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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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****
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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