Fic: Avengers: Portland Cello Concerto No. 1, in C Minor
Title: Portland Cello Concerto No. 1, in C Minor
Fandom: The Avengers (2012)
Pairing: Clint/Coulson
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~2100
Disclaimers: All characters belong to Marvel and various subsidiaries. This isn't for profit, just for fun.
A/N: My version of Portland.
Below, on LJ/DW, or here on AO3.
It starts in Portland.
They're up too late; they don't sleep at all. Somebody has to finish these sitreps and somebody has to make sure the bad guys are properly transferred, and there are no cowering junior agents to pressgang into paperwork so they can get some rest, not that Phil would ever trust important paperwork to junior agents, not that Clint would leave him to do it alone.
Little known fact about Phil Coulson: the guy actually hates paperwork, but he hates incompetency more, so he's always the last guy out of the office, the guy whose lights are always on, and more often than not, Clint's keeping him company, filling in details that Phil missed.
Another little known fact about Phil Coulson: Phil's not perfect, he just does a damn fine impression of it. The kids think he's a stone-cold motherfucker, and to a point, that is true, but if that's all the kids know of Phil Coulson then Clint knows their experience is incomplete. The unflappable incredibly competent secret agent, that's the middle-of-the-action bullshit, that's just the training kicking in. That's not what comes after, because they don't give you a manual for that, they just toss you in the deep end and see if you pull your shit together enough to swim. Clint's the one who sees the post-mission fallout, partly because Clint's the only one who's really watching, but mostly because Phil trusts him enough to let him see it.
Some days it's anger, because some days the body count is too high, because for Phil even one is too high. Those are the days that Phil hits the range as soon as they get back and doesn't say a damn word until he's emptied every clip in every weapon he's trained for, and Clint never says anything about it, he just stands at the door and glowers at anybody who tries to go in. Some days it's good old-fashioned guilt, worry that he didn't make the right call, that he didn't make it soon enough, and those are the days that it's a couple of bourbons at the only bar in the tiny-ass town near headquarters. Clint keeps an eye out from the cafe across the street, and he knows that Phil knows, because he always does this funny little head tilt when he orders his last drink, like he's giving Clint the all clear, and Clint tosses some money down for his coffee and heads out, trusting Phil to know his limits.
They're not all bad days. On this particular evening, it's just relief that everything went down the way it should and satisfaction over a job well done, a world that's safe for another ten minutes, at least. Things went according to plan, but they're still up all night with protocol, and when they're up all night they both know that it's useless to sleep through the day, so they do what they always do: they keep each other awake with coffee and donuts and the spiciest food on the menu at the first restaurant they find.
This time, it's an Indian place, which suits Clint just fine, because he's been craving a decent bowl of pulusu since he got back from Andhra last month. This does not disappoint, though he's glad Phil remembers to order a couple of lassis; the food is nuclear, but then, that's the way he asked for it, and he can feel it burning delightfully all the way down to his stomach. They order extra naan and raita and then kheer, and Phil can never say no to gulab jamun, and by the time they leave, they can barely move, so naturally the next order of business is to find more coffee.
Well-known fact about Phil Coulson: he drinks more coffee in one day than is advisable and yet still manages to sleep at night.
The thing about that fact is that it's only partially accurate, because Clint knows how well Phil sleeps, and that is often not well at all. Most nights, Phil can't get to sleep, and most nights, Clint can't stay asleep, and they don't talk about the reasons when they meet each other in the SHIELD corridors late at night, both of them on their way back to Phil's office out of sheer force of habit, but there's always a moment when they look each other and nod, like they're in some secret club together, this club of seen-too-much-shit-to-sleep insomnia, and it shouldn't feel good to know that somebody else is drowning in this stuff, but it does. Phil's been his anchor and his rest for a good long time now, and if the quirk of Phil's mouth when they meet each other on those nights is any indication, his presence is payment in kind.
He can't count the number of times he's woken up on the couch in Phil's office, one of Phil's suit jackets draped across his chest and Phil across the room, snoring quietly in his padded leather desk chair. Clint's always the first one awake, and as soon as he moves, Phil's eyes snap open, and they never discuss it, they never say thank you, they just get up and go about their business. This is their situation normal, fucked up but still soldiering on; this is what gets them through the day.
Natasha's the only other person in the world he'd trust enough to let the world go, to sink into the couch cushions and not panic and run as soon as somebody started to care enough to tug off a suit jacket and toss it gently over his shoulders, but Natasha sleeps like a baby and she doesn't like other people in her space while she does it, not unless it's Clint and not unless he's awake and watching her back. It's a different kind of trade-off, the trust he has for Nat, and a different kind of peace that comes along with it, but she and Phil, they've both got his heart and he'll have their backs until he's no longer drawing breath.
Tomorrow, they'll get back to headquarters, and maybe they'll sleep in their own beds, or Phil will fall asleep on his couch in his apartment, old Captain America flicks on his television screen, just for the noise, and Clint will fall asleep curled up in one of the many small, tight places around the building where he prefers to sleep instead of in an actual bed, and maybe they'll both get some quality shut-eye without resorting to their ritual shuffling to Phil's office. Or maybe the movies won't lull Phil to sleep, and maybe Clint will twitch restlessly for two hours, and they'll acquiesce to the inevitable, give each other the nod in the hallway, and it'll be same shit, different day.
But whatever tomorrow brings, for tonight, they're awake, and their meandering takes them to a bakery, the kind that keeps erratic hours and serves whatever the hell they felt like making that day, which this afternoon happens to be an assortment of scones and miniature pies.
Fortified with hot black coffee and scones-- cinnamon chip & ginger for him; cranberry walnut for Phil-- they find their way to a park around dusk. Clint's not keeping time, because unless the phone rings again, they're off the clock for the next twenty-four, and it's nice to have a break that he doesn't have to spend alone.
There's a bench under a couple of trees, and they finish their coffee, swapping scones halfway through. Phil's nose wrinkles at the odd tingly heat of the soft bits of crystallized ginger that flavor the scone, and Clint smirks at him, but he lets Phil have a little dignity and doesn't openly mock him for it.
Across the park, there's an amphitheater and an orchestra warming up, one of those free gigs that cities put on in the summer when the weather's right, and for lack of anything better to do, at Phil's suggestion, they wander over and sit on the grass, listening to the music.
Moderately well known fact about Phil Coulson: the guy's a sucker for brass. Phil's not an Adagio for Strings kind of guy; you won't usually catch him listening to Barber or Bach, but give the man some big band jazz and he'll start tapping his fingers in time with the swing of the rhythm. Clint never thought it was his thing, until he met Phil, but a few long roadtrips later and he was sold on it, the life and the heart of it, the blare of horns that sound, occasionally, downright raunchy. It's the last kind of sound most people expect to hear blasting from Phil Coulson's stereo, but then, the actual Phil Coulson is the last person most people expect, most of the time.
Clint likes to think he sees pretty far, picks up on things that most folks miss, and maybe that's true, but Phil is consistently the guy who still manages to surprise him, and tonight is no exception: it's Phil's idea to listen to the music, and it's strings, not his typical thing, and it's Phil's idea to sit on the lawn instead of the stone seats of the amphitheater or the well-worn wood of the benches, and Phil's in his usual suit, but Clint learned five minutes into this partnership that Phil is just completely not fucked up about the possibility of ruining a suit no matter how nice it is, because better the suit than a civilian, better the suit than a team member. The suit's replaceable. The people aren't.
Very little known fact about Phil Coulson: at the end of the day, he cares more about his people than getting the job done.
Clint really has no fucking clue how people miss that one, unless he chalks it up to hiding in plain sight.
The music is Phil's idea, the lawn is Phil's idea, but it's Clint's idea to sit maybe a little closer to Phil than is strictly necessary. They must look an unlikely pair: Phil in his crisp black suit and neatly knotted tie, Clint in his t-shirt, hoodie, and cargo pants, shoulder to shoulder on bright green grass, legs stretched out, the tough edge of Clint's boot occasionally bumping the soft leather of Phil's dress shoe. His fingers brush Phil's wrist, barely a whisper of a touch, as the rich sounds of a cello solo warm the air.
Clint leans a little more against Phil's shoulder while they watch the cellist play. Her fingers dance over the fingerboard, the hair of her bow vibrating with energy as the soaring, leaps and dips of Bach zing through the air, mellow arrows of sound. Clint looks at her face; he reads the blissful concentration written there. He can practically feel the tension in her arm as she moves her bow across the strings; he can see the perfect angle of bow to string.
He knows very little about playing a cello, but he knows a lot about perfection; he knows about the balance it takes to hit the right note at the right time in the right rhythm because he knows how to use the right arrow at the right angle and the right speed. Perfection isn't always about a well-executed plan, sometimes it's as simple as a moment of serendipity, the right combination of two people and a summer breeze and music all around, the whole thing as easy and peaceful as the hum and whine of his bowstring. Phil's fingers slide neatly into the spaces between his own, the perfect culmination of all their sleepless nights and early mornings, all their post-mission rituals and traditions.
There is no protocol to follow here, but Clint thinks that they already know how this will go, just like they know how to find some semblance of rest in each other's company, just like he knows the things about Phil that other people miss, the things Clint knows because his heart's aim is as good as his hands'.
Clint's arrows always fly true because Clint never learned how to miss, and he sure as hell isn't going to miss out on this. It's awesome and it's terrifying and it's enough, for now. He flexes his fingers against Phil's, and Phil does the same in return, and they both smile as the cellist finishes her solo and bows to the applause of the crowd.
They'll sleep well tomorrow.
Fandom: The Avengers (2012)
Pairing: Clint/Coulson
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~2100
Disclaimers: All characters belong to Marvel and various subsidiaries. This isn't for profit, just for fun.
A/N: My version of Portland.
Below, on LJ/DW, or here on AO3.
It starts in Portland.
They're up too late; they don't sleep at all. Somebody has to finish these sitreps and somebody has to make sure the bad guys are properly transferred, and there are no cowering junior agents to pressgang into paperwork so they can get some rest, not that Phil would ever trust important paperwork to junior agents, not that Clint would leave him to do it alone.
Little known fact about Phil Coulson: the guy actually hates paperwork, but he hates incompetency more, so he's always the last guy out of the office, the guy whose lights are always on, and more often than not, Clint's keeping him company, filling in details that Phil missed.
Another little known fact about Phil Coulson: Phil's not perfect, he just does a damn fine impression of it. The kids think he's a stone-cold motherfucker, and to a point, that is true, but if that's all the kids know of Phil Coulson then Clint knows their experience is incomplete. The unflappable incredibly competent secret agent, that's the middle-of-the-action bullshit, that's just the training kicking in. That's not what comes after, because they don't give you a manual for that, they just toss you in the deep end and see if you pull your shit together enough to swim. Clint's the one who sees the post-mission fallout, partly because Clint's the only one who's really watching, but mostly because Phil trusts him enough to let him see it.
Some days it's anger, because some days the body count is too high, because for Phil even one is too high. Those are the days that Phil hits the range as soon as they get back and doesn't say a damn word until he's emptied every clip in every weapon he's trained for, and Clint never says anything about it, he just stands at the door and glowers at anybody who tries to go in. Some days it's good old-fashioned guilt, worry that he didn't make the right call, that he didn't make it soon enough, and those are the days that it's a couple of bourbons at the only bar in the tiny-ass town near headquarters. Clint keeps an eye out from the cafe across the street, and he knows that Phil knows, because he always does this funny little head tilt when he orders his last drink, like he's giving Clint the all clear, and Clint tosses some money down for his coffee and heads out, trusting Phil to know his limits.
They're not all bad days. On this particular evening, it's just relief that everything went down the way it should and satisfaction over a job well done, a world that's safe for another ten minutes, at least. Things went according to plan, but they're still up all night with protocol, and when they're up all night they both know that it's useless to sleep through the day, so they do what they always do: they keep each other awake with coffee and donuts and the spiciest food on the menu at the first restaurant they find.
This time, it's an Indian place, which suits Clint just fine, because he's been craving a decent bowl of pulusu since he got back from Andhra last month. This does not disappoint, though he's glad Phil remembers to order a couple of lassis; the food is nuclear, but then, that's the way he asked for it, and he can feel it burning delightfully all the way down to his stomach. They order extra naan and raita and then kheer, and Phil can never say no to gulab jamun, and by the time they leave, they can barely move, so naturally the next order of business is to find more coffee.
Well-known fact about Phil Coulson: he drinks more coffee in one day than is advisable and yet still manages to sleep at night.
The thing about that fact is that it's only partially accurate, because Clint knows how well Phil sleeps, and that is often not well at all. Most nights, Phil can't get to sleep, and most nights, Clint can't stay asleep, and they don't talk about the reasons when they meet each other in the SHIELD corridors late at night, both of them on their way back to Phil's office out of sheer force of habit, but there's always a moment when they look each other and nod, like they're in some secret club together, this club of seen-too-much-shit-to-sleep insomnia, and it shouldn't feel good to know that somebody else is drowning in this stuff, but it does. Phil's been his anchor and his rest for a good long time now, and if the quirk of Phil's mouth when they meet each other on those nights is any indication, his presence is payment in kind.
He can't count the number of times he's woken up on the couch in Phil's office, one of Phil's suit jackets draped across his chest and Phil across the room, snoring quietly in his padded leather desk chair. Clint's always the first one awake, and as soon as he moves, Phil's eyes snap open, and they never discuss it, they never say thank you, they just get up and go about their business. This is their situation normal, fucked up but still soldiering on; this is what gets them through the day.
Natasha's the only other person in the world he'd trust enough to let the world go, to sink into the couch cushions and not panic and run as soon as somebody started to care enough to tug off a suit jacket and toss it gently over his shoulders, but Natasha sleeps like a baby and she doesn't like other people in her space while she does it, not unless it's Clint and not unless he's awake and watching her back. It's a different kind of trade-off, the trust he has for Nat, and a different kind of peace that comes along with it, but she and Phil, they've both got his heart and he'll have their backs until he's no longer drawing breath.
Tomorrow, they'll get back to headquarters, and maybe they'll sleep in their own beds, or Phil will fall asleep on his couch in his apartment, old Captain America flicks on his television screen, just for the noise, and Clint will fall asleep curled up in one of the many small, tight places around the building where he prefers to sleep instead of in an actual bed, and maybe they'll both get some quality shut-eye without resorting to their ritual shuffling to Phil's office. Or maybe the movies won't lull Phil to sleep, and maybe Clint will twitch restlessly for two hours, and they'll acquiesce to the inevitable, give each other the nod in the hallway, and it'll be same shit, different day.
But whatever tomorrow brings, for tonight, they're awake, and their meandering takes them to a bakery, the kind that keeps erratic hours and serves whatever the hell they felt like making that day, which this afternoon happens to be an assortment of scones and miniature pies.
Fortified with hot black coffee and scones-- cinnamon chip & ginger for him; cranberry walnut for Phil-- they find their way to a park around dusk. Clint's not keeping time, because unless the phone rings again, they're off the clock for the next twenty-four, and it's nice to have a break that he doesn't have to spend alone.
There's a bench under a couple of trees, and they finish their coffee, swapping scones halfway through. Phil's nose wrinkles at the odd tingly heat of the soft bits of crystallized ginger that flavor the scone, and Clint smirks at him, but he lets Phil have a little dignity and doesn't openly mock him for it.
Across the park, there's an amphitheater and an orchestra warming up, one of those free gigs that cities put on in the summer when the weather's right, and for lack of anything better to do, at Phil's suggestion, they wander over and sit on the grass, listening to the music.
Moderately well known fact about Phil Coulson: the guy's a sucker for brass. Phil's not an Adagio for Strings kind of guy; you won't usually catch him listening to Barber or Bach, but give the man some big band jazz and he'll start tapping his fingers in time with the swing of the rhythm. Clint never thought it was his thing, until he met Phil, but a few long roadtrips later and he was sold on it, the life and the heart of it, the blare of horns that sound, occasionally, downright raunchy. It's the last kind of sound most people expect to hear blasting from Phil Coulson's stereo, but then, the actual Phil Coulson is the last person most people expect, most of the time.
Clint likes to think he sees pretty far, picks up on things that most folks miss, and maybe that's true, but Phil is consistently the guy who still manages to surprise him, and tonight is no exception: it's Phil's idea to listen to the music, and it's strings, not his typical thing, and it's Phil's idea to sit on the lawn instead of the stone seats of the amphitheater or the well-worn wood of the benches, and Phil's in his usual suit, but Clint learned five minutes into this partnership that Phil is just completely not fucked up about the possibility of ruining a suit no matter how nice it is, because better the suit than a civilian, better the suit than a team member. The suit's replaceable. The people aren't.
Very little known fact about Phil Coulson: at the end of the day, he cares more about his people than getting the job done.
Clint really has no fucking clue how people miss that one, unless he chalks it up to hiding in plain sight.
The music is Phil's idea, the lawn is Phil's idea, but it's Clint's idea to sit maybe a little closer to Phil than is strictly necessary. They must look an unlikely pair: Phil in his crisp black suit and neatly knotted tie, Clint in his t-shirt, hoodie, and cargo pants, shoulder to shoulder on bright green grass, legs stretched out, the tough edge of Clint's boot occasionally bumping the soft leather of Phil's dress shoe. His fingers brush Phil's wrist, barely a whisper of a touch, as the rich sounds of a cello solo warm the air.
Clint leans a little more against Phil's shoulder while they watch the cellist play. Her fingers dance over the fingerboard, the hair of her bow vibrating with energy as the soaring, leaps and dips of Bach zing through the air, mellow arrows of sound. Clint looks at her face; he reads the blissful concentration written there. He can practically feel the tension in her arm as she moves her bow across the strings; he can see the perfect angle of bow to string.
He knows very little about playing a cello, but he knows a lot about perfection; he knows about the balance it takes to hit the right note at the right time in the right rhythm because he knows how to use the right arrow at the right angle and the right speed. Perfection isn't always about a well-executed plan, sometimes it's as simple as a moment of serendipity, the right combination of two people and a summer breeze and music all around, the whole thing as easy and peaceful as the hum and whine of his bowstring. Phil's fingers slide neatly into the spaces between his own, the perfect culmination of all their sleepless nights and early mornings, all their post-mission rituals and traditions.
There is no protocol to follow here, but Clint thinks that they already know how this will go, just like they know how to find some semblance of rest in each other's company, just like he knows the things about Phil that other people miss, the things Clint knows because his heart's aim is as good as his hands'.
Clint's arrows always fly true because Clint never learned how to miss, and he sure as hell isn't going to miss out on this. It's awesome and it's terrifying and it's enough, for now. He flexes his fingers against Phil's, and Phil does the same in return, and they both smile as the cellist finishes her solo and bows to the applause of the crowd.
They'll sleep well tomorrow.