Fic: Catch Your Voice 1/2 (Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, PG-13)
Title: Catch Your Voice
Author: lavvyan
Pairing: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Fandom: Avengers movie 'verse
Rating: PG-13-going-on-R for violence and Clint's potty mouth
Word count: ~14,200
Warnings/Content: Comic book violence, mind control, perceived character death
Notes: This story contains a little bit of dialogue from Thor in pt. 11 and from The Avengers in pt. 15. I'm ignoring the official Marvel Avengers Timeline because no way did all that shit go down in just a week. Also, title nicked from Shakespeare because if you're not making up your own you might as well steal from a popular source. Many thanks to kisahawklin for the marvellous beta and to everyone who kept me from throwing up my hands and abandoning this story to the elements, especially seikaitsukimizu, ladyflowdi and ladyamarra. It really does take a village.
Summary: Clint keeps telling himself he's not obsessed with Coulson. From the way Natasha keeps laughing at him, she's not buying it either. But it's only a crush if you know what the other guy actually looks like, right?
The really important part: This was written for marvel_bang (I failed to fail at a sorta-big bang, whee!) and I'm twice-blessed because I got to work with two generous and talented artists who were a joy to collaborate with. Click on the previews to see their work!
Fanmix by ladyofthelog/
verity:
Art by eiirene:
Catch Your Voice
1.
Clint's never been very good with patience, but he's great at waiting. Pretty much had to be since childhood: the road between towns, the hours between setting up the tent and starting the show, the police deciding he's had enough of a scare and is too young to be kept overnight (again). Waiting for SHIELD to decide what to do with him, waiting for the next mission, waiting to take the shot. These days, it seems that waiting to take the damn shot is all he ever does, more's the pity. He's great at waiting, but he's awesome at running the game.
He's got a lot more to offer than just his skills as a sniper, but after that thing in Budapest, SHIELD rarely lets him out to play on his own.
He still maintains that it'd have been a damn shame to kill her, though. For all he keeps hearing about 'Agent Romanoff's exploits' and how they're all his fault, SHIELD tends to agree. It had been an interesting mission, at least.
This mission is dead in the water. It was a mess right from the start, with a handler too set in his ways and a team so used to working with each other they hadn't really known what to do with him. The job was to infiltrate a cruise ship, steal a flash drive from a third-rate arms dealer with possible connections to HYDRA and get the fuck out of there, preferably unnoticed. Now his handler's dead, the team is dead, and Clint's stuck above the amphitheater in one of the few CCTV blind spots, trying to figure out a way to complete the mission and not get shot in the process. At least he's still got his bow.
He's got a few ideas, but since all of them involve jumping overboard at some point, he's not too keen on leaving the planning stage just yet. Wait for an opening. Wait for inspiration. Wait for them to spot him and take him down. Fuck.
If he can get past the boardwalk, through the central park, across the mini-golf course, over the fence and down six levels along the front hull, he might make it to the helipad. Hot-wiring a chopper isn't hard, but…
But if Clint runs, six people will have died with nothing to show for it. He's too stubborn to let that happen.
So, yeah. He needs a plan, and he needs it now.
His radio clicks once. His heart jumps and picks up speed, but he doesn't flinch, doesn't stop watching the amphitheater below.
"Talk to me, Barton." It's a voice he's never heard before. Not their mark or one of his cronies - Clint's heard enough of them through the active team channels before they cut out - but that doesn't mean it's a friendly.
"Who are you?" he murmurs, gaze flicking across the far-too-open spaces below him. A trickle of sweat is inching its way down his nose. This could be a trap. Cole knows he's still on the ship, but if he and his goons want to play cat and mouse they're going to have to do a lot better than this. Clint doesn't play well with others even when he's reasonably sure they're not meant to stab him in the back. If this is a trap, it's a bad one.
"This is Agent Coulson. Your code is Red Iowa Echo Seven Oakley. Give me your status."
Clint licks his lips. It's the right code and the guy's voice is calm as you please. Self-assured. But Clint's handler knew both the code and the most common SHIELD frequencies. Clint's grip tightens around the bow. He hasn't nocked an arrow yet.
Maybe he should.
"How do I know you're on my side?" Even as he asks it, Clint knows the answer won't matter. There's no way for this guy to identify himself that Clint's handler couldn't have given up under torture. He's nowhere near far enough up the ladder to know any of the truly meaningful codes. The mission's been compromised, and all that's left for him to do is decide if he wants to trust this guy or not.
He really doesn't.
"You'll have to take my word for it," Coulson says, and there's amusement in his voice, like he knows Clint is screwed either way. Clint lets out a slow breath.
Fuck.
"Strike team's down," he mutters. It's clean information, not giving up anything the enemy doesn't know. Not yet. "Perez is dead. Cole still has the flash drive. We're fifteen hours away from the next port."
"Are you hurt?"
"No." He never got the opportunity to make a difference. Fuck Perez and his idiotic plan, and fuck Clint for going along with it. He might as well have shot the team himself. Would have been kinder, too.
There's a short pause.
"We still have another operative on board," Coulson says casually, like he's announcing there'll be drinks on the pool deck in fifteen minutes. "We'll engineer a distraction. I will talk you through the decks to Cole's location. Get the drive, then get to the helipad. You'll be picked up from there. What's your position?"
Clint grimaces. This is it, then. He shifts his weight, pulls an arrow from its quiver, and lines it up.
If they try to take him down, he won't be selling himself cheap.
He takes a breath, tries to stay calm. "Amphitheater."
Another pause. A man in a waiter's uniform ambles along the empty boardwalk, checks for tourists wanting a drink. He walks in and out of Clint's line of sight, never once looking up. Clint's heart is pounding like crazy, flooding his whole body with a wave of adrenalin, but his grip on the bow is steady. He breathes in, holds, breathes out again.
Just wait.
The fire alarm goes off.
Clint blinks. "Fake fire alarm? That's your distraction?" he asks, biting back a laugh because, what the hell?
"Sometimes it's best to stick with the classics." Coulson sounds almost cheerful. "Move it, Barton. You want to get down two levels. Avoid the dining rooms."
"Yes, sir," Clint says, grinning now. Coulson seems almost crazy enough to get Clint off this damn ship after all. There's smoke drifting from the floating bar. People are starting to scream.
Clint can work with that.
2.
The engines actually do catch fire. Clint improvises, gets the flash drive, and saves the day.
What can he say? He's just that good.
3.
"Still waiting for you to make the call, ma'am." Clint's being obnoxious, he knows it. But he's freezing his ass off, there's a storm front coming up that's probably bringing more snow, and the mark's been sipping something hot straight from the thermos for the past ten minutes, right in Clint's line of sight.
Honestly.
"Negative, Hawkeye." Benko sounds smug, sitting in her nice, warm surveillance van. It's her first mission as a handler and she's doing well enough, but she's trying too hard to cement her authority. Clint's got no problem with authority, unless it's the kind that tries to fuck him over. Benko's not trying to fuck him over, but she's dragging this out too long for no good reason.
"I never got why it's 'positive' and 'negative,'" Clint says. He wonders if she's taken into account that once he starts to shiver, his aim will be for shit. Maybe he can annoy her into giving the order, just to shut him up. "What's wrong with 'yes' and 'no'? If the transmission craps out, '-tive' will give you nothing. There's no mistaking 'yes' for 'no' even if you hear only half of it."
"Hawkeye, when did I give you permission to chatter?" Not so smug anymore. Clint smiles.
"I'm cold, ma'am. Talking to you warms my heart."
He hears Benko draw in a breath, but another voice cuts her off. "Agent Benko, please don't engage. Barton, how long until your aim is compromised?"
It takes Clint a moment to place that voice, but then he does. Crazy Coulson. From the cruise ship. Fun times.
"Got another six minutes at least, sir." He grins. "Didn't know you were going to join us."
"I'm not," Coulson says, and he sounds just as calm as last time. "We need you on another mission, so please wrap this one up."
"Yes, sir," Benko says, so Coulson obviously outranks her. Clint is pretty sure that Coulson was talking to him, not her, but he still asks, "Does that mean I can finally take the shot?"
"Positive," Coulson says, and there's that amusement again. Clint smirks, lines up the shot, fires. The mark drops, hot liquid splashing from the thermos, steaming in the cold air.
Man, he wants a coffee.
"And here I thought we had an understanding, sir," he says with a fake pout as he packs up his gear and walks to the side of the roof. There's an iron ladder that's going to be cold as hell. He'll have to take it the fast way unless he wants to court frost bite after all.
"Negative." And there's a smirk in Coulson's voice now. Clint fumbles his grip as he slides down the ladder, hisses as his fingers smack against a rung.
"Fuck."
"Barton?"
Fuck. Open comm channel, perfect. He's making a really good impression today. "Nothing. Sir."
It's just that handlers don't joke with him. He likes his job, believes in what SHIELD tries to do, but he's always been on the fringes of that organization. He likes to be on the fringes, with no one to worry about but himself (and Nat, but that's his own damn fault), and certainly no one to pick up a running joke.
"Am I taking your word for that?"
Seems Coulson didn't get that memo.
"Sir," Clint says, more than ready for this conversation to be over as he slides the rest of the way down. His feet thump on the frozen ground. Coulson just hums, like he's already moved on to more important things.
Doesn't matter, Clint tells himself as he tries to shake the sting from his fingers. He's a senior agent. You're one asset. This is probably the last you'll ever hear from him.
And if he regrets that, just a little, then that's his own business.
4.
Coulson, though, doesn't seem to be aware that he's not supposed to be more than a fond memory of that one time they nearly sank a cruise ship together. He guides Clint through an assassination in Latakia (Syria), busting a HYDRA base in Vargem Bonita (Brazil), and various thefts in Port Harcourt (Nigeria), Alice Springs (Australia) and New Jersey (wtf). He's also the one in charge of a spectacularly ambitious sabotage mission in Khujand that almost goes wrong half a dozen times in increasingly fucked-up ways and ends with Clint laughing like a maniac while Natasha calmly picks multicolored mosaic tiles out of her hair.
Coulson's the only one who isn't afraid to pair Clint with Natasha and watch the fireworks go off. It's kind of awesome.
Coulson's kind of awesome, actually. He always has good intel, is completely prepared to either ignore Clint's bored running commentary or answer in such a deadpan way that half the other agents never notice he just made a joke, and he's willing to trust that Clint knows what the fuck he's doing.
"You like him," Natasha says, looking way more interested in this discovery than in the mission paperwork they're supposed to be filling out.
"So?" That comes out way too defensive. Clint grimaces and throws her an apologetic look.
"You don't like handlers." She smirks and taps him lightly with her pen. "You don't like anyone except for me."
"Yeah, well, don't get jealous," he mutters, the tips of his ears possibly a little warmer than they should be, but she laughs and so he has to smile.
He has nightmares, sometimes, where he lets the arrow fly and she jerks and whatever laughter she might have left dies with her.
Those are the nights he doesn't even try to go back to sleep.
She lets him fill out a few lines before she says, "Didn't think he'd be your type."
"It's not like that," he says automatically. Then the implication sinks in and he jerks his head up without really meaning to. "Wait, you've met him?"
Her eyes widen.
"You haven't!" she says, a delighted smile spreading across her face, and he doesn't know where exactly his life went wrong, but if a former Soviet super-spy gets her kicks out of his non-existent love life he must have fucked up somewhere. "Oh, Clint."
"What? There's always someone else running the debrief, but it's not like-" He jabs his pen at her when she laughs. "You know I'm not-" and she's still laughing at him. Fuck it. Clint scowls at her, but he knows when he's lost. "Okay, fine. What does he look like, anyway?"
"Oh, no, no." Her eyes are dancing, and he wishes he didn't love her so much, wishes he loved her more, wishes they loved each other differently so they'd make at least a little bit of sense. "I don't want to ruin the suspense."
"There is no suspense." He twirls his pen between his fingers for a moment and then leans back over his paperwork. Look how completely I'm ignoring you. "I don't care."
"I believe you," she says, bumping her foot against his leg. You're so full of shit. "And I bet you're not going to ask anyone else about him, either."
"Damn straight I'm not."
She snorts. He kicks her. She flicks her pen at him and he throws his paperwork into her face. The table skids across the floor as she kicks it at him but he's already moving, and by the time someone comes to see what the ruckus is about they've broken both their chairs and forgotten all about Coulson.
5.
Except he never really 'forgets' about Coulson.
For one thing, Coulson has the best missions. Not every interesting mission is run by Coulson, of course, but if he's in charge, Clint can be certain he won't be bored (or the redundant backup who just sits around and twiddles his thumbs).
For another, obviously Clint has never learned to leave well enough alone and so he does ask around, just like Natasha knew he would. He's already decided to call her Nat again until she threatens to break his face, just for knowing him so damn well.
He tries not to think about the last time someone knew him that well. Thinking about Barney still… smarts.
Anyway, he does ask around, and maybe it's that he's asking covertly ('cause he isn't an idiot) or maybe it's that someone's fucking with him, but the answers he gets actively contradict each other. After five months, what he's got is:
He doesn't give a shit whether Coulson's a stuffy accountant or a lean, mean, dandelion-picking machine.
He just wants to know.
6.
Coulson's first name is Phillip. Clint has no idea why this fills him with so much glee, but it does.
Just… Phillip. Phillip.
7.
It's a typical Coulson mission, neatly organized like clockwork, only with extra cogs and screws in place in case something goes wrong. For once, Clint is one of those extras, the backup plan to the backup plan. For once, he doesn't mind. The mission's low-profile enough for the junior agents to try their baby teeth on, but it still has to get done. This isn't one of HYDRA's main bases, but there's still intel to be found here.
Clint kind of likes that he's the ace up Coulson's sleeve. Gives him the warm fuzzies, it does.
What makes this mission one of the interesting ones is the enforced radio silence. Something inside HYDRA's compound blocks their transmissions, so once a team is in, that's it. No way to know how shit goes down except to wait for them to come out again.
They give the first team four hours beyond the projected time for completion. No alarms, but no returning team, either. The second group goes in with two extras, carefully instructed where to split up, and why, and when to leg it and call the mission a loss.
"You want me to go in, sir?" Clint asks when it becomes clear that nobody's going to make it to the extraction point any time soon.
Coulson, supervising the whole thing from god knows where, doesn't. "Give them time," he says.
Clint gives them twenty minutes. Then he gives them another five before he strings his bow and checks the quiver once more. "Coulson, if I give the puppies any more time to get out of there themselves, HYDRA will have turned them into fur coats and matching boots by the time we see them again."
"Are you the sheepdog or the tabby cat in this scenario?" Coulson sounds mildly interested.
Clint grins. "I always thought the movie lacked an older, experienced bird, sir."
"I bet you love Winnie the Pooh," Coulson says. "All right, go. Fetch me my assets."
"Yes, sir."
Getting into the compound is easy. Clint on his own can take a few routes the junior agents never would have managed, and he takes advantage of the fact that, even with the base on alert (and they are on alert, they're just being sneaky about it), no one ever looks up to see if a circus-trained sniper might be making his way along the ceiling.
Morons.
He goes for the intel first. It's the logical decision: intel means control room, control room means cameras; take out the guys in the control room, nobody watches the cameras. It also gives him access to the security system. Looks like the puppies are still alive and more or less in good shape. Coulson will like that.
The first team's easy to retrieve. One of the four (Asian, tiny) is holding her arm awkwardly. She waves him off when he asks if she's good to go.
"SHIELD doesn't hire crybabies," she says flatly. "It's just a break."
Clint likes her.
Of course, that's when the trouble starts. The alarm finally goes off for real (someone must have found the pile of bodies Clint left in the control room) and people first start shouting and then shooting. Clint directs his team of puppies through rooms and corridors, stopping only to let them pick up guns and ammo from the bodies he leaves behind. He's not careful anymore. He's a soldier; he rarely shoots to incapacitate, but now he abandons all thoughts of stealth for simple efficiency. Arrow to the throat, never mind the splatter. Don't pin the guy with the knife, just kill him. Four HYDRA agents pouring through the door. Take out one, two, see the third go down from a head shot fired by the girl with the broken arm (Clint really likes her). The fourth one's too close, stab him with an arrow. Make a face at the spray of blood that's ruining a perfectly good uniform.
"Jesus," one of the junior agents whispers, but Clint has no time to coddle anyone. There are six more SHIELD personnel on this base and he will get them.
He'd like to say things get a little blurry from there, but if anything, they get more focused. He cuts through HYDRA's forces like a diamond blade through glass. In the debriefing, he'll be able to recount, in perfect detail, every step taken, every arrow fired and reclaimed, every single life he ended. He'll have nightmares from this, but that doesn't stop him, never did.
He has a job to do.
He does it.
And when it's done, when he's out, he doesn't fight to keep from throwing up like two of the juniors. He doesn't whisper a prayer. He just clicks his radio and says, "All accounted for."
There isn't even a pause. "Took your sweet time, Barton," Coulson says, and damn if the man doesn't sound like he's smiling. Clint wonders if he can see the way the juniors keep giving Clint a wide berth, eyes huge and faces pale.
He'll always blame leftover adrenalin for what he says next. "I would have been faster with only half the puppies, sir, but I know how anal you are about getting your stuff back."
There's a long pause when Clint wonders if he's gone too far. Then Coulson snorts, indelicate and completely unexpected, and Clint grins tiredly even as he rubs his thumb across his sternum, where his heart is beating just a little too fast.
"Good job," Coulson says, and yeah.
Yeah. This one went okay.
8.
The next one doesn't go okay at all.
He can see… there's a sunbeam stabbing through the dust and debris, solid enough to touch if only Clint could move his hand. Or much of anything, really. There's a… thing, like a slab of floor but jagged, red tubes running through it like veins. It's perched precariously over Clint's head, held up by the same mess of steel and concrete that's pinning Clint to the ground in more ways than one, such a fucking irony.
(It's like raaaaaaain on your wedding day…)
He's had that fucking song stuck in his head since he woke up, jumbled and all out of order. He's pretty sure he's got rebar in places it really shouldn't go. Like his thigh. There's a lot of wetness under his thigh. And his back. And he can see the… the slab, with the tubes, and towering above it a ruin of glass and plastic and carbon steel and torn wires, and somewhere something's spraying a lot of water, and the sunbeam sticking through the whole confusion like a giant sparkling lever, but he can't see the sky.
He can't see the sky, and it bugs the hell out of him.
It's a… he should be able to see the sky, shouldn't he? Mission. With the… thing. In… Harlem? He was right beneath the sky and now he isn't. There's a blank between those two things. Clint's head hurts.
Everything hurts.
It's a good thing he's bleeding out, because that way Natasha won't kill him for clocking out without her. (And isn't it ironic… don't you think?)
Something overhead shifts, another thing sparks, and suddenly what feels like entire buckets worth of fine debris are dumped on him. Clint jerks, and pain, and by the time he drifts back to somewhere coherent his mouth is full of dirt and his eyes are pretty much crusted shut. He coughs weakly, tries to moves his tongue enough to shove out some of the muck and gives it up as a bad job.
Then he lies there, so fucking tired, listening to the building groan and shift around him. His breath whistles in and out of his nose, not enough air, and this isn't how he imagined dying. Not quiet and unnoticed. Not feeling the seconds tick by as he wonders if that slab is going to come down to crush his skull before or after he's dead.
He can hear it move towards him. It's crunching rhythmically, like it's leaning down by inches, like instead of mashing his brain into the rubble it just wants to tap him gently on the forehead.
Clint frowns. That can't be right.
"Barton."
(It's like meeting the man of my dreams, and then meeting his beautiful- Nonsense. Nonsense, nonsense…)
"Barton. Talk to me."
That's not the radio. Clint's lost his radio. And there's that tap on his forehead, except it's fingers brushing away some of the dirt, another touch at his throat, and he's dreaming, must be. He must be. He twists his head, struggles to clear his mouth, and this time someone helps him, someone, because there's no way-
"Clint."
"… here?" Only one word makes it out, the rest of the question smothered by exhaustion somewhere between his brain and his vocal cords. Or maybe it's just that Clint's heart is beating so fast that there's no energy left for talking (can't-be, can't-be, can't-be).
"I was in the neighborhood," Coulson says, Coulson says, and for a second Clint thinks he's going to cry. Coulson's voice sounds wrong. It's not calm and confident at all. It's… soft, holding relief and worry and a dozen other things Clint can't begin to name with no visual… oh. Oh, no, what the fuck?
Clint starts to laugh. It's faint and wheezing and hurts like hell, but he can't stop because this is so damn unfair it's hilarious. His last and only chance to find out what Coulson looks like, and his fucking eyes are cemented shut.
"Something funny, Agent?" Coulson's keeping his voice light, but he still sounds wrong. Clint can tell. He's had Coulson talk him through enough ops by now to know what he needs to listen for. He's pathetically grateful for the way Coulson's trying to pretend that Clint isn't a bit too broken to fix this time, for the way his hand is warm on Clint's throat, still measuring Clint's heartbeat. Coulson's there. Coulson's there, but-
"… voice… 'n my ear," he manages. That's what Coulson is. What he's always been, right from the start. Just a voice in Clint's ear, even now.
God, he's bitter. And he has no idea why.
The touch is so soft Clint isn't sure he's not imagining it. A fingertip ghosting over the dirt crusting Clint's eyes. Smoothing away some of the grime from Clint's temple. Trailing off just skimming his ear. Clint holds his breath.
"Positive," Coulson says quietly. Running joke. He remembered.
Something inside Clint eases, lets go. He thinks he may be smiling a little. His heartbeat stutters. He doesn't really hurt anymore.
"F'nny," he breathes, and slips away.
9.
Ages pass before he's allowed out of medical, let alone PT. Inactivity while waiting for a mission to get to the fun parts is one thing; inactivity while being stuck in bed? Only marginally beats being stuck under a metric ton of rubble. He's one stubborn fuck so he's toughing it out, but that doesn't mean he's not itching to move, damn it.
Natasha drops by every now and then, unsympathetic and concerned by turns, depending on how much pain he's in. It's nice to know she cares, nicer still when she uses her powers for evil to get him Tony Stark's reply to the iPad.
"It's not supposed to get on the market for another six months," she tells him, "but working for the guy has its advantages."
He grins at her. "You hate him."
"So much," she sighs, and then shows him all the things she's downloaded for him.
Coulson doesn't drop by, but then Clint didn't expect him to. He does send Clint an e-mail with an iTunes code. It's for an audiobook, and when Clint sees the title he laughs so hard it hurts.
Never Hit a Jellyfish with a Spade: How to Survive Life's Smaller Challenges
He's still grinning when he sends his own e-mail.
from: c.barton@shield.gov
to: p.coulson@shield.gov
subject: Jellyfish
Thanks.
Coulson replies almost instantly.
from: p.coulson@shield.gov
to: c.barton@shield.gov
subject: Re: Jellyfish
Additional advice: never let a building fall on your head.
- P. Coulson
Clint may be a little bit in love.
10.
One thing Clint likes about SHIELD's super-secret temporary bases of operations is that they always set up a canteen. Sometimes it's a tent, sometimes it's a side-tunnel in a cave, and sometimes it's a trailer with a dozen small tables crammed in and the air con running overtime. It's strangely comforting, in a way, to get the same institutionalized mac'n'cheese in New Mexico that he had just two days ago in Southern Germany.
Nothing says welcome like bright yellow pasta and a coke.
He's arrived just after shift change so the trailer is pretty stuffed. He spots an empty table anyway, a tiny thing with just two chairs that's been wedged into a corner. Yeah, no.
Clint puts down his tray and then shifts the table, ignoring the glare from the guy whose chair he bumps it into. He's not here to make friends, and he'll be damned if he's going to sit with his back to the door. If the guy wants to complain, he can take it up with Sitwell. Clint has worked with him before; as long as he gets the job done, Sitwell doesn't care how many toes Clint steps on.
Corner newly freed, he drags one of the chairs over and sits down to start shoveling lukewarm pasta into his mouth, keeping an eye on the exit. The sooner he's done eating, the sooner he can check if his bow made it here in one piece. After that, maybe he can find Sitwell and figure out what the hell he's doing here. The ground's swarming with security personnel. He can't see why they'd need a specialist like him to keep an eye on things.
Another tray hits the table with a soft click. Burger, with the saddest drooping excuse for lettuce Clint has ever seen, and he's been to McDonald's in Germany. The second chair gets pulled back and a guy sits down without so much as a greeting. No small talk. Clint approves.
He spares the guy a quick glance (suit, a bit too expensive for simple security; confident posture; senior agent? Analyst?) and goes back to his mac'n'cheese. It's just starting to congeal. That's the best bit.
They eat their junk food in silence, secure in the knowledge they won't be accidentally ingesting any vitamins today. It's kind of neat, actually. He'll have to see if he can make this guy his table buddy for however long this mission lasts. They'd probably both be glad to have uninterrupted meals. This guy doesn't seem any more inclined to make anyone's acquaintance than Clint himself.
Clint's about to suggest as much when the guy's jacket starts to buzz. The guy huffs out a breath through his nose that isn't quite a sigh but manages to convey exasperation just fine, and reaches into the inside pocket. Clint shoves another forkful of cooling pasta into his mouth as the guy pulls out a phone and glances at the caller ID before he picks it up.
"This better be good."
Clint sucks in a startled breath and inhales half his mac'n'cheese. The other half sprays over the table as he starts to cough, eyes watering as he reaches desperately for his coke.
"Shit," he croaks, gasping for breath, because holy shit, holy shit.
Coulson gives him an unimpressed look as he says, "I'm on my way," and hangs up. "Please bus that for me, Barton," he adds with a nod at his tray and the half-eaten burger on it. The drooping lettuce is now dotted with tiny yellow bits of pasta.
"Yes, sir," Clint manages, because he's a professional, god damn it, and not nearly as idiotic as he's making himself look right now.
"Thank you." One corner of Coulson's mouth twitches. "I'll see you at dinner."
"Yes, sir."
He waits until Coulson has left the trailer. Then he pushes away his tray and very slowly, very carefully, bangs his head on the table.
11.
He doesn't see Coulson at dinner because they end up with a security breach. Clint's been told to stay away from the ground troops (especially from the junior agents; apparently Clint's got a reputation now) and so he takes up position near their sad excuse for an armory (a single armored van) when the alarm goes off. He's a sniper; there must be a reason Coulson had him assigned here, and it certainly wasn't Clint's brilliant impression of a beached fish.
Maybe, if he's really lucky, he'll get a chance to prove he's worth keeping.
Minutes go by, a sudden rainfall soaking him through to the skin, and he's starting to think the intruder might have been dealt with when his radio crackles, and Coulson says, "I need eyes up high, with a gun."
Yes and thank-you.
He's in the armored van before Coulson has finished speaking, hands on a rifle before he decides that, no. No, this isn't the way he's going to do this. Not when his bow is right there.
The intruder is making his way through the plastic tunnels, apparently unimpressed with what the ground units are throwing at him. Clint can relate; it's obvious that Coulson's ordered non-lethal force, but if this is the best SHIELD's got when the guns are out of play, it doesn't look like they've got much. Clint could show them a trick or two if he hadn't been ordered to go high, but he's going to toe the line between initiative and insubordination already. No need to add to it.
Sitwell's orders assigned him sniper position, if needed, on top of the containment area. Plastic's shit to climb, though, and the long way up is not his style. Clint found something better.
The small crane cage is slick with rainwater, but personal safety's not his main issue right now. He gives a thumbs-up and Li starts the crane, yanks him up and to the left so he can aim where the mysterious immovable hammer is mysteriously failing to sink into the mud.
"That's my girl," he mutters as he strings the bow on his way up. He'll have to ask Coulson to give her a junior agent gold star or something.
And then he's in position, just as Coulson says, "Barton. Talk to me."
Clint nocks the arrow. "You want me to slow him down, sir? Or are you sending in more guys for him to beat up?"
Because honestly, what he can see from up here makes him feel embarrassed on behalf of SHIELD agents everywhere. It's just sad.
"I'll let you know," Coulson says.
Clint doesn't smile, but it's a close thing. This is his job. This is him, up high, with his target in range and Coulson's voice in his ear. This is what he does.
Only he doesn't really get to do anything, just watches as their intruder (some kind of long-haired surfer-wrestler guy) fails to pick up the hammer, yells a bit at the sky and then slumps down into the mud. Coulson, like a kid who's just discovered that his shiny new toy doesn't have any batteries included, calls the whole thing off and sends in the ground units again, with better results this time. Three hours later, he even lets the guy go.
Clint's not disappointed. Violence is his job, not his calling, and he's never sad to not take someone down (unless it's personal, but it rarely is anymore; he's more careful now) with weeks of recovery or a short trip six feet down ahead of them.
He's not disappointed, but he's not too happy, either.
He's taking the bow apart when Coulson finds him, sitting on top of the armored truck so no one can tell him he took any weapon away from the armory without permission. A bit of water won't do any damage, except Clint's never been known to take any chances with his equipment. He's not about to start now.
The top of the van is still wet, so he's not expecting Coulson to sit down next to him, careful not to touch any of the parts Clint hasn't cleaned and dried yet. You'll ruin your suit, Clint doesn't say. He's never been tongue-tied around Coulson when they were on different ends of a radio line. Now, with only inches between them, talking seems unaccountably hard.
So he puts down the piece he was holding on the towel beside him and plucks up the next one. When in doubt, lay low. Works for the possum.
"I believe," Coulson says finally, "that your assigned default position was on top of the scaffolding."
Ah. So Coulson's here to chew him out for disobeying orders. At least that's somewhat familiar. "Crane's faster. Sir."
"So it is." And because Clint still isn't looking at Coulson, he picks up the satisfied note in Coulson's voice as he adds, "Lucky coincidence that Agent Li was in a position to offer that alternative."
"Yes, sir." Clint smirks, just a little, feeling the tension in his muscles ease a bit. Seems that Coulson's letting him get away with disobedience, if only because it worked. That's also familiar.
Something crinkles. A moment later, Clint's looking down at a slightly damp packet of Little Debbie frosted donuts, neatly opened.
"Donut?" Coulson asks pleasantly.
Clint looks up. Coulson still looks more like an analyst than SHIELD's most badass handler. He's not smiling, just wearing the blandest expression Clint's ever seen. Then again, Coulson often has one of the blandest voices Clint's ever heard, so that fits all right.
And that's when it hits him. This is Coulson. This is the guy Clint's been trusting with his life for almost three years now, and they're sitting on top of an armored van only a stone's throw away from a mysterious immovable hammer, sharing donuts.
Clint couldn't stop the grin from spreading if he had a gun to his head. "So you're bringing me dinner now?"
One corner of Coulson's mouth curves up. "Seems we both missed it."
"Little bit of junk food's not going to help much," Clint points out, but he's already taken one of the donuts because now that food is there, he's hungry.
Coulson wordlessly reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a packet of glazed donuts and sets it down between them.
Clint blinks, and then he laughs, and Coulson gives him an amiable (and bland, so bland, how the hell does he do that?) smile as he fishes out a donut for himself.
They eat in silence, as that is how meals should be eaten, and yeah, Natasha's a little bit right. Coulson's unimposing and unassuming and not the kind of guy you'd look at once, let alone twice. He's absolutely not Clint's type.
Except for all the ways he is.
12.
They make it something of a habit to share their meals when they're on the same base at the same time. Not always; Coulson's table is off-limits when he's sitting with Sitwell, and Clint has somehow picked up a gaggle of juniors that Coulson wants no part of (nor does Clint, exactly, but they're good for fetching coffee). Sometimes Natasha joins them, smiling like she knows all their secrets and daring them to try whatever weird snack she's brought back from her latest mission (Coulson's slow blink at the dried octopus tentacles was the closest Clint's ever seen him to baffled). Sometimes one of them sits down and immediately gets up again because Fury wants something, or Hill wants something, or fucking Hanayama from HR needs another signature because SHIELD invents forms faster than Tony Stark invents useless gadgets.
But more often than not, they set their trays down across from each other and spend their meal in comfortable silence, only talking when it's something important.
Like Coulson's astonishing lack of self-preservation.
"That doesn't look like it's meant for human consumption," Clint says, pointing his fork at Coulson's leathery lasagne.
"You're having the macaroni and cheese," Coulson says, in a tone that makes it perfectly clear that in Coulson's opinion Clint's in no position to judge anyone's food.
"Lunch of champions," Clint says and shoves another forkful into his mouth.
Coulson watches him chew for a moment before he resumes picking at his own plate. This is the first time they've seen each other in days, what with Coulson overseeing some project for Fury and Clint making sure no one steals the glowy cube they're tinkering with in the labs. As far as Clint understands it, the cube is some kind of doorway to another dimension that could be used as a power source. Neat, if they can get it to work, but watching the damn thing all day is still one of the most boring ops he's ever been assigned to. And stressful; somehow, monitoring fourteen people for hours on end and have none of them do anything fishy is more tiring than taking down fourteen hostiles in the same time. Dr. Selvig, the lead scientist, is starting to call the cube 'she,' though, so at least Clint knows he's not the only one who's cracking.
And he's got these breaks to look forward to. He's spent so much time with Coulson quietly talking in his ear that just sitting across from him is enough to help Clint unwind. Coulson is so reliable in both his clothing and his mannerisms that somehow, without quite noticing at first, Clint has started to react to him in the same way he used to react to the safety net at the circus: ah, there it is. You can relax now. Everything will be fine.
It's weirdly addictive.
"Do you want to have dinner with me?" Clint doesn't realize he's going to ask until it's too late. He blinks, but the question's out with no way to take it back. Shit.
Coulson stops chewing and looks at Clint with… well, not surprise because Coulson doesn't do surprise. Not in any obvious way. But he does take a moment before he swallows and asks, "In a professional capacity?"
And that's it, Clint's take-back. He can say he was just wondering if they'd meet up again later. He can say he wants to talk about that mission in New Mexico and how the clean-up could have gone better. He can say that of course he means professionally, what a weird thing to ask.
The mac'n'cheese sit in his stomach like Thor's mysterious hammer.
"I'd prefer a date. Sir."
Coulson seems to consider this. "Then no. I don't want to have dinner with you." Clint's stomach drops as Coulson resumes eating. Coulson may appear as relaxed as he was when they sat down, but there's a new tension in the way he holds his fork. Clint knows him well enough by now to spot it.
Clint taps his own fork.
"Okay," he says slowly. It's not the first time he got rejected, and it's… it's not a big deal, right? Not like he had reason to expect anything different, right? And it's not like Coulson's going to be all weird, now they both know where they stand, kind of, and that's… good.
Right?
He puts down his fork and sighs. Suddenly, he's not that hungry anymore.
Coulson gives him a brief, tired smile, like he's grateful that Clint's letting the whole thing drop so easily. There's an odd look in his eyes, something almost like regret, but mostly exhaustion. Clint wonders what Fury's making him do all day.
"My minions want to know if they can try to qualify with a bow, but they're too scared of you to ask," he says, and reaches out to take a sip of his coke. Casual. Pretending he's not feeling a little bit queasy.
"They're SHIELD's minions," Coulson replies at once, "not yours. SHIELD minions use guns," and it's okay. They're okay.
Everything will be fine.
13.
Everything is fine. Everything's the best it's ever been and Clint doesn't even have to want this to last forever because he doesn't have to want anything. Loki's taken away the need to want and it's like Clint has been set loose, like he's been tied up his entire life and Loki just cut the ropes.
He doesn't want anything. He doesn't want to prove himself, or to trust anyone, or to find somewhere he belongs. He doesn't want to laugh, to brood, to regret, to joke. He doesn't want Natasha at his side, or Coulson to smile at him again, or Fury to say, "Good job, Agent."
He doesn't even want to know why these things used to be important.
He's in control, anticipating Loki's wishes and making them happen with nothing to hold him back but the limits of his own body, and even those have been pushed back by the Blue that liberated him. He's thinking clearer than ever. He's killing faster than ever. He's better than ever and it's not a thrill, just a low feeling of satisfaction that might be his or might be Loki's, who the fuck cares? Loki is a god. Loki says what he wants to happen and Clint makes damn sure it happens, and that's enough.
For the first time, he's not holding anything back because there is nothing to withhold. If Loki asks, Clint answers. He doesn't want to lay out all Natasha's secrets, but neither does he want to protect them. He doesn't want to infiltrate SHIELD, but neither does he want to ensure its safety.
He doesn't tell Loki about Coulson; not because Loki doesn't ask but because it doesn't matter. Clint never did figure the man out and now he won't have to. Once Loki has brought the world to its knees, Coulson will be kneeling beside Clint and they'll both be free in their Blue-edged world.
Clint will make it happen.
Loki wants him to.
14.
He's on the walkway and in control and there's Natasha, and he knows all of her weaknesses.
Then he's on the ground and his head hurts and there's Natasha, and he loves her, wait, what the hell? What is he doing?
"Natasha?" he croaks, but what he means is, 'whatever I'm doing, please make me stop.'
She does.
15.
Coming back from Loki's magic isn't like waking up. It's like drowning. It's like everything Loki's poured into Clint's head is coming up to pull him under and no matter how desperately he shakes his head he can't get out.
He doesn't have the strength to try.
Free will is a rock and Loki's magic is an ocean, and between the two Clint's been shattered until there's nothing left but skin and bones. He may have been broken before but now he's unmade, all the tiny pieces of Clint Barton swept away and he's… hollow. He's nothing.
"You're going to be all right," Natasha says and she sounds so sure, but what if she's wrong? What if he won't be?
What if he doesn't want to be?
He swallows. His voice is hoarse like he's been screaming. He doesn't remember doing that, but he remembers all he did for Loki. Everything he… everyone he…
"Natasha," he says, slowly, not wanting to know the answer (he does want so many things again, but not this), but needing to be told, "how many agents did I take-"
"Don't," she says, and where his question came out too slow her answer is too fast. "Don't do that to yourself, Clint. This is Loki. This is monsters and magic and nothing we were ever trained for."
She means it. She's not blaming him for anything he did, anything he said, but there's something she's not telling him, something important. Her body language is… off, barely suppressed rage in every movement, and this isn't right. Natasha's a lot of things, but never careless with her tells. Loki did something that's making her hurt almost as much as she did when he first saw her all those years ago, and all she wants to do is lash out in return. Clint feels raw, like his lungs have been replaced with a cheese grater, but that doesn't mean he can watch her ache and not try to make it better.
"Natasha…" he says again, quietly, trying to think of a way that'll get her to open up.
Then it hits him.
He's been compromised. He's… he was out of his mind, literally, and killed god knows how many of his own people. Of course she wouldn't give him any intel that counts. Of course she'd tell him only what he already knows.
Of course she doesn't trust him.
He doesn't know what sound escapes him, but she jerks her head around immediately, small fingers digging into his wrist before he can take another breath.
"No, Clint," she snaps, her grip so tight it hurts, "don't."
"Can't say I'd blame you," he rasps, his voice cracking all over again. "I…"
"It's Coulson," she says, quickly, like pulling off a band-aid, like doing it fast will make it hurt any less. "He's dead."
And the whole world just… freezes. Time, movement, Clint's breath in his lungs, all just… stops.
"What?" he whispers, with no idea how he gets the words out. Blue edges into the corners of his vision but he can't shake his head to chase it away this time, can't even blink.
"Loki," she says, the name dropping from her mouth like a death sentence.
Loki is a god. Loki says what he wants to happen and Clint makes damn sure it happens.
The thought makes Clint stumble to his feet, makes the Blue jerk back as he sways towards the small bathroom that's attached to his cell, "I'm gonna…"
Natasha nods, silent, and he staggers to the sink, where he fumbles at the tap until the water starts rushing out.
He wants to stick his whole head under there. Instead he just shoves his hands into the cold water, watches it run over his fingers and into the drain in a way that's not at all like blood. His chest is heaving but he still can't breathe properly, can't even think of meeting his own gaze in the mirror. He feels sick.
Coulson's dead.
Clint closes his eyes and swallows. It shouldn't matter that much, they never even did anything, Clint barely knew him, but dear god it hurts, it hurts. No more missions, no more 'Talk to me, Barton,' no more… no more anything.
Coulson's dead.
The water runs so cold his skin starts to prickle, then burn. Clint welcomes the pain. If he can't move his hands, at least he can't hurt anyone. If his fingers sting more, his heart will ache less.
He stays in the bathroom for a long time.
Natasha lets him.
Part 2
Author: lavvyan
Pairing: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Fandom: Avengers movie 'verse
Rating: PG-13-going-on-R for violence and Clint's potty mouth
Word count: ~14,200
Warnings/Content: Comic book violence, mind control, perceived character death
Notes: This story contains a little bit of dialogue from Thor in pt. 11 and from The Avengers in pt. 15. I'm ignoring the official Marvel Avengers Timeline because no way did all that shit go down in just a week. Also, title nicked from Shakespeare because if you're not making up your own you might as well steal from a popular source. Many thanks to kisahawklin for the marvellous beta and to everyone who kept me from throwing up my hands and abandoning this story to the elements, especially seikaitsukimizu, ladyflowdi and ladyamarra. It really does take a village.
Summary: Clint keeps telling himself he's not obsessed with Coulson. From the way Natasha keeps laughing at him, she's not buying it either. But it's only a crush if you know what the other guy actually looks like, right?
The really important part: This was written for marvel_bang (I failed to fail at a sorta-big bang, whee!) and I'm twice-blessed because I got to work with two generous and talented artists who were a joy to collaborate with. Click on the previews to see their work!
Fanmix by ladyofthelog/
verity:
Art by eiirene:
Catch Your Voice
1.
Clint's never been very good with patience, but he's great at waiting. Pretty much had to be since childhood: the road between towns, the hours between setting up the tent and starting the show, the police deciding he's had enough of a scare and is too young to be kept overnight (again). Waiting for SHIELD to decide what to do with him, waiting for the next mission, waiting to take the shot. These days, it seems that waiting to take the damn shot is all he ever does, more's the pity. He's great at waiting, but he's awesome at running the game.
He's got a lot more to offer than just his skills as a sniper, but after that thing in Budapest, SHIELD rarely lets him out to play on his own.
He still maintains that it'd have been a damn shame to kill her, though. For all he keeps hearing about 'Agent Romanoff's exploits' and how they're all his fault, SHIELD tends to agree. It had been an interesting mission, at least.
This mission is dead in the water. It was a mess right from the start, with a handler too set in his ways and a team so used to working with each other they hadn't really known what to do with him. The job was to infiltrate a cruise ship, steal a flash drive from a third-rate arms dealer with possible connections to HYDRA and get the fuck out of there, preferably unnoticed. Now his handler's dead, the team is dead, and Clint's stuck above the amphitheater in one of the few CCTV blind spots, trying to figure out a way to complete the mission and not get shot in the process. At least he's still got his bow.
He's got a few ideas, but since all of them involve jumping overboard at some point, he's not too keen on leaving the planning stage just yet. Wait for an opening. Wait for inspiration. Wait for them to spot him and take him down. Fuck.
If he can get past the boardwalk, through the central park, across the mini-golf course, over the fence and down six levels along the front hull, he might make it to the helipad. Hot-wiring a chopper isn't hard, but…
But if Clint runs, six people will have died with nothing to show for it. He's too stubborn to let that happen.
So, yeah. He needs a plan, and he needs it now.
His radio clicks once. His heart jumps and picks up speed, but he doesn't flinch, doesn't stop watching the amphitheater below.
"Talk to me, Barton." It's a voice he's never heard before. Not their mark or one of his cronies - Clint's heard enough of them through the active team channels before they cut out - but that doesn't mean it's a friendly.
"Who are you?" he murmurs, gaze flicking across the far-too-open spaces below him. A trickle of sweat is inching its way down his nose. This could be a trap. Cole knows he's still on the ship, but if he and his goons want to play cat and mouse they're going to have to do a lot better than this. Clint doesn't play well with others even when he's reasonably sure they're not meant to stab him in the back. If this is a trap, it's a bad one.
"This is Agent Coulson. Your code is Red Iowa Echo Seven Oakley. Give me your status."
Clint licks his lips. It's the right code and the guy's voice is calm as you please. Self-assured. But Clint's handler knew both the code and the most common SHIELD frequencies. Clint's grip tightens around the bow. He hasn't nocked an arrow yet.
Maybe he should.
"How do I know you're on my side?" Even as he asks it, Clint knows the answer won't matter. There's no way for this guy to identify himself that Clint's handler couldn't have given up under torture. He's nowhere near far enough up the ladder to know any of the truly meaningful codes. The mission's been compromised, and all that's left for him to do is decide if he wants to trust this guy or not.
He really doesn't.
"You'll have to take my word for it," Coulson says, and there's amusement in his voice, like he knows Clint is screwed either way. Clint lets out a slow breath.
Fuck.
"Strike team's down," he mutters. It's clean information, not giving up anything the enemy doesn't know. Not yet. "Perez is dead. Cole still has the flash drive. We're fifteen hours away from the next port."
"Are you hurt?"
"No." He never got the opportunity to make a difference. Fuck Perez and his idiotic plan, and fuck Clint for going along with it. He might as well have shot the team himself. Would have been kinder, too.
There's a short pause.
"We still have another operative on board," Coulson says casually, like he's announcing there'll be drinks on the pool deck in fifteen minutes. "We'll engineer a distraction. I will talk you through the decks to Cole's location. Get the drive, then get to the helipad. You'll be picked up from there. What's your position?"
Clint grimaces. This is it, then. He shifts his weight, pulls an arrow from its quiver, and lines it up.
If they try to take him down, he won't be selling himself cheap.
He takes a breath, tries to stay calm. "Amphitheater."
Another pause. A man in a waiter's uniform ambles along the empty boardwalk, checks for tourists wanting a drink. He walks in and out of Clint's line of sight, never once looking up. Clint's heart is pounding like crazy, flooding his whole body with a wave of adrenalin, but his grip on the bow is steady. He breathes in, holds, breathes out again.
Just wait.
The fire alarm goes off.
Clint blinks. "Fake fire alarm? That's your distraction?" he asks, biting back a laugh because, what the hell?
"Sometimes it's best to stick with the classics." Coulson sounds almost cheerful. "Move it, Barton. You want to get down two levels. Avoid the dining rooms."
"Yes, sir," Clint says, grinning now. Coulson seems almost crazy enough to get Clint off this damn ship after all. There's smoke drifting from the floating bar. People are starting to scream.
Clint can work with that.
2.
The engines actually do catch fire. Clint improvises, gets the flash drive, and saves the day.
What can he say? He's just that good.
3.
"Still waiting for you to make the call, ma'am." Clint's being obnoxious, he knows it. But he's freezing his ass off, there's a storm front coming up that's probably bringing more snow, and the mark's been sipping something hot straight from the thermos for the past ten minutes, right in Clint's line of sight.
Honestly.
"Negative, Hawkeye." Benko sounds smug, sitting in her nice, warm surveillance van. It's her first mission as a handler and she's doing well enough, but she's trying too hard to cement her authority. Clint's got no problem with authority, unless it's the kind that tries to fuck him over. Benko's not trying to fuck him over, but she's dragging this out too long for no good reason.
"I never got why it's 'positive' and 'negative,'" Clint says. He wonders if she's taken into account that once he starts to shiver, his aim will be for shit. Maybe he can annoy her into giving the order, just to shut him up. "What's wrong with 'yes' and 'no'? If the transmission craps out, '-tive' will give you nothing. There's no mistaking 'yes' for 'no' even if you hear only half of it."
"Hawkeye, when did I give you permission to chatter?" Not so smug anymore. Clint smiles.
"I'm cold, ma'am. Talking to you warms my heart."
He hears Benko draw in a breath, but another voice cuts her off. "Agent Benko, please don't engage. Barton, how long until your aim is compromised?"
It takes Clint a moment to place that voice, but then he does. Crazy Coulson. From the cruise ship. Fun times.
"Got another six minutes at least, sir." He grins. "Didn't know you were going to join us."
"I'm not," Coulson says, and he sounds just as calm as last time. "We need you on another mission, so please wrap this one up."
"Yes, sir," Benko says, so Coulson obviously outranks her. Clint is pretty sure that Coulson was talking to him, not her, but he still asks, "Does that mean I can finally take the shot?"
"Positive," Coulson says, and there's that amusement again. Clint smirks, lines up the shot, fires. The mark drops, hot liquid splashing from the thermos, steaming in the cold air.
Man, he wants a coffee.
"And here I thought we had an understanding, sir," he says with a fake pout as he packs up his gear and walks to the side of the roof. There's an iron ladder that's going to be cold as hell. He'll have to take it the fast way unless he wants to court frost bite after all.
"Negative." And there's a smirk in Coulson's voice now. Clint fumbles his grip as he slides down the ladder, hisses as his fingers smack against a rung.
"Fuck."
"Barton?"
Fuck. Open comm channel, perfect. He's making a really good impression today. "Nothing. Sir."
It's just that handlers don't joke with him. He likes his job, believes in what SHIELD tries to do, but he's always been on the fringes of that organization. He likes to be on the fringes, with no one to worry about but himself (and Nat, but that's his own damn fault), and certainly no one to pick up a running joke.
"Am I taking your word for that?"
Seems Coulson didn't get that memo.
"Sir," Clint says, more than ready for this conversation to be over as he slides the rest of the way down. His feet thump on the frozen ground. Coulson just hums, like he's already moved on to more important things.
Doesn't matter, Clint tells himself as he tries to shake the sting from his fingers. He's a senior agent. You're one asset. This is probably the last you'll ever hear from him.
And if he regrets that, just a little, then that's his own business.
4.
Coulson, though, doesn't seem to be aware that he's not supposed to be more than a fond memory of that one time they nearly sank a cruise ship together. He guides Clint through an assassination in Latakia (Syria), busting a HYDRA base in Vargem Bonita (Brazil), and various thefts in Port Harcourt (Nigeria), Alice Springs (Australia) and New Jersey (wtf). He's also the one in charge of a spectacularly ambitious sabotage mission in Khujand that almost goes wrong half a dozen times in increasingly fucked-up ways and ends with Clint laughing like a maniac while Natasha calmly picks multicolored mosaic tiles out of her hair.
Coulson's the only one who isn't afraid to pair Clint with Natasha and watch the fireworks go off. It's kind of awesome.
Coulson's kind of awesome, actually. He always has good intel, is completely prepared to either ignore Clint's bored running commentary or answer in such a deadpan way that half the other agents never notice he just made a joke, and he's willing to trust that Clint knows what the fuck he's doing.
"You like him," Natasha says, looking way more interested in this discovery than in the mission paperwork they're supposed to be filling out.
"So?" That comes out way too defensive. Clint grimaces and throws her an apologetic look.
"You don't like handlers." She smirks and taps him lightly with her pen. "You don't like anyone except for me."
"Yeah, well, don't get jealous," he mutters, the tips of his ears possibly a little warmer than they should be, but she laughs and so he has to smile.
He has nightmares, sometimes, where he lets the arrow fly and she jerks and whatever laughter she might have left dies with her.
Those are the nights he doesn't even try to go back to sleep.
She lets him fill out a few lines before she says, "Didn't think he'd be your type."
"It's not like that," he says automatically. Then the implication sinks in and he jerks his head up without really meaning to. "Wait, you've met him?"
Her eyes widen.
"You haven't!" she says, a delighted smile spreading across her face, and he doesn't know where exactly his life went wrong, but if a former Soviet super-spy gets her kicks out of his non-existent love life he must have fucked up somewhere. "Oh, Clint."
"What? There's always someone else running the debrief, but it's not like-" He jabs his pen at her when she laughs. "You know I'm not-" and she's still laughing at him. Fuck it. Clint scowls at her, but he knows when he's lost. "Okay, fine. What does he look like, anyway?"
"Oh, no, no." Her eyes are dancing, and he wishes he didn't love her so much, wishes he loved her more, wishes they loved each other differently so they'd make at least a little bit of sense. "I don't want to ruin the suspense."
"There is no suspense." He twirls his pen between his fingers for a moment and then leans back over his paperwork. Look how completely I'm ignoring you. "I don't care."
"I believe you," she says, bumping her foot against his leg. You're so full of shit. "And I bet you're not going to ask anyone else about him, either."
"Damn straight I'm not."
She snorts. He kicks her. She flicks her pen at him and he throws his paperwork into her face. The table skids across the floor as she kicks it at him but he's already moving, and by the time someone comes to see what the ruckus is about they've broken both their chairs and forgotten all about Coulson.
5.
Except he never really 'forgets' about Coulson.
For one thing, Coulson has the best missions. Not every interesting mission is run by Coulson, of course, but if he's in charge, Clint can be certain he won't be bored (or the redundant backup who just sits around and twiddles his thumbs).
For another, obviously Clint has never learned to leave well enough alone and so he does ask around, just like Natasha knew he would. He's already decided to call her Nat again until she threatens to break his face, just for knowing him so damn well.
He tries not to think about the last time someone knew him that well. Thinking about Barney still… smarts.
Anyway, he does ask around, and maybe it's that he's asking covertly ('cause he isn't an idiot) or maybe it's that someone's fucking with him, but the answers he gets actively contradict each other. After five months, what he's got is:
- Coulson is a total douchebag who wouldn't know the business end of a gun if it sat him down to talk about tax returns.
- Coulson is so badass he once took down a rogue agent with a dandelion.
- Coulson has six senses: hearing, smell, sight, taste, touch and bullshit.
- Coulson has never done anything more taxing than paperwork.
- Coulson has no sense of humor whatsoever. (Clint knows this one to be false.)
- Coulson's pan is so dead it's become its own field of archeology. (Way more like it.)
- Coulson's just another senior handler.
- Coulson has no official position within SHIELD, but he's Director Fury's right-hand man.
- Coulson's never been seen wearing anything that wasn't a suit.
- Coulson's a giant Captain America fanboy.
He doesn't give a shit whether Coulson's a stuffy accountant or a lean, mean, dandelion-picking machine.
He just wants to know.
6.
Coulson's first name is Phillip. Clint has no idea why this fills him with so much glee, but it does.
Just… Phillip. Phillip.
7.
It's a typical Coulson mission, neatly organized like clockwork, only with extra cogs and screws in place in case something goes wrong. For once, Clint is one of those extras, the backup plan to the backup plan. For once, he doesn't mind. The mission's low-profile enough for the junior agents to try their baby teeth on, but it still has to get done. This isn't one of HYDRA's main bases, but there's still intel to be found here.
Clint kind of likes that he's the ace up Coulson's sleeve. Gives him the warm fuzzies, it does.
What makes this mission one of the interesting ones is the enforced radio silence. Something inside HYDRA's compound blocks their transmissions, so once a team is in, that's it. No way to know how shit goes down except to wait for them to come out again.
They give the first team four hours beyond the projected time for completion. No alarms, but no returning team, either. The second group goes in with two extras, carefully instructed where to split up, and why, and when to leg it and call the mission a loss.
"You want me to go in, sir?" Clint asks when it becomes clear that nobody's going to make it to the extraction point any time soon.
Coulson, supervising the whole thing from god knows where, doesn't. "Give them time," he says.
Clint gives them twenty minutes. Then he gives them another five before he strings his bow and checks the quiver once more. "Coulson, if I give the puppies any more time to get out of there themselves, HYDRA will have turned them into fur coats and matching boots by the time we see them again."
"Are you the sheepdog or the tabby cat in this scenario?" Coulson sounds mildly interested.
Clint grins. "I always thought the movie lacked an older, experienced bird, sir."
"I bet you love Winnie the Pooh," Coulson says. "All right, go. Fetch me my assets."
"Yes, sir."
Getting into the compound is easy. Clint on his own can take a few routes the junior agents never would have managed, and he takes advantage of the fact that, even with the base on alert (and they are on alert, they're just being sneaky about it), no one ever looks up to see if a circus-trained sniper might be making his way along the ceiling.
Morons.
He goes for the intel first. It's the logical decision: intel means control room, control room means cameras; take out the guys in the control room, nobody watches the cameras. It also gives him access to the security system. Looks like the puppies are still alive and more or less in good shape. Coulson will like that.
The first team's easy to retrieve. One of the four (Asian, tiny) is holding her arm awkwardly. She waves him off when he asks if she's good to go.
"SHIELD doesn't hire crybabies," she says flatly. "It's just a break."
Clint likes her.
Of course, that's when the trouble starts. The alarm finally goes off for real (someone must have found the pile of bodies Clint left in the control room) and people first start shouting and then shooting. Clint directs his team of puppies through rooms and corridors, stopping only to let them pick up guns and ammo from the bodies he leaves behind. He's not careful anymore. He's a soldier; he rarely shoots to incapacitate, but now he abandons all thoughts of stealth for simple efficiency. Arrow to the throat, never mind the splatter. Don't pin the guy with the knife, just kill him. Four HYDRA agents pouring through the door. Take out one, two, see the third go down from a head shot fired by the girl with the broken arm (Clint really likes her). The fourth one's too close, stab him with an arrow. Make a face at the spray of blood that's ruining a perfectly good uniform.
"Jesus," one of the junior agents whispers, but Clint has no time to coddle anyone. There are six more SHIELD personnel on this base and he will get them.
He'd like to say things get a little blurry from there, but if anything, they get more focused. He cuts through HYDRA's forces like a diamond blade through glass. In the debriefing, he'll be able to recount, in perfect detail, every step taken, every arrow fired and reclaimed, every single life he ended. He'll have nightmares from this, but that doesn't stop him, never did.
He has a job to do.
He does it.
And when it's done, when he's out, he doesn't fight to keep from throwing up like two of the juniors. He doesn't whisper a prayer. He just clicks his radio and says, "All accounted for."
There isn't even a pause. "Took your sweet time, Barton," Coulson says, and damn if the man doesn't sound like he's smiling. Clint wonders if he can see the way the juniors keep giving Clint a wide berth, eyes huge and faces pale.
He'll always blame leftover adrenalin for what he says next. "I would have been faster with only half the puppies, sir, but I know how anal you are about getting your stuff back."
There's a long pause when Clint wonders if he's gone too far. Then Coulson snorts, indelicate and completely unexpected, and Clint grins tiredly even as he rubs his thumb across his sternum, where his heart is beating just a little too fast.
"Good job," Coulson says, and yeah.
Yeah. This one went okay.
8.
The next one doesn't go okay at all.
He can see… there's a sunbeam stabbing through the dust and debris, solid enough to touch if only Clint could move his hand. Or much of anything, really. There's a… thing, like a slab of floor but jagged, red tubes running through it like veins. It's perched precariously over Clint's head, held up by the same mess of steel and concrete that's pinning Clint to the ground in more ways than one, such a fucking irony.
(It's like raaaaaaain on your wedding day…)
He's had that fucking song stuck in his head since he woke up, jumbled and all out of order. He's pretty sure he's got rebar in places it really shouldn't go. Like his thigh. There's a lot of wetness under his thigh. And his back. And he can see the… the slab, with the tubes, and towering above it a ruin of glass and plastic and carbon steel and torn wires, and somewhere something's spraying a lot of water, and the sunbeam sticking through the whole confusion like a giant sparkling lever, but he can't see the sky.
He can't see the sky, and it bugs the hell out of him.
It's a… he should be able to see the sky, shouldn't he? Mission. With the… thing. In… Harlem? He was right beneath the sky and now he isn't. There's a blank between those two things. Clint's head hurts.
Everything hurts.
It's a good thing he's bleeding out, because that way Natasha won't kill him for clocking out without her. (And isn't it ironic… don't you think?)
Something overhead shifts, another thing sparks, and suddenly what feels like entire buckets worth of fine debris are dumped on him. Clint jerks, and pain, and by the time he drifts back to somewhere coherent his mouth is full of dirt and his eyes are pretty much crusted shut. He coughs weakly, tries to moves his tongue enough to shove out some of the muck and gives it up as a bad job.
Then he lies there, so fucking tired, listening to the building groan and shift around him. His breath whistles in and out of his nose, not enough air, and this isn't how he imagined dying. Not quiet and unnoticed. Not feeling the seconds tick by as he wonders if that slab is going to come down to crush his skull before or after he's dead.
He can hear it move towards him. It's crunching rhythmically, like it's leaning down by inches, like instead of mashing his brain into the rubble it just wants to tap him gently on the forehead.
Clint frowns. That can't be right.
"Barton."
(It's like meeting the man of my dreams, and then meeting his beautiful- Nonsense. Nonsense, nonsense…)
"Barton. Talk to me."
That's not the radio. Clint's lost his radio. And there's that tap on his forehead, except it's fingers brushing away some of the dirt, another touch at his throat, and he's dreaming, must be. He must be. He twists his head, struggles to clear his mouth, and this time someone helps him, someone, because there's no way-
"Clint."
"… here?" Only one word makes it out, the rest of the question smothered by exhaustion somewhere between his brain and his vocal cords. Or maybe it's just that Clint's heart is beating so fast that there's no energy left for talking (can't-be, can't-be, can't-be).
"I was in the neighborhood," Coulson says, Coulson says, and for a second Clint thinks he's going to cry. Coulson's voice sounds wrong. It's not calm and confident at all. It's… soft, holding relief and worry and a dozen other things Clint can't begin to name with no visual… oh. Oh, no, what the fuck?
Clint starts to laugh. It's faint and wheezing and hurts like hell, but he can't stop because this is so damn unfair it's hilarious. His last and only chance to find out what Coulson looks like, and his fucking eyes are cemented shut.
"Something funny, Agent?" Coulson's keeping his voice light, but he still sounds wrong. Clint can tell. He's had Coulson talk him through enough ops by now to know what he needs to listen for. He's pathetically grateful for the way Coulson's trying to pretend that Clint isn't a bit too broken to fix this time, for the way his hand is warm on Clint's throat, still measuring Clint's heartbeat. Coulson's there. Coulson's there, but-
"… voice… 'n my ear," he manages. That's what Coulson is. What he's always been, right from the start. Just a voice in Clint's ear, even now.
God, he's bitter. And he has no idea why.
The touch is so soft Clint isn't sure he's not imagining it. A fingertip ghosting over the dirt crusting Clint's eyes. Smoothing away some of the grime from Clint's temple. Trailing off just skimming his ear. Clint holds his breath.
"Positive," Coulson says quietly. Running joke. He remembered.
Something inside Clint eases, lets go. He thinks he may be smiling a little. His heartbeat stutters. He doesn't really hurt anymore.
"F'nny," he breathes, and slips away.
9.
Ages pass before he's allowed out of medical, let alone PT. Inactivity while waiting for a mission to get to the fun parts is one thing; inactivity while being stuck in bed? Only marginally beats being stuck under a metric ton of rubble. He's one stubborn fuck so he's toughing it out, but that doesn't mean he's not itching to move, damn it.
Natasha drops by every now and then, unsympathetic and concerned by turns, depending on how much pain he's in. It's nice to know she cares, nicer still when she uses her powers for evil to get him Tony Stark's reply to the iPad.
"It's not supposed to get on the market for another six months," she tells him, "but working for the guy has its advantages."
He grins at her. "You hate him."
"So much," she sighs, and then shows him all the things she's downloaded for him.
Coulson doesn't drop by, but then Clint didn't expect him to. He does send Clint an e-mail with an iTunes code. It's for an audiobook, and when Clint sees the title he laughs so hard it hurts.
Never Hit a Jellyfish with a Spade: How to Survive Life's Smaller Challenges
He's still grinning when he sends his own e-mail.
from: c.barton@shield.gov
to: p.coulson@shield.gov
subject: Jellyfish
Thanks.
Coulson replies almost instantly.
from: p.coulson@shield.gov
to: c.barton@shield.gov
subject: Re: Jellyfish
Additional advice: never let a building fall on your head.
- P. Coulson
Clint may be a little bit in love.
10.
One thing Clint likes about SHIELD's super-secret temporary bases of operations is that they always set up a canteen. Sometimes it's a tent, sometimes it's a side-tunnel in a cave, and sometimes it's a trailer with a dozen small tables crammed in and the air con running overtime. It's strangely comforting, in a way, to get the same institutionalized mac'n'cheese in New Mexico that he had just two days ago in Southern Germany.
Nothing says welcome like bright yellow pasta and a coke.
He's arrived just after shift change so the trailer is pretty stuffed. He spots an empty table anyway, a tiny thing with just two chairs that's been wedged into a corner. Yeah, no.
Clint puts down his tray and then shifts the table, ignoring the glare from the guy whose chair he bumps it into. He's not here to make friends, and he'll be damned if he's going to sit with his back to the door. If the guy wants to complain, he can take it up with Sitwell. Clint has worked with him before; as long as he gets the job done, Sitwell doesn't care how many toes Clint steps on.
Corner newly freed, he drags one of the chairs over and sits down to start shoveling lukewarm pasta into his mouth, keeping an eye on the exit. The sooner he's done eating, the sooner he can check if his bow made it here in one piece. After that, maybe he can find Sitwell and figure out what the hell he's doing here. The ground's swarming with security personnel. He can't see why they'd need a specialist like him to keep an eye on things.
Another tray hits the table with a soft click. Burger, with the saddest drooping excuse for lettuce Clint has ever seen, and he's been to McDonald's in Germany. The second chair gets pulled back and a guy sits down without so much as a greeting. No small talk. Clint approves.
He spares the guy a quick glance (suit, a bit too expensive for simple security; confident posture; senior agent? Analyst?) and goes back to his mac'n'cheese. It's just starting to congeal. That's the best bit.
They eat their junk food in silence, secure in the knowledge they won't be accidentally ingesting any vitamins today. It's kind of neat, actually. He'll have to see if he can make this guy his table buddy for however long this mission lasts. They'd probably both be glad to have uninterrupted meals. This guy doesn't seem any more inclined to make anyone's acquaintance than Clint himself.
Clint's about to suggest as much when the guy's jacket starts to buzz. The guy huffs out a breath through his nose that isn't quite a sigh but manages to convey exasperation just fine, and reaches into the inside pocket. Clint shoves another forkful of cooling pasta into his mouth as the guy pulls out a phone and glances at the caller ID before he picks it up.
"This better be good."
Clint sucks in a startled breath and inhales half his mac'n'cheese. The other half sprays over the table as he starts to cough, eyes watering as he reaches desperately for his coke.
"Shit," he croaks, gasping for breath, because holy shit, holy shit.
Coulson gives him an unimpressed look as he says, "I'm on my way," and hangs up. "Please bus that for me, Barton," he adds with a nod at his tray and the half-eaten burger on it. The drooping lettuce is now dotted with tiny yellow bits of pasta.
"Yes, sir," Clint manages, because he's a professional, god damn it, and not nearly as idiotic as he's making himself look right now.
"Thank you." One corner of Coulson's mouth twitches. "I'll see you at dinner."
"Yes, sir."
He waits until Coulson has left the trailer. Then he pushes away his tray and very slowly, very carefully, bangs his head on the table.
11.
He doesn't see Coulson at dinner because they end up with a security breach. Clint's been told to stay away from the ground troops (especially from the junior agents; apparently Clint's got a reputation now) and so he takes up position near their sad excuse for an armory (a single armored van) when the alarm goes off. He's a sniper; there must be a reason Coulson had him assigned here, and it certainly wasn't Clint's brilliant impression of a beached fish.
Maybe, if he's really lucky, he'll get a chance to prove he's worth keeping.
Minutes go by, a sudden rainfall soaking him through to the skin, and he's starting to think the intruder might have been dealt with when his radio crackles, and Coulson says, "I need eyes up high, with a gun."
Yes and thank-you.
He's in the armored van before Coulson has finished speaking, hands on a rifle before he decides that, no. No, this isn't the way he's going to do this. Not when his bow is right there.
The intruder is making his way through the plastic tunnels, apparently unimpressed with what the ground units are throwing at him. Clint can relate; it's obvious that Coulson's ordered non-lethal force, but if this is the best SHIELD's got when the guns are out of play, it doesn't look like they've got much. Clint could show them a trick or two if he hadn't been ordered to go high, but he's going to toe the line between initiative and insubordination already. No need to add to it.
Sitwell's orders assigned him sniper position, if needed, on top of the containment area. Plastic's shit to climb, though, and the long way up is not his style. Clint found something better.
The small crane cage is slick with rainwater, but personal safety's not his main issue right now. He gives a thumbs-up and Li starts the crane, yanks him up and to the left so he can aim where the mysterious immovable hammer is mysteriously failing to sink into the mud.
"That's my girl," he mutters as he strings the bow on his way up. He'll have to ask Coulson to give her a junior agent gold star or something.
And then he's in position, just as Coulson says, "Barton. Talk to me."
Clint nocks the arrow. "You want me to slow him down, sir? Or are you sending in more guys for him to beat up?"
Because honestly, what he can see from up here makes him feel embarrassed on behalf of SHIELD agents everywhere. It's just sad.
"I'll let you know," Coulson says.
Clint doesn't smile, but it's a close thing. This is his job. This is him, up high, with his target in range and Coulson's voice in his ear. This is what he does.
Only he doesn't really get to do anything, just watches as their intruder (some kind of long-haired surfer-wrestler guy) fails to pick up the hammer, yells a bit at the sky and then slumps down into the mud. Coulson, like a kid who's just discovered that his shiny new toy doesn't have any batteries included, calls the whole thing off and sends in the ground units again, with better results this time. Three hours later, he even lets the guy go.
Clint's not disappointed. Violence is his job, not his calling, and he's never sad to not take someone down (unless it's personal, but it rarely is anymore; he's more careful now) with weeks of recovery or a short trip six feet down ahead of them.
He's not disappointed, but he's not too happy, either.
He's taking the bow apart when Coulson finds him, sitting on top of the armored truck so no one can tell him he took any weapon away from the armory without permission. A bit of water won't do any damage, except Clint's never been known to take any chances with his equipment. He's not about to start now.
The top of the van is still wet, so he's not expecting Coulson to sit down next to him, careful not to touch any of the parts Clint hasn't cleaned and dried yet. You'll ruin your suit, Clint doesn't say. He's never been tongue-tied around Coulson when they were on different ends of a radio line. Now, with only inches between them, talking seems unaccountably hard.
So he puts down the piece he was holding on the towel beside him and plucks up the next one. When in doubt, lay low. Works for the possum.
"I believe," Coulson says finally, "that your assigned default position was on top of the scaffolding."
Ah. So Coulson's here to chew him out for disobeying orders. At least that's somewhat familiar. "Crane's faster. Sir."
"So it is." And because Clint still isn't looking at Coulson, he picks up the satisfied note in Coulson's voice as he adds, "Lucky coincidence that Agent Li was in a position to offer that alternative."
"Yes, sir." Clint smirks, just a little, feeling the tension in his muscles ease a bit. Seems that Coulson's letting him get away with disobedience, if only because it worked. That's also familiar.
Something crinkles. A moment later, Clint's looking down at a slightly damp packet of Little Debbie frosted donuts, neatly opened.
"Donut?" Coulson asks pleasantly.
Clint looks up. Coulson still looks more like an analyst than SHIELD's most badass handler. He's not smiling, just wearing the blandest expression Clint's ever seen. Then again, Coulson often has one of the blandest voices Clint's ever heard, so that fits all right.
And that's when it hits him. This is Coulson. This is the guy Clint's been trusting with his life for almost three years now, and they're sitting on top of an armored van only a stone's throw away from a mysterious immovable hammer, sharing donuts.
Clint couldn't stop the grin from spreading if he had a gun to his head. "So you're bringing me dinner now?"
One corner of Coulson's mouth curves up. "Seems we both missed it."
"Little bit of junk food's not going to help much," Clint points out, but he's already taken one of the donuts because now that food is there, he's hungry.
Coulson wordlessly reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a packet of glazed donuts and sets it down between them.
Clint blinks, and then he laughs, and Coulson gives him an amiable (and bland, so bland, how the hell does he do that?) smile as he fishes out a donut for himself.
They eat in silence, as that is how meals should be eaten, and yeah, Natasha's a little bit right. Coulson's unimposing and unassuming and not the kind of guy you'd look at once, let alone twice. He's absolutely not Clint's type.
Except for all the ways he is.
12.
They make it something of a habit to share their meals when they're on the same base at the same time. Not always; Coulson's table is off-limits when he's sitting with Sitwell, and Clint has somehow picked up a gaggle of juniors that Coulson wants no part of (nor does Clint, exactly, but they're good for fetching coffee). Sometimes Natasha joins them, smiling like she knows all their secrets and daring them to try whatever weird snack she's brought back from her latest mission (Coulson's slow blink at the dried octopus tentacles was the closest Clint's ever seen him to baffled). Sometimes one of them sits down and immediately gets up again because Fury wants something, or Hill wants something, or fucking Hanayama from HR needs another signature because SHIELD invents forms faster than Tony Stark invents useless gadgets.
But more often than not, they set their trays down across from each other and spend their meal in comfortable silence, only talking when it's something important.
Like Coulson's astonishing lack of self-preservation.
"That doesn't look like it's meant for human consumption," Clint says, pointing his fork at Coulson's leathery lasagne.
"You're having the macaroni and cheese," Coulson says, in a tone that makes it perfectly clear that in Coulson's opinion Clint's in no position to judge anyone's food.
"Lunch of champions," Clint says and shoves another forkful into his mouth.
Coulson watches him chew for a moment before he resumes picking at his own plate. This is the first time they've seen each other in days, what with Coulson overseeing some project for Fury and Clint making sure no one steals the glowy cube they're tinkering with in the labs. As far as Clint understands it, the cube is some kind of doorway to another dimension that could be used as a power source. Neat, if they can get it to work, but watching the damn thing all day is still one of the most boring ops he's ever been assigned to. And stressful; somehow, monitoring fourteen people for hours on end and have none of them do anything fishy is more tiring than taking down fourteen hostiles in the same time. Dr. Selvig, the lead scientist, is starting to call the cube 'she,' though, so at least Clint knows he's not the only one who's cracking.
And he's got these breaks to look forward to. He's spent so much time with Coulson quietly talking in his ear that just sitting across from him is enough to help Clint unwind. Coulson is so reliable in both his clothing and his mannerisms that somehow, without quite noticing at first, Clint has started to react to him in the same way he used to react to the safety net at the circus: ah, there it is. You can relax now. Everything will be fine.
It's weirdly addictive.
"Do you want to have dinner with me?" Clint doesn't realize he's going to ask until it's too late. He blinks, but the question's out with no way to take it back. Shit.
Coulson stops chewing and looks at Clint with… well, not surprise because Coulson doesn't do surprise. Not in any obvious way. But he does take a moment before he swallows and asks, "In a professional capacity?"
And that's it, Clint's take-back. He can say he was just wondering if they'd meet up again later. He can say he wants to talk about that mission in New Mexico and how the clean-up could have gone better. He can say that of course he means professionally, what a weird thing to ask.
The mac'n'cheese sit in his stomach like Thor's mysterious hammer.
"I'd prefer a date. Sir."
Coulson seems to consider this. "Then no. I don't want to have dinner with you." Clint's stomach drops as Coulson resumes eating. Coulson may appear as relaxed as he was when they sat down, but there's a new tension in the way he holds his fork. Clint knows him well enough by now to spot it.
Clint taps his own fork.
"Okay," he says slowly. It's not the first time he got rejected, and it's… it's not a big deal, right? Not like he had reason to expect anything different, right? And it's not like Coulson's going to be all weird, now they both know where they stand, kind of, and that's… good.
Right?
He puts down his fork and sighs. Suddenly, he's not that hungry anymore.
Coulson gives him a brief, tired smile, like he's grateful that Clint's letting the whole thing drop so easily. There's an odd look in his eyes, something almost like regret, but mostly exhaustion. Clint wonders what Fury's making him do all day.
"My minions want to know if they can try to qualify with a bow, but they're too scared of you to ask," he says, and reaches out to take a sip of his coke. Casual. Pretending he's not feeling a little bit queasy.
"They're SHIELD's minions," Coulson replies at once, "not yours. SHIELD minions use guns," and it's okay. They're okay.
Everything will be fine.
13.
Everything is fine. Everything's the best it's ever been and Clint doesn't even have to want this to last forever because he doesn't have to want anything. Loki's taken away the need to want and it's like Clint has been set loose, like he's been tied up his entire life and Loki just cut the ropes.
He doesn't want anything. He doesn't want to prove himself, or to trust anyone, or to find somewhere he belongs. He doesn't want to laugh, to brood, to regret, to joke. He doesn't want Natasha at his side, or Coulson to smile at him again, or Fury to say, "Good job, Agent."
He doesn't even want to know why these things used to be important.
He's in control, anticipating Loki's wishes and making them happen with nothing to hold him back but the limits of his own body, and even those have been pushed back by the Blue that liberated him. He's thinking clearer than ever. He's killing faster than ever. He's better than ever and it's not a thrill, just a low feeling of satisfaction that might be his or might be Loki's, who the fuck cares? Loki is a god. Loki says what he wants to happen and Clint makes damn sure it happens, and that's enough.
For the first time, he's not holding anything back because there is nothing to withhold. If Loki asks, Clint answers. He doesn't want to lay out all Natasha's secrets, but neither does he want to protect them. He doesn't want to infiltrate SHIELD, but neither does he want to ensure its safety.
He doesn't tell Loki about Coulson; not because Loki doesn't ask but because it doesn't matter. Clint never did figure the man out and now he won't have to. Once Loki has brought the world to its knees, Coulson will be kneeling beside Clint and they'll both be free in their Blue-edged world.
Clint will make it happen.
Loki wants him to.
14.
He's on the walkway and in control and there's Natasha, and he knows all of her weaknesses.
Then he's on the ground and his head hurts and there's Natasha, and he loves her, wait, what the hell? What is he doing?
"Natasha?" he croaks, but what he means is, 'whatever I'm doing, please make me stop.'
She does.
15.
Coming back from Loki's magic isn't like waking up. It's like drowning. It's like everything Loki's poured into Clint's head is coming up to pull him under and no matter how desperately he shakes his head he can't get out.
He doesn't have the strength to try.
Free will is a rock and Loki's magic is an ocean, and between the two Clint's been shattered until there's nothing left but skin and bones. He may have been broken before but now he's unmade, all the tiny pieces of Clint Barton swept away and he's… hollow. He's nothing.
"You're going to be all right," Natasha says and she sounds so sure, but what if she's wrong? What if he won't be?
What if he doesn't want to be?
He swallows. His voice is hoarse like he's been screaming. He doesn't remember doing that, but he remembers all he did for Loki. Everything he… everyone he…
"Natasha," he says, slowly, not wanting to know the answer (he does want so many things again, but not this), but needing to be told, "how many agents did I take-"
"Don't," she says, and where his question came out too slow her answer is too fast. "Don't do that to yourself, Clint. This is Loki. This is monsters and magic and nothing we were ever trained for."
She means it. She's not blaming him for anything he did, anything he said, but there's something she's not telling him, something important. Her body language is… off, barely suppressed rage in every movement, and this isn't right. Natasha's a lot of things, but never careless with her tells. Loki did something that's making her hurt almost as much as she did when he first saw her all those years ago, and all she wants to do is lash out in return. Clint feels raw, like his lungs have been replaced with a cheese grater, but that doesn't mean he can watch her ache and not try to make it better.
"Natasha…" he says again, quietly, trying to think of a way that'll get her to open up.
Then it hits him.
He's been compromised. He's… he was out of his mind, literally, and killed god knows how many of his own people. Of course she wouldn't give him any intel that counts. Of course she'd tell him only what he already knows.
Of course she doesn't trust him.
He doesn't know what sound escapes him, but she jerks her head around immediately, small fingers digging into his wrist before he can take another breath.
"No, Clint," she snaps, her grip so tight it hurts, "don't."
"Can't say I'd blame you," he rasps, his voice cracking all over again. "I…"
"It's Coulson," she says, quickly, like pulling off a band-aid, like doing it fast will make it hurt any less. "He's dead."
And the whole world just… freezes. Time, movement, Clint's breath in his lungs, all just… stops.
"What?" he whispers, with no idea how he gets the words out. Blue edges into the corners of his vision but he can't shake his head to chase it away this time, can't even blink.
"Loki," she says, the name dropping from her mouth like a death sentence.
Loki is a god. Loki says what he wants to happen and Clint makes damn sure it happens.
The thought makes Clint stumble to his feet, makes the Blue jerk back as he sways towards the small bathroom that's attached to his cell, "I'm gonna…"
Natasha nods, silent, and he staggers to the sink, where he fumbles at the tap until the water starts rushing out.
He wants to stick his whole head under there. Instead he just shoves his hands into the cold water, watches it run over his fingers and into the drain in a way that's not at all like blood. His chest is heaving but he still can't breathe properly, can't even think of meeting his own gaze in the mirror. He feels sick.
Coulson's dead.
Clint closes his eyes and swallows. It shouldn't matter that much, they never even did anything, Clint barely knew him, but dear god it hurts, it hurts. No more missions, no more 'Talk to me, Barton,' no more… no more anything.
Coulson's dead.
The water runs so cold his skin starts to prickle, then burn. Clint welcomes the pain. If he can't move his hands, at least he can't hurt anyone. If his fingers sting more, his heart will ache less.
He stays in the bathroom for a long time.
Natasha lets him.
Part 2