”
Clint leered a bit. “I like the improper term better.” Coulson flushed a little deeper in exasperation, and Clint tried not to examine his motivations for enjoying it. The other man never reacted to his all around flirting with anything but good humor or tolerant impatience, but better not to push it.
“So, do you think it would work?” Clint asked, getting back to the original topic. He lay his head down on the bean bag, giving the other man time to regain his composure.
Coulson gave him a dry smirk. “I know it works.”
It was Clint's turn to roll his eyes. And people thought he could be deliberately obtuse. “I meant with smarter people than TV-style goons on CSI, Coulson.”
“Agent Hill and I once tried doing FIT in the SHIELD hallways,” Coulson reminisced. “We stayed in the clinch for ten minutes, and none of the four people looking for either of us noticed. We avoided so much pointless work that day.”
Clint wasn't going to be so easily convinced. “What if someone just looks closer, someone like a voyeur?”
Smugness really looked good on Coulson. “Well, I always found it interesting that Fury was the one to figure Hill and me out.”
Five minutes later, Clint was still learning how to breathe again, and he jerked on the floor, letting out a few more giggles, wondering why Coulson didn't show his sense of humor more often. He looked up to find Coulson watching him indulgently and made plans to get the man to loosen up again in the future soon.
“This sucks, sir,” Clint said flatly, as he rushed through the door of the safe house with his poor bow wrapped in his jacket.
Coulson flicked on the lights before kneeling at the fireplace and lighting a match; he tossed it into the wood pile and rubbed at the small bruise on the side of his head. “I didn't have a good time either, Barton.”
“You're both wimps,” Natasha told them matter-of-factly, as she pulled the door closed against the storm of snow and hail. “I had to go to school in weather like this.”
Clint eyed her skeptically. “Really? I thought only old grandmas and grandpas had stories like that.”
She shrugged her shoulders with a mysterious smile and began poking around the cabinets, knocking cans of soups against each other and pushing bags of dry goods around.
Coulson made an uncharacteristic sound of discomfort, pulled off his tie and coat, and tossed both onto the living room floor with an audible squishing sound before disappearing into the lone bathroom.
Clint stared after him for a moment before deciding to be nice and picking up his discarded coat and hanging it up on one of the small kitchen chairs. Poking through the coat pockets to pick out and air dry any important items, Clint found Coulson's favorite pen. He had never paid enough attention to the pen to recognize it, but it had an unusual combination of colors that had caught his eye and stuck in his memory bank regardless. Taking the time to scrutinize the pen now, he realized that it was one of those special floaty pens with a comic book character's picture. He didn't recognize the superhero.
Coulson coughed behind him, and Clint almost jumped in a strange sense of guilt. It wasn't like he was trying to do anything weird or invasive. “I thought maybe your stuff wouldn't be waterproof.” He offered the pen back to the senior agent.
Coulson held the pen gently as he wiped it off with a powder blue hand towel, and he held it to the flickering lights with a meticulous eye. “It seems fine, but yes, it's not meant to be in moist areas for long periods of time. Thank you.”
Clint shrugged off the sentiment since he wasn't sure Coulson wasn't just being sarcastic. “Who is that guy?”
Surprise widened Coulson's eyes briefly. “And I thought Hill managed to spread the rumors to all of SHIELD after I took the last cup of coffee.”
“I wasn't always with SHIELD, sir,” Clint pointed out, because sometimes, actually often, Coulson seemed to forget that nifty fact.
Coulson shrugged. “You didn't miss out on anything important. Hill just took petty revenge in telling everyone that I had a Captain America fetish.
“He was a World War II war hero,” Coulson explained to Clint's nonplussed face. “He really believed in these American ideals about liberty and justice, and he thought anyone could be a hero in their own way.”
“I wouldn't blame you for having a fetish, sir,” Clint said earnestly. “He sounds like a great guy.” It was probably not the most tactful thing to say about someone's inspiration, but Clint wasn't comfortable with heartwarming moments. Coulson just laughed a bit ruefully.
“By all accounts, he was, including my father's.”
“Your dad knew Captain America?” Clint boggled a bit at the idea; it was like someone claiming that their ancestors really came from the original Mayflower. His smartass side wanted to make a hefty joke about pedigrees and purebreds. It was a good thing he restrained himself.
“They weren't best buds or anything like that. My dad worked as a temporary decoder for General Phillips, so he was there when Captain America brought back a group of POWs long after everyone else had given up hope. My dad said he never had to wonder again how a man like Captain America could inspire loyalty.”
Clint stared at Coulson and felt a little dry-mouthed. He was on the verge of saying something really sappy and quite possibly unprofessional when Natasha finally reappeared, holding two dusty cans in each hand. “It's going to be clam chowder or nothing. You like clam chowder,” she told them.
“I bet the view's great.”
Clint looked down to see a dry smirk on Coulson's face as the man approached his scaffold. “It's gorgeous, sir,” Clint reported with as much fake enthusiasm as he could muster without breaking his solemn facade.
Coulson made an “up” gesture, and Clint took out the handheld controller and fiddled with the buttons, dropping in fits of start and stop until he was roughly a foot off the ground. Coulson put his hands on the railing and made a neat jump into the scaffold, brushing their chests rather firmly together. Clint turned away; come on, it took more than a bit of flexibility to impress him.
“Didn't get enough of the rain earlier?” Coulson asked, wringing out his tie only to sprinkle the water onto his shoes, and he looked down in exasperation.
Hiding his smile (Coulson really wasn't a wet weather guy, was he), Clint jerked a shoulder towards the rising sun. “Didn't see the point in going to bed only to wake up in a few hours. Anyway, how often do you get the chance to see the sunset without all the city lights in the way?”
Coulson looked over his shoulder, and the softly increasing rays of lights fell on his face, and the lines relaxed into an appreciative smile. “I used to make time to watch the sunrise, sunset, and other really nice peaceful activities-but then this 'space pirate' told me he needed help to start an initiative to protect Earth.”
Clint nodded sagely. “You're never supposed to talk to or trust those old scallywags.”
Coulson chuckled, even as his eyelids dropped down a bit in tiredness. “The journey's been worth it so far. Even though the sleep deprivation isn't as thrilling as it used to be.”
“You surprise me, sir,” Clint said with mock disappointment. “I thought you'd stay the quintessential spook until kingdom come. Now you're wrecked my worldview, and I don't know how I'll be able to respect you after this.” He was going to go on and on until Coulson rolled his eyes or tried to muffle him or ordered him off the scaffolding to grab breakfast together-any one of the usual actions that Coulson took.
“I hope you'd respect me past the boundaries of professionalism.” Then Coulson leaned in close, slowly enough for any protest to take place, and then, when none came, gently pressed his lips to the corner of Clint's mouth.
Phil pulled back and looked away, embarrassment flooding his features. “Well, that was more awkward than I had planned.” He took a step back like he was going to make his way off the scaffolding and leave Clint wanting.
“I'm hoping you aimed wrong on purpose, Phil.” And Clint grabbed him and made sure he got a proper kiss, full on the lips and tongue flirting around the edges. He hadn't been expecting Phil to make the first move, but he wasn't about to let the man forget that he'd made it.
Hands got involved, and Clint busily untucked Phil's shirt tails so that he could get down to warm skin and really feel those firm muscles. He had his mouth on Phil's neck, a hand on his stomach, and a leg doing something really effective, judging by the soft appreciative noises; but then Phil started to pull away again, and this time he didn't let Clint stop him.
Phil blinked a few times, a heavy flush across his face, before he seemed to get back his bearings, and he smoothed his shirt out with unsteady hands. “I'm willing to expand my boundaries, but it's going to be a time when I'm not half-convinced that I'm courting pneumonia by staying outside in wet clothes.”
“Well, I happen to have a room with a heavy duty shower available,” Clint said, looking at Phil from under his lashes. This time he wasn't surprised by the kiss, and he made it last a little longer while he dropped them towards the ground.
While he's still under a nice amount of morphine, Phil thought to himself that he really should get himself stabbed more often. Things, a.k.a. annoying people, just seemed to fall together more easily, no matter the trouble they had given him before. Captain America and Stark visited him together on the first day, and he could tell by the look on Stark's face that Cap probably had some idea that showing solidarity with Stark would make Phil happy. Cap was right.
“We brought you a fruit basket,” Cap ventured as he settled the monstrous gift onto the side table, and he busied himself trying to balance it just right. Stark just snorted and grabbed it from him to set on the floor where it still managed to tower around their knees.
“Thanks,” Phil thought to say, and he tried not to let his glee overwhelm him when Captain America gave him a brilliant smile.
“Let's get this over with,” Stark drawled out, pulling his phone out only to put it back in his pocket when Cap gave him a meaningful look. “We're sorry that we were idiots and couldn't get our asses into gear without your almost dying. Hence the two-person visit. You know, brilliant drool-worthy genius money-maker with-” Stark eyed Cap for a long moment before shaking his head and turning back to Phil. “You know, I think it speaks for itself.”
Cap's face twisted in the same way it did in comics when the current bad guy just said something really distasteful and worthy of a beating. The doctor was savvy enough to usher them out right then on the premise that Phil needed more sleep, and Phil lay back on his pillows and shook his head. Trouble, trouble, trouble. It would have been nice if he could have asked them about Clint and the others though.
He woke up to Natasha's face a few days later, and she gestured towards the man who was waiting uncomfortably by the door. “Doctor Banner,” Phil greeted.
Banner glanced around the room before inching through the entrance. His eyes fell on the giant fruit basket, and he looked a bit upset. “I'm sorry; we didn't think to get you anything. Is there any-?”
“It's fine. But I did want to ask how the others are doing.” Phil injected as much mildness as possible into his voice. “It seems a bit like the Twelve Days of Christmas. I wouldn't mind more than two visitors at a time.” He didn't want to consider that maybe Clint was avoiding him, and he'd have to track the man down, handcuff him to the wall, and demand a conversation.
Natasha offered him a sip of water in a strange reversal of roles before she patiently explained, “Clint's still under observation and mandatory counseling. Thor is still in talks with Fury and Asgard about Loki's containment. Hill is in charge of leading the SHIELD side of reconstruction.”
“Oh,” Phil breathed out, feeling not a little embarrassed for showing his slow side.
“I think Hawkeye will be fine,” Banner said from his corner. “I was under observation for a while until they decided that the Hulk wouldn't be making any unannounced visits soon.” His voice turned wry. “I think they're keeping him longer because they're actually worried about him.”
“They better have a suitable punishment for Loki,” Natasha murmured viciously. “After what he did to Clint.” She trailed off, narrowing her eyes and cracking her knuckles.
Eyes feeling heavy again so soon after waking up, Phil mumbled, “Tell Clint I need to talk with him.”
Two days after Natasha and Banner's visit, not long after Thor came to visit with a hang-dog expression and heartfelt apology about his younger brother, Phil woke up with a sneeze and glared at the amused grin on Clint's face. “I don't think TLC includes being tickled on the nose with a feather.”
“I was trying to be tender,” Clint protested. “I thought a feather would be a nice gentle way to wake you up.” The grin didn't disappear, but his eyes held a certain reservation that Phil hadn't seen directed at him for a very long time.
“Well, you thought wrong,” Phil groused, secretly thrilled that Clint was finally visiting. Maybe also secretly relieved that he wouldn't have to really go hunting in his lousy physical condition.
“Let me make it up to you,” Clint offered, pulling down the blankets, exposing Phil's skinny legs, and helping him into a pair of drawstring pants. “I checked with Dr. Sun, and she said you could go outside for a little bit.”
That was good enough to make up for the wheelchair, Phil decided, as Clint wheeled him out to the mini garden that some enterprising soul at SHIELD had started during Phil's second year. He always suspected it was Agent Williams, and he made plans to thank the man once he was free of the hospital.
“Phil, I-” Clint started before changing his mind and talking about something else. “Hey, you want to look at the flowers? Or, uh, that...statue thing?”
“Clint.”
“I think it's a statue. At first I thought it was an avant-garde trash can or something.”
“Clint.”
“Don't tell Agent Williams I said that, okay? That guy can be incredibly sensitive about his art.”
“Clint,” Phil repeated impatiently, and finally, the other man fell silent. “Clint, it's not your fault; I know you're not ready to accept that fact, but you need to hear it. And if need be, I'll follow you around and repeat it as many times as it takes.”
Clint's head hung down. “You have a lot of paperwork waiting for you. I doubt you'll have that kind of time.”
“I'm always going to have time for you,” Phil said softly, trying to be as reassuring as he always had been in each of their missions together.
The look in Clint's eyes remained dubious, but if Phil Coulson had faith in anything, it was that he was constantly surprising his partner.
End Notes: Personally, I liked both versions of the fic, and while I thought each fic had certain strengths that the other one sort of lacked, I didn't think of combining the two fics until it was too late, and I'd posted one already, and I'd written two different endings that I liked equally. Maybe I'll consider seriously combining the fics sometime, but hmm, maybe the fics would lose a little something if I do.
Writer: Sporadic_Writer
Status of work: Complete.
Disclaimer: I don't own this.
Fandom: The Avengers movie.
Characters and/or pairings: Phil Coulson/Clint Barton; Natasha; Tony, Steve, and Bruce cameos.
Rating: PG-13.
Warnings, kinks & contents: Description of past torture. Sexual situations. Potential The Avengers spoiler.
Length: 4,412 words.
A/N: This fic is a counterpart to Five Times Clint Barton Surprised Phil Coulson. I developed both stories roughly at the same time, but I wrote and posted the aforementioned a little earlier. Both stories are distinct and can stand on their own, but I think it makes for a nice compare and contrast.
Summary: Phil shows his depths to Clint as their relationship develops from professional to personal.
Clint knew that Coulson probably spent some time in various other government agencies before winding up in SHIELD, either because he was an amazing worker, or, judging by other SHIELD recruits, because he was somehow an oddball who didn't fit the usual government archetype. Which was pretty funny since on the outside Coulson had the straight man look completely down.
Coulson just gave up this impression of being a calm, uncurious man. Of course, since he was a spook, everyone knew it was just his cover. But they all still expected him to be more psychological than physical. It was all about the neatly pressed suit and tie combination, Clint figured.
When Coulson found the biological terrorist on the 6:20 train, Clint was five meters away on top of the 6:45 train. Besides their trains' going in opposite directions, Coulson's train also seemed to be chugging along a little faster than a wine train should be. Still, Clint hopped along each boxcar until he reached the end of his train and had a two second chance to fall into the abyss or land safely onto the second train. Naturally, he made it.
He made it right on time to watch as Coulson drew back his right fist and gave the terrorist the beating of a lifetime, starting with a right hook that Clint thought nothing short of impressive. In case Coulson was still in hair-trigger action mode, Clint respectfully kept his distance and gave a long piercing wolf whistle to show his appreciation.
“Barton,” Coulson acknowledged, without turning around, keeping his eyes on the fallen man, bleeding in front of him.
“No gun, no taser?” Clint asked as he slowly approached, keeping his bow out in case he had to play backup. It didn't look likely though; Mr. Smallpox was still lying there, looking half-dazed and gingerly touching his bloody nose.
“He kicked my taser out of my hand, and I would have liked to shoot him for it, but we do need him alive to tell us where he hid the samples of smallpox.” Coulson rubbed his knuckles before leaning forward and jerking Mr. Smallpox forward with impatience. “Now that I have your full attention, Mr. Trenton, I'm going to ask you a few questions, and you're going to answer them.”
Coulson didn't bother adding anything else, not even some hefty threats to ensure compliance, and Clint figured that psychological tactics had just come back in style. Smiling pleasantly in unnerving contrast to the chill in his eyes, Coulson made it quite clear without a single word said that it would really be in Trenton's interests to cooperate.
But of course, Trenton had a twisted ideological purpose to his plans and wouldn't give up easily; he snarled incomprehensibly at them, words jumbled by the nasal tone of his broken nose. Clint stepped up beside Coulson and filched an arrow from his hidden quiver before throwing and catching it with deliberate menace.
Coulson didn't say anything, but Clint could sense the wordless approval by now anyway. Together they loomed over Trenton, but the showdown ended before it even started when the com flickered to life, and Agent Kapur's satisfied voice came through. “We got it, sir. Over.”
They were walking back to the SHIELD van when Clint thought to ask. “So, what happened? Normally, you talk to them really nicely and gently explain about their future demise in a tiny room buried in the middle of nowhere.”
Coulson stayed quiet for so long that Clint was about to give up on an answer and chalk it up to G-man ineffability. “I really don't like jokes about little kids and their families being blown up on a nice quiet Sunday,” the quiet response finally came.
Clint blinked at the utterly human response and could think of nothing else to say but, “Yeah, me too.”
And judging by Coulson's sudden smile, it was somehow enough.
Clint blinked at the blurry green until it resolved itself into the cracked ceiling of SHIELD's infirmary; he felt rather insulted. Here he was, lying injured after doing his duty, and they put him in a room with a cracked ceiling? Then he remembered who had cracked the ceiling.
Three fingers waved abruptly in his face. “How many fingers?” Natasha asked before moving them even faster.
“You can't trick me,” Clint told her petulantly. “Three.”
Natasha didn't say anything. Her fingers stopped waving, and Clint could see that she had been holding up only one. “Crap,” he muttered.
“Crap is right, Barton,” Coulson said tersely from his seat right next to Natasha. Huh, when did he get here? Must be his sneaky agent powers. All the better to creep out junior agents and members of the public.
“I'm injured,” Clint told him, stubbornly closing his eyes. “You can't be mean to me right now. It's in the SHIELD handbook.”
Coulson shook his head in utter exasperation. “Why did you throw away your earpiece? You know we need it for the honing devices. What if we couldn't get you back?”
“Mission comes first, sir,” Clint reminded him, wondering why Coulson was being so dense lately. “I couldn't let them know who I really worked for.”
Coulson looked at him like he was an idiot. “The amount of information they'd receive would be miniscule, and in any case, SHIELD could deal with it.”
“Uh huh,” Clint agreed half-heartedly. He'd go with it for Coulson's sake, though really, being a senior agent, shouldn't he be less idealistic and naïve? Clint steered away from the word “dumb.”
Natasha tapped his left forehead, the part of his body that hurt the least. He tried not to whimper in pain and wondered if the doctors were being stingy again with the painkillers. “Don't be a dummy,” she told him, her eyes as serious as they were the first time he saw her.
She rolled up her sleeve and put his hand on the thick scarring on the crook of her arm. “The first time I worked with a group after I escaped the Red Room? I was young and dumb, and I got caught. My partners didn't bother coming back for me. I thought I'd lose the arm and maybe some other things before I finally escaped. After two days of continuous torture.” She paused before adding in a furious whisper. “I wouldn't leave someone I cared about in the enemy's hands.”
“Nat, I-” Clint shook his head helplessly and reached out for her. Natasha ignored him; she turned to Coulson and demanded, “Show him.”
Forehead slightly wrinkled, Coulson looked reluctant to participate, but instead of demurring and leaving, he pulled his tie away from his neck and unbuttoned the top of his dress shirt enough to clearly show the middle of his neck. “Acapulco, Mexico. Two years before Nick Fury created SHIELD. As an agent for a government group that I won't name, I was captured when my contact was compromised by his contact.” He sounded like he was giving a sample debriefing, calm and succinct. Coulson lightly touched the patches of darker skin before folding his hands together and concluding, “The interrogator had a penchant for nail guns.”
Clint just stared at them both: Natasha and Coulson had always struck him as being beyond the usual mess that came with being part of a covert law enforcement agency. He knew that Natasha had gone through horrifying brainwashing in the enigmatic Red Room, but he had assumed that the training had excised any sense of trust in her. The idea that she would have tried to trust and be burnt so badly for it...He loved her, and this was one more time his heart hurt for her.
And Coulson. Clint examined him from head to toe, what he could see of the man, and he tried to imagine the senior agent in torn clothing, covered in blood and sweat, and screaming in humiliation and agony. He really couldn't see that kind of vulnerability, not at first; then as he moved his eyes slowly over Coulson's face, he could see small bags under the man's eyes, the beginnings of early gray, and most of all, the tightness to his lips at having to share that moment of weakness.
Clint coughed painfully, clearing his throat of bloody phlegm, and apparently, Natasha was willing to be forgiving. After she gave him two brief sips from the water bottle, he hesitated, trying to find the right words, and then settled on making the best apology he could. He looked Natasha first and then Coulson straight in the eyes. “We don't leave our people behind,” he said softly in agreement, trying to taste the shape of those promising words.
“Think that Lovers' Shtick really works?” Clint wondered aloud to whoever's listening. When he didn't hear a response, he turned around to see that Natasha had left sometime in the past five minutes, and he pouted at the idea that she had just left without him. He mentally prepared himself and then gave the back of Coulson's head his best care bear stare, eyes boring into Coulson until the man felt pressured to play Q&A with him.
“That depends on what you mean by 'Lovers' Shtick,'” Coulson answered without stopping his clicking, and Clint tried to peer suspiciously at his screen. Coulson wasn't above playing Tetris, or even Sims, in his office when he could get away with it. Natasha had made him a bet that Sims Clint and Natasha regularly suffered from such accidents as drowning in the public swimming pool, especially after their real selves had pissed off Coulson on some mission or other.
Coulson moved his head neatly, blocking Clint's view, and he was too lazy to move from the bean bag chair (his wonderful idea). “You know, like in movies, the secret agents are running from the bad guys, they run into a dead end or something, so they start making out, and the bad guys don't even bother checking. Would real bad guys even fall for that junk?”
“Ah, you're talking about doing 'IT.'”
“Whoa, what?”
Coulson turned around in his chair, and he looked perfectly composed, but small spots of pink flared on his cheekbones, as he tried to recoup. “'FIT.' I misspoke. 'Faux Intimacy Tactics.'”
Clint rocked in his bean bag chair as he struggled not to fall to the floor while he laughed his ass off at Coulson's reaction. “Doing IT! That's priceless!”
Coulson rolled his eyes. “Doing FIT. That's the proper term for-that's the proper term.”
Clint leered a bit. “I like the improper term better.” Coulson flushed a little deeper in exasperation, and Clint tried not to examine his motivations for enjoying it. The other man never reacted to his all around flirting with anything but good humor or tolerant impatience, but better not to push it.
“So, do you think it would work?” Clint asked, getting back to the original topic. He lay his head down on the bean bag, giving the other man time to regain his composure.
Coulson gave him a dry smirk. “I know it works.”
It was Clint's turn to roll his eyes. And people thought he could be deliberately obtuse. “I meant with smarter people than TV-style goons on CSI, Coulson.”
“Agent Hill and I once tried doing FIT in the SHIELD hallways,” Coulson reminisced. “We stayed in the clinch for ten minutes, and none of the four people looking for either of us noticed. We avoided so much pointless work that day.”
Clint wasn't going to be so easily convinced. “What if someone just looks closer, someone like a voyeur?”
Smugness really looked good on Coulson. “Well, I always found it interesting that Fury was the one to figure Hill and me out.”
Five minutes later, Clint was still learning how to breathe again, and he jerked on the floor, letting out a few more giggles, wondering why Coulson didn't show his sense of humor more often. He looked up to find Coulson watching him indulgently and made plans to get the man to loosen up again in the future soon.
“This sucks, sir,” Clint said flatly, as he rushed through the door of the safe house with his poor bow wrapped in his jacket.
Coulson flicked on the lights before kneeling at the fireplace and lighting a match; he tossed it into the wood pile and rubbed at the small bruise on the side of his head. “I didn't have a good time either, Barton.”
“You're both wimps,” Natasha told them matter-of-factly, as she pulled the door closed against the storm of snow and hail. “I had to go to school in weather like this.”
Clint eyed her skeptically. “Really? I thought only old grandmas and grandpas had stories like that.”
She shrugged her shoulders with a mysterious smile and began poking around the cabinets, knocking cans of soups against each other and pushing bags of dry goods around.
Coulson made an uncharacteristic sound of discomfort, pulled off his tie and coat, and tossed both onto the living room floor with an audible squishing sound before disappearing into the lone bathroom.
Clint stared after him for a moment before deciding to be nice and picking up his discarded coat and hanging it up on one of the small kitchen chairs. Poking through the coat pockets to pick out and air dry any important items, Clint found Coulson's favorite pen. He had never paid enough attention to the pen to recognize it, but it had an unusual combination of colors that had caught his eye and stuck in his memory bank regardless. Taking the time to scrutinize the pen now, he realized that it was one of those special floaty pens with a comic book character's picture. He didn't recognize the superhero.
Coulson coughed behind him, and Clint almost jumped in a strange sense of guilt. It wasn't like he was trying to do anything weird or invasive. “I thought maybe your stuff wouldn't be waterproof.” He offered the pen back to the senior agent.
Coulson held the pen gently as he wiped it off with a powder blue hand towel, and he held it to the flickering lights with a meticulous eye. “It seems fine, but yes, it's not meant to be in moist areas for long periods of time. Thank you.”
Clint shrugged off the sentiment since he wasn't sure Coulson wasn't just being sarcastic. “Who is that guy?”
Surprise widened Coulson's eyes briefly. “And I thought Hill managed to spread the rumors to all of SHIELD after I took the last cup of coffee.”
“I wasn't always with SHIELD, sir,” Clint pointed out, because sometimes, actually often, Coulson seemed to forget that nifty fact.
Coulson shrugged. “You didn't miss out on anything important. Hill just took petty revenge in telling everyone that I had a Captain America fetish.
“He was a World War II war hero,” Coulson explained to Clint's nonplussed face. “He really believed in these American ideals about liberty and justice, and he thought anyone could be a hero in their own way.”
“I wouldn't blame you for having a fetish, sir,” Clint said earnestly. “He sounds like a great guy.” It was probably not the most tactful thing to say about someone's inspiration, but Clint wasn't comfortable with heartwarming moments. Coulson just laughed a bit ruefully.
“By all accounts, he was, including my father's.”
“Your dad knew Captain America?” Clint boggled a bit at the idea; it was like someone claiming that their ancestors really came from the original Mayflower. His smartass side wanted to make a hefty joke about pedigrees and purebreds. It was a good thing he restrained himself.
“They weren't best buds or anything like that. My dad worked as a temporary decoder for General Phillips, so he was there when Captain America brought back a group of POWs long after everyone else had given up hope. My dad said he never had to wonder again how a man like Captain America could inspire loyalty.”
Clint stared at Coulson and felt a little dry-mouthed. He was on the verge of saying something really sappy and quite possibly unprofessional when Natasha finally reappeared, holding two dusty cans in each hand. “It's going to be clam chowder or nothing. You like clam chowder,” she told them.
“I bet the view's great.”
Clint looked down to see a dry smirk on Coulson's face as the man approached his scaffold. “It's gorgeous, sir,” Clint reported with as much fake enthusiasm as he could muster without breaking his solemn facade.
Coulson made an “up” gesture, and Clint took out the handheld controller and fiddled with the buttons, dropping in fits of start and stop until he was roughly a foot off the ground. Coulson put his hands on the railing and made a neat jump into the scaffold, brushing their chests rather firmly together. Clint turned away; come on, it took more than a bit of flexibility to impress him.
“Didn't get enough of the rain earlier?” Coulson asked, wringing out his tie only to sprinkle the water onto his shoes, and he looked down in exasperation.
Hiding his smile (Coulson really wasn't a wet weather guy, was he), Clint jerked a shoulder towards the rising sun. “Didn't see the point in going to bed only to wake up in a few hours. Anyway, how often do you get the chance to see the sunset without all the city lights in the way?”
Coulson looked over his shoulder, and the softly increasing rays of lights fell on his face, and the lines relaxed into an appreciative smile. “I used to make time to watch the sunrise, sunset, and other really nice peaceful activities-but then this 'space pirate' told me he needed help to start an initiative to protect Earth.”
Clint nodded sagely. “You're never supposed to talk to or trust those old scallywags.”
Coulson chuckled, even as his eyelids dropped down a bit in tiredness. “The journey's been worth it so far. Even though the sleep deprivation isn't as thrilling as it used to be.”
“You surprise me, sir,” Clint said with mock disappointment. “I thought you'd stay the quintessential spook until kingdom come. Now you're wrecked my worldview, and I don't know how I'll be able to respect you after this.” He was going to go on and on until Coulson rolled his eyes or tried to muffle him or ordered him off the scaffolding to grab breakfast together-any one of the usual actions that Coulson took.
“I hope you'd respect me past the boundaries of professionalism.” Then Coulson leaned in close, slowly enough for any protest to take place, and then, when none came, gently pressed his lips to the corner of Clint's mouth.
Phil pulled back and looked away, embarrassment flooding his features. “Well, that was more awkward than I had planned.” He took a step back like he was going to make his way off the scaffolding and leave Clint wanting.
“I'm hoping you aimed wrong on purpose, Phil.” And Clint grabbed him and made sure he got a proper kiss, full on the lips and tongue flirting around the edges. He hadn't been expecting Phil to make the first move, but he wasn't about to let the man forget that he'd made it.
Hands got involved, and Clint busily untucked Phil's shirt tails so that he could get down to warm skin and really feel those firm muscles. He had his mouth on Phil's neck, a hand on his stomach, and a leg doing something really effective, judging by the soft appreciative noises; but then Phil started to pull away again, and this time he didn't let Clint stop him.
Phil blinked a few times, a heavy flush across his face, before he seemed to get back his bearings, and he smoothed his shirt out with unsteady hands. “I'm willing to expand my boundaries, but it's going to be a time when I'm not half-convinced that I'm courting pneumonia by staying outside in wet clothes.”
“Well, I happen to have a room with a heavy duty shower available,” Clint said, looking at Phil from under his lashes. This time he wasn't surprised by the kiss, and he made it last a little longer while he dropped them towards the ground.
While he's still under a nice amount of morphine, Phil thought to himself that he really should get himself stabbed more often. Things, a.k.a. annoying people, just seemed to fall together more easily, no matter the trouble they had given him before. Captain America and Stark visited him together on the first day, and he could tell by the look on Stark's face that Cap probably had some idea that showing solidarity with Stark would make Phil happy. Cap was right.
“We brought you a fruit basket,” Cap ventured as he settled the monstrous gift onto the side table, and he busied himself trying to balance it just right. Stark just snorted and grabbed it from him to set on the floor where it still managed to tower around their knees.
“Thanks,” Phil thought to say, and he tried not to let his glee overwhelm him when Captain America gave him a brilliant smile.
“Let's get this over with,” Stark drawled out, pulling his phone out only to put it back in his pocket when Cap gave him a meaningful look. “We're sorry that we were idiots and couldn't get our asses into gear without your almost dying. Hence the two-person visit. You know, brilliant drool-worthy genius money-maker with-” Stark eyed Cap for a long moment before shaking his head and turning back to Phil. “You know, I think it speaks for itself.”
Cap's face twisted in the same way it did in comics when the current bad guy just said something really distasteful and worthy of a beating. The doctor was savvy enough to usher them out right then on the premise that Phil needed more sleep, and Phil lay back on his pillows and shook his head. Trouble, trouble, trouble. It would have been nice if he could have asked them about Clint and the others though.
He woke up to Natasha's face a few days later, and she gestured towards the man who was waiting uncomfortably by the door. “Doctor Banner,” Phil greeted.
Banner glanced around the room before inching through the entrance. His eyes fell on the giant fruit basket, and he looked a bit upset. “I'm sorry; we didn't think to get you anything. Is there any-?”
“It's fine. But I did want to ask how the others are doing.” Phil injected as much mildness as possible into his voice. “It seems a bit like the Twelve Days of Christmas. I wouldn't mind more than two visitors at a time.” He didn't want to consider that maybe Clint was avoiding him, and he'd have to track the man down, handcuff him to the wall, and demand a conversation.
Natasha offered him a sip of water in a strange reversal of roles before she patiently explained, “Clint's still under observation and mandatory counseling. Thor is still in talks with Fury and Asgard about Loki's containment. Hill is in charge of leading the SHIELD side of reconstruction.”
“Oh,” Phil breathed out, feeling not a little embarrassed for showing his slow side.
“I think Hawkeye will be fine,” Banner said from his corner. “I was under observation for a while until they decided that the Hulk wouldn't be making any unannounced visits soon.” His voice turned wry. “I think they're keeping him longer because they're actually worried about him.”
“They better have a suitable punishment for Loki,” Natasha murmured viciously. “After what he did to Clint.” She trailed off, narrowing her eyes and cracking her knuckles.
Eyes feeling heavy again so soon after waking up, Phil mumbled, “Tell Clint I need to talk with him.”
Two days after Natasha and Banner's visit, not long after Thor came to visit with a hang-dog expression and heartfelt apology about his younger brother, Phil woke up with a sneeze and glared at the amused grin on Clint's face. “I don't think TLC includes being tickled on the nose with a feather.”
“I was trying to be tender,” Clint protested. “I thought a feather would be a nice gentle way to wake you up.” The grin didn't disappear, but his eyes held a certain reservation that Phil hadn't seen directed at him for a very long time.
“Well, you thought wrong,” Phil groused, secretly thrilled that Clint was finally visiting. Maybe also secretly relieved that he wouldn't have to really go hunting in his lousy physical condition.
“Let me make it up to you,” Clint offered, pulling down the blankets, exposing Phil's skinny legs, and helping him into a pair of drawstring pants. “I checked with Dr. Sun, and she said you could go outside for a little bit.”
That was good enough to make up for the wheelchair, Phil decided, as Clint wheeled him out to the mini garden that some enterprising soul at SHIELD had started during Phil's second year. He always suspected it was Agent Williams, and he made plans to thank the man once he was free of the hospital.
“Phil, I-” Clint started before changing his mind and talking about something else. “Hey, you want to look at the flowers? Or, uh, that...statue thing?”
“Clint.”
“I think it's a statue. At first I thought it was an avant-garde trash can or something.”
“Clint.”
“Don't tell Agent Williams I said that, okay? That guy can be incredibly sensitive about his art.”
“Clint,” Phil repeated impatiently, and finally, the other man fell silent. “Clint, it's not your fault; I know you're not ready to accept that fact, but you need to hear it. And if need be, I'll follow you around and repeat it as many times as it takes.”
Clint's head hung down. “You have a lot of paperwork waiting for you. I doubt you'll have that kind of time.”
“I'm always going to have time for you,” Phil said softly, trying to be as reassuring as he always had been in each of their missions together.
The look in Clint's eyes remained dubious, but if Phil Coulson had faith in anything, it was that he was constantly surprising his partner.
End Notes: Personally, I liked both versions of the fic, and while I thought each fic had certain strengths that the other one sort of lacked, I didn't think of combining the two fics until it was too late, and I'd posted one already, and I'd written two different endings that I liked equally. Maybe I'll consider seriously combining the fics sometime, but hmm, maybe the fics would lose a little something if I do.