Soothe
Title: Soothe
Author: somehowunbroken
Beta: shinysylver
Fandom: Marvel 199999 (movieverse)
Characters: Clint/Coulson
Word Count: 694
Rating: PG
Notes: Written for hc_bingo 2011: loss of voice.
Summary: Clint kind of feels like crap, but he's pretty sure he's going to make it.
“Barton,” Coulson says, nodding at Clint when he walks into the lounge. Clint is sprawled messily all over the couch, television on low. Coulson stops, lunch bag in hand, and stares at the screen. “Are you watching an infomercial for Slap Chop on purpose?”
Clint just nods, not bothering to glance over. He tells himself it’s because he’s at least halfway interested in the way the egg just dissolves into perfectly chopped cubes when the guy hits the top of the Slap Chop, but he’s not great at lying to himself. Besides, the aching in his neck just will not quit, and there’s this persistent niggling in the back of his head, sick sick sick.
“What, no witty commentary on the host possibly being our next target? Nothing to try to convince me that you have a reason for watching infomercials at ten in the morning?” Coulson walks closer and glances at Clint over the back of the couch. Clint keeps his eyes fixed firmly ahead and doesn’t acknowledge him any further. “Barton, why are you - Jesus,” Coulson says sharply as his hand lands on Clint’s shoulder. “Are you sick?”
Clint rolls onto his back and meets Coulson’s eyes. He knows exactly what he looks like - Stark had been certain to describe it in great detail - puffy eyes, red face, swollen nose. It’s a cold, nothing more, but it’s disgusting and persistent and had kept Clint up most of the night with a cough that would have woken the neighbors if SHIELD facilities weren’t soundproofed so well. Coulson’s eyes narrow slightly, and Clint recalls that he’d asked a question. “No.” He barely makes any noise, and the word launches him into another rattling coughing fit.
One of Coulson’s eyebrows heads for his hairline. “Well, that’s clearly the truth,” he deadpans before shaking his head and heading for the kitchen that takes up the left half of the room. Clint hears him open the refrigerator and close it again, and then Coulson starts banging around in the cupboards. Clint rolls back onto his side and looks back at the television, where the guy with the Slap Chop has moved on to shredding every single vegetable that Clint has ever picked out of a salad.
“Barton,” Coulson says, and Clint doesn’t jump, but it’s a near thing. Coulson is right at the end of the couch, down by Clint’s feet; any other day, Clint would have stretched out further and touched Coulson’s thigh with a foot, but today he just pulls his legs in a little more. It’s about all he can handle.
Coulson sits down in the spot Clint cleared, and it’s surprising enough that Clint turns to look at him. It’s not like they don’t get along - they get along great, actually, especially in situations where there’s no clothing involved - but this isn’t Normal Workplace Behavior.
“Come on, sit up,” Coulson is saying, and then he’s helping Clint haul himself off of the couch and slump a little into Coulson’s side, and he’s pressing a warm mug full of a clear amber liquid into Clint’s hands.
“Black tea with honey,” Coulson supplies when Clint frowns at it. “It’s not too hot, so it won’t irritate your throat any more going down, and the honey might help soothe it.” He glances towards the kitchen when Clint’s eyebrows shoot towards his hairline. “The quicker you recover, the quicker we have the whole team back.”
Clint takes a cautious sip, but it’s not like he can taste much of anything at the moment. It feels kind of nice when he swallows it, actually, so he drinks a little more.
“Also, you look like hell,” Coulson says a little more quietly, turning back to look at Clint. “It’s not going to cure you, but it’ll help for a little while.”
Clint lets himself settle more firmly into Coulson’s side as he sips at the tea. “Thanks,” he says, surprised when his voice sounds a little steadier. He grins down into the mug.
“You’re welcome,” Coulson says, his hand settling on Clint’s knee, and they sit and watch together as the Slap Chop guy lines up a tomato.
Author: somehowunbroken
Beta: shinysylver
Fandom: Marvel 199999 (movieverse)
Characters: Clint/Coulson
Word Count: 694
Rating: PG
Notes: Written for hc_bingo 2011: loss of voice.
Summary: Clint kind of feels like crap, but he's pretty sure he's going to make it.
“Barton,” Coulson says, nodding at Clint when he walks into the lounge. Clint is sprawled messily all over the couch, television on low. Coulson stops, lunch bag in hand, and stares at the screen. “Are you watching an infomercial for Slap Chop on purpose?”
Clint just nods, not bothering to glance over. He tells himself it’s because he’s at least halfway interested in the way the egg just dissolves into perfectly chopped cubes when the guy hits the top of the Slap Chop, but he’s not great at lying to himself. Besides, the aching in his neck just will not quit, and there’s this persistent niggling in the back of his head, sick sick sick.
“What, no witty commentary on the host possibly being our next target? Nothing to try to convince me that you have a reason for watching infomercials at ten in the morning?” Coulson walks closer and glances at Clint over the back of the couch. Clint keeps his eyes fixed firmly ahead and doesn’t acknowledge him any further. “Barton, why are you - Jesus,” Coulson says sharply as his hand lands on Clint’s shoulder. “Are you sick?”
Clint rolls onto his back and meets Coulson’s eyes. He knows exactly what he looks like - Stark had been certain to describe it in great detail - puffy eyes, red face, swollen nose. It’s a cold, nothing more, but it’s disgusting and persistent and had kept Clint up most of the night with a cough that would have woken the neighbors if SHIELD facilities weren’t soundproofed so well. Coulson’s eyes narrow slightly, and Clint recalls that he’d asked a question. “No.” He barely makes any noise, and the word launches him into another rattling coughing fit.
One of Coulson’s eyebrows heads for his hairline. “Well, that’s clearly the truth,” he deadpans before shaking his head and heading for the kitchen that takes up the left half of the room. Clint hears him open the refrigerator and close it again, and then Coulson starts banging around in the cupboards. Clint rolls back onto his side and looks back at the television, where the guy with the Slap Chop has moved on to shredding every single vegetable that Clint has ever picked out of a salad.
“Barton,” Coulson says, and Clint doesn’t jump, but it’s a near thing. Coulson is right at the end of the couch, down by Clint’s feet; any other day, Clint would have stretched out further and touched Coulson’s thigh with a foot, but today he just pulls his legs in a little more. It’s about all he can handle.
Coulson sits down in the spot Clint cleared, and it’s surprising enough that Clint turns to look at him. It’s not like they don’t get along - they get along great, actually, especially in situations where there’s no clothing involved - but this isn’t Normal Workplace Behavior.
“Come on, sit up,” Coulson is saying, and then he’s helping Clint haul himself off of the couch and slump a little into Coulson’s side, and he’s pressing a warm mug full of a clear amber liquid into Clint’s hands.
“Black tea with honey,” Coulson supplies when Clint frowns at it. “It’s not too hot, so it won’t irritate your throat any more going down, and the honey might help soothe it.” He glances towards the kitchen when Clint’s eyebrows shoot towards his hairline. “The quicker you recover, the quicker we have the whole team back.”
Clint takes a cautious sip, but it’s not like he can taste much of anything at the moment. It feels kind of nice when he swallows it, actually, so he drinks a little more.
“Also, you look like hell,” Coulson says a little more quietly, turning back to look at Clint. “It’s not going to cure you, but it’ll help for a little while.”
Clint lets himself settle more firmly into Coulson’s side as he sips at the tea. “Thanks,” he says, surprised when his voice sounds a little steadier. He grins down into the mug.
“You’re welcome,” Coulson says, his hand settling on Clint’s knee, and they sit and watch together as the Slap Chop guy lines up a tomato.