“If you’re only here to stare holes in my ceiling, you might as well leave,” Phil said at last, swallowing thickly and slowly getting to his feet to grab his suit jacket so he could get home for once. This day had already turned out shittier than he’d hoped and if this was all he was going to get from Clint, he would rather pause whatever fight he felt brewing in the other man for a day when he didn’t feel like he’d been Hulks punching bag.
Before he could make a grab for the jacket, Clint’s hand flashed out and snagged it from under him.
Phil looked up too quickly, wincing slightly and trying to cover it by glaring at Clint. “Barton …” he snapped, straightening and reaching for his jacket again.
“Like hell I’m leaving until you let someone stick a damn needle in you.”
Again, the material slipped through Phil’s fingers and he took a step toward Clint.
“I am perfectly able to…”
“Don’t even start, you and I both know how you get,” the snort that accompanied the statement sounded only half broken, like Clint couldn't help himself and it slipped out before he could catch it. Phil felt like grinning for half a second. He pushed the impulse away.
“Huh, like you’re any better,” he settled for instead, looking Clint straight in the eye, maybe a little too stubborn. But this felt familiar, even with the angry and cold edge still on Clint’s face. And familiar was nice and enticing and … and they shouldn’t settle for familiar, not with the way things had been for the past weeks.
But he was so tired. Tired of having to keep his distance, to working around this strained new place their relationship was in on top of everything else. And so he fought the pull of the familiar for another few moments, tried to find some more strength to keep it up but found he couldn’t. Instead, he pursed his lips and lowered his arm. Let him have the damn jacket. He knew Clint understood the gesture, of course he did. Another thing that was familiar, something he didn’t have yet with his new team. Phil half expected Natasha to walk in, proclaim them both idiots and staring Phil down until he let the medics do whatever they deemed necessary. They had been here before, many times.
And Phil missed it.
There was silence again, but it seemed less loaded. Clint kept fiddling with Phil’s jacket as if he was fighting something out inside him and Phil wished his side didn’t burn as much as it did, because he really wanted to cross his arms over his chest, to put back on his agent face and not let Clint win this round without actually doing anything. But he couldn’t, didn’t even have his whole suit to help close himself off and so he stood there, slightly awkward and more than secretly glad that Clint was here … that he still cared. Maybe that could be enough … for now.
Finally, Clint lifted his gaze from his restless hands.
“Takes one to know one,” he granted and Phil nearly missed the slight hitch to his frown, like he was fighting down the same things Phil had moments ago. But it was there and it said more than it maybe should. There had never been many words between them, actions being their way of making room for the untold things. And that was what Clint being here was, wasn’t it? An action that should tell him all he needed to know.
Taking a deep breath, ignoring the pain that bloomed across his chest, Phil shook his head.
“Fine then, get Simmons back in here. Tell the other’s to get their asses moving. I expect them back on the Bus in 36 hours, downtime until then.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Clint said and while it sounded too serious, it also wasn’t icy.
Clint turned to leave, but stopped with his hand on the door handle, hesitating.
“Glad you’re not dead.”
He was out the door before Phil could say anything else.
no subject
***
“If you’re only here to stare holes in my ceiling, you might as well leave,” Phil said at last, swallowing thickly and slowly getting to his feet to grab his suit jacket so he could get home for once. This day had already turned out shittier than he’d hoped and if this was all he was going to get from Clint, he would rather pause whatever fight he felt brewing in the other man for a day when he didn’t feel like he’d been Hulks punching bag.
Before he could make a grab for the jacket, Clint’s hand flashed out and snagged it from under him.
Phil looked up too quickly, wincing slightly and trying to cover it by glaring at Clint. “Barton …” he snapped, straightening and reaching for his jacket again.
“Like hell I’m leaving until you let someone stick a damn needle in you.”
Again, the material slipped through Phil’s fingers and he took a step toward Clint.
“I am perfectly able to…”
“Don’t even start, you and I both know how you get,” the snort that accompanied the statement sounded only half broken, like Clint couldn't help himself and it slipped out before he could catch it. Phil felt like grinning for half a second. He pushed the impulse away.
“Huh, like you’re any better,” he settled for instead, looking Clint straight in the eye, maybe a little too stubborn. But this felt familiar, even with the angry and cold edge still on Clint’s face. And familiar was nice and enticing and … and they shouldn’t settle for familiar, not with the way things had been for the past weeks.
But he was so tired. Tired of having to keep his distance, to working around this strained new place their relationship was in on top of everything else. And so he fought the pull of the familiar for another few moments, tried to find some more strength to keep it up but found he couldn’t. Instead, he pursed his lips and lowered his arm. Let him have the damn jacket. He knew Clint understood the gesture, of course he did. Another thing that was familiar, something he didn’t have yet with his new team. Phil half expected Natasha to walk in, proclaim them both idiots and staring Phil down until he let the medics do whatever they deemed necessary. They had been here before, many times.
And Phil missed it.
There was silence again, but it seemed less loaded. Clint kept fiddling with Phil’s jacket as if he was fighting something out inside him and Phil wished his side didn’t burn as much as it did, because he really wanted to cross his arms over his chest, to put back on his agent face and not let Clint win this round without actually doing anything. But he couldn’t, didn’t even have his whole suit to help close himself off and so he stood there, slightly awkward and more than secretly glad that Clint was here … that he still cared. Maybe that could be enough … for now.
Finally, Clint lifted his gaze from his restless hands.
“Takes one to know one,” he granted and Phil nearly missed the slight hitch to his frown, like he was fighting down the same things Phil had moments ago. But it was there and it said more than it maybe should. There had never been many words between them, actions being their way of making room for the untold things. And that was what Clint being here was, wasn’t it? An action that should tell him all he needed to know.
Taking a deep breath, ignoring the pain that bloomed across his chest, Phil shook his head.
“Fine then, get Simmons back in here. Tell the other’s to get their asses moving. I expect them back on the Bus in 36 hours, downtime until then.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Clint said and while it sounded too serious, it also wasn’t icy.
Clint turned to leave, but stopped with his hand on the door handle, hesitating.
“Glad you’re not dead.”
He was out the door before Phil could say anything else.
finis