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WELCOME TO LEVEL 7
MAN, I haven't done one of these in a while! Does anyone even remember how these things work? LET'S REVIEW:
- Comment with either a fic snippet/drabble/link in the comments! Be sure to list your rating and pairing (if necessary). Links to Tumblr and/or AO3 are a-okay!
- Comment with a prompt you'd like to see in any media form, be it fic, art, a song mix, or even a gif set. If someone fills that prompt, reply with a link!
- ALL PAIRINGS/CHARACTERS WELCOME, as long as it's related to the Agents of SHIELD 'verse. This means you are free to work within the realms of MCU, just make sure Coulson and his ducklings are involved!
That's it! Pretty simple, huh? In the interest of all the folks on Tumblr who may not have LJ accounts, anon commenting is on and ready! So let's do this!
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BUT
PHIL'S NOT A FAN OF GETTING POKED. HELLO WONDERFUL NEW DELICIOUS COULSON CANON!!!!! SO WHAT IF HE IS ACTUALLY WORSE THAN CLINT FOR GOING TO/STAYING IN MEDICAL????? WHAT IF IT'S CLINT WHO HAS TO SIT ON HIM TO GET HIM IN THERE?? <3_____________<3 PLEASE GIVE ME THIS!!!
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"So I took a zap from a stunner. I was wearing body armor, wasn't I? Stark-tech body armor. Felt like a joy buzzer." He batted away Simmons' hands when she tried to pull his eyelids open wider for a penlight exam. "This is ridiculous!"
"You are under orders from HQ, sir. Anything happens in the field that might affect whatever work they did on your heart, you go in to Medical for a complete workup," Agent Ward pointed out, arms crossed over his chest.
Skye held up the flash drive she kept on a chain around her neck and waved it, grinning wickedly.
"I've still got those pics and vids of your middle school cheerleading audition," she reminded him. May raised an eyebrow, and Coulson sighed. "There was a girl..."
Beside May, the Black Widow rolled her eyes. On Natasha's other side, Clint Barton held up a cellophane-wrapped sleeve of snack cakes. "Little Debbie Mini Diamond Powdered Sugar Donuts at the end if you're a good boy for the docs, Coulson," he called.
"You are enjoying this just entirely too much," Coulson complained to Hawkeye, and brushed aside more fussbudgeting from Simmons.
"Well, yeah," Clint said. "'Payback's a Bitch' is like a Level 1 secret, isn't it?"
"Better still. Be a good boy and we - " Natasha gestured to Melinda May "- won't kick your ass."
"Today," May qualified. "Right now he might enjoy that too much," she added in an undertone to Natasha.
"Please tell me you're almost done," Phil whined under his breath to Simmons.
"Almost done!" she chirped. "All that's left is the prostate exam -"
"ALL RIGHT, EVERYBODY OUT NOW." Coulson's shout was loud and resolute, and Fitz's monitors beeped out a merry polka of alarms. "Barton, that goes TRIPLE for you."
- finis
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fitzsimmons buzzing around being efficient \o/
teaaaaaam \o/
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Somehow, what in my head would be a short thing became ... this. Something caught between being an angsty semi-fix it and being a slightly rushed ... something. I don't know ... don't judge too harshly, maybe? *bites lip*
Approximation - Part 1/3
****
“Barton,” If he had been more awake, Clint might have cringed at the way his voice hitched, nearly squeaking at the end, sketchy from sleep. As it was, he was battling a serious case of “adrenalin vs. REM sleep”, which left him slightly dizzy and light headed. He fucking hated being called when he was out cold for once.
“Hawkeye, this is Agent May. We have a situation.”
Clint, who had been in the process of rubbing sleep from his eyes, still tangled in his sheets, at the same time as reaching for his alarm to check the time, sat up straight.
“Elaborate,” he snapped, immediately boxing the last traces of sleep away and letting adrenalin wash over, shaking him fully awake.
“It’s Agent Coulson, sir.” came the calm and professional response. “Your presence is required.”
Clint was on his feet and halfway in his jeans before he really realized what he was doing. For a split second, he hesitated, phone held to his ear with his left shoulder and hands nearly cramping where they gripped the fabric of his pants too tightly. Of course it was Phil, why else would Melinda fucking May be calling him at 0400 hours. Her calm response did nothing to keep his blood from running ice cold in his veins. Being friends with Natasha had taught him not to trust that kind of voice.
“Your location?” his voice was cold, clipped, as he jumped into his boots and wrangled a T-Shirt over his head. Somewhere, a voice told him to ignore the call. Everything had been done and said, his presence wasn’t required.
“S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ New York, med center.”
Clint swore, yanking the shirt over his torso and grabbing his keys. He had never been all that good at listening to orders, least of all his own.
“Be there in 10,” he said, ending the call and jogging out of his apartment.
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****
The first thing that clued Clint in to the fact that his world wasn’t about to crumble around him – again – was Natasha’s face when he rounded the corner to the waiting area in the S.H.I.E.L.D. med center. It was as close to snickering as he had seen her and his hurried steps faltered a bit.
Most of the rest of Phil’s team was scattered around as well and from what Clint could tell, for a life-or-death scenario, everyone seemed pretty relaxed. Then again, who knew what they actually knew.
Before he could formulate an eloquent response to the picture before him Agent May stepped out of a door on the left. To most, her face would be blank, betraying no emotion but Clint, though he’d only worked with May a couple of times, was pretty certain he detected a hint of annoyance in her gaze.
This was only underlined when she actually heaved a small sigh when she spotted him. “Finally,” she waved him over. Clint, after throwing Natasha a look which she answered with the slightest of shooing motions, stepped over, confused but still bracing himself for whatever would come next. It didn’t seem like the news would be … unmanageable. But he had learned long ago to always prepare for the big punches, no matter the pretty packaging they might come in.
“Agent Romanoff tells me you have a … unique approach to dealing with Agent Coulson.”
Clint, arms crossed slightly behind his back, raised his eyebrow and refrained from turning to his old partner. He shouldn’t be surprised. As much as she liked to pretend not to care, Natasha had tried for weeks to get him to “stop being a pick-headed prick and get out of your own ass” – her words, not his. Still, the swearing had nearly gotten him to cave. Nearly.
Before he could answer Agent May, the door to what he assumed to be Phil’s room opened again, a petit girl stumbling out. Her hair seemed out of place and she was clutching an empty tray to her chest like a shield.
“I don’t understand. It was no problem last week when I helped him with his physical. I mean, he complained a bit but …” She didn’t seem to be talking to anyone in particular, but her accent clued Clint in on who he was. Snatching her arm for a second before she could walk by, Clint shifted his gaze to everyone gathered around.
“Could someone, for the love of god, tell me what is going on?” He tried to keep his voice pleasant-ish, but it still ended up sounding more like a threat and a guy sitting not too far from him – Fitz, Leo, engineer – actually flinched when Clint caught his eyes.
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***
It was no secret that he wasn’t the biggest fan of Phil’s new team. ‘Hate’ was maybe too harsh, but it was closer to the truth than any other description he had come up with so far. In the long line of mind-fucks Clint had had to deal with in the last year (some of them quite literal, dammit), having Phil flying all over the world with a bunch of incompetent juniors, playing marionette for whatever Fury was cooking in the background had been the last straw for Clint. It had been nearly two months now since he had quit his job at S.H.I.E.L.D. and taken Pepper Potts up on her offer as Chief of Security for Stark Industries in between Avenger’s gigs. It had also been nearly two months since he last talked to Phil Coulson.
“At 2200 hours, we received a call from ground command asking us to transport a witness in protective custody from Mexico to New York. At 0312 hours, while handing the witness over, we were attacked by a third party. Agent Coulson got injured.”
Clint’s insides clenched, but he just kept on staring at the Agent in front of him. May allowed the hint of a smirk to come to her lips. “Medical and Agent Coulson seem unable to agree on a satisfactory treatment plan.”
It was the slight smirk as much as the amused annoyance in her voice that had Clint stifle a snort. Right. Coulson in medical, conscious and, apparently, relatively unharmed. It should be funny and, a some months ago it might have been. But that had been before New York, before a death that wasn’t and before the first real family Clint had ever known had been ripped apart by a megalomaniac, one-eyed asshole. Phil Coulson was loyal, Clint knew that, had respected it once upon a time. But there was loyalty and blind, pathetic faith and …
Clint mentally shook himself, eyes narrowing in on the woman in front of him.
“So you called me because you can’t deal?” There might be a sneer on his face, he wasn’t sure.
He made to turn, to retreat and probably, later on, lick the wounds he pretty much inflicted on himself, but Natasha stepped into his path, arms crossed and her face set. He tried to glare at her, knew it would be no good but not willing to go down without a fight.
“It’ll have to happen sooner or later,” she said after several beats of silence. Clint continued to glare at her for another 30 seconds out of principle, before his shoulders hunched and he turned around.
His hand on the door handle, he wondered if trying to get past Natasha, probably getting knocked-out in the process, wasn’t better than this. Then he heard Agent Ward nearly choke on what would have probably been a snide remark (it sounded like the sort of choke Natasha’s grip inspired in people), so Clint steeled his face and walked in. He wasn’t about to back down in front of a bunch of kids that someone let sit at the adult table.
***
“Pretty sure you’re losing street cred with your kiddy crew outside, sir.”
It had sounded like him, before. The sound of unlaced boots on polished medical floors, the shift of soft, thin fabric that spoke of long years of use. It were the sounds made by those that usually moved without, that made their presence known by not pulling their movement, by letting the unique signature of their body be the most potent of giveaways. Still, Phil hadn’t actually let himself believe it until he heard his voice.
Damn, it had been a while.
“Good to know you’re still allowed inside HQ.” That had come out a lot bitterer than he had intended it to. Schooling his face, Phil turned around slowly, trying not to move his head too much. There was a nasty, thick and yellow bruise forming from his right shoulder down his torso and yes, he’d hit his head against some sort of metal or stone surface at some point during the struggle but still – he was fine. After more than 15 years in the field, he knew what a concussion felt like and where the need for a sudden blood sample came from, he had no idea. All he wanted was a hot shower, maybe even a bath, and then his bed. Maybe a day off the Bus for everyone and then off they’d be again.
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****
He really didn’t need Clint Barton in his room, pushing for a sequel to what had nearly ended in a screaming match two months ago. He didn’t need Clint here being angry at him, or concern for him or broken or anything else that Clint had every right to be … but damn, he couldn’t help wanting him here.
“Who said I was allowed?”
It was a humorous response, for all intends and purposes, just like his opening sentence had been. Except that Clint’s eyes where fixed somewhere off to the side, he was strung as tight as one of his bows and his voice sounded like dry plaster.
Phil, now fully turned toward Clint, didn’t say anything for a long time. He tried not to let his eyes roam; take in whatever small changes he might have missed in Clint Barton since the last time he’d let himself really look at the man. It had only been two months since they talked last, but before that, he had been in recovery and Clint had still believed him dead and before that … well, that was more than a year ago, at this point. Still, there hadn’t been much time for Coulson to really look, to make sure himself that he was still fully there, that Loki hadn’t taken away the man he … anyway. Clint might have believed him dead and he was angry about the deception, had every right to be. But Phil … Phil had bled out thinking that Clint was still lost to an alien god. So when it came down to it, they were both given a rude awakening at some point that should have led to some version of a happily ever after but ended up being the exact opposite.
The silence stretched between them, thin and frayed and nothing like it used to. Phil felt itchy and utterly exhausted at the same time. Clint was still staring off to the side, his stance defensive. Phil thought … no, Phil knew he should say something. But this was different. Clint was so angry … angry at him and that was something Phil was tired of making room for. He had been tired of it for two months now. Phil understood why Clint was angry at Nick – heck, he’d had words with the Director himself once he figured out how Fury had handled the whole thing. Why he was angry at Loki or angry at all the agents still looking at Clint as if he had betrayed them all. Phil could understand it all. But for weeks he had tried to find a way into the shell Clint Barton had built around himself and it had hurt, getting nothing but anger and betrayal as an answer. There were reasons, many reasons, why Phil had taken Fury’s offer for a new team, why he had stepped away from the Avenger’s for now at least. But Clint refused to listen to any of them.
In the end, there had been a fight and Phil had thought maybe he just had to … let him go. If it would be forever, he hadn’t known but it had been what they needed, it seemed.
Now though, here Clint was.
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***
“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
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This was lovely! Chock-full of emotion, so much intensity! A fantastic first try!
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