Imagine ClintCoulson

we take your prompts & write worlds ((always accepting prompts))

[nerdwegian]

Agent Coulson & Agent Barton, Thor (2011).

[thegirlinthebyakko]

always reblog the birth of my otp <333

[hils79]

Still amazing that a 30 second scene launched such an epic ship

[fishyandclintbarton]

I remember actually screeching in the cinema when Clint reaches for his bow. I think i even cried a bit because my fave character since 1986 was FINALLY on screen. Barely anyone else in the cinema knew who the character was. And then you add Coulson and i was like “YES. THIS IS MY OTP NOW.”

[imagineclintcoulson]

Librarian AU please? Where Phil is THE SEXY LIBRARIAN™. Thanks!

Long time no see, everyone! I hope everyone enjoys! (Watch for the read more)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“You had better have my books.” Phil doesn’t even look up as he speaks. He doesn’t need to. He’d recognize the sound of those boots anywhere. The owner of those boots currently had three books overdue and while Phil may have a massive crush on their owner, he wasn’t going to let it get in the way of getting his books back.

“Aw, Coulson. Come on, give me a break. It’s pouring out there. I knew you’d be pissed if I got your babies wet.”

Phil lifts his head from the paperwork he’d been trying to finish and feels his mouth go dry. Clint Barton, the owner of the boots, is soaked. His t-shirt is sticking to his skin highlighting every last inch of his stomach and chest. He grins at Phil, his smile slightly crooked as his eyes twinkle with mischief. It takes every ounce of willpower to look away, but Phil manages. 

He clears his throat and tries to keep a serious expression on his face as he holds a hand up. “Don’t move. I’m sure we have towels somewhere.” Clint takes a step closer and Phil glares. “Clint. Stay.” 

“But, I’m wet and cold.” Clint teases, that crooked grin growing brighter. He bends his knees as though he’s getting ready to bolt past, into the library. “Okay, okay,” he says, holding his hands up. “I’ll behave.”

He watches the librarian disappear through a door, taking the chance to ogle him with abandon. The dark blue sweater really brings out his eyes and his jeans fit just right. Clint can really appreciate Coulson’s ass and thighs in those jeans. A shiver runs through Clint and he knows it’s not just because he’s wet.

It doesn’t take much for Clint to fall into his favorite fantasy. The one that involves Coulson pushing him up against one of the bookshelves and kissing him senseless. He’s wanted it for so long now. Pretty much from the moment he walked into the library and saw the hot librarian in glasses lift a child to reach a book on one of the top shelves. 

He’s so lost in his own thoughts he doesn’t notice Coulson has come back until a towel smacks him in the face. “Hey! Not cool, Coulson.”

Phil grins and shrugs. “Not my fault you’re not paying attention. Dry off.” 

He watches Clint run the towel over his hair and manages to hold back a groan when Clint lifts his arms to get the back of his head, lifting his shirt, showing off a strip of skin. Phil gets a nice long glimpse of that taut, firm stomach and he aches to reach out and touch.

The towel comes flying back and Phil catches it, stepping aside to let Clint enter the library. “If you didn’t bring your books back, why are you here?”

“Can’t a guy just come and visit his favorite librarian?” Clint ducks his head and scuffs his foot along the carpet. 

“Mhmm.” Phil’s stomach flips as he watches him. How is one man both incredibly hot, and also adorable? He pushes up the sleeves of his sweater, needing something to do with his nervous energy. “Since it’s still pouring out, how about you stay here and finish drying off and work off your overdue fees?” 

Clint’s face brightens and he moves closer to Phil, eyes lingering over now exposed forearms. “Sure thing! Whatcha want me to do?” 

It’s on the tip of Phil’s tongue to say, “let me bend you over the desk in my office,” but he shakes himself and clears his throat. “Um, how do you feel about shelving books?” 

“I can do that!” Clint moves to Coulson’s side and bounces a little on the balls of his feet. He gives Coulson a little nudge with his elbow and waggles his eyebrows. “Want me to prove I know the alphabet?”

“I think I can trust you,” Phil retorts dryly. 

He goes to fetch the cart just to get away from Clint’s gaze on him. It was intense and the longer he looked, the more Phil felt like spilling every last thought he’d had about him. 

“Give it a test run. One of the wheels sticks.”

Clint pushes the cart back and forth with a smile. “I got this, Coulson.”

“Sure you do.” He watches Clint push the cart back and forth. “I’ll be up at the front if you need me. We got some new books today and I need to enter them into the system.” 

“I got this, Coulson,” Clint repeats. “Go on. Do your librarian thing.” 

He watches Clint start to walk away and calls out, “Phil.”

“What?” Clint turns, head tilted in confusion.

“If you’re going to be doing some work for me, you might as well call me Phil.” He can feel his cheeks turning pink and quickly looks away. 

“Phil.” Clint tries the name out and beams at the librarian. “I was wondering if I’d ever get your first name.” 

“Well, now you have it. Go on.” He makes a shooing motion with his hands. “Get to work. Mush.” 

Clint rolls his eyes and wheels the cart away. Phil lingers a bit, enjoying the view before ducking back to the counter and organizing the books that had been delivered. 

The process of adding books to the library’s inventory is pretty monotonous, but Phil enjoys the way his mind is allowed to wander. He’s making good progress when he hears the first rumble of thunder. He hopes the storm doesn’t get too close. The power in his library is finicky at best, and a storm usually manages to knock it out. He reaches for the next book to add in and realizes he’s already finished. Unsure what to do next, he looks out toward the shelves and hears Clint singing and decides he might as well check on him. 

There’s another rumble of thunder, a little louder this time and definitely closer. Phil shakes himself and continues walking through the shelves, looking for Clint. He follows the sound of singing and when he finds him, he leans against the wood and just watches. 

“I need a hero. I’m holding out for a hero til the morning light,” Clint sings, hips swaying from side to side as he grabs for the next book. 

“He’s gotta be strong, and he’s gotta be fast and-”

Clint whirls around, book held in his hand, ready to throw. “What the fuck? Phil?”

“Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.” Phil walks closer, a slight flush on his cheeks. “Was just coming to check on you.” 

Before Clint can say anything, there’s a bright flash of lightning followed by a loud clap of thunder. Rain begins pounding even harder on the windows and Phil waits, on edge, to see if the power goes out. 

When it doesn’t, his shoulders relax and he smiles. “That was loud. But at least the power is-” The lights flicker and die and he groans. 

“You jinxed it, Phil.” 

Still seeing spots from the lightning, Clint doesn’t wait for his eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness. He takes a few steps, hands out, hoping he can find Phil before he crashes into something. 

Phil jerks when a hand touches him and manages to keep from yelping, but only just. There’s another flash of lightning and he can see Clint holding onto him. “Clint?”

“Yeah?” Clint’s voice is soft and shaky. 

“Are you alright?”

Clint moves closer, hand still holding onto Phil’s arm. “Promise you won’t judge?”

“Cross my heart.” 

“I don’t like the dark.” 

“That all?” Phil begins leading them toward the end of the aisle. “Just keep hold of me and I’ll get us upfront. My phone is up there and I can call you a cab or order some food for us.” 

“Ooh, it’s almost like a date.” Clint winces. “I mean, shit. Phil, I didn’t mean to-”

In one quick movement, Phil pushes Clint back against the shelf. Their mouths are close together and it would only take the slightest movement to close the distance and take what he’s been wanting for so long now. 

“And if I did want it to be a date?” Phil’s voice is hushed, a low murmur in the dark.

“You do?” This is not what Clint expected, at all. Phil is, he’s just so good. He could do so much better than him. “Why me?”

Realizing what he’s doing, Phil backs away, letting Clint up. “You’re amazing, Clint. You may have just wondered into my library, but every time you came back, I got to know you more and more and maybe developed a bit of a crush.” 

Phil scratches the back of his neck. He can’t believe he’s putting himself out there like this, but it’s been a long time coming. 

“Let me buy you dinner and we can hang out here until the power comes back on. Unless you were just joking, which, in that case, please forget everything I just said.”

Lips against his own make Phil forget anything else he was going to say. He melts into Clint, backing him into the bookshelf. Clint’s hands hold tight to his waist, pulling Phil closer as he licks at the seam of his lips. 

“Wow.” Phil leans in and takes another kiss, opening for Clint and letting him lick his way inside. “Is that a yes to the date?”

Clint laughs and kisses Phil on the cheek. “It’s a yes. More like a, hell yes, actually. God, I’ve wanted you for so long. I walked into this place and you were wearing your glasses and the white button-down, sleeves rolled up, looking all sexy and competent and I wanted to ask you to bend me over the nearest surface.”

Phil chuckles. “Really? The button-down and rolled-up sleeves? That’s what did it for you?”

“Watching you lift a kid to reach something on a top shelf definitely added to it all. You’ve got some great arms, Phil.” Clint’s hand sneaks around and he gets a handful of Phil’s ass. “And a great ass. You didn’t notice me looking earlier today? These jeans fit you really well.”

The hand on his ass doesn’t move and Phil groans, rolling his hips a little against Clint. “Is that the reason for all the tight shirts with short sleeves?” 

“Fuck, Phil.” A whine escapes Clint’s lips and he squeezes Phil’s ass. “We will definitely be coming back to this later. But maybe food first? And I know you’ve got a desk back there I’d be happy to bend over for you.”

“Cruel. You are a cruel man.” Phil nips at Clint’s neck, soothing the sting with his tongue. “Food. We are getting food first. And if I get to bend you over my desk, you will definitely be telling me what other fantasies you have.” 

It takes a great deal of effort, but Phil manages to pull away from Clint, holding onto his hand and pulling gently. Clint follows, sticking close, impressed with how well Phil maneuvers them around any tables in their way. 

They reach the front and Phil keeps walking, bringing Clint into his office and pushing him down on the couch he likes to use for naps. “Chinese good?”

Clint stretches out on the couch. “Sounds perfect.” 

[irenalaw]

Jeremy at Super Bowl LIV in Miami Gardens on Feb 02, 2020

[imagineclintcoulson]

Phil has acromatopsia. Clint finds out and starts describing colors to him.

Author’s note: This story will be around 12.5k words when complete spread over three chapters. Chapter one (too big to post without a break, sorry) is ready to go and will be posted here with the whole fic posted on AO3 after each chapter has been edited. 

Caution: chapter one has some mental and physical bullying involving kids so please be warned. It does get better for the kid being bullied though, I promise.

Thank you so much for your prompt, @calltomuster - hope you enjoy. Lola x

Part one: the orphanage

“Hey, Magoo! Where d’ya think you’re going?”

Thirteen-year-old Phil sighed. He had hoped to avoid Garrett and his posse but apparently, luck was not on his side. Again. He shoved his fists deeper into the pockets of his jeans and kept walking. Perhaps they’d lose interest.

The sharp-edged stone that hit him between the shoulderblades causing him to gasp and stop short, told him otherwise. Ward’s aim was on point, as usual, catching him painfully on the muscle. It wasn’t the worst they’d ever done but it was enough for him to stand still and catch his breath. Which was exactly what they wanted.

He heard the footfalls coming from three directions; right, left and to the rear as they closed in on him. It would appear today was going to be a two superhero day.

Phil’s father died when he was nine, his loss literally tearing his family apart, gradually and cruelly. His mom had been taken from him a year later when she lost her fight against the breakdown that had been creeping towards her since the death of his dad. They’d both ended up as wards of the State; his mother in a psychiatric facility and Phil, an orphanage. He had no other family and no-one wanted to foster or adopt a kid who couldn’t see the world as they did.

He’d filled the emptiness with comic books when he could get them; in particular Captain America and Daredevil. One usually kept him out of trouble, the other generally guided him through it. He always called on The Cap’s level-headed influence first to help him but if trouble kept coming he added Daredevil’s fearlessness to the mix. Phil wasn’t blind but he had achromatopsia which, in the daylight, if he were to lose his tinted glasses, was painful and challenging. And Garrett always went for his glasses. 

“Aww, c’mon Magoo. Why’d ya have to be so rude? Me an’ the boys just wanna talk.” 

The boys, fifteen-year-old Rumlow, and Ward, the youngest at ten, were equally shitty and “talking” usually involved Phil being knocked to the ground with his glasses being stolen or broken no matter how hard he fought back.

However, Phil had been practising with his other senses, training them to be stronger. He lay awake at night, just listening, trying to use his ears the way that Matt Murdock did to improve his spacial awareness. He closed his eyes and slowly inhaled a long, deep breath forcing himself to be calm. As he breathed out through his mouth, he listened carefully. Raising his fists, he turned and took a swing where he sensed Rumlow was standing. 

He wasn’t even close. His fist whistled through empty air making contact with nothing but more empty air.

The other three boys looked at each other and yelled with laughter, then as one practised bullying unit jumped on Phil knocking him to the ground keeping him there with punches and kicks.

When they eventually drew back, a bloodied and bruised Phil uncurled from his protective position and slowly got to his feet. He raised his fists again and panted, “Tha’ all you got ‘cause I c’n do this all day.”

The Cap and DareDevil would be proud. Bucky and Foggy would be horrified. Well, maybe a little proud too.

“C’mon,” he challenged although it was more of an unintelligible mumble thanks to his swollen lip, split in several places. 

His dare wasn’t accepted, however. One by one, in quick succession, the three bullies yelped or screamed and grabbed an asscheek each. Phil squinted at them through aching eyes, partly because of the blows and partly because of the achromatopsia - his glasses had been lost on the ground somewhere exposing his sensitive eyes to the bright glare of the sun. 

The boys spun round to see a new kid with a loaded slingshot in his hand and decided retreat was the better part of cowardice. They’d find out more about him later. And as for Phil…

“Later, Magoo,” spat Garrett as the led the trio back to the main house at a run. “An’ you, shut the fuck up, ya little prick,” he yelled at a snivelling Ward who still rubbing his ass.

Phil was confused but happy. He’d stood up to them before, many times, but they’d never given up this easily. He felt someone by his side and thinking one of them had returned, took another swing. Sadly his aim wasn’t any better at that close range and once again, he missed by a mile.

“Hey! Don’t hit, okay? M’not one of those fuckin’ douchebags. Here, you need these?”

Phil didn’t recognise the voice and tried not to flinch as the kid gently took Phil’s hand and placed the glasses in his palm, closing his fingers around them. Phil winced as he put them on, the legs scraping the cuts on his face.

“You’re fuckin’ nuts,” the kid said, his voice perhaps a little awed. He figured the kid with the glasses was also totally badass for standing up to three dickwads who were literally kicking him while he was down. “You okay?”

Phil nodded, then shook his head. “Not really,” he admitted. Someone had managed to get a few good kicks in at his ribs and face.

“Thanks for stepping in,” he added. “I mean, I’d have taken them eventually but… appreciate it.”

The kid grinned at him. “Yeah. I could tell the way they were pissin’ their pants you had ‘em on the fuckin’ ropes.”

Phil stared at him. “You swear… a lot.”

The kid’s grin widened. “The fuck I do!”

Phil laughed and then pulled a face again as the splits in his lip stretched apart and his ribs twinged sharply. “Think maybe I better get to the infirmary.”

“What?” the kid asked, his eyebrows knitting into a frown. He’d been struggling to understand all of what Phil was saying with his swollen lip making his words unclear but now that Phil had ducked his head out of his line of sight, he was lost completely.

Phil raised his head again and looked carefully at the other boy and noticed hearing aids on either side of his head. 

The kid shrugged. “Didn’t hear you properly,” he said, pointing to his left ear.

Phil nodded, understanding at once. He took a deep breath and started to speak in a raised voice “I need to…”

The kid stopped him with a shake of his head. “You don’ need ta shout. Just talk like you usually do an’ if I don’ hear it, I’ll try ta lip-read if you look at me. Although with that fuckin’ fat lip of yours, you’re makin’ it pretty hard.”

Phil tried not to laugh and clutched his ribs. “M’name’s Phillip Coulson. Phil.”

“Clint Barton. There a nurse or a doc around here, Phil cuz I think you should maybe see somebody.”

Phil rolled his eyes. Ow! No eye-rolling.

“Yeah. That’s… what I was saying. I need to go to the infirmary. Um, you coming?” he asked, hopeful but not really expecting a yes.

Clint touched his hand to the back of his neck and gave it a thoughtful rub. “I would but… not really a big fan. Besides, they’d probably be askin’ questions about this.” He held up the slingshot.

“Why’ve you got that?” Phil asked, curious. He didn’t see why Garrett and the others bolted, just that they had.

“You mean you missed my epic shots to those douchebags’ asses?” Clint was hurt. Deeply. He’d hit them from a good thirty or so feet away, right in the middle of their butt cheeks.

“Dude, without my glasses I can hardly see a foot in front of me.”

Clint flipped Phil off right in front of his bleeding nose. “What about a hand?”

Phil slapped it away. “Ow and fuck off!”

“Now who’s got a pottymouth?”

“Apparently, you’re a bad influence. Look, I’m gonna head to the infirmary. But… well, thanks.” 

Clint ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck. With a shrug, he said, “You wanna catch up after? I mean, supposin’ they don’t keep your scrawny ass in.” 

Phil smiled, again trying not to be too hopeful. Or to wince. He hadn’t made many friends during his time at the orphanage. And those he did make either left for nice homes with a new family or were chased off by Garrett and his thugs. Still, he’d take Clint’s offer for however long it lasted.

“Sure,” he replied. “Where?”

“You scared a heights?” Clint asked with a mischievous glint in his eye. Phil’s brows came together in a puzzled frown as he shook his head.

“Meetcha on the roof then.” 

Phil’s frown deepened. “We’re not allowed up there,” he said, immediately feeling like a little kid at the scornful look Clint gave him. His Captain America side warred with his Daredevil knowing what Clint had suggested was wrong but wanting to do it anyway. 

“Well, if you’re too…”

“Okay,” Phil agreed quickly, afraid Clint was going to say chickenshit. That was one of Garrett’s favourite expressions and he hated it.

Keep reading under the break...

“When are you going to stop getting into fights, Coulson?” Dr Streiten asked as he sutured the cut above Phil’s eyebrow. 

Phil was sore and miserable and pissed off at having to take shit because he’d been bullied yet again. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted… he wanted his Mom. And his Dad. And his family back. He wanted to go home. He desperately wanted someone to tell him it would get better. It was going to be okay. But he’d lost his belief in that futile hope after his first year. After Garrett and his cronies figured him for an easy target. 

He may have felt hopeless but there was one thing he knew above all else. You didn’t tell. No matter what. So he just sat quietly with his jaw clenched to keep the tears at bay staring ahead while the doctor treated his injuries. 

Streiten sighed and ignored Phil’s fight to remain in control. He wouldn’t thank him for mentioning it. 

He’d lost count of the number of times the boy in front of him had been to his office for medical care. He was well aware there was a bullying problem at the orphanage. He even knew who the culprits were but he just couldn’t get anything done about it. The Administrator, a sinister aloof man by the name of Whitehall, refused to acknowledge it when he gave his daily reports, putting the cuts, bruising and broken limbs down to the carelessness of children or overzealous roughhousing. 

Apparently, it was the “natural order of things in these places” and “Nothing can be done until someone makes a noise. And no-one’s making a noise, right?” 

Noise meaning complaint. And of course, no-one was complaining. That would lead to more bullying and being ostracised. The Administrator and the Board had no interest in the facility other than cutting costs and turning a profit for the State. And themselves. Trying to do any real good with the kids would only eat into that nice fat bonus at the end of the year.  

“Phillip…” he began, kindly.

“It’s the achromatopsia, sir,” Phil interrupted. He knew where this was going and couldn’t handle the sympathetic tone in the doctor’s voice. He couldn’t, wouldn’t cry. “I… fall down a lot with it. Walk into things.”

Streiten knew this was bull but he played along… sort of. “Especially if you don’t have your glasses on.”

Phil tilted his head and gave him a watery smile, wincing as it pulled his lip. “‘Specially then.” 

They fell silent for a time until Phil said, “I, uh… might have a new friend. Till they leave anyway.”

Streiten continued with his suturing and tried not to get too excited for Phil. Or disappointed. He was a decent kid and a friend would be good for him. Not that it would last long. Other kids were naturally drawn to him but when they realised he couldn’t protect them from bullies, no matter how much he wanted to or how hard he tried, they drifted away. Or worse turned on him to protect themselves.

“That’s nice. Care to share?”

“His name’s Clint.”

The doctor’s heart sank. “Barton?” he asked trying to keep his tone light and his face impassive.

Phil nodded but his expression was wary. The doctor was obviously failing with his indifferent expression. He gave up the pretence and sat back for a moment to look at Phil.

“Be careful, Phillip. Clint is…”

Phil’s eyes narrowed and his body tensed. Streiten realised he should have known better than to criticise someone the boy had called ‘friend’. He didn’t give his friendship easily understanding what a fragile thing it could be

“Is what, Dr Streiten? Dangerous? Messed up? Sad and lonely? Well, guess what? Maybe we’re all a mix of that. And he hasn’t punched me in the face or ganged up on me with other kids. In fact, he’s the only one who’s tried to help. You finished?”

The doctor stared at his patient for a moment then cut the thread to the last suture. Knowing the boy’s nature to believe there’s good in everyone (excluding perhaps the thugs who terrorised his existence), Streiten figured he’d only make things worse by continuing to warn Phil off.

“I am,” he sighed.

Phil hopped off the gurney wincing as the pain shot through his ribs all the way to his head. Streiten reached out his hand to steady him but Phil shook it off and slipped his glasses back on.

“I think it would be good for you to stay here…”

“Thanks for…” Phil interrupted gesturing to his face and Stratton’s ministrations. He had no intention of staying. Some time in the recovery room away from Garrett and his asshole buddies usually helped him but he was too upset and angry, too emotionally hurt this time. “I guess I’ll see you in a few days.”

Streiten watched the boy leave with his head held high and his shoulders squared as much as he could with so much bruising to his ribs. Enough was enough. It was beyond time to do something about this. 

With more determination and anger than he’d felt for a long time, he snapped off the nitrile gloves dropping them in the medical waste bin and picked up the receiver of the phone on his desk. He dialled a number given to him several months ago which he’d committed to memory then waited a few seconds until his call was answered with a brusk, no-nonsense voice that usually scared the hell out of him. Not today though. 

“I have one for you to watch out for. He’s the real deal. Trust me, he’ll put Captain America to shame. No, I am not shitting you. I’ll get his information to you but I need something in return. I need a new head for the orphanage. No. Don’t think about it, Nick. Get it done or I’m finished. Thank you. The boy is Phillip J Coulson from Manitowoc, Wisconsin. Father deceased. Mother in a psychiatric hospital in Brooklyn. He’s been in care for four years with circumstances unlikely to change. Above-average intelligence, good grades and stubborn as a mule.” Streiten paused for a moment and smiled while he listened to the comments coming from the other end of the phone. “Yes. I thought you’d like that.

*

When Phil opened the door to the roof his heart sank. There was no sign of the new kid who’d saved his ass. He nodded to himself. Figured. 

“Took yer time, Fatlip,” called a voice from behind him. He turned to squint in the direction from which the voice came. His mouth dropped open when he spotted Clint sitting on the ledge of the flat section of the roof, his legs dangling into space. That was… nuts!

Wondering what he was getting himself into, Phil put a rock between the door and the jamb to prevent it from closing. As he did so, he wondered how Clint had intended to get down from the roof had he not turned up. You couldn’t open the door from the outside. 

“It’s Phillip, not Fatlip,” he told Clint as he sat gingerly beside him. Crap, they were high up.

Clint gave him a once over before scoffing, “Yeah? Well lookin’ at yer face I think I’m right an’ you’re fulla shit.”

Phil touched the tips of his fingers to his swollen face. Yeah, maybe he had a point.

“Did you really his those assholes from a distance?” he asked, genuinely interested.

Clint stiffened. His voice was as tight as his body when he demanded angrily, “You don’t believe me?”

Phil rubbed his nose with the heel of his hand grimacing at the flare of pain it set off through his face. “It’s not that,” he said. “It’s just… I can’t imagine being able to see that far. You must have eyes like a hawk.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, yeah. I guess.” Clint relaxed a little. “An’ I never miss.”

“The Awesome Hawkeye then,” Phil said with a gentle half-smile. 

“Fuck off!”

“The Awesome Hawkeye - World’s Sweariest Pottymouth.”

Clint laughed and carefully nudged his shoulder against Phil’s so as not to hurt him further. “You’re such a fuckin’ douche.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, content in each other’s company. 

 “It’s getting dark,” Phil commented, staring out over their little part of the city. Clint turned his head to look at him.

“That really all you see?” he asked curiously.

Still looking forward, Phil nodded. He knew colours existed. He’d heard people talk about the blue sky, how the grass was greener on the other side, the bright orange ball in the sky, but for him, the world was painted in shades of grey and shadow.

“Pretty much, yeah. I have achromatopsia. Means I can only see in black, white and grey.”

Clint stared at Phil long enough for it to begin to feel uncomfortable. When Phil turned to face the other boy, Clint said, “Okay, so… that’s just fuckin’ weird. But maybe it’s like not bein’ able to hear properly. Like me. Everythin’ sounds… off. Like you’re listenin’ with your head underwater.”

Phil could understand that. He nodded.

“What’s your favourite ice cream?” Clint asked after a few minutes.

Phil’s eyes narrowed at the seemingly random question.

“Uh… raspberry ripple, I guess.”

“Why?”

Phil thought for a moment. He’d never really wondered why before, just that it was. “I like the way the flavours mingle.”

“Sooo, it makes you feel good when you eat it?”

Another weird question. Frowning, Phil shrugged. “I dunno.”

He closed his eyes and imagined spooning a scoop of ice cream into his mouth. In his mind, he felt the coldness first, chilling the inside of his mouth. Then, as it melted over his tongue, he could taste the creamy sweetness of vanilla followed by bursts of sharpness from the veins of raspberry that ran through it. He smiled and opened his eyes.

“You’re kind of an oddball but… yeah, I like the taste of it. And… I guess it feels nice now that I think about. Why?”

Clint grinned at him. “Okay. So, that’s a sunset. It’s not just the sky gettin’ darker for me. I see loadsa colours. Like blues an’ purples an’ with white clouds turnin’ red an’ orange an’ pink an’ it all gettin’ darker until it’s like really black. An’ there’s little bright sparkly bits for the stars.” 

Clint goes quiet for a moment before saying softly, “Sunsets are real pretty. They make me feel I can make it through another day, y’know.”

“Yeah. I know,” Phil says wistfully looking back at the sky. It was still shades of grey to him but there was a depth to it now he’d never realised before. He could still imagine flavours from the frozen dessert and he seemed closer to seeing a sunset the way other people did. As the sky continued to darken his taste buds tingled with the memory of something else.

“Huh! I can kinda taste Cherry Garcia now that it’s getting darker.”

Clint looked at him, his gaze warm and almost proud. “Congratulations, Fatlip. You’ve just tasted your first purple.” 

Phil grinned at him, his excitement at “seeing” colours for the first time overriding the pain from his ‘fat lip’. “The grass. What colour’s the grass?”

“Lime jello!” Clint crowed, getting into the game.

“What about the sky?”

Clint rolled his eyes. “At night or day? Blueberries at night. An’ Blue Moon ice cream durin’ the day.”

“Never tasted either but they but sound awesome. And the sun?”

Clint looked at Phil like he was an idiot. “Like a fucking orange, ya mutt!”

Phil’s mouth dropped open in shock then he yelled with laughter falling back onto the roof, slapping his hand against the cement as his body shook with the force of it. It hurt all over to laugh so hard but it felt great too. It had been such a long time since he’d been able to feel like this. 

Clint watched him shaking his head with amusement as he giggled at Phil, gradually becoming caught up in Phil’s mirth until he was laughing every bit as much and had collapsed beside him, holding his ribs. It had been a long time for Clint too. 

It would be cool to have someone to talk to, for a little while at least.

To be continued…

[imagineclintcoulson]

do you have the post /post/158287574584/clint-is-that-a-insert-supernatural on ao3?

I haven’t posted them over there yet. Been the queen of procrastination on it.

[imagineclintcoulson]

As a PR thing, the Avengers visit a children's hospital/orphanage/other, where the kids are dressed as their favorite avengers. Clint overhears Coulson telling a kid/group why Hawkeye is actually the best avenger. Bonus if later Clint tells Coulson why he thinks Coulson is actually the best avenger.

Author’s note: Thank you for your prompt, Anon - hope you enjoy. It’s been a while folks and sorry about the cut but you can also find it on AO3 . It’s all fluff but the story’s 6.5k - a bit long without a break. Lola

In truth, Clint’s never cared for Christmas much. Not really. It wasn’t a big deal in his life as a kid. His mom tried her best a few times but anything she attempted was pretty much ruined by his asshole of a father with him drinking away the money she managed to save, or smashing whatever she bought for him and Barn. Orphanages were usually too poor to do anything except put up a sad Christmas tree with even sadder decorations. Foster homes were a hit or miss kinda thing so his expectations were always pretty low (and generally met). And the circus? Well, the holidays were when they were at their busiest so he didn’t have time to think about the festive season being “special”. Except perhaps for the exhaustion the additional performances brought.

But this, dropping by children’s hospitals or orphanages and talking with kids who are super excited to see their heroes in the flesh (or metal) no matter how ill they are, this is pretty cool and reminds him how lucky he is.

This is the best part of being an Avenger.

They have these kinds of events all year round. Sometimes loud and proud when PR decides they need positive publicity thanks to an episode of city-wide destruction typically caused by Doombots, mad scientists or megalomaniacs bent on world domination. And sometimes when no-one will know except the team and the kids.

However, visiting at Christmas seems to add a little magic (although preferably not the literal kind). He’s not sure if it’s all the effort the parents and hospital staff go to with the tinsel and baubles and twinkling lights on the Christmas trees or if it’s the way the kids’ faces light up as soon their favourite Avenger walks into the room. Actually, yeah. Maybe it’s the second one.

Thor and Iron Man are with the stronger kids shouting up a storm making the adults laugh or cringe with embarrassment; Black Widow and Banner are with those who are more subdued or shy, talking quietly and helping them with colouring books or drawing pictures; and Captain America is doing the rounds with Pepper shaking hands with potential donors and hospital Administrators, while being nice to the press. Clint knows it’s Cap’s least favourite part of being an Avenger. He’d much rather be with the others spending time with the kids. But needs must, right? And the good Captain has the diplomatic skills the others… well, don’t.

Then there’s Coulson who tends to stand quietly on the sidelines, hands clasped in front of him watching all that’s going on with his sharp blue eyes and barely-there smile. Barely there but just enough to deepen the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, a look Clint loves and would be happy to see on his handler more often.

He accompanies them on these events as The Avengers’ official S.H.I.E.L.D liaison to give the team backup just as he would if they were out in the field (and occasionally allow an air of quiet menace to bleed through his usual inscrutable façade at any press or Administrators who get out of line). Clint enjoys that side of him too. The badass side.

But right now Clint can’t see Coulson at all which is strange because he definitely arrived with them. Clint distinctly remembers calling shotgun and riding up front with him in the SUV with Tasha and Steve in the back as the other three and Pepper travelled in a limo with Happy at the wheel.

It’s not that he intends to go looking for him but with some free time on his hands during a quiet period, Clint finds his handler in a colourful day-room just off the main ward with an awesome Christmas tree all sparkly and shiny.

Coulson’s sitting chilled and relaxed in an overstuffed chair which Clint reckons is probably used for storytime or something with its soft pillows and plush throw. Clint also notes with a warm, fuzzy feeling he has a little kid of perhaps four or five dressed as… well, hot damn… dressed as Hawkeye cuddled into him. Coulson’s holding him gently but competently as though he’s done it before. Hell for all Clint knows maybe he has. It’s a good look.

With their parents looking on, hands covering their mouths to muffle quiet snickers of laughter, Coulson’s holding court over maybe a dozen or so excitable kids in Iron Man, Captain America, and Thor costumes. They may be in a sick kids hospital but the thrill of Christmas and the Avengers nearby seems to be keeping whatever ails them at bay for now.

Clint has no idea how he’s doing it but Coulson appears perfectly at ease in a room full of pretty vocal under-tens. They’re sitting in front of him in a semi-circle while he quizzes them on their choice of costume and why they think the superhero they’re dressed as is The Best Avenger. With an amused snort, it reminds Clint of post-mission debriefs back at the tower or S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ. Except the grown-up Avengers usually sit on chairs rather than the floor… well, most of them.

Smiling, Clint leans against the door jam to watch.

One of the moms spots him, has a mini freak out for a second realising who he is, then manages to recover her composure long enough to gesture for him to come in and join them. Clint’s smile widens and he shakes his head. Holding his forefinger in front of his lips, he nods towards Coulson to say he doesn’t want to disturb what’s going on. She nods back in understanding and turns around to watch the excitement again, her eyes as bright as the children’s.

Now and again she looks over her shoulder still not quite believing Hawkeye, her son’s favourite Avenger is standing nearby. With his arms. His really sexy arms which look even more wow in the flesh. Cheeks blazing scarlet she tears her gaze away fixing it on Coulson and the children.

“I am Iron Man an’ I am the best ‘Venger cuz I am awesome an’ I can fly an’ I got lasers an’ I drive fast cars,” one boy shouts at Coulson jumping up to stand in a typical Stark pose holding out his prosthetic arm, designed to look like Iron Man’s glove, to blast Coulson in the forehead with his repulsor.

“Huh,” the senior Agent replies with a slightly pained expression as ‘You certainly sound like him’ runs through his mind. “Well, Iron Man ispretty awesome and… he does have or do all those things. I’d have to say you’re definitely in the running.”

The kid grins and returns to his place in the semi-circle, fist-bumping another red and gold clad child as he goes by.

Coulson turns his head to a Thor lookalike. “State your case, Mighty Thor,” he says.

The second boy climbs to his feet, careful not to displace the I.V. line in his wrist, and points his hammer at Coulson as he thunders, “I AM MIGHTY THOR, PRINCE OF ASGARD. I HAVE MENU MY HAMMER THAT NO-ONE ELSE CAN LIFT BECAUSE THEY ARE NOT AS BIG AN’ COOL AS ME.”

Clint grins at the muscles bunching together in Coulson’s jaw as he valiantly holds back the laughter that Clint knows is desperately trying to escape. After a moment’s pause, Coulson responds to Thor’s declaration and Clint silently gives his handler kudos for keeping his poker face firmly in place.

“It’s true only the Prince of Asgard can wield… Menu… and no-one on else is quite as cool as he is. Or perhaps as big. Well played, your Highness. And… such powerful a voice too! You are certainly worthy of consideration.”

Thor nods majestically at Coulson as though there can be no other outcome and drops down beside a Captain America. She pats his back, obviously pleased for her friend. Coulson pins the little girl with his gaze and says gently, “I don’t believe I’ve heard from the good Captain as yet.”

She blushes furiously but instead of standing up with confidence like the other two, she slides over on her knees to have a pow-wow with the other Captains. Coulson bites his lip and turns his head to the side to hide the grin he can no longer keep at bay. She’s so cute and so serious. Actually, all three Captains are. He almost wishes he could pronounce Cap the winner there and then but he’s bestowed that honour to someone else. In his head at least. He knows unequivocally who the Best Avenger is. He’s always known and there’s very little that could sway his opinion. Not terribly objective perhaps but hey, who’s gonna find out?

With a final nod to her compatriots, the little girl stands in front of Coulson. One of her hands is curled up into a fist which is pressed into her hip, the other is holding her shield in front of her. The expression on her face is so earnest it reminds him of the real Captain America.

“I am Captain ‘Merica. I am a super soldier an’ I believe in toof, justice an’ the ‘merican way.” She goes to sit back down then with a gasp as she suddenly remembers something, turns back to Coulson and says quickly, “An’ I don’ like bullies. I punch ‘em inna face an’ frow ‘em inna jail.”

Satisfied, she’s covered everything she rejoins her friends to smiles and hugs.

Again, there’s quiet snickering from the parents and nursing staff, and even Clint has a grin from ear to ear. Coulson, however, remains straight-faced. Clint knows he’s always been good at keeping his composure no matter the circumstances, it’s just one of the reasons Clint finds him so damned attractive, but he’s excelling himself today.

“You are an awesome super soldier and… truth, justice, and the American way are to be much admired. You’re another contender for the Best Avenger. And Captain? I don’t like bullies either.”

One of the other star-spangled soldiers asks in an awed voice, “Do you punch ‘em inna face an’ frow ‘em in the jail too?”

Coulson’s eyebrow rises slightly at the question and a faint blush spreads across his cheeks much to Clint’s and the other adults’ amusement. Clint’s very interested in how his handler responds to this one, ‘cause he knows for sure Coulson wouldn’t hesitate to punch them “inna face” and throw them “inna jail”.

“Well, I prefer to cuff them and put them… in the jail. Sometimes punching them in the… well, punching them isn’t always the best way to go.”

“But sometimes it is?” asks a Thor hopefully.

Coulson flashes the parents nearest him an apologetic look. This is taking a turn he hadn’t accounted for and he usually accounts for everything. Except for the unpredictability of kids apparently.

“Uh… well, sometimes the bad guys don’t leave you much option.”

One of the Iron Man mini-mes puts up his hand before Coulson can explain. Coulson swallows dreading what his question is going to be. Showing no fear, outwardly at least, he gives permission for Iron Man to ask away. The parents and nursing staff can only request that he, Coulson, never darkens their door again if it turns out to be a complete disaster.

“Do you have handcuffs, Mr Agent?”

Grateful it’s nothing worse, Coulson nods very much aware his ass has just been saved by a slightly less blood-thirsty seven-year-old. All the kids give a collective “oooh” of respect. In the background, Clint snorts and quickly covers his mouth to stop himself from cracking up completely. They sound like the little alien guys from Toy Story. Not for the first time in his life, he wonders why all kids of a certain age sound like they’ve inhaled a lung full of helium. Plus seeing the unflappable Coulson become momentarily flustered is unexpectedly funny.

“Can I see ‘em?”

Coulson nods again and shifts slightly in the chair to snap open the holder at the base of his back careful not to dislodge little Hawkeye who’s still cuddled against him. He removes a set of cuffs, dangling them from his forefinger where Iron Man can reach them. He takes them from Coulson’s hand to admire them as the other kids crowd around him to see.

Clint smirks. Coulson rarely uses handcuffs nowadays, preferring SHIELD reinforced cable ties instead. He must have brought them along specially. Clint gets that weird mushy feeling in his stomach again.

Thor raises his hand. With another nervous swallow, Coulson nods for him to ask his next question.

“Do you have a gun, Mr Agent?”

Oh crap!

“I do,” Coulson says gravely. “But…”

“Can I see it?” interrupts Iron Man, excitedly.

Coulson’s worked with Wade Wilson. He’s worked with Darcy Lewis. He currently works with Tony Stark. He knows if he doesn’t keep control here, there’s a distinct possibility this is not going to end well.

“…not with me,” he continues as though the interruption hadn’t occurred. “Agent rules. No guns in hospitals.”

There’s a collective “Awww” of disappointment from the group. Whew! Disaster averted.

Bloodthirsty Thor’s hand shoots up excitedly and he ploughs on without waiting. “Do you shoot em inna…”

Oh god! It’s back to being a disaster, careening towards a clusterfuck, full-speed ahead.

Coulson’s too professional to facepalm in front of everyone but if it’s possible, he may just have given himself a concussion with a mental brain slap.

Fortunately, one of the medical staff cuts in before little Thor can finish the sentence. “I don’t think that’s a question we need ask, Thor. Agent Coulson? Perhaps we could…”

He nods ignoring the tiny beads of sweat that have formed along his hairline. He can honestly say he’s delighted all the Avengers are currently busy with their own thing and none of them can see him right now. He has a reputation to uphold after all. One that’s currently being shredded by a tiny Thor with a propensity for bloodthirstiness that would put a Bilgesnipe to shame.

Of course, he’s completely unaware the real Hawkeye is watching him from the doorway with a fond smile.

Although Black Widow and Dr Banner (funnily enough, not the Other Guy) are represented and have shown some interest in the handcuff/gun exchange, neither are too bothered about taking part in the rest of the proceedings. When Coulson asks, the pair looks at each other in silent communication for a moment before ‘Banner’ pushes her wire-rimmed glasses back up her nose, where they slide immediately back down as she returns to her colouring book.

‘Widow’ politely replies on both their behalf, “No fanks, Mr Agent. I’m onna secret mishin an’ Bruce is too shy.”

Coulson nods in understanding. A secret mishin is a secret mishin and the real Bruce Banner would likely be too shy to take part anyway. Coulson wonders, not for the first time, that the personalities of the children seem very similar to the heroes they’ve chosen to be. Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised at that but he finds it touching all the same.

Without raising his voice, he calls everyone to order and smiles at all the kids gathered round at his feet once more. Clint reflects a second time how similar it is to an Avengers debrief. Except, you know, the whole chair thing. Wow! Are the Earth’s Mightiest Heroes really a bunch of under tens?

Pleased the situation seems to be back under control, Coulson prepares to announce who the Best Avenger is.

“I’m very impressed by all of you. Everyone has given great reasons why their Avenger is the Best Avenger whether it’s their super strength, their super suits, or… being a god from another realm. But… I think perhaps you missed who the Best Avenger really is.”

Another Iron Man (or rather, Iron Woman) jabs Coulson’s knee with her finger to attract his attention. He turns his head to look at the mini-Stark standing with hands on hips glaring defiantly at him.

“If it’s not me, then who IS the Best ‘Venger?” she demands impatiently, her mask picking that moment to drop into place hiding her scowl. Irritated, she shoves it back up again and continues to pout.

Coulson raises an eyebrow. Wow! This pint-sized Stark’s eerily similar to the grown-up one.

“That’s easy,” he says, calmly. “It’s Hawkeye.”

There’s a ruckus. There’s no other word for it.

All the other Avengers protest loudly at Coulson’s answer. All except the little one on his knee who gazes up at him as though he’s just hung the moon and stars. He smiles down at the kid and winks conspiratorially at him. Clint’s heart melts into a pool of goo.

Once the commotion dies down with the help of several miffed parents and medical staff who give Coulson the evil eye much to Clint’s amusement, the senior agent calmly explains his reasoning.

“You’re all correct. All the other Avengers have abilities to be admired; amazing super strength and speed, the ability to fly around the sky or leap from building to building, or they’re cool enough to control thunder and lightning. But Hawkeye, in some ways, is just like you or me.”

“But if he’s like us, why does that make him the best?” a little Thor asks, confused.

“Well, think how special he must be if he’s on the same team as all those Avengers with superpowers. How hard he must train every day. How brave he must be to fight alongside them. How strong he must be to use his bow for a very long time in battle. He can also do things the others can’t - he never misses, he can see far into the distance, he can stay quiet and sit still for hours. And… there’s something else maybe you don’t know…”

There’s a tug at his tie and Coulson drops his gaze to the purple-clad Hawkeye on his knee. With Coulson’s attention on him, the little boy finger spells H.A.W.K.E.Y.E then touches his finger to his cheek near his ear before moving his finger in a small arch touching it near his mouth then back across his cheek again to say “Deaf” in American sign language.

Making sure miniature Hawkeye is still supported in his embrace, Coulson’s half-smile widens into a grin as he signs back, “Yes. H.A.W.K.E.Y.E deaf.”

He looks back at the other kids and repeats the ASL for them speaking as he finger spells and signs his words while he continues.

“Hawkeye is deaf. Some people might think that’s not good for him or his teammates. They might even think it should stop him from being an Avenger. But… they’d be wrong. Hawkeye is the brightest and most fearless person I know. Hawkeye is the Best Avenger.”

There’s silence as the children consider Coulson’s words. They look round at each other gauging opinion and when one pipes up “I love Hawkeye” three or four more pick it up and repeat it.

Clint’s face turns scarlet and his mouth falls open in shock. That was totally unexpected. Both Coulson’s words and the kids’ reaction. These days he’s not used to being the centre of attention. Sure when he was Hawkeye The World’s Greatest Marksman in his skin-tight, purple spangly suit with Carson’s Carnival. Now, however, he’s used to being hidden. Eyes up high where no-one can see him yet he sees all.

And Coulson seemed so damned sincere. Like he was… like he was proud of him.

Little Hawkeye’s mom catches his attention, a spark of worry spreading across her features. He leans nearer as she whispers, “You okay?”

Her concern touches him and he nods with a shy grin.

“Surprised is all,” he shrugs. “Guess I didn’t bargain on that.”

He looks over at Coulson for few moments then returns his gaze to Little Hawkeye’s mom. From her expression, he realises he’s been unsuccessful at hiding his feelings for his handler which apparently are as obvious as though they’d been written all over his face in big bold capital letters… in marker pen. Awkward.

Mortified, he hurriedly drops his eyes to his boots as one hand reaches for the back of his neck while the other grabs the bicep. His uniform doesn’t come with pockets so he can’t shove his hand into one as he would do with his jeans.

They stand like that until eventually she lightly touches her hand to his upper arm and slowly, reluctantly he tilts his head to read her face again.

She studies him carefully, taking in his obvious embarrassment at allowing his emotions to show then, with eyes that are kind and understanding, says quietly “It’s Christmas, Hawkeye. Good things happen at Christmas. I’m sure I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know but Phil’s a good man. He’s sweet. He’s patient. He’s obviously fond of you. Why don’t you take a chance? Maybe it’s not as one…”

Before she can finish, there’s a loud knock on the open door followed by an even louder voice.

“Did I hear there’s a new Iron Man looking to take over my spot on the Avengers? So not happening. Oh hey! Look. There’s four of you. Wow! How awesome is that? That is so awesome!”

Stark struts into the room as the children gasp and chatter excitedly at the arrival of The Avengers not realising one had been in their midst all along. On the way past, he claps his hand to Clint’s shoulder pulling him into a hug by way of a greeting, dragging him farther into the room with him. The chattering gets louder, not just for Iron Man but also for Hawkeye as the children recognise him.

“Look! Agent’s here too!” he shouts over his shoulder to the others as they follow him and Clint. “Has the Scary G-Man in a Suit been telling you all to eat your greens and get your reports in on time?” he asks the group assembled in front of Coulson.

“NO!” they shout back at him.

Stark puts on an exaggerated surprised expression. “No? Then has he been telling you to stop working on your cars and not drink so much… uh, coffee?”

The kids laugh and shout no again.

“No?” Arms in the air, high and wide in a triumphant pose, Stark does a slow spin in the middle of all the Mini-Avengers. “Then he must have been telling you how amazing I am and that I… am totally… the Best Avenger.”

“NO!” they yell at him.

Thor takes over raising Mjolnir above his head. “Of course not, my Iron friend,” he rumbles with a grin from ear to ear. “Clearly that honour goes to me. Is that not correct my little Shield Brothers and Maidens?”

“NOOO! HAWKEYE’S THE BEST ‘VENGER!” they chorus.

Stark places his metal hand over his chest and pretends to stumble. Two of the kids rush over to hold him upright. “Thanks, guys,” he says to them straightening up. “I’m hurt, Agent. Deeply. I thought I was your favourite. Not Katniss.”

“You will always be my favourite, Iron Man… to tell to eat his greens and get his reports in on time,” Coulson replies drily, his face perfectly bland as he gets to his feet with Little Hawkeye still in his arms.

Stark barks out a short, genuine laugh. The child held so carefully by Coulson doesn’t escape his attention, however, he makes no comment. Instead, he looks down at the children gathered around him clad as mini-Iron Man, filing the memory away for later.

“Hey, who’s this? Yeah, you. With the cool arm. Show me how it works, buddy,” he says and drops to one knee, gently taking the prosthetic arm of one of the kids in his gloved hands to admire it, getting the little boy to turn it over and back then open and close his fist.

As the rest of the kids gravitate towards their favourite Avengers, Coulson pulls back to allow Stark and the rest of the team some time with their admirers. He ducks his head and tips it to the side, a half-smile curling up the corner of his mouth in welcome. Clint thinks he’s never looked more gorgeous - his expression soft and open, and in his arms a kid so trusting and safe.

Meanwhile, the eyes of little Hawkeye go big and round when he sees who’s standing in front of him.

“Hello H.A.W.K.E.Y.E. Nice to meet you,” Clint signs to the miniature version of himself. The little boy’s face lights up but he’s far too shy to reply. He buries his face into Coulson’s neck and giggles. Clint grins, totally charmed by how sweet the kid is. And maybe just a little bit by his handler swaying gently from side to side, a comforting hand resting lightly on the little boy’s back.

“Sooo… you think Hawkeye’s the Best Avenger, huh?” he teases Coulson, shifting his gaze and looking directly at him, eyes twinkling as he crosses his arms over his chest.

A faint blush rises from Coulson’s collar spreading across his cheekbones. “Ah. Didn’t realise you were here for that.”

“Would it have made a difference?”

Coulson doesn’t hesitate. “Not to me. Or my buddy here. Huh, Hawkeye?”

He rubs the little boy’s back and when he looks up at Coulson, Coulson nods toward Clint. Mini Hawkeye turns his head to look over his shoulder at him and grins. Just as quickly he presses his nose back into the crook of Coulson’s neck.

“Faker,” he murmurs fondly into the little boy’s hair.

Clint has seen many versions of Phillip J Coulson from competent badass to reassuring senior agent to deadpan Avenger wrangler. But he’s never seen this. The gentle, caring father he could have been. Hell, maybe still could be.

His eyes widen at the thought. Shit! Where the hell did that come from?

Clint glances over at Hawkeye’s mom. She smiles at him and gives him an encouraging two thumbs up. It’s then he realises he has no idea how she and Coulson know each other. They’re not together (fuck! He hopes they’re not together cuz she’s obviously trying to set them up and that would just be weird) but they must be pretty close. The way she spoke about him and the way her son is so relaxed in Coulson’s arms is borne of familiarity rather than necessity. It’s touching to see this side of his handler whether he meant it to happen or not and, god help him, if Clint hadn’t been gone on him before, he definitely is now.

“Looks like I’m about to be replaced on the team,” Clint jokes, wondering how to summon up the courage to take that chance and ask Coulson what he’s doing for the rest of the night. Or the rest of his life if he’s really lucky. But he might be getting a smidgen ahead of himself.

Coulson smirks.

“Nah, you’re safe. I’d swap out Stark first,” Coulson wisecracks back, glancing over at Iron Man clearly basking in all the attention. At the same time, he can see from the joy on Stark’s face as he interacts with the kids, he loves providing it even more. The man is an enigma.

Coulson looks back at Clint and adds with a mischievous look in his eye, “Besides, this little guy’s got a few years yet before he can draw a bow to the point we can use him on the team.”

“Funn-ee,” Clint retorts. He’s rewarded with a full Coulson smile, eye creases and all. And if it makes his stomach flutter… well, Coulson doesn’t need to know.

Completely oblivious Clint’s belly is currently doing the fandango never mind he’s the cause of it, Coulson tells him, “Nate here’s my next door neighbour,” thereby unwittingly supplying the answer to Clint’s so far unasked question. “Been a big fan of yours for a long time. So much so he’s been learning ASL.”

“He’s not deaf?” Clint asks, his eyebrows rising in surprise. It’s kinda unusual for someone from the hearing world to learn to sign. Unless it’s for a family member or a close friend, people rarely take the trouble. Coulson, Tasha and Tony have done it for Clint. And now, a little boy battling cancer.

“Nope. Wanted to learn sign like his hero. Nate’s been receiving chemo here for a while now so when PR said they wanted to set up a hospital visit… I suggested this place. Short of a mission, I was pretty sure he’d get to meet you.”

“You didn’t need to wait for a hospital visit for me to meet him,” Clint says softly, gazing down at Nate who’s turned his head slightly to peek furtively over his shoulder at Clint. He clears his throat and adds in a voice more certain and confident, “We Hawkeyes have to stick together. Right buddy?”

His head still resting on Coulson’s shoulder, Nate beams at him but this time he doesn’t hide. Instead, he looks steadily and intently at his favourite Avenger, the adoration clear on his face.

No-one’s ever looked at Clint like that before, as though he could do no wrong. Maybe because everyone knows how badly things can go to shit when he’s involved. Still, it makes him feel… well, he’s not exactly sure how it makes him feel but there’s a warmth spreading through his chest and he kinda wants to laugh and cry at the same time.

Coulson ducks his head and peers up at Clint. “Jen, Nate’s mom, didn’t want you to feel pressured. Neither did I.”

“No pressure, boss. It would be my genuine pleasure,” Clint tells him honestly. He reaches out and gently bumps his large fist against Nate’s tiny one.

“Right. No big deal. Got it,” Coulson replies. Although he knows Clint means it, he’s also aware Jen would have been uncomfortable with him asking Clint to visit Nate at their home.

“Hey, you two. You finished hogging my son yet?”

Neither of them jumps, they’re trained and seasoned agents after all, but their twin sheepish expressions show she managed to catch them off their guard. They cover it with quick smiles.

“You turned up just in time. Think someone’s getting sleepy.” Coulson tells Jen, as Nate rubs his fist into his eye.

“M’not,” he mumbles into Coulson’s neck before yawning, his mouth opening wide like a flip-top trash can. He obviously is but Hawkeye is here and apparently, sleep can wait..

“Sure,” Jen says, drawing out the word. She reaches up to take him from Coulson but there’s a whingy squeak and the little boy grips tight to Coulson’s neck. Jen rolls her eyes at Coulson who grins. Clint gets the feeling this isn’t the first time the little boy’s struggled to stay awake.

Coulson and Clint exchange looks and after a few seconds, Coulson nods apparently in agreement about something. It’s not that he knows exactly what Clint’s thinking, just that he has a plan.

“Tell you what, Hawkeye,” Clint says. “You get tucked up into bed an’ maybe we can read a story together.”

He flicks his gaze to Nate’s mom, suddenly worried that he’s perhaps overstepped. Maybe they have a routine he’s unaware of and he’s gone a futzed that up. He relaxes again as she smiles at him and says, “How about it, Nate? Would it be okay if Hawkeye read ’Harry the Dirty Dog’ with you?”

“‘Kay,” he agrees readily, all protests at not being sleepy cast aside.

Jen raises an eyebrow to Coulson who smirks. That was surprisingly easy for a change. Usually, her son will fight tooth and nail to stay awake when he’s tired like any four-year-old. However, it seems he can’t refuse Hawkeye reading his favourite book.

“Okay, sweetheart. C’mon and I’ll get you settled. Phil and Hawkeye can come see you, when we’re done, huh?”

“Pomis,” he asks with another huge yawn.

“Promise,” Coulson tells him.

Nate turns his face to Coulson’s and the senior agent rests his forehead against the little boy’s. Clint’s gooey heart pours from his chest as he watches. He clamps his mouth tightly shut before he can blurt out “I love you. Marry me.” or something equally as certifiable to his handler. Only disaster lies that way.

As Coulson’s about to hand Nate back to his mother, the little boy reaches one hand out to touch Clint’s cheek and leans in to press his forehead against Clint’s.

“Seeya soon, Hawkeye,” he says brightly even though he’s beginning to look tired now.

“Yeah, buddy. Seeya soon,” Clint whispers past the lump in his throat.

In a practised move, Jen takes charge of her son and smiles at Clint and Coulson. “Thank you both,” she mouths and turns away to carry Nate through to his bed.

“He’s an awesome little guy,” Clint says quietly, rubbing the back of his neck.

Coulson nods and folds his arms across his chest. “That he is,” he agrees. He turns to Clint and tells him, “You’ve made his Christmas. And Jen’s. Thank you.”

Clint looks down at his boots, “Nah. I didn’t do…”

Coulson cuts him off. “If you’re about to say “I didn’t do anything special”, don’t. I know you think that but… you don’t realise the way you affect people. You’re an extraordinary man, Clint Barton.”

Clint blushes and ducks his head. Before he can think too long about it, he takes a deep steadying breath and says, “Go out with me.”

Coulson’s eyes open wide in disbelief. “What?” he asks carefully, wondering if he heard correctly.

“Go out with me. After here. Coffee or beer or… or I guess… we don’t have to.” Clint trails off and turns his head away as Coulson stares at him as though he’s grown horns or a tail or maybe both.

“No,” Coulson replies, hurriedly changing it to, “I mean yes. I mean, no to “we don’t have to” and yes to “go out with me” But… why?”

It’s Clint’s turn to look incredulous. “Are you shittin’ me?”

He looks around guiltily at the kids in case they heard him. Fortunately, they’re too busy having fun with their real-life counterparts.

“I mean. You’re you. Why wouldn’t I want to go out with you? You know what? Rhetorical question. Coulson, you’re badass. You’re scarily competent. You’re so damned patient. You take care of us. You always have our backs. You hold us together - S.H.I.E.L.D., the Avengers… me. You’re the best man I’ve ever known. I’m not sure who I’d be or if I’d even be alive if you hadn’t taken a chance on me all those years ago.”

Clint flashes a quick grin. “Without you, I’d be inna jail. Phil Coulson.”

The tips of Coulson’s glow red and he smiles ducking his head shyly at the archer’s paraphrasing of the children’s comments from earlier. As Clint was earlier, Coulson is left stunned by Clint’s words which have obviously come from the heart.

Almost immediately, Clint turns serious again. “I was reminded tonight that good things happen at Christmas an’ that some things are worth takin’ a chance on. I can’t think of anythin’ I’d rather take a chance on than askin’ you out. So, Phil. Would you like to have coffee or a beer with me tonight?”

Still staring at his shoes, Phil isn’t sure how to respond. He had no idea of Clint’s feelings towards him but he knows he can’t leave Clint hanging. Slowly he raises his head looking like the stuffing’s been knocked out of him but when he speaks he sounds sure and confident. “Clint, I can’t think of anything I’d rather do tonight, or any night, than have a coffee… or beer with you.”

Clint lets out a long slow breath through pursed lips. “Oh thank fuck! I thought you were gonna spout frat regs or something at me”

There’s a tug at Phil’s pants’ leg. He looks down to see a little Captain America gazing up at him, her eyes are wide and shocked. Worried, he drops into a crouch to be at eye-level with her.

“Mr Agent? The Best ‘Venger said a bad word.”

Relieved it’s nothing more serious, Phil looks over his shoulder at The Best ‘Venger who’s biting his lip, trying not to laugh. The Real Captain America swears like a… well, like a trooper but Clint’s certainly not going to spoil a little kid’s image of him. Besides Phil would have his balls if he disillusioned a mini-Cap and he doesn’t want their date to end before it begins. Or lose his balls, particularly.

“Busted,” Phil says to Clint while doing his best to keep his own face straight. “You’re right, Captain. And what do you think I should do about that?”

She gives the question some thought.

“I get a timeout on the naughty step if I’ve done somefing bad. I have to fink about what I did,” she tells Phil, her expression very serious. She looks over his shoulder at Clint with a disappointed look which puts Steve’s to shame. Clint hangs his head at the little girl’s rebuke which also serves to cover his ear-to-ear grin.

“You know, Cap. I think that’s a very good idea. Thank you.” He holds out his hand to seal the bargain and is surprised when she wraps her arms around his neck instead. As he hugs her back she whispers “I have to go pee” into his ear so loud that Clint can hear her.

Phil’s body goes rigid. That was unexpected. He pulls back to look at her and nods completely ignoring Clint’s stifled snort behind him.

“Okay. Pee. Right. You need a special agent for that. Why don’t we find you one then I’ll deal with Hawkeye. Sound good?”

The little Captain throws Clint another look that tells him he doesn’t quite measure up to her expectations as The Best Avenger. Wow! She may be dressed as Captain America but that look was all Black Widow.

“Kay, Mr Agent.”

Phil uncurls from his crouch and, taking the hand she offers him, walks her over to the gathering of parents and medical staff. He explains to her father who apologises profusely which Phil waves off with good humour. He also takes the opportunity to let the medical staff know where he and Clint are disappearing to next, should anyone be looking for them.

“Y’know, for a shady government agent, you’re pretty good with kids,” Clint tells him as they head for the door side by side.

Without breaking his stride, Phil raises an eyebrow and tilts his head to give him a measured look. “As a shady government agent, surprisingly… I have a lot of practice.”

Clint grins and doesn’t bother replying. He’d already come to that conclusion himself anyway.

- The end -

[imagineclintcoulson]

Imagine Phil as a broke college student, and Clint as the burglar who breaks in to rob him, but changes his mind when he sees that there is LITERALLY nothing to steal. Instead he starts bringing Phil furniture and electronics that he "found." Phil never asks where he really got them. Then they fall in love yay!

Author’s note: You know the drill, folks. Too big to post without a cut, sorry mobile users :( but as always it’ll be on AO3 within 24 hours.

Thanks for the prompt, anon. Hope you enjoy.

It had been a pretty good night for Clint. Two apartments and three hundred bucks in his pocket after a visit to his fence. He knew the stuff he sold him was worth at least three times that, maybe more, but he wasn’t greedy. Or stupid. He was an opportunist and if someone else was dumb enough to leave a window open and their shit lying around well, who was he to pass it up. 

And speaking of open windows…

He was near the student campus just a few blocks from where he lived when he spotted it. Clint may have been a firm believer in researching your mark and never crapping where you eat but it was dark inside the apartment and he figured there might be a few electronics he could squirrel away till his next meet with Danny Nine-fingers. He decided to risk it.

Avoiding the fire escape (too noisy… and way too easy, heh) Clint scaled the building using drain pipes and cracks in the stonework. He had no fear of heights having learned his climbing skills when he was a kid hanging out with riggers and acrobats at Carson’s. They taught him to be nimble and safe. Learning to become a decent thief from Trickshot and the Swordsman with Barney, however, had been way more dangerous. And painful. He still had a few scars to prove it. Barney though had taken to it like a duck to water.

In no time at all, he was on the window ledge sliding through the narrow gap dropping silently to the floor. There was enough of a glow from the streetlights to see… absolutely nothing worth stealing. In fact, if it wasn’t for a few photos on a makeshift desk and a chest of drawers that had seen better days, he’d have said the place was empty.  

With a sigh and an eye roll of epic proportions, he spotted the security bar for the door (bit of a moot point with the open window) and after dropping it homemade a more detailed survey of the room. It didn’t take long and honestly, was hardly worth the effort. A tiny kitchen area took up the far end, a neatly made bed sat in the corner by the window (actually just a mattress on the floor), the desk doubling as a table made from wooden pallets and boards in the middle of the room with a broken chair, and finally the chest of drawers.

Although it was neat and tidy, the drab paintwork was streaked and grimy, and the giant rug covering the wooden floorboards had more than its fair share of dodgy stains.

Man, this place was shittier than his and that was saying something. Crime of crimes though, there was no T.V., no laptop, no e-reader and… was that an old-style turntable? And vinyl records? Seriously, what the fuck!

He knew he should turn round and disappear but he figured there had to be something to make the climb worthwhile. He padded quietly over to the tiny fridge in the equally tiny kitchen. Jackpot! Leftover pizza, some chocolate, and a can of soda. Not much but it would save him stopping for food on the way home.

As he ate the pizza, tossing bits of dry crust in the open box with deadly accuracy, he rummaged through the two cupboards. Pretty much bare except for ramen and crackers and a few cans of soup. On the drainer by the sink lay a single bowl, a cracked plate and a chipped mug plus some mismatched cutlery. Wow! This guy obviously didn’t have wild dinner parties.

Next, he searched the drawers finding clothing along with underwear and socks as might be expected. The stuff was clean and neatly folded but it was well-worn and there was nothing of value hidden in the layers of jeans and t-shirts. Jeez! The guy had nothing! LITERALLY nothing.

Chomping on the last slice of pizza, Clint looked at the books and papers on the desk. A history major at the university. Yawn. Apparently, he was penniless and boring as fuck.

Oh, hello though! Was this him?

Clint picked up one of the photos on the desk. It was a guy about his age in a green polo shirt with a cute grin and one arm around a woman maybe in her forties, his mom going by the similar broad smile and dimples. The fingers of his other hand were brushing floppy hair from his eyes. His very gorgeous eyes - a kind of blue or maybe grey - that seemed unbelievably bright in his freckled sun-kissed face.

He wasn’t much taller than the woman and looked kinda skinny but he had the wide shoulders of a swimmer and the beginnings of a broad chest that he’d probably grow into in a few years. Clint flipped the frame over. There was no date on the back, perhaps he’d grown into it already.

He wasn’t Clint’s usual type - far from it in fact - but there was something that came through in the photo that he found appealing. Maybe it was the way he held his mom close with genuine affection or the way his eyes sparkled with mischief or the misshapen nose that made him look tougher than his body suggested. He didn’t know what it was but he wouldn’t mind finding out.

Putting the picture back exactly where he found it, the corner of a piece of paper sticking out from beneath the history books caught his eye. Curiosity made him look.

Hi Mom

Thanks for the food parcel, and yes, the cookies made it here in one piece. None left now :( but the guys and I really appreciated them. Call me selfish but I kept the banana loaf just for me. Know you’ll be disappointed in me but some things are just too good to share :)

The course is going really well although there are a few things in Mr Fury’s class that don’t seem to add up. You remember him? The guy with the eyepatch that came to high school a couple of years back? Anyway, I asked him about the stuff that was bothering me and he just glared at me (as usual) then told me to write a 5000-word essay on why I thought I knew more about the missions of the Howling Commandos than he did. I found out a lot about Peggy Carter and how she started the S.S.R. which was pretty awesome. You’d have liked her, Mom. Didn’t take any sh, eh, nonsense from anyone. Moving on… He gave me a grunt after he read it which is like an A- in his class so I guess I must have made a pretty decent job of it.

Oh, hey! Good news! Mr Morgan at the repair shop is letting me change out the gearbox on the Charger we got in last week. Can’t wait! Apparently, I’m not as much of an… let’s say he said “idiot”… as he first thought so I guess spending all that time under Lola’s hood with Dad really paid off!

Sorry this is just a short letter, Mom. I’m heading out to the grocery store for my shift. And before you think it, no I’m not working too hard, and yes I have enough money. I’m can pay the rent on a really nice apartment near the campus this year, and because I get employee discount at the store I can even send some to my dear, sweet mom for the ingredients of another batch of banana loaf… hint, hint!

Love you and see you at the holidays.

Phil x

Clint looked up from the letter and around the room. This was the opposite of a “really nice apartment”. It was a shithole. This guy, Phil, apparently worked two jobs to pay rent to a landlord who was probably ripping him off leaving him with barely enough scrape by. Fuck! It looked like the guy lived off noodles and crackers so he could send money home to his Mom.

His gaze dropped guiltily to the half-eaten slice of pizza in his hand and his stomach churned. And he was eating the last of his pizza. Probably something he’d saved up for. Like a treat. He crammed it into his mouth almost choking himself and chewed it furiously. Yeah, well. Maybe he shouldn’t have left his window open then. Putting temptation in his way.

Angry at the guy… Angry at himself for feeling remorse (“Never feel sorry for your mark, dumbass. That’s how you get caught - and I ain’t bailin’ your scrawny butt outta jail”), Clint lifted the history book he found the letter under and put it back, remembering to leave a corner uncovered. The pizza he could do nothing about but the can of soda and chocolate bar he put back in the fridge. With a final look round and remembering to remove the bar on the door, he left the way he came as silently as he’d entered.

*** more after the cut ***

Keep reading

[imagineclintcoulson]

Not Made of Stone

@fergumeister prompt: Imagine Clint or Phil undercover at enemy base for weeks, and one day his cover was blown, so the other had to come and rescue him.

Author’s Note: Warning dear readers, this is a big, explicit, NSFW chapter so there will be a cut. But don’t worry, it’ll be posted on AO3 tomorrow. If explicit isn’t for you, the story can easily be considered finished at Chapter Twelve. Either way thank you for reading.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (THE END)

Clint jogged from the house to the barn, exhaling plumes of breath into the sharp evening air. The cold nipped at his nose and mouth telling him more snow was on the way. Not that he gave a shit. He had other, more pressing concerns right now.

It wasn’t far but his heart raced by the time he reached the heavy wooden doors, mostly from the adrenaline still coursing through his system. He pulled one door open and dragged it to again falling against it as it banged shut behind him. The back of his head slammed hard against the boards and he winced at the dull pain it caused. On some level, he welcomed it too. What had he done? What the fuck had he done?

He hadn’t meant to kiss him. He’d been driven by instinct rather than design. A need to let Phil know how he felt. And Phil may have kissed him back but he’d looked surprised as fuck when Clint had pulled away. At least he hadn’t punched him in the face. That was something, right?

Clint squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. Way to go, Barton!

He needed to chill the fuck out. Get rid of some of the pent-up energy and these fucked-up emotions he was carrying around. A workout with Betsy would clear his head enough to get the blood circulating around his brain instead of his dick.

He slapped the switch for the lights on and headed for his workbench where he took a couple of deep breaths before settling down to prepare his bow. He cleaned and re-strung her, gently running his fingers over her curves searching for any blemishes. Gradually, the familiarity of routine had the calming effect he was hoping for and his body began to relax. When he’d finished, he shrugged out of his jacket and spent an hour or so practising, getting lost in the rhythm of nock, draw, loose while he did some thinking.

Some serious thinking...

No matter what his reasons were or how good they seemed, it still hurt that Phil had kept his being alive from him. Two years. Two fucking years.

Maybe it would always be a kick to the balls; maybe the pain would lessen with time. Either way, he knew he had to move past it. If he didn’t, it would consume him and he couldn’t let that happen. Not if he wanted Phil in his life. And that was the question. Did he?

Nock. Draw. Loose.

Yes.

Completely. Unequivocally. Heart pounding in his chest, yes.

And if they did, y’know… become a thing again, it would be all or nothing this time. There would be no keeping things from him. Not mission secrets, he wasn’t interested in those. Important shit like coming back from the dead. In fact, anything concerning his life and death, and everything in between was non-negotiable. He wasn’t going through that again. Ever.

Nock. Draw. Loose.

He understood they couldn’t be together like before when they were handler and asset. It was intense but uncomplicated back then. Phil was Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. now. He had more to worry about than a retired agent and Avenger who happened to be good with a bow. Well okay, awesome with a bow. Phil had the world to worry about. But he hoped he would find time for him in what was undoubtedly a busy schedule. A busy life. Maybe he could even visit him at the Playground. Get one of those lanyards from Billy. Clint smiled.

Nock. Draw. Loose.

Of course, this was all dependent on Phil wanting him. And he had to, didn’t he? He’d come all this way to talk. No expectations, just to explain. Take him through all that had happened to him since he died.

He paused in his practice. Since he died. Fuck!

Breathe.

Nock. Draw. Loose.

Yeah, so… you didn’t visit someone in the snowy, ass-end of Iowa in the dead of winter just for shits and giggles. Clint was pretty sure about that.

He was also pretty sure that Phil felt the same way he did. In fact, he was pretty damned positive Phil had been hard in his jeans when he rubbed Arnica into his shoulders and back. Not as hard as him maybe but there was definitely some action going on down there. And if that was the case, then maybe not all of those little hitches in his breath had been pain related.

Clint bit his lip. When he kissed him... there was no mistaking Phil had kissed him back.

Nock. Draw. Loose.

Shit! Nearly missed. Damn Phil Coulson! And his stupid, breathtaking kisses. And his equally stupid, breathtaking dick. He sighed and leaned his head against Betsy’s upper limb for a moment taking another few measured breaths until a mischievous grin appeared, slowly spreading across his face.

Maybe it was time to go back and do something about that.

*** Keep reading after the break ***

*** *** ***

Phil had crashed out on the couch by the time Clint returned, lulled to sleep by the warmth and comforting sounds from log fire he’d set after Clint had left. Even now it kept the room cosy, crackling hypnotically in the hearth. He’d been reading something on his e-reader earlier but now it was clutched tight against his chest as he slumbered curled up on his side, his head resting on a cushion.

Clint looked down at him smiling fondly. He loved the way Phil’s features became soft and relaxed when he slept, the worry lines having fallen away.

He looked happy lying there. The light from the flames caught the upward curve of his mouth set in a little half-smile as they flickered across the contours of his face. It struck Clint once again how gorgeous Phil was with his crooked nose and the creases at the corners of his eyes which became deeper when he smiled or laughed. And when he smiled, especially at him, Clint’s world became that much brighter and more alive.

He’d forgotten that, and for a moment it saddened him.

He briefly considered waking Phil sending him upstairs to sleep in a proper bed but decided to leave him where he was while he took a shower. It had been an emotional rollercoaster of a day and he didn’t need to rouse him just yet. That he hadn’t woken with Clint standing watching him (not really as creepy as it sounded… probably) proved just how exhausted he must be.

And how safe he felt.

Field agents were always aware of their surroundings - had to be for obvious reasons - and would wake at the slightest perceived threat or the smallest sound. His smile widened a little more at that. Phil felt safe with him.

He reached out to stroke Phil’s head but turned away before his hand made contact.

*** *** ***

Fresh from his shower in shorts and an old, comfy t-shirt he used for sleeping, Clint padded downstairs with bare feet to check on Phil. Still curled up peacefully, he didn’t have the heart to wake him, much as he wanted to. Instead, he lifted the blanket from the back of the couch and carefully draped it over his sleeping form. He wasn’t expecting Phil’s fingers to catch his wrist before sliding down to curl around his hand.

Clint crouched down and looked into his blue/grey eyes. The mesmerising flecks of brown he remembered from years ago were as striking as ever. He’d noticed them earlier but somehow in the firelight, they became even more bewitching. He could lose himself in those eyes. Phil could say so much with them, express every emotion, say volumes in a way he couldn’t with words. And he was good with words.

“Hey,” Clint said softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

Phil smiled back at him. “Hey,” he echoed, his voice rough with sleep.

Clint rubbed his thumb across the back of Phil’s hand. “You don’ need to sleep on the couch. Y’know that, right?”

Phil’s smile grew wider, deepening the creases at the corners of his eyes. Clint’s heart fluttered while his stomach did backflips. Gorgeous.

“Didn’t mean to fall asleep at all,” Phil answered apologetically.

“Yeah?”

“Was waiting for you.”

Without letting go of Clint’s hand, Phil uncurled from his position and sat up with a yawn. The lines pressed into the side of his face from the cushion really shouldn't have looked as adorable as they did. Nor should Phil's sleep-tousled hair, military short as it was.

Clint grinned up at him. “Should maybe get you to bed.”

Phil raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Re-e-eally?”

“Shut up,” Clint told him, his face heating in a way that was nothing to do with the warmth from the fire. He dropped his gaze and noticed his hand was still curled around Phil’s. Maybe he should let go now.

And perhaps he would have except Phil bent forward and gently touched his fingertips of his free hand to Clint’s cheek, brushing his thumb along his bottom lip. He cupped his chin, leaning nearer to place his mouth against Clint’s. Before their lips met, Phil spoke softly, just loud enough for Clint to hear.

“Is this okay?”

After a heartbeat’s pause, Clint gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head which anyone else would probably have missed. Phil, having been reading Clint for years, caught the gesture with ease. And it meant everything to him.

The kiss was slow and tender and perfect. Just a gentle press of lips but somehow all the more intense for it. It didn’t last long, just enough for Phil to convey his feelings, and for Clint to willingly return them.

When they parted, neither of them spoke content just to bask in the silence and warmth, forehead resting against forehead, fingers threaded together. Eventually, Clint realised if there was ever the right time for him to ask, it was now.

“Do you remember us?” he asked in a hushed voice, suddenly afraid of what Phil might say.

“Some,” Phil told him softly, knowing Clint meant the times they'd been together. “The second time in the machine let me see flashes. Puente Antiguo. The Pegasus facility. No complete memories. Just… glimpses of us.”

“Tell me,” Clint whispered. His fingers tightened around Phil’s without his realising.

“I remember kissing you,” Phil said, keeping his voice gentle. “My hands touching your face, my mouth on yours.”

He pulled back slightly to look at Clint, his eyes glinting in the light from the fire. His tongue darted out to run along his upper lip while he lowered his eyes to stare at Clint’s mouth. “I remember the way you moaned when I sucked on your tongue.”

Clint’s breath caught in his throat. Phil’s voice was still soft, reassuring almost but his words were seductive, promising something more. Something darker. A flame of desire sparked in the pit of Clint’s belly fanned by the movement of Phil’s tongue when it wet his lips. He shifted his body closer, hands resting on Phil’s knees.

“Show me,” he urged, his voice ragged but eager.

Phil looked at him a little longer as though memorising every feature, every contour and crease of his face then reached out to cradle it in both hands, thumbs gently stroking along Clint’s cheekbones. He closed his eyes and leaned in, tilting his head to kiss him, his lips parting slightly pressing a touch more firmly against Clint’s, letting it build at its own pace.

Slow. Deliberate. Sensual.

His tongue traced over Clint’s lips before tentatively dipping inside to explore the warm, wet heat of his mouth. The tip touched Clint’s then stroked along its length, teasing and caressing it, curling under and around it until, finally, Phil drew it into his mouth sucking on it, hungry and demanding, stoking the fire in Clint’s belly until it blazed and roared threatening to consume him.

Clint moaned against Phil’s lips precisely the way he remembered, low and full of lust and desire. The familiar sound travelled straight to Phil’s cock.

Clint dropped to his knees between Phil’s legs. His hands gripped Phil’s forearms before sliding up to his biceps trying to anchor himself as he was caught up and swept away by the intensity of the kiss. His own tongue plundered Phil’s mouth, licking and thrusting inside pulling noises from him that were just as deep and just as filthy as his own.

Eventually, they parted a second time, hearts pounding, breath coming in short, hurried gasps.

“Jesus, Phil,” Clint panted, bracing himself against Phil’s thighs. He was hard in his sleep shorts, a damp patch appearing where the pre-come had seeped through. His cock throbbed in time to the beat of his heart still thundering in his chest.

Phil wasn't finished sharing his memories. He kissed along Clint’s jaw, mouthing at the soft skin below his ear where he murmured, “I remember how responsive you were, arching into my touch, your body asking for more. The way you came apart under my fingers. My mouth. My cock.”

Phil breathed the last two words into Clint’s ear. He shuddered, his mouth falling open in a silent gasp.

“Show me,” he repeated, this time with a desperate urgency to his voice. In one fluid motion, he rose up from his knees to straddle Phil’s thighs pulling his t-shirt over his head, dropping it on the couch.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” Phil sighed, taking in the sight of Clint’s body, the muscles flexing and rippling as he moved. His tongue flicked out to lick his lips again while he admired the outline of Clint’s erection… and the enticing wet patch. He longed to get his mouth on his dick or sink his cock deep into his tight, incredible ass but he would play this out however Clint wanted it. How far this went was Clint’s decision, not his.

He skimmed his hands up and down the sides of Clint’s torso leaning forward to plant hungry kisses onto the warm skin. He licked and nipped his way across to an already pebbled nipple catching it with his teeth, flicking it with the tip of his tongue. He remembered Clint’s nipples, like his own, were sensitive and he loved to be touched there. He would gasp and moan and curse when Phil laved them with his tongue and sucked them into his mouth biting down on them gently… or roughly. That one time had Clint coming so hard he almost passed out.

Clint writhed on Phil’s lap letting his head fall back, his hands grasping Phil’s shoulders as he ground his cock against Phil’s, just as full and equally as hard.

“Jesus, Phil,” he whimpered again. He’d missed this. He’d missed everything about having Coulson in his life but fuck did this man know how to turn him on.

“Good?” Phil asked him, not bothering to wait for a reply before taking Clint’s other nipple into his mouth, his nails scratching lightly over the wide, muscled planes of his back.

Clint gasped and moaned over him, a full body shudder rolling down his spine. “So fucking good.”

Clint rolled his hips, pressing his cock harder into Phil’s while Phil kissed up Clint’s chest to the curve of his neck, grazing the skin with his teeth, licking and sucking hard enough to raise a mark that would last for days. He wrapped his arms around Clint’s back, kneading the muscles of his shoulder with his fingertips.

Clint nuzzled Phil’s hair and whispered, “Want you to fuck me.”

That brought Phil up short. He pulled away to look at Clint, his eyes wide with surprise and maybe a little hope.

“You... really want that?” he asked unable to keep the doubt from his voice.

Clint smiled down at him. “You’re not off my shitlist but you’re not at the top anymore either.” More seriously he added, ”We’ve lost so much time, Phil. Don’t wanna lose any more. So, yeah I want this an’ I think maybe you do too.”

Oh boy, did he? Phil showed him just how much by gripping the back of Clint’s neck, drawing him down to devour him in a heated kiss, moaning into his mouth as he did so. Clint kissed him back every bit as enthusiastically, his fingers twisting into Phil’s t-shirt... right up to the point Phil pulled back again as something clearly dawned on him.

“Shit!” he muttered, breathing hard. The tell-tale muscle in his jaw bunched into a hard knot. He seemed exasperated with himself.

Clint frowned at him with concern, and maybe a little frustration. Being tongue fucked by Phil was one of his top five things, like ever. And neither death nor time had dulled his technique.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, panting a little himself.

Phil shrugged and looked at him with a wide-eyed expression that conveyed nothing but honesty and a total lack of guile. “I came here with no expectations, Clint. Just... to talk. I, uh… guess I wasn’t prepared for this. Didn’t bring any supplies.”

Awww. That was so Phil, taking responsibility for something he had no control over. Clint couldn’t resist teasing him. Just a little.

“You’re makin’ some pretty big assumptions there, Son of Coul,” he mock-chided in a disappointed voice. “What makes you think I’m not prepared?”

“Huh,” Phil replied, his eyebrows raised. Tables nicely turned. He blushed and a bashful half-smile curled up the corner of his mouth.

Clint stayed still for a moment, a subtle tension building in his body as he appeared to mull something over. He ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck struggling to voice his thoughts. Phil could feel a wave of seriousness wash over the archer but he didn't push, sitting patiently instead, gently stroking his back. He knew whatever Clint wanted to say would come out when he was ready.

Clint glanced up at him and said shyly, “I, uh… there's… there's been no-one else. Since you I mean. There's been no-one since you. So… if you want to… y’know...” He shrugged leaving Phil to work out the rest.

No condom.

Phil was overwhelmed by Clint’s trust. And his invitation. He carefully touched his hand to Clint’s cheek and gazed at him, his eyes shining with emotion.

“Same,” he said. “I haven’t…” He trailed off. Suddenly he was a kid again barely out of his teens during his first sexual encounter. Tongue-tied and uncertain. “I… don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes, if you want to.” Now the hope was in Clint’s eyes. There was no doubt in Phil’s mind Clint truly wanted this… and how intimate a gesture this was.

“Yes.”

The tension in Clint’s shoulders fell away and he rested his forehead against Phil’s again. Their default position. Their safe place.

“Still need lube though, huh?” And with that, the quiet intimacy of the moment was gone replaced by something lighter, more flirtatious once more. Clint dealt with his emotions better like that.

Phil huffed out a quiet laugh. “Uh...yeah.”

With a playful nip at Phil’s lips, Clint slid off his lap and headed for the kitchen before he paused in mid-stride and called over his shoulder, “Lose the clothes, yeah?”

Phil smirked and did as he was told, the scars on his chest and back barely crossing his mind. It was the first time in a long time.

Clint reappeared moments later, a towel and bottle of olive oil in hand. And bare-assed nekked. Apparently, he'd taken his own advice losing his shorts in the kitchen during his search and retrieve mission.

With zero subtlety, he licked his lips at the sight of Phil before him, drawing him closer like a moth to a flame. Neither the scars nor the bruises could disguise how gorgeous he was. All broad shoulders and wide chest. A little grey weaved its way through the dark, wiry hair nowadays but it was still sexy as fuck. As was the hard-on that had been freed from the confinements of his jeans now curving up towards his belly.

He approached Phil like a predatory animal, drinking in his nude form with lust in his eyes leaving Phil with no doubt about what was to come. He welcomed it gladly.

“Nat’ll kill you if you get jizz or oil on her throw,” Clint warned him, giving him a gentle but determined shove onto the couch to straddle his lap again. He dropped the towel and bottle of olive oil within easy reach and leaned down to capture Phil’s mouth in a demanding kiss.

“I’ll bear that in mind but... my dick will be too deep in your ass to matter, Barton,” Phil retorted, sliding his hands up Clint’s thighs pressing his fingertips into the hard muscle. “It’s your come you should be worried about.”

Clint sat back and grinned. “Such a dirty mouth, Phil Coulson. Throw’s safe from me. Gonna be aiming for your chest an’ you know I never miss.”

They launched into another searing kiss, mouths open, tongues exploring, dragging breathy sighs and hungry gasps from each other. Clint picked up where he left off, grinding his cock into Phil’s, the sensation of the hot, silky skin dragging together making him moan. Clint smiled against Phil’s lips and rolled his hips again.

“You like this?”

“Hate it,” Phil snarked, his face telling a very different story. “but... I guess I can tough it out.”

Clint reached for the olive oil, pouring a small amount into his palm before wrapping his fist around both their cocks stroking them at a slow, teasing pace. Phil arched into his touch, head falling back against the couch, breath coming in quick, shallow gasps.

“Guess you’re not a big fan of this either,” Clint taunted. Phil grunted in response and thrust into Clint’s fist. He pulled himself up with his abs, sliding his hands up Clint’s thighs around to his ass where he grabbed handfuls of flesh, not painfully but not gently either.

“If I remember correctly, you said something about me fucking you,” Phil growled into Clint’s ear. Clint shivered as his tongue swirled around the shell then yelped when Phil nipped roughly on his lobe.

“Getting impatient, Agent Coulson?” Clint gasped. Fuck, that was hot! Phil had usually been in charge during their encounters in the desert but this teasing, playfully dominant side was new. He liked it.

“I have the patience of a saint, Specialist Barton,” Phil informed him, sucking Clint’s smarting lobe into his mouth, soothing it with his tongue. Another series of shivers cascaded down Clint’s spine thanks to Phil’s talented mouth.

“And the cock of a demon. Ahhhhh!” Clint sighed as Phil’s finger circled around his hole, the rough skin of the pad catching on the rim. It wasn’t as tight as Phil was expecting. Someone had been thinking ahead and for some reason, the discovery caught him by surprise.

“Huh! Already prepped…”

Suddenly Clint was embarrassed that he’d readied himself in the shower just in case things progressed to this stage. It had seemed like a good idea at the time but now it just felt cocky… excuse the pun.

“I, uh…” he said sheepishly, starting to duck his head and think up some excuse for his presumption. Phil, however, had other thoughts on the matter.

“Definitely approve. So Clint,” Phil murmured in a silky voice that rolled over Clint like warm honey. “You want to come on my cock?”

Clint’s head snapped back up again, an involuntary whimper escaping his mouth and his hole fluttering with need. Coulson was going to have him shooting off like a rocket before he got anywhere near his dick if he kept that up.

With a wicked version of that little half-smile of his, Phil lifted the bottle of oil, dropped some onto his open palm and leaned back to slide it up and down his length until it was slick and shiny. Phil lying there shamelessly naked, his hand wrapped around his dick was better than porn and Clint’s eyes darkened as he watched. His cock twitched against his belly, pre-come leaking from the slit trickling down his length leaving a sticky mess in the small patch of hair.

After a moment’s teasing knowing full well Clint was aroused and ready to be fucked, Phil reached around and smeared the remainder of the oil around Clint’s hole, before slowly pushing a finger inside to make sure he was loose enough to take him. And maybe to tease him. Just a little bit. Clint closed his eyes and groaned while he rocked against Phil’s hand. Phil pulled it back and carefully added another finger. Clint’s hole closed around them sucking them greedily inside.

“You’re ready for me, aren’t you Clint? Ready for my cock.”

Clint swallowed thickly and nodded. Phil talking dirty was such a fucking turn on especially when he had two fingers knuckle deep in his ass.

Eyes on Phil’s as he carefully removed his fingers to grip his shaft while Clint raised himself up and slowly lowered himself onto Phil's dick, inch by glorious inch until he was fully sheathed inside him. They kept still for a few moments until his ass became used to the stretch. Even with his earlier prep and the oil, it still burned a little. Phil was a big guy.

Their gazes remaining locked on each other, Clint braced himself against Phil's shoulders and experimentally rolled his hips. Phil's eyelids fluttered and his lips parted.  

“Oh god, Clint,” he breathed. “You feel so…”

“Good?” Clint provided when Phil paused. He rolled his hips again.

“Perfect,” Phil countered.

He let Clint dictate the pace. Slow and steady at first, gradually picking up speed as Clint rode him. He rose up and lowered himself down again, taking Phil in as deep as he could each time.

“Don’ wanna hurt ya,” Clint mumbled against Phil's lips, relaxing his grip on his shoulder.

“Then don't stop,” Phil murmured back. “Just bruising, Clint. Trust me, I plan on doing things to you that'll make you give me more.”

Clint wasn't sure if it was Phil's words or the possessive way he sat up to capture his bottom lip in his teeth after he spoke illustrating his point. Maybe it was a combination of both but was exactly what he needed to let go of his fears and fuck himself with abandon on Phil's cock.

He leaned forward pushing Phil back down again, hands bracketing Phil’s head on the back of the couch. Phil slid his hands round to Clint’s ass to squeeze and knead the flesh as Clint picked up the pace giving breathy moans with every slam against Phil’s body. Phil grunted, his toes pressed onto the floor to steady himself against Clint’s ruthless assault on his cock.

And finally, he remembered it all. The heat from Clint’s body seeping into his; sweat-soaked skin burning with desire, with passion, with good old-fashioned lust; fucking wildly but silently in a motel bedroom, in a S.H.I.E.L.D. bunk, and on one particularly incredible occasion against a wall, fully clothed with Clint naked beneath him. Fuck!

With another grunt, he thrust up into Clint harder and faster, almost bucking him off. Clint stayed mounted, bracing himself against the couch, fingers almost tearing holes in the cushions as he drove himself down onto Phil’s cock, riding him hard and deep.

The sounds of fucking became louder and more urgent. Skin slapping against skin punctuated with moans and sighs of pleasure. Their bodies glistened with sweat as the couch creaked beneath them.

“Fuck yeah, fuck yeah, fuck yeah,” Clint chanted in a broken voice. He was close now. He reached down and grabbed his cock in his fist tugging it with swift, brutal strokes while he fucked himself on Phil’s shaft.

He pulled his bottom lip into his mouth with his teeth, trying to keep himself silent. They’d had to stay quiet during their trysts in the desert and it didn’t occur to him that here, in his home with no-one around for miles, he no longer needed to.

“No,” Phil told him. “I’ve never heard you. Let me hear you now. Let me hear you come.”

Phil’s words and the tender way he said them pushed Clint over the edge, tiny bolts of lightning sparking along his spine as his orgasm hit. He cried out, ropes of hot come splashing against Phil’s stomach and chest, spilling over his hand. Seconds later, Phil closed his eyes and groaned - long and loud - between clenched teeth, jerking beneath him as he pulsed come into Clint’s ass in powerful, steady bursts. His hands clutched Clint’s hips tight enough to leave marks in the skin.

Heaving air into his lungs and shuddering with aftershocks, Clint collapsed on top of him burying his face Phil’s neck. Breathing heavily, Phil held him close with one arm, lightly stroking the fingers of the other hand up and down Clint’s back murmuring to him. Sweat cooled on their skin as they gradually came down from their shared climax but the glowing embers of the fire kept any chill at bay.

Sex hadn’t been part of Phil’s agenda any more than it had Clint’s but as they’d gravitated towards each other, finding their way back together again, it had happened naturally with the ease of two people meant to be together. And it would take more than death or orders or gods from another realm to keep them apart this time.

THE END

This is it, dear readers. The end of the Clint/Coulson prompt by @fergumeister and The Avengers fix-it. Thank you for your patience, especially for this last chapter. RL got in the way as sometimes happens. I hope you enjoyed. 

~ Lola 

[imagineclintcoulson]

Natasha: hey, are you free on Friday? like, around 8 pm on Friday?
Clint: yes? Natasha: what about you?
Phil: yes, i am
Natasha: great! because i’m not. you two go on without me. enjoy your date
Clint: did she just..? And the rest is up to you!

Author’s Note: Thank you to @Spacey-jack for the beta read!  

Clint hung by his ankles from thefire escape picking off green bouncing slug-jellies one by one.  He heard the familiar tone indicating thatNatasha had opened a private line with him and listened with one ear for whathe assumed was a pretty damn important message.

“Hey, are you free on Friday?  Like, around 8pm on Friday?”

Clint blinked, took out two jelliesas they jumped at his head with one arrow and then blinked again.  “Yes?”

“Perfect, I’ll meet you outside the 34thand 7th entrance to the Penn street station.”  Her private line toned again, signaling thatshe’d hung up on him.  

Shaking his head in bewildermentClint continued to shoot until Tony flew overhead sprinkling something over thejelly infestation causing the little shits to squeal and disintegrate.  

*

“Hey Phil?” Natasha was suddenlylounging in the wide-open doorway of the mobile command unit Phil had stationedat the perimeter of the slug-jelly infestation to keep an eye on things.  Now that the jellies were being neutralizedmost of Phil’s crew was outside the van collecting evidence, dealing withcivilians and helping with the clean-up. “Are you free Friday, around 8pm?”

Phil raised an eyebrow at her.  “I can be.”

“8pm, outside the 34thand 7th entrance to Penn street station.” She shot two fingers gunsat him and sauntered away.  

“Did you just shoot finger guns?” Hecalled after her, and received no reply.

*

Phil stood next to a stone statuethat appeared to depict a stick figure mid-run and flipped through the localnews on his phone.  He’d managed to findtime to run home and change into something more comfortable, namely a pair ofjeans, a black short-sleeved dress shirt and a leather jacket, before headingfor Penn Station.  Not knowing whatNatasha had in mind for the evening, he went for comfort and casual.  

“Hey Phil, fancy meeting youhere.”  

Clint’s voice brought his attentionup from his phone.  The Avenger stood infront of him in sneakers, grey slacks and a grey scoop neck shirt under his ownblack leather bomber jacket.  

“Clint.” He smiled, putting hisphone away.  “What are you doing here?”

“Natasha told me to meet herhere.  She never said what we would dothough.”

Phil’s brow furrowed.  “Natasha asked me to meet her here…at 8o’clock.”

Clint’s phone began to ring and heheld up one finger as he pulled it out of his back pocket to answer it.  “Nat?” His brow furrowed for a moment before he held the phone out between themand pushed the button so Natasha would be on speaker phone.

“Hey guys!” her voice was unusuallycheerful.  “Look, something came up, soyou two go on without me!  Enjoy yourdate!”  Clint’s phone gave a beep to signalthat Natasha had hung up on them.  

“Enjoy our date?” Phil blinked atthe phone for a long moment before looking up at Clint.  He was surprised to see Clint staring at hisphone in somewhat similar bewilderment, but with a very adorable blush acrosshis cheeks.  

Clint slowly put his phone back intohis pocket, seeming to gather himself before finally looking up at Phil.  “Well…I’m game if you are.”  

Phil had known Clint for a longtime, had enjoyed his company almost as long, and he thought perhaps he knewjust how hard it had been for Clint to be even that forward.  “Thai or Italian?” he asked, letting himselfsmile warmly as he considered what would no doubt be a wonderful evening.  

Clint’s answering smile was sweetand just this side of shy.  “Haven’t hadThai in a while, you know a place?”

“I do.” Phil tilted his head in thedirection of a Thai place Sitwell had been threatening to drag him to forupwards of two months.  “Shall we?”  Without really thinking about it he offeredClint his elbow and without hesitation Clint linked their arms.  

“So how was work today?” Clint askedcheekily as they moved down the busy sidewalk towards dinner.

“Oh, it was goo-reat!” Phil managedto say with a straight face causing Clint to groan and throw his headback.  

Natashastepped out of the shadow of the doorway to Penn station and watched the twomen walk away, arms linked.  Touching herfinger tips to her lips she blew the pair of them a kiss and headed back intothe station towards home.

[imagineclintcoulson]

Not Made of Stone

@fergumeister prompt: Imagine Clint or Phil undercover at enemy base for weeks, and one day his cover was blown, so the other had to come and rescue him.

Author’s Note: Sorry about the cut (again). It’s a pretty big chapter.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Timing’s great as always, bo…” Clint trailed off as he glanced over his shoulder when Phil entered the kitchen. 

Hair still slightly damp from the shower, he looked a lot better. In fact, he looked pretty damn good if Clint was being honest. He'd changed from his dress shirt and suit pants into a short-sleeved green t-shirt which pulled tight across his chest and black jeans that fitted him in all the right places. The v-neck showed a hint of chest hair and exposed the hollow of his throat both of which Clint immediately wanted to explore with his mouth. And tongue. And teeth. Aw brain, no!

“Uhh…” Clint was staring. Gawping actually. But he couldn't seem to pull his eyes away. It wasn't helped by the questioning frown Coulson gave him that formed a sexy little triangle of creases above his nose. Clint’s cock twitched in his jeans.

“Something wrong?” Phil asked, looking down at himself. “I can put on socks if you'd rather.”

Clint dropped his gaze. Oh shit! His feet were bare. Was there no end to this torture? Jesus! Didn't the man know how fucking gorgeous he was? No. It was Coulson. One of the smartest people he knew except when it came to how attractive people found him. Then he was just an oblivious dumbass.

“Uhh… I uhh…” Oh for fuck’s sake! Snap out of it, Barton he told himself. “Not seen you look quite so…” He waved his hand vaguely at Phil’s attire.

Phil smirked. “Pretty sure you've seen me wearing less than this.”

Clint felt himself flush. He had. Plenty of times. And, of course, New Mexico and Mojave immediately sprang to mind. But he wasn’t going to go there. He had no idea if Phil actually remembered that time between them. And much as he might want to, now wasn’t really the time to ask.

Besides naked wasn’t the issue. He liked naked just fine. He’d just never seen him look so… casual before. And now twice in one day. He liked it too. Liked it a lot.

“Shut up an’ sit your ass down,” he grumbled, lifting the casserole dish from the stove setting it between them on the kitchen table.

Sorry folks - read more below the link.

Still smirking, Phil did as he was told, resuming his place while Clint dished up.

They didn’t speak for a couple of minutes, instead shovelling forkfuls of thick, tasty stew full of tender vegetables and chunks of melt-in-the-mouth beef, along with freshly baked bread still warm from the oven, into their faces.

“Mmmm. So good,” groaned Phil in between mouthfuls.

He closed his eyes savouring the rich flavours as they danced over his tongue doing the tango on his taste buds. It had been quite a while since he’d eaten so well. No disrespect to the guys back at the Playground but this was homemade by Clint, whose stews and casseroles had no rival, and not made by someone (himself included) whose enthusiasm outweighed their cooking skills for a base full of people.

Clint tried not to focus on the noises Phil was making, the little hums and sighs of pleasure. They were very similar to noises Phil made at other times. Nekked times. He shut down that train of thought immediately. Nope. Not going there.

Emotionally Clint was all over the place, like a hormonal teenager. Angry, anxious, mopey, happy, horny (which also made him sound like five of the seven dwarves from fucking Snow White)… and guess which emotion was fighting for the win? He blamed Phil. Phil and his stupid, sexy, naked feet.

To distract himself and at the same time mentally dowsing his libido with a bucket of ice water, he took a sip from the beer he’d put out for himself and Phil and told him he had a couple of questions.

“Just a couple?” Phil answered, the corner of his mouth curving up in a teasing smile.

Clint shrugged. “For now.”

Catching the slight shift in mood, Phil acknowledged Clint’s words with a single nod. “Fire away,” he told him.

Even with permission to ask, Clint was still hesitant. “I guess… Skye. Is she okay?”

Phil paused thoughtfully mid-chew before nodding again. “She will be. Right now, she’s still in quarantine. Jemma wanted to make sure she wasn’t suffering any long-term effects from the Kree temple. She’s coming to terms with what happened but... it’s been difficult. She and Trip were close.”

And that was another thing. He hadn’t really known he bright, young agent whose grin, along with Skye’s sass, had lessened his foul humour on the ‘jet but he was genuinely saddened by the news of his death.

“Yeah… I’m sorry about Trip.”

“Everyone’s still pretty raw from it,” Phil said quietly, his expression sombre. “Gonna take a long time to come to terms.”

The loss of any agent on his watch Coulson took personally but the loss of Antoine Triplett, grandson of one of the revered Howling Commandos and who brought “the noise and the funk” with him wherever he went, would always weigh heavily upon him.

He dropped his gaze and sat back in his chair, resting his fork against the bowl. Eyes remaining downcast at first, he told Clint what transpired in the caverns in a little more detail.

“He’d followed Skye to the underground Kree city. Became trapped with her and Raina in the temple. Seems all three of them had become encased in stone by a terrigen crystal concealed inside the Diviner Raina had taken from Skye’s father. When the terrigenesis was triggered, they survived but Trip… died when a fragment of the casing or crystal hit him.”

“Fuck! That’s... I’m sorry,” Clint said. Even to his own ears, it sounded pretty lame. Clint’s stomach lurched a little at having reminded Phil of it. He knew how invested he became in the people under his command.

“He seemed like a good kid. Brave too,” he added. “He piloted the quinjet when we came to get you. Did a real good job.”

That made Phil smile if a little sadly. “Skye told me.” After a moment he asked, “Did you know he was Gabe Jones’ grandson?”

Clint’s eyes widened in surprise. “The Howling Commando?”

“The very same.”

“Shit! You must have fanboyed over that.”

A warm blush spread across Phil’s cheeks and his smile widened a little more. “Not quite to Captain America levels of embarrassment but… we talked. He reminisced about the stories his grandfather had told him. I think he got almost as much out of it as I did.”

For a time as they ate, Phil spoke fondly of Trip making himself and Clint laugh when he recounted the time they spent in the motel after S.H.I.E.L.D. fell. He’d brought his grandfather's case full of early S.S.R gadgets. Both he and Fitz had geeked out as Trip revealed the contents until Fitz managed to set fire to the drapes with a cigarette laser. Phil had plucked it from the young engineer’s fingers before he did any more damage, and Trip imposed a ‘look but don't burn the motel down’ rule on him.

“He was different then?” Clint asked around another mouthful of food.

Phil frowned at the question. “Who? Fitz?”

Clint nodded. When Clint met Fitz at the Playground he seemed... sullen and angry. Not really someone he could imagine getting excited over gadgets with any enthusiasm unless he was stripping them down or pulling them apart.

“Yeah,” Phil admitted, sadly. “Less damaged. But... Ward hadn’t tried to kill him and Jemma at that point.”

Clint looked horrified at his response. That sick motherfucker got everywhere.

Phil shrugged and shook his head not wanting to go there right now.

“Another time maybe. Suffice to say, guy’s a psychopath who did his best to destroy my team every way possible.” He jabbed a piece of beef with his fork with a ferocity that was unwarranted but apparently necessary. “If I ever get that chance to take him out… I will end that fucker’s life. As painfully as possible.”

Clint totally understood but the cold, calculating way Phil said it, saddened him. He was well aware of what Phil was capable of. He’d heard fantastic tales whispered in hushed tones in the corridors of S.H.I.E.L.D. and, on a couple of occasions, actually witnessed him dispense justice - or exact revenge depending on your viewpoint - on those who’d harmed or threatened any of his teams, including Delta. He had no doubts Phil would do it again if he was pushed. But it pained him to see him so devoid of emotion while talking about taking someone's life, even if it was the Nazi dickface.

It seemed May was right. He had changed in the last couple of years.

They fell quiet for a time, each lost in their own thoughts while they ate. It wasn’t the companionable silence they used to enjoy when they were together as handler and asset but surprisingly, with the way the conversation had turned dark for a while there, it wasn’t as tense as it had been earlier.

After the pair devoured a second helping each, Clint finally admitted defeat. He set his fork down in the empty bowl and dropped back in his seat with a contented sigh. Phil gave him a grin and finished the last of his stew mopping up the gravy with some of the bread Clint had made.

“That was perfect,” Phil told him, his mood appearing lighter than before. “Thanks, Clint.”

Clint smiled, pleased at the compliment and happy Phil seemed more relaxed again.

“Yeah. Wasn’t bad,” he agreed modestly. “So, now I've silenced the growly-belly monster, we gonna put a dress on the elephant in the room?”

Phil stared at Clint with a raised eyebrow and a part-amused, part-horrified look on his face. “That… has to be the worst pun. Ever.”

“Yeah. Well. You'd know,” Clint retorted.

“The. Worst.”

“C’mon! You're like... the Pun King,” Clint protested.

“Exactly! And… I happily relinquish my crown.”

Clint flipped him off. “Fuck you! And stop deflecting."

They smiled at each other. The banter was good. Familiar.

“Okay, Clint. With me,” Phil said, subconsciously dropping into command mode. He stood and picked up his empty bowl and beer bottle taking them over to the sink. Surprised at the ease with which Phil had apparently given in, and the tone of his voice, Clint followed with his own.

“It looks worse than it is,” Phil said simply, turning to face him. “No broken bones, no cracked ribs, no internal damage.”

He took a deep breath and curled his fingers around the hem of his tee to lift it up, exposing his bruised and battered torso. Clint narrowed his eyes at the hue of colours that once again covered Phil’s body. Jesus! He looked like he'd been hit by a truck.

“Shit, Phil! Maybe wear your Kevlar next time,” Clint told him.

“I was.”

Clint shot him a look and Phil shrugged in response.

He nodded at the unasked question when Clint leaned down and flicked his eyes up to his. While Clint examined him, gently touching his fingers to his ribs, Phil started to explain how the damage had occurred. It began with him happening upon Skye’s father approaching Daniel Whitehall with a look of murder in his eyes before the doctor realised and drew a handgun on the other man.

“Hold that thought,” Clint interrupted and disappeared from the kitchen, leaving Phil confused and a little discomfited. He returned moments later with a half-used tube of cream in his hand. He held it up for Phil to see but he already knew what it was. Arnica.

“Might help,” he suggested with a shrug, holding it out to him.

With a slight hesitation but knowing Clint was right, Phil removed his t-shirt completely setting it down on the kitchen surface, and accepted it with a nod of thanks.

Clint leaned his hip against the edge and folded his arms across his chest watching Phil apply it carefully to his swollen and bruised ribs. Unwaveringly, he kept his gaze firmly locked on Phil’s face refusing to allow it to drop to his broad chest with its covering of dark, wiry hair. Nor did he allow himself to look at Loki’s scar.

“So, Skye’s old man an’ the Nazi doc,” he prompted gruffly, trying to ignore the feelings that were stirring inside him as Phil’s strong, competent hands glided over his body rubbing the cream into his skin in slow, careful circles working it into the painful muscles and bruises beneath the surface. He did his best not to imagine those hands moving over his body in the same way under different circumstances - but it was difficult not to.

Thankfully Phil didn’t seem to notice and picked up the story where he left off.

In an apparently misguided attempt to save Skye’s father’s life, he had taken Whitehall out with a single shot from behind and had been beaten almost unconscious for his efforts. Apparently Skye’s father, also Phil's attacker, had unfinished business with the HYDRA doctor and, unable to complete it, took his rage out on him instead. He’d managed to defend himself for a time but with the other man apparently having some kind of enhanced strength, he’d gotten the better of Phil eventually.

“His rage was... incredible. And… he wouldn’t stop. Just kept pounding his fists into my face, my head, my body. He wanted to kill me. He was going to kill me. If it hadn’t been for Skye…”

He trailed off knowing it was only Skye’s intervention at gunpoint that had saved his life.

Phil turned his gaze to Clint and gave him a sad look as he told him that in turn for saving him, it had cost Skye her father. She’d been forced into making a choice, ordering him away from Phil telling him she would kill him if he didn’t leave.

Clint frowned not knowing what to say. It was a hell of a decision for her to make - to pick her mentor over her father. But then she knew Phil. She knew she could trust him. Depend on him. She’d only just met her birth father and he was trying to kill the man who had taken her in and given her a home. A family. He remembered the way she'd held Phil's hand and stroked his forehead on the quinjet; the anger when she'd seen his injuries received at the hands of Ward; the way she'd protected him at the Playground during his hypergraphia.

Yeah, it was a hell of a decision but she’d made the only one she could.

After a moment Phil ducked his head and gave Clint a sideways glance, a strange expression passing over his features. Clint wasn’t sure what to make of it until Phil spoke, a note of apology in his voice.

“I, uh, can’t reach my back. I know it’s asking a lot but… if you wouldn’t mind?”

Ah. Clint hadn’t considered that. Shit! 

His mouth suddenly became dry. This was for medical purposes. There was going to be nothing weird (or sexy) in it. He could do this. Eventually, he managed to swallow and without looking Phil in the eye, he nodded taking the Arnica again when Phil held out the tube.

Phil turned his back to him, lowering his head, leaning forward to brace himself against the countertop. The knotted ridge of scar tissue Clint had seen a few months earlier had faded to a pale pink. Another year or so and it would be paler still like the other scars on Phil’s body. It was the purple and black bruising that looked mean as hell.

“Tell me if I hurt you, yeah?” he asked unable to hide the concern in his voice.

Phil nodded his body tensing slightly as he waited for Clint’s touch. When it came it was firm but not painful. He and Clint had treated each other's wounds in the field many times before and he told himself it was no different now.

Except it was.

He desperately tried to ignore the intimacy of the act but after all that had been said, all that had happened earlier, it seemed to make it more so. Clint’s warm, calloused hands felt amazing against his skin. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw against any pitiful sounds that tried to slip past his lips, giving him away. The rash of goosebumps that broke out in the wake of Clint’s touch however he could do nothing about.

“This okay?” Clint asked quietly, carefully rubbing the cream into the worst of the bruising on Phil’s shoulders and back. He tried not to dwell on the freckles he could see dotted here and there… or the goosebumps raising up all over; they probably didn't mean anything anyway. But the way the tense muscles slowly relaxed under his touch… Balls! This was a bad fucking idea. It was taking all his control not to lean forward and press his lips against Phil’s skin.

His voice tight, Phil answered, “It’s fine. Thank you.”

Fine? Sharp bursts of pain from his injuries aside, it was incredible and he could feel his cock stirring in his jeans as it took an interest in the proceedings. He frowned in concentration doing his best to will it away. In the meantime, Clint would hopefully put the occasional hitches in his breath down to pain rather than pleasure. To distract himself from Clint’s gentle hands and his own still-growing erection, he continued his account.

Skye had made sure he was okay before telling him she was going to “make things right”. She took off after Raina who’d managed to get her hands on the Diviner and was heading to a temple in the Kree city desperate to learn its secrets.

“Couldn’t let her go on her own, Clint,” Phil told him with a small grunt as Clint pressed on a painful bruise. “We’d rigged the place to blow. She didn’t know that. But… I hadn’t reckoned on the possibility of having to fight Mack as well. Mack’s mind had been taken over by some sort of entity, most likely a Kree guardian, and he attacked anyone who went near the place.”

Phil gave him a self-deprecating smile over his shoulder before turning his head forward again and adding, “In hindsight, not my greatest plan ever. But… he collapsed before anything happened. Turns out that was round about the time the terrigen mist was released in the temple. And… well, you know the rest.”

“Fuck, Phil! How do you even get into this shit? Pretty sure Nick didn’t come back to HQ in this state very often. Okay, you’re done,” he said, screwing the cap back on the tube and wiping his hands on a cloth. He was surprised his voice sounded so normal cuz fuck! That had been challenging. He prayed Phil wouldn’t notice the hard outline of his dick in his jeans. He’d done his best to ignore it, but the feel of Phil’s skin beneath his hands had been too much for a time there.

Unknown to Clint, Phil was having similar thoughts and was grateful his own cock had calmed down to a manageable and hopefully less noticeable state. He turned slowly to face him keeping his expression inscrutable.

“Not much of a schemer,” he said with a shrug. “Nick laid plans and ran ops from Triskelion or the helicarrier. I’ve always been more… hands on. Agent or Director, I’m better in the field with my team.”

He gave Clint a wry smile before pulling his tee back over his head. “Doesn't always work out so well.”

Clint knew that. He knew better than most Phil Coulson was all about his people. Phil saw potential in them they didn’t realised they had. He had faith in them when they had none in themselves. He nurtured their talents and never gave up on them. He saw the value in what they did and where they would fit within a team. He gave them the confidence to push their limits ready to catch them if they fell. He became their teacher, their guide, their inspiration. He would fight to his last breath to protect them.

It’s why he’d fallen in love with him.

Fuck it!

Clint stepped into Phil’s space, grabbed a handful of his t-shirt, and leaned in to kiss him hard on the mouth. Eventually, he drew back and stared at him with such intensity it made Phil’s mouth dry and his heart race. Without saying a word, Clint let him go and turned away to walk out the front door, stopping only to pull on his boots and jacket.

Phil watched him leave with a dazed look and a faint smile. He knew where Clint was going. He’d spotted the archery range in the barn when he parked up in Lola. The range and numerous Hawkeye-type ‘perches’ up in the rafters.

He knew without a doubt Clint would be back when he was ready. And he’d be here when he did... however long it took.

So, I guess that’s the end, readers... 

...or is it? It is unless you’re up for a little NSFW NC17 bonus chapter?

[imagineclintcoulson]

(Sorry in advance for the angst) Pre-slash. Clint keeps on getting (mildly) injured, because that's when Coulson takes care of him and he gets touched gently and fussed over.

**Sorry for the long wait, anon. Hope you enjoy!**

Clint limped out of Medical, determined to get to Coulson’s office before the doctor could chase him down with the crutches and care instructions. He had a plan and a SHIELD doctor telling him to go home was not part of it.

“Agent Barton! Wait! You forgot your crutches!”

Shoulders stiff, Clint kept walking. If anyone stopped him and asked, Clint planned to say he’d turned his hearing aids off and wasn’t aware the doctor had anything else to tell him. All he really wanted was to get to Coulson’s office and collapse on the couch inside while Coulson took care of him.

Coulson always took care of him. Ever since he’d become Clint’s handler, Coulson had made sure Clint had what he needed. Even when it was things Clint didn’t really need, like a new arm guard when Clint’s old one was still functional, Coulson came through.

The first time Clint had been somewhat seriously injured, he’d woken to find Coulson sitting next to his hospital bed working on paperwork. When Clint had been released, Coulson had been the one who brought him home. Clint had expected that to be the end of it, but Coulson had cooked him dinner and made sure he took his meds before sending him to bed. Coulson had come back every day to help Clint get around and make sure he ate and was resting. Once Clint was well enough to take care of himself again, Coulson left him with strict instructions about getting better and Clint had given him one of his usual sarcastic comments while trying to contain the sadness he was feeling that Coulson wouldn’t be coming back the next day.

It was after that injury that Clint realized his feelings for Coulson had changed. He’d liked being taken care of and what he’d liked, even more, was that Coulson was the one taking care of him. When this epiphany hit, Clint was shocked and made sure to make a special place in his mind for Phil Coulson. Theirs had to be a professional, working relationship and no matter how much Clint wished they could be more, it wasn’t going to happen. Coulson was far too good for him anyway and deserved someone at his level, not some ex-carnie mercenary with good aim.

The doctor called after him again, and Clint continued to ignore him, happy when the elevator doors finally opened and he could escape for good.

As the elevator descended, Clint leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. It wouldn’t be long until he was at Coulson’s door. Coulson, who would sigh and act disappointed at first but then he’d give Clint that smile that caused the crinkles at the corners of his eyes to appear. Clint loved those crinkles. They only appeared when Coulson’s smile was real and Clint tried hard to get as many real smiles as possible from his handler.

When the elevator stopped and the doors opened to let him out, Clint was surprised to find Coulson there.

“Agent.”

“Boss.”

“Second time this month you’ve ended up in Medical. What were you thinking jumping off the ledge like that? In a training exercise of all things.”

Clint shrugged and started to skirt around Coulson, hoping he would let it go and let Clint nap in his office. Instead, Coulson grabbed his arm, fingers holding tight on his bicep, stopping him in his tracks. “I don’t know what you want, Sir. It was a stupid mistake. Can we go?”

Coulson’s sharp blue eyes studied Clint for a moment before letting him go. “We can go. But injuries like these have been happening more frequently and I’m worried. It’s bad enough my best asset is injured, but I also don’t like having my friend hurting.”

Clint stumbles and a small whine of pain escapes his lips. Coulson doesn’t hesitate and is right there at Clint’s side, arm around his waist, a steady presence keeping him from falling. “Friend?”

Coulson’s lips curve up in a smile, eye crinkles included, cheeks pink. “Of course we’re friends. I don’t cook and take care of just anyone, you know. Napping in my office is definitely friends territory.”

They make it to Coulson’s office, Clint’s heart beating fast in his chest. He sinks into the couch and grins up at Coulson. “I like that we’re friends. And it’s nice, havin’ someone take care of me when I’m hurt. I really appreciate it, Coulson.”

Going around his desk, Coulson nods and picks up a stack of paperwork. “I don’t mind taking care of you, but these preventable injuries need to stop.” Setting the paperwork in Clint’s lap and holding out a pen, Coulson looks Clint in the eye. “Now, do your paperwork and then you can nap.”

“Check it over when I’m finished?”

Rolling his eyes, Coulson sat down. “I always do.”

[imagineclintcoulson]

Not Made of Stone

@fergumeister prompt: Imagine Clint or Phil undercover at enemy base for weeks, and one day his cover was blown, so the other had to come and rescue him.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Clint held Phil to him as the last of his control fell apart. Eyes welling up and spilling over, he did his best to cry silently and remain strong while Phil’s body shook with tears that had been suppressed for too long. He rubbed Phil’s back, his palm gently stroking up and down the curve of his spine trying to soothe the violent sobs that wracked his frame.

“I got ya,” he whispered into his hair. “You did good. I got ya now.”

Phil’s fingers twisted into Clint’s t-shirt, desperately clinging to him until the sobbing hitched into snuffles, eventually slowing to deep, exhausted breaths against Clint’s neck.

The pair stood together, battered and raw. 

The morning had been an anxious time for both of them after Phil’s phone call. Feelings of anticipation clashed with a certain dread at what was to come. Each brimmed with hope but accepted there was always a chance of recrimination and rejection. Phil knew Clint had every right to send him packing; two years was a long time without word of his being alive. Clint believed Phil would hate him for leaving him without giving him a chance to explain. 

The last few hours had been difficult too; for Phil recounting his experiences and Clint hearing about them. But it was out now. For better or worse, Clint was aware of much of what had happened since Loki’s brutal assault on the helicarrier, and since they’d last seen each other at the Playground. It was a lot to take in. A lot to deal with. But there was the real possibility they could do it and maybe even do it together.

After a few minutes, or perhaps an eternity, Phil broke the silence.

“Skye told me what happened on board the quinjet after my extraction,” he murmured into Clint’s neck. Clint barely managed to hold back a shiver at Phil’s warm breath ghosting over his skin. He was hoarse from the release of his pent-up emotions but his voice was clear enough for Clint to understand, even with Phil’s head tucked in against him. “That's what I’d become. Violent. Unpredictable. Obsessed.”

He paused. He had no desire to tell Clint the next part but he knew he had to.

“The team wasn't just there to investigate 0-8-4s and unexplained events. They were there to put me down if they had to. If… I couldn't control the madness. Fury wanted me to live but... not if I went the same way as the others. That’s why I stayed away, Clint. Didn’t want you to see that. Didn’t want you to experience it. And... I feel sick I came after you with the scalpel. I’d never have forgiven myself if I’d hurt you. If I’d …”

“Don’t Phil,” Clint interrupted. He carefully pulled away to cup Phil’s face in his hands, gently tilting it up to look at him. As he wiped the tears from Phil’s cheeks with his thumbs, taking care with the cuts and bruises, Clint’s heart wrenched at the suffering in his expression. “You didn’t know what you were doing. I don’t think you even knew it was me.”

“That’s it though, Clint,” he said with pain and sadness in his voice. In his eyes. “I did. I just… I couldn’t stop it. The compulsion was too strong.”

Clint knew all too well how that felt. He’d tried so hard to fight Loki but the trickster’s control over him had been too powerful. His stomach churned at the memory while his heart ached for Phil.

“Ah fuck, Phil,” he said softly, and before he could think about it, Clint was kissing him putting as much love and reassurance into it as he could.

Phil froze but when Clint tried to pull away, angry and embarrassed at himself for his presumption, Phil’s hand held him in place with a loose grip on the back of his neck as he returned the kiss. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth slightly, pressing his lips a little more firmly against Clint’s letting him know he was definitely okay with it. Relieved, Clint dropped his hands to Phil’s hips, moving closer to him, and relaxed into it. The kiss was gentle and slow and wonderful. Clint hummed in contentment, happy he’d been accepted and not rejected.

Before it could progress into something deeper and more heated, they broke apart but didn’t pull away from each other. They stood with their foreheads touching, arms wrapped loosely around each other. Neither spoke. Everything that needed to be said had been poured into the kiss.

Clint could have stayed like that forever, feeling the heat from Phil’s body seep into his own but he wanted… needed to make sure Phil was going to be okay. He’d never seen him break like this before. The mask of calm invincibility always remained in place no matter how tough things got on a mission, but he was glad to have been Phil’s support when he needed it now.

Phil flinched and quickly stifled a pained grunt when Clint gave him a tight hug as he stepped back. Clint winced himself, annoyed that he’d forgotten Phil had been injured recently.

“Shit! Did I hurt you?”

Phil scrubbed his hand over his face wiping away the last of his tears. He ducked his head and glanced up at Clint giving him a small smile, somehow managing to make it bashful and fond at the same time.

“I’m fine,” he said. It’s not like he was badly injured. He only had some bruising... okay, a lot of bruising. Perhaps that's what he didn't want Clint to see. His vulnerability. Which was insane. He’d just had a meltdown in front of him. He couldn’t get much more vulnerable than that.

Clint narrowed his eyes with suspicion. Senior Agent Phil “Badass” Coulson would say "I'm fine” even as he was bleeding out from a bullet or knife wound. Fuck knows, he’d seen him do it.

“Maybe you should let me decide that. Take your shirt off,” he said. It wasn't quite an order but it was pretty close.

Phil raised an eyebrow at him.

“I’m fine,” he insisted quietly, making no move to follow Clint’s almost-command. It was eerily reminiscent of something May had said to him back on the Bus when he’d admitted he felt different after his revival. After Loki.

“Okay, now I’m worried. Let me see,” Clint growled taking a step back, folding his arms across his chest.

Phil’s stomach growled back at him. Both his and Clint’s eyes opened wide at the ferocity of the sound.

“The fuck was that?” Clint asked, more than a little disturbed by the unexpected noise.

Phil gave him a wary but amused look and deadpanned, “Apparently you can argue with me or feed me. But both? Not so much. And right now,” Phil dropped his gaze to his belly, “kinda hoping you pick feed.”

It seemed Clint’s stomach agreed as it too gave a mighty rumble. That resulted in a weird hiccough-laugh from Phil which eased the tension in Clint’s shoulders a little.

“Shit! Okay,” he conceded with a snort of his own. Suddenly very much aware he was hungry too, he gave up his attempt to glare Phil into submission. Temporarily. He wasn't quitting just yet.

“But we’re going back to this later, yeah?” he said, firmly.

Reluctantly Phil nodded. He knew Clint had seen the scars on his chest and back at the HYDRA base and it shouldn't bother him for Clint to see them now but... this was different somehow. This time it was a conscious decision on his part to reveal them. This time he would be able to see Clint’s reaction.

Unaware of Phil’s inner turmoil, Clint nodded back satisfied.

“Look, it’s gonna take a little while before we can eat. You wanna take a shower? Not that you smell bad or anythin’. You always smell good. Fuck! I mean, you might wanna, y’know…” Clint snapped his mouth shut and turned away, embarrassed. His mouth got ahead of his brain sometimes.

Shattered emotionally and physically, Phil still managed to smile, a small but genuine one. He sensed Clint needed some time alone to process what he’d been told, even for a short time. And it would allow him to gather himself. Get himself under control again. And honestly, a shower right now sounded pretty damned good

He reached out and lightly touched his fingertips to Clint’s forearm. Clint started, and turned his head to look down at Phil's hand. With Clint’s eyes following the movement, Phil slid his fingers down his wrist until he caught his hand and held it gently in his own, brushing his thumb over Clint’s knuckles. He could just as easily have said Clint’s name to get his attention but he needed the skin contact. It was the first time he'd been brave enough to go through with initiating it and it felt… good. He knew he'd done the right thing, when he saw Clint’s surprised expression transform into a delighted one.

“Shower would be dope,” Phil said, the corner of his mouth curling up in a half-smile as Clint’s nose wrinkled up with laughter. It had always been a good look on him.

to be continued...

[imagineclintcoulson]

Not Made of Stone

@fergumeister prompt: Imagine Clint or Phil undercover at enemy base for weeks, and one day his cover was blown, so the other had to come and rescue him.

CHAPTER TEN

“Hey, you okay? Clint?”

Clint didn’t answer. Under the table, his hands were shaking. Phil had just told him about his death and resurrection; the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. and the rise of HYDRA; his betrayal by friends and the loss of teammates; the physical and mental torture he’d suffered at so many hands under so many guises. He’d bared his fucking soul. And he was asking Clint if he was okay?

Pale and bewildered, he told Phil as much.

“Any reason why I shouldn't ask?” Coulson said gently. “It's just… you haven't said a lot and… I kinda wondered.”

“I don’t know how you can sit there so fucking calm about it all an’... an’ be worried about me.”

Stomach rolling, Clint pushed himself off his seat and stumbled over to the countertop where Phil had been standing earlier.

Coulson blinked at his reaction. That was Clint in a nutshell. Surprised that someone could or would care about him. But to Coulson, Clint had always been worth caring about. He'd always been more than just an asset. And as much as he may appear calm on the outside, Clint had no idea how close he was to actually losing it.

Ironically, worrying about Clint was the only thing holding him together. He’d never talked about any of this so openly before. Bits and pieces here and there. But never like this… And in truth, it almost broke him.

And Clint apparently.

Coulson was afraid talking of his death on the helicarrier had forced Clint to dredge up memories of Loki and what he’d been compelled to do under the Trickster’s control. It hadn’t been his intention for Clint to remember all that shit again. In fact, it was the last thing he wanted. Fuck! What the hell had he been thinking, coming here?

Filled with remorse, he followed Clint to where he leaned against the worksurface careful not to get too close.

Clint’s back was to Phil, his hands clutching the edge of the counter as he fought to get his breathing under control. He had so many questions. About Trip and Skye and that slimy motherfucker Ward. About Phil's injuries. About so many damn things. 

It was overwhelming.

He hadn’t had a panic attack in a long time and guessed he was probably overdue for one. Until Phil uttered the magic words.

“Clint, talk to me.”

It wasn’t a command. Coulson’s voice was too gentle, too full of concern for it to be that but it took Clint back to the days of Strike Team Delta when Phil would say that phrase to get a sitrep from him. Or to focus him. Or simply keep him calm.

And it worked now too.

His body became less tense and he wanted to open up. To tell Phil everything he was feeling right now having heard all the shit Phil had been through. All the shit he’d been through since his mind-rape by Loki and the Battle of New York. And he would. Just... not now.

So, he kept it simple. Kept to the truth.

“I didn’t know. There’s been so much happen to you and I didn't know. None of us knew.”

Coulson reached out to touch Clint’s shoulder but his hand remained hovering just above it. Even though he longed to comfort him, he didn’t know if he should. Didn’t know if he had the right. After a moment’s uncertainty, he lowered his hand clenching it into a fist instead.

“That’s not your fault, Clint,” Coulson told him. “That's on me.”

He sounded so lost. So tired. Suddenly not the cool, unflappable senior S.H.I.E.L.D. agent but just a mortal who’d been through one shitstorm after another and somehow managed to survive. And Clint ached for him.

“I’m sorry I left,” Clint blurted out, turning to face him. He looked panicked, reacting like he was about to run. The way he used to run when he first came to S.H.I.E.L.D. so many years ago. Like he’d done back at the Playground. 

But they were in his home. In his kitchen. And that brought him some measure of strength. Enough to keep him from bolting out the door at least.

Clint ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck in a gesture that was as well-known to Coulson as his own quirks. It was an old habit that caused a dull ache in his chest when he realised just how much he’d missed it. It could mean so many things with Clint: embarrassment, shyness, shame. Sometimes just a reluctance to speak. Coulson wasn’t sure which one it was now. It could be any. It could be all.

“I think that’s my line,” he said softly, bowing his head before tilting it to the side looking up at Clint. His eyes were sad and full of apology.

Clint stared back at him. “No. Your line is –  I’m sorry I died then came back and didn’t tell you… ‘cuz I’m an asshole.”

A tiny ghost of a smile played across Coulson’s lips as he answered, “I was an asshole. But… I like to think I’ve grown since then.”

“In a couple of months?”

“Hey! A lot can happen in a couple of months! Actually...” Coulson paused thoughtfully and raised an eyebrow. “… a lot did happen in a couple of months.”

“Yeah, it did,” Clint said gently, taking a step towards him.

As Coulson had done with him, Clint reached out to touch Coulson’s bruised face but stopped before his fingers made contact, still afraid of what happened the last time. After the briefest hesitation, Coulson took the last step forward to lean into Clint’s palm.

“I’m okay now.” Coulson’s voice was strained, more evidence of how emotionally wrung out he was. He would never have let it show otherwise.

In a gesture of reassurance, he placed his hand over Clint’s and closed his eyes, taking pleasure in his gentle caress instead of fearing it. Something shifted inside him. Righted itself. It seemed the end of the hypergraphia had completed some kind of loop, ending whatever was triggering the blinding pain that had surged through him back at the Playground.

“Are you?” Clint whispered back, his own voice cracking but so full of hope.

With great care and tenderness, he rubbed his thumb against Phil’s cheekbone. There was no cry of pain. He didn’t collapse to the floor in agony. It seemed Phil truly was himself again. Clint’s breath hitched when he sighed with relief.

They moved into the comfort of each other’s embrace. Clint’s left hand cupped the back of Phil’s head, fingers skimming through his short hair. His other arm wrapped around his shoulders bringing him close, holding him as though afraid to let him go. Phil’s hands were on Clint’s hips before sliding around his back in a tight hug. His nose was tucked into the crook of Clint’s neck breathing him in, the scent of soap and hard work, of cooking and coffee all centring him.

“You asshole,” Clint murmured, pressing his lips against Phil’s hair. Damn, he smelled so good. But then he always smelled good.

“Yeah.” Phil huffed out a small, shaky laugh that cracked into a broken sob. “I’m sorry, Clint. I'm so sorry.”

to be continued...

[imagineclintcoulson]

Clint as a writer, Phil as his editor. The mystery novelist extraordinaire generally wows his editor on a regular basis with his books. But how will Phil react when he finds out the romance novelist CB Francis is one and the same and has been wooing him for quite some time in letters.

Author’s Note: Special thanks to @spacey-jack for the beta-read on this one!  And thank you to @paperdollkiss for the prompt!

Philip J. Coulson, editor, sat at his desk, chin on onehand, and the other poised over the scroll wheel on his mouse. Spring sunlightfiltered through the growing leaves that hung outside the large window at hisback and lay across his messy desk. Two of the walls of his office were floorto ceiling bookshelves, often filled with first-editions signed by the gratefulauthors who had used his services. The remaining wall held filing cabinetswhich Phil assumed held important documents, he rarely went into them himself, andthey were the domain of his assistant.  

A gentle knock on the door to his office pulled Phil out ofthe world he’d been immersed in so suddenly his back protested the suddenmovement, reminding him that he’d been sitting in that position for far toolong.

Looking up he felt a wide smile wash across his face. “Clint!”The man standing in the doorway had blond hair arranged into artful spikes. Asalways he leaned towards wearing dark colours, washed out grey jeans, awell-loved black leather jacket, but with one artful splash of colour, at-shirt covered in a purple graffiti pattern underneath. Clint’sgreen-grey-gold eyes danced with amusement at his reception as he steppedinside, Phil jumping to his feet and coming around his desk to greet himproperly, before offering Phil a small gift box coloured an ombre that shiftedfrom pale pink to a deep maroon.  

(Beware the Read More Link)

Phil gaped at the package for a moment, feeling himselfflush and then quickly pale.  Clintlooked concerned when he didn’t take the box from him. “I found it on thedoorstep…should I put it back?”

His announcement startled a laugh out of Phil who finally tookthe box. “No, no, sorry, I was just…it’s nothing.  Thank you.” He waves for Clint to have a seatacross from him as he moves back to his own chair.

“That reaction was not ‘nothing.’” was Clint’s flippantreply. “I’m a mystery writer Phil, you can’t pull a face like that over a fancybox and expect me to drop it.”  

Phil chuckled again as he set the box down on top of a pileof manuscripts. “I suppose you’re right.” Phil stared at the box for a moment while Clint made himselfcomfortable. “Well, as odd as it sounds, I have a secret admirer…of a sort.”

“Not sure why that’s odd.” Clint retorted. “But go on.”

“Have you ever heard of CB Francis?”

“Romance author, works for Red Room Press?”

Phil nodded. “He’s been sending me…love letters for thebetter part of a year, always in an ombre envelope.” He could feel his cheeksstarting to flush as he recalled the contents of those letters. “He’s neverhidden who he was, he signed the first letter and every letter after that…but Ihaven’t been able to get a hold of him! You wouldn’t believe how hard it is toget a call with his agent, never mind his editor or anyone else at Red Room.The one time I managed to get his agent on the phone she cussed me out, I thinkin Russian? And then hung up on me.” That pulled a good laugh out of Clint.“This is the first time he’s sent a box though…” Phil studied the small box.“Maybe he’s finally ready to talk to me?”

“Sounds super shy, the poor guy.” Clint propped an ankle upon one knee and leaned back. “Afraid you’ll reject him?”

“I suppose…” Phil frowned at his computer screen for amoment. “I mean, as far as I know I’ve never met the guy, but the way hewrites…it’s like he’s known me forever…I mean, of course it’s flattering, butat the same time, I just want to talk to him, you know?” He looked up and foundClint looking at him in a soft and understanding way that made his heart ache.“But my mysteries are not why you’re here today.” He smiled. “Your book, holyshit Clint, I’m part way through my third read and I’m still blown away.”  

The conversation moved on to red herrings, characterdescriptions and timelines. As always, Phil was pleased with Clint’s attentionto detail and ability to plan into future books, as well as the one Phil wascurrently editing. Working with the other man wasn’t always easy, but he knewthey had a great working relationship that produced some of the best modernmysteries his publisher (and a few others) produced.  

Once they’d discussed everything from Phil’s first round ofedits to the potential publishing schedule both men stood to shake hands beforePhil moved to show Clint to the door of his office.  

“Always a pleasure, Clint.” Phil intoned as Clint steppedout into the hall.  

“Thanks Phil.” Clint turned to smile softly at him. “I hopeyour secret admirer’s finally got the guts to ask you out.” He winked. “Can’tlet a man like you get away.”

Phil felt the blush spread over his cheeks. “Yeah, well,I’ll let you know if it happens.”

“I’d like that.” With one more nod Clint let himself out thedoor.  

Phil waited for the door to close behind his author beforetaking himself back into his office and the little ombre package. He stared atit for a long moment before finally plucking it off the pile of paper andgently lifting the lid.  

A simple white piece of paper was folded inside and as heset the box down and collected the paper he found a single ticket to thetheater sitting beneath it. Glancing at the ticket he was pleasantly surprisedto find it’s to The Glass Menagerie, which he’d been trying to think of whomight want to go see it with him. Unfolding the paper he found a print out ofthe confirmation of a dinner reservation for two at his favourite restaurant.Written below the confirmation text in dark purple ink was “Got your message,sorry for dragging this out so long. But if you don’t show for dinner, I’llknow you want to hit the theater alone. – CBF”

Phil couldn’t resist a snort of frustration at the final‘out’ he’d been given. If Francis thought Phil was going to not show up todinner and be left wondering a moment longer, he had another thing coming!

*

Phil had finally decided on the ‘just left the office’ lookfor his date with C.B. Francis. His white collared shirt was open, no tie, andhe’d picked a well-worn suit jacket that fit, but was soft and, he hoped,inviting. He showed his dinner confirmation to the maître d’ and was quicklyseated at a small intimate booth at the back of the restaurant.  

Phil was checking out the wine selection when he feltsomeone moving towards him and looked up. To his surprise Clint was there,dressed in a charcoal grey suit with a dark red dress shirt, also sans tie. Hesmiled bashfully when he knew Phil had spotted him, but kept coming.

“Clint!  Good to seeyou.” Phil stood to shake the other man’s hand. “Are you here on a date?” Philglanced over the other man’s shoulder, looking for a table missing oneoccupant, or a partner following the other man in his direction.

“Technically, yes.” Clint’s smile grew wider as he gesturedfor Phil to sit back down. “Mind if I join you?”

“Well, I’m actually waiting for someone.” Phil demurred,trying to be polite, glancing once more over Clint’s shoulder.

“I know.” Clint slid into the booth across from Phil, hischeeks pinking slightly.  

Phil was certain his face must have flipped between at least3 different expressions before he managed to stick ‘wry amusement’, at least hehoped so. “Oh?” he finally prompted while he gestured to the empty seat and satdown himself.

Clint was full on blushing now as he pulled his wallet outof his back pocket and sat down. Without a word he passed his driver’s licenseto Phil. “Clinton Francis Barton.” Phil read out loud. “C.B. Francis and ClintBarton.” Phil looked up at Clint’s blushing face and gave him back the card.“You sneaky shit.”

That seemed to startle a chuckle out of Clint. “I’m sorryPhil, I didn’t mean to do this for so long…” He ran a hand through his hair,obviously still nervous. “I just…was really afraid you’d turn me down. And Iguess I was sort of afraid you wouldn’t want to be my editor anymore…if youknew I had a huge crush on you.”

Phil smiled at Clint’s bashfulness. “What changed yourmind?  Why now?”

Clint’s smiled widened slightly. “When I heard from Natasha,she’s my agent at Red Room Press, that you’d somehow managed to find her officephone number and called her. She told me what you said, before she startedyelling at you, sorry for that by the way.” Clint’s hair was becoming messierby the moment as he kept running his hands through it in nervousness. “She’sstill mad that I went to you for my mystery novels instead of the person sherecommended from the Red Room affiliate.”

Phil blushed. He only slightly remembered what he’d said to‘Francis’s’ agent when he’d finally tracked down her number and had her pick upinstead of it just going to voicemail. He was pretty sure it was somethingmildly distressed and ‘I just want to talk to him, please!’  

“And then…earlier today,” Clint looked up from the table. “Iwent to hand you the box and I watched your face. And it felt like, for amoment you thought your secret admirer was me, and…” he seemed to struggle.“And that was okay, more than okay, you were excited.”  

Phil smiled softly. “You should have said something…wedidn’t have to wait for…all this.” He gestured to the restaurant. Clint’s handran through his hair again and Phil found himself reaching out and taking it,holding on across the table, watching Clint’s blush deepen.

“Yeah, but I had this whole plan!” Clint chuckled. “Plus,you were working…and I was working…and…I guess I still wasn’t ready.”  

Phil rubbed his thumb against Clint’s hand for a moment.“Well, now that I know who my secret admirer is, and know that I like andadmire them as a person, and find them to be very attractive,” He watchedClint’s smile go impossibly brighter. “I guess we can just focus on enjoyingourselves, and getting to know each other even better.”

Clint squeezed his hand. “I’d like that.”  

They talked right up until the moment they would need todash to the nearby theater to catch the show. They managed to find their seats just before the house lights fell.Occasionally Phil noticed Clint glance at him, checking to see how he wasenjoying himself, but the acting was so skilled, the set pieces so beautifuland inspired that Phil couldn’t take his eyes off the stage, though he foundhimself reaching out and holding Clint’s hand as the actors on stage discussthe glass unicorn.  

They joined the crowd in a standing applause for the actorsbefore filing out, Phil again taking Clint’s hand so they wouldn’t getseparated. They stepped outside, pausing at the foot of the theater steps toface each other.  

“I had a very good time tonight, Clint.” Phil smiled warmly.

“Yeah?” Clint’s bashful smile brightened. “Me too. I don’tthink I’ve ever actually been to see a proper play, it was very interesting.”

Phil felt his heart warm further at hearing this, that Clinthad planned the whole evening with Phil’s own desires in mind, potentiallyplacing himself completely out of his own element. “May I plan our seconddate?”

Clint perked up impossibly further. “Sure! I mean, yeah,that’d be great.”

Phil took Clint’s hand and pulled him forward for a brief,chaste kiss. “I’ll text you tomorrow and we can pick a night.” He murmuredquietly, giving Clint’s hand a squeeze. “Goodnight Clint.”

“Good night, Phil.” Clint almost sounded dazed as Phil letgo of his hand and headed home. Phil smiled the whole way home.  

[imagineclintcoulson]

Not Made of Stone

@fergumeister prompt: Imagine Clint or Phil undercover at enemy base for weeks, and one day his cover was blown, so the other had to come and rescue him.

Author’s note: once again, my apologies to mobile users - there’s more below the cut due to the size of the chapter. As always, I’ll post the update on AO3 a day later.

CHAPTER NINE

Somehow Coulson managed to keep his voice calm and his face impassive as he recounted the use of serum derived from Kree tissue, and the horrors of the procedures involving alien technology which had him begging for death. It was the pain in his eyes that gave him away.

He didn’t tell Clint to shock him or to gain his sympathy - although it clearly did both - but for him to understand he'd been resurrected under Fury’s orders. Revived against his will.

He’d accepted his fate on board the helicarrier when he went after Loki. He'd calculated the odds and determined there was a high probability he wasn’t going to survive the encounter. It's not that he had a death wish particularly but he had to try. He had to give the others time. A chance to be the heroes he knew they were. A chance to bring Clint home… although that last thought, he kept to himself.

So, yes. He had accepted his fate but apparently, Fury hadn't, moving heaven and earth to bring his oldest friend back from the dead.

For Clint’s sake as well as his own, he didn’t dwell on his revival and moved onto Fury’s new mission for him with a different team, the Bus, and the 0-8-4 type cases they worked. He couldn’t miss Clint’s expression growing cold and hard at their mention. Nor could he ignore the stiffening of Clint’s shoulders, and his knuckles turning white as he tightened his grip on his mug.

God knows had taken him long enough, but Coulson hadn't realised until now Clint believed he’d replaced him and Tasha without a thought. Without caring. In reality, the opposite was true. He knew they could never be replaced. Nor would he ever wish to. As much as Hawkeye and the Black Widow had driven him to distraction with their blatant “fuck the rules” attitude, his years spent as their handler had been the best of his life. He’d loved being part of Strike Team Delta. He’d loved the easy companionship of the three of them, their effective and efficient teamwork in the field, their fierce protectiveness of each other in and out of it.

He missed them. He missed Clint. God, how he missed Clint.

However, the simple truth was S.H.I.E.L.D. came first. It always had. Clint and Natasha were Avengers now, keeping the world safe in their way. He was still part of S.H.I.E.L.D. keeping the world safe in his. And he needed a team for that.

No, the decision hadn’t been made lightly but it had been made nonetheless. His biggest regret was that he never got to tell them goodbye. No, that was his second biggest. His biggest regret was not having been there for Clint after Loki’s mind fucking. But he'd convinced himself, or been convinced, to trust the system. That they were better off not knowing he was alive especially if he went the same way as the Project T.A.H.I.T.I test subjects.

He'd seen first hand the extreme side effects suffered by the men and women who’d volunteered; hypergraphia, aphasia, catatonia and in some cases, complete psychosis. Only a total mind wipe had proved effective at stemming the effects. Even then the results were hit or miss. They may have been willing participants - all were dying S.H.I.E.L.D. agents with nothing to lose - but he knew in good conscience he could not let it continue and had resigned his post as head of the Project recommending to Fury it be terminated. He couldn't put anyone else through it. Not even a fallen Avenger for whom the procedure had been developed.

Coulson’s face paled at the thought of what had happened to him happening to Clint and he closed his eyes, breathing slowly, willing himself under control. Willing away the tears that burned behind his lids. After a few minutes of silence, he realised he’d been lost in his own thoughts. He slowly raised his head to look at Clint and gave him an apologetic shrug.

Clint nodded in understanding. All this was more difficult for him to hear than he thought it would be. And as much as it shook him to listen to Phil talk about his death and revival he could only imagine how it felt for Phil to talk about it.

He gave Phil a moment to get himself together again and headed to the fridge to bring back a couple of bottles of water. He'd considered the beer chilling beside it but maybe not the best idea on an empty stomach. Setting one in front of Phil, Clint sat back down to wait patiently for him to continue.

*** APOLOGIES - READ MORE UNDER THE BREAK ***

Anguish crept into Coulson’s voice and face as he recounted the nightmares and gaps in his memories, of which there were many. The dreams were bad enough, waking him in a cold sweat, trembling and scared shitless. But not understanding why he was having them and feeling the explanation was just out of his reach was as terrifying as it was frustrating.

His questions (and fears) were finally answered following his capture and torture in the desert by Centipede, and Raina’s manipulation of him into using the memory enhancement machine. Oh sure, part of him wanted to anyway. The part that was losing faith in the system. She just happened to give him a nudge at the right time, asking him if he didn’t want to find out why the response “It’s a magical place” was triggered every time someone mentioned Tahiti. And for the record, not so magical.

He took a quiet moment to compose himself before he talked of Grant Ward's betrayal and his working for the Clairvoyant (who he revealed as John Garrett, shocking the hell out of Clint, as did the revelation that Garrett had been a HYDRA agent all along).

Jesus! How many others? Clint wondered to himself.

The chilly, flat tone of Coulson’s voice conveyed his anger when he described Ward’s cruel and cold-blooded murder of Eric Koenig, and his abduction of Skye from the Providence base. In his own mind, he’d already allowed her to be harmed when she’d been shot by Ian Quinn on the orders of the Clairvoyant, all in an attempt to discover the secret of Coulson’s resurrection. He’d be damned if he’d allow it to happen at the hands of Ward.

With Hill’s assistance, he'd been able to steal on board the Bus and get Skye back but it had been touch and go. He’d nearly lost them both when Lola had plummeted to earth in an uncontrolled freefall until her thrusters thankfully kicked in.

Subconsciously, as Coulson talked about him, the fingertips of his right hand rubbed against his shoulder where Ward's bullet had entered. Realising what he was doing he dropped his hand away and leaned forward on his seat, legs apart, elbows on his knees as he switched topic again. He could only think about Ward for so long without wanting to punch something.  

He admitted May’s abandonment of the team at Providence had hurt him badly but he had no-one to blame for that except himself. After finding out she’d been acting under Fury’s orders, reporting to him the whole time they’d been on the Bus, he gave her the ultimatum to follow his orders... or leave.

He smiled ruefully at Clint. She’d chosen to leave. Hell, he’d shot her with an I.C.E.R. He supposed he couldn’t blame her.

“You really shot May?” Clint asked, his eyebrows touching his hairline. So Trip hadn’t been taking the piss after all.

“Kind of? With a night-night gun. An I.C.E.R. Just knocked her unconscious for a time.”

“Still fuckin’ nuts. You know that, right?”

“Since then, she and I have been dancing. May wore a dress. Even heard her laugh over the comms. Weirded out the team but that’s another story.” He gave Clint a mischievous smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes as he took a sip of water.

Clint grinned at him. “You’re definitely goin’ to tell me that one. But how about you go on. If you still want to?”

Coulson nodded, his senior agent face falling into place again as he sat back in his seat. He owed it to Clint to finish this. “I want to.”

It seemed once again, May had another agenda. Looking for answers on his behalf, she’d met with Hill before digging up his grave at Hill’s prompting. There she discovered a USB stick that revealed him as head of Project T.A.H.I.T.I.

She’d sat Coulson down in his motel room and showed him the footage in an attempt to mend the rift between them. If Ward's betrayal had been unexpected and disappointing, hers was a crushing blow. Working for Fury. Watching him. Waiting to see if he was going to lose it. And keeping it all from him even though she knew he was going out of his mind trying to find out why he felt so different. Why some memories just didn't sit right with him.

He snorted at the irony. Hadn't he done the same with Clint and Natasha? Kept them in the dark believing it was the right thing to do.

Still, he was relieved May and he had worked through their differences now. Things weren't the same as they'd once been but they were getting better.

He desperately wanted to do the same with Clint, if he would let him. That he was being given the chance to explain was more than he could have hoped for. He could only imagine what it must have been like for Clint to be told out the blue he was alive after two years. Especially after all he’d been through with Loki in his head, controlling his actions. All this Coulson kept to himself.

Even though he’d tried to keep his account as succinct as possible, Coulson had been talking solidly for almost two hours with barely an interruption from Clint. The last of the afternoon light had faded to darkness and at some point, he couldn't remember when Clint must have put on a few lamps in the kitchen. Their glow, like Clint’s presence, was warm and comforting giving Coulson the strength to carry on.

When he recalled his obsession with the alien symbols, his voice broke a few times. Unable to control it, his hypergraphia had gotten worse, going from a few times a month to a couple of times a week between urges, finally to a daily occurrence. It terrified him knowing it could progress the way it had with the other subjects - him losing his grip on reality and not being able to come back from it.

Clint couldn't prevent the shiver from rolling down his spine, its icy fingers leaving a trail of goosebumps on his skin. The last time he’d seen Phil it was during one of his manic hypergraphia periods. He remembered how much it had taken out of him, how drained he'd been before they'd accidentally touched and Phil had collapsed in agony.

Clint gave up trying to hide his grief and sympathy. It sucked. Really sucked that Phil had been taken from him after so short a time together. Together as in something more than the closeness of Strike Team Delta. But he was slowly realising it hadn’t been done thoughtlessly by Phil.

Or by Fury.

Sure, Fury may have kickstarted it by bringing Phil back and keeping it a secret from everyone… well, the Avengers at least. But in a way, he kinda understood where Fury was coming from. And he was right about one thing. Phil was S.H.I.E.L.D. He was the one who protected people from events they weren’t ready to encounter. And when he couldn’t do that, he would at least try to keep them safe. It was his nature to do so. Looking at him sitting across from him, cut and bruised, Clint would have bet the farm, literally, that’s what he’d been doing to end up like this.

But he missed him. He missed him so damned much. And hearing all the shit he’d been through without him by his side. He’s not made of stone. It hurts, y’know?

Coulson scrubbed his hand over his face and took another steadying breath before describing the frantic search for alien artefacts he and the others had gone through. After learning of HYDRA’s involvement, they’d tried desperately to keep anything with alien writing out of the organisation’s hands. But it was difficult.

The name of S.H.I.E.L.D. was tarnished now, forcing them to work in secret. Time after time they lost good agents. Agents they couldn’t afford to lose; people they had no desire to lose. HYDRA was bigger, had more resources. It also had Daniel Whitehall, a Nazi scientist who was driven by his obsession with longevity, his longevity, and something called the Obelisk or Diviner and its effects on humans.

And he would do anything to get it.

To be honest, HYDRA alone would have been enough to contend with, but Skye’s father appeared on the scene and that was... unexpected. For everyone. Including Skye.

Until now, his identity was unknown as was the fact he was still alive. It was clear though he wanted his daughter back and, like Whitehall would do anything to get her, even if that meant working with Raina and assisting HYDRA to get the Obelisk. In the end, it was Ward who had taken Skye to see her father. But he was getting ahead of himself.

The information Coulson had uncovered during his search through classified files, disclosed nothing about Skye’s parents. She had been found abandoned by a S.H.I.E.L.D. team investigating a small village in the Chinese Province of Hunan. The rest of the village was dead, thought to have been slaughtered by HYDRA agents. There was no sign of her father, and her mother was presumed to be amongst the murdered villagers.

Also revealed in the report was Skye’s 0-8-4 status, something he’d done his best not to rattle her with when he handed her the information. Sadly, according to Skye, his attempt had been an “epic fail”.

The team brought her back to the US handing her over to the Saint Agnes Orphanage to be raised by nuns as Mary Sue Poots to keep her identity, and her possible alien origin, hidden. From then on she'd bounced between foster homes never really being a “good fit” for adoption. When Coulson found her she’d been living in her van as a hacktivist making podcasts for the Rising Tide.

Coulson risked a quick look at Clint. He was aware Skye and Clint had clicked when they paired up to extract him from Hotel HYDRA. He was cluing him in about her childhood with her blessing (hell, it had actually been Skye’s idea). He was curious if her story was what had triggered Clint’s murderface, currently in place and looking particularly charming this afternoon.

“Thanks by the way,” he said, dragging Clint back to the present.  

“What for?” Clint asked, his nose scrunching up in a confused frown. Finding out about the similarities of his background and Skye’s made him wonder if they'd sensed something familiar in each other on the quinjet. It would explain, in part at least, why they'd gotten along so easily. Well, after his initial reluctance and acting like a giant douche.

“For misleading Skye about the bullet in my ass,” Coulson clarified, ignoring the way his heart skipped a beat at Clint’s wrinkled nose, something he found to be another of his endearing qualities. “She keeps staring at it. I’ve tried telling her it was actually my hip but… not sure she’s convinced.”

Clint at least had the decency to blush. He covered his snort of laughter behind his bottle of water. “Maybe she’s staring ‘cause you have a nice ass.”

Coulson ducked his head and said, “Suuure. That’s it. Jerk.”

Clint’s grin broadened as the tips of Coulson’s ears glowed a pretty shade of red. This playful banter leading to shameless flirting was another reason he missed the hell out of Phil. No other handler had put up with it for long, certainly never joined in with the deadpan snark that Phil could do so effortlessly. It hit him hard in his chest just how much he'd missed everything about him, including those telltale ears of his.

“And thank you. For coming to get me,” Coulson added quietly, tilting his head to the side to look up at Clint. “I didn't get much of a chance to say before going all…” he mimed an explosion at his temple with his hand.

Or before I left without giving you the chance, Clint thought but didn't voice.

He nodded unable to say anything for fear of giving himself away. He wanted to reach out and hold Phil’s hand. To reassure him. To encourage him. Hell, just to feel his warm skin beneath his touch. But he was too uncertain of his welcome. And maybe too afraid. Instead, he listened.

Coulson took a drink of water and somberly recalled his second session in the machine. The memories that returned were traumatic, revealing all the T.A.H.I.T.I test subjects had been haunted by the alien writing. It was painful to witness - especially as he was instrumental in putting them all through it - but it helped him resolve the meaning of the symbols that had become part of his life for so long, leading him to discover that they weren’t writing at all but blueprints to an underground Kree city, later located during a recon mission under the fort of Saint Cristobal in Puerto Rico.

He couldn’t explain why but once the mystery of the symbols had been solved, the compulsion to write was gone. He would never be able to describe the relief he felt at the realisation.

Downside? It meant tricking Skye and locking her up in Vault D at the Playground; being captured and held by one of project T.A.H.I.T.I.’s last remaining survivors; almost having the symbols carved into his skin before being murdered like most of the test subjects. None of which he was particularly proud of but at least being hooked up to it a second time paid off in the long run.

The others weren't overly thrilled with his actions at that point. Going off the grid to tackle a serial killer alone while being half out of his own mind had not endeared him to anyone. It was a very pissed off team that realised what was going on and pulled together to rescue him from what could have been a grizzly end… only to be caught up in another shitstorm. One that involved the biggest operation they’d been through as a team so far - the confrontation between S.H.I.E.L.D., HYDRA, and Kree forces that had been hibernating for centuries, maybe even thousands of years - all linked to the Obelisk and the underground City.

The hard-won battle had culminated in success, of a sort, for S.H.I.E.L.D. before ending in grief and tragedy with the loss of Trip. It was a devastating blow for everyone and one from which they were all still reeling.

to be continued... 

[imagineclintcoulson]

Not Made of Stone

@fergumeister prompt: Imagine Clint or Phil undercover at enemy base for weeks, and one day his cover was blown, so the other had to come and rescue him.

Author’s note: apologies to mobile users - there’s more below the cut due to the size of the chapter. As always, I’ll post the update on AO3 a day later.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Clint braced his shoulder against a roof column of the porch. Like the rest of the farmhouse, it was weathered but strong, having stood firm against whatever the elements could throw at it over the decades. Its solid familiarity at his back gave him the comfort and support he needed right now.

His hands, clenched into tight fists, were crammed into his jeans pockets while his empty stomach rolled with nerves. He hadn’t been able to eat anything since he received the phone call several hours earlier. Instead, he’d kept himself busy by firing up the tractor and clearing more of a path from the mailbox to the house and round to the barn. He followed that with some cooking and baking fresh bread, ending his desperate need to keep his mind and hands occupied barely minutes ago with brewing a fresh pot of coffee. If nothing else the place would at least smell welcoming.

Now he watched the steady progress of the ‘62 Corvette making her way down the snow-covered track, her cherry red paintwork standing out like spilt blood against the stark white of the snow. His own blood roared in his ears forced around his body by the jackhammer currently pounding in his chest as Lola drew up to the porch steps, the snow crunching beneath her tyres, and came to a stop.

Keeping the concern from his face, Clint couldn’t help but notice the care with which Phil climbed out of the car and closed the door behind him with a gentle thunk. It was possible that he was still suffering from the bullet wound and beating he’d received at the hands of Ward, the HYDRA Nazi poster boy, but the split lip, fresh butterfly stitches and bruising to his forehead suggested that he’d been in some shit again.

Clint figured he’d wait until later before mentioning it but it did make him wonder what the hell Phil’d been up to this time. Why he felt the need to get up to anything at all.

Still, even with the wounds to his face, he looked good. The suit - which would do very little to protect him from the chill of the afternoon - was a favourite of Clint’s; dove grey, worn with a crisp white shirt that made the snow look dirty, and a sapphire blue silk tie. He was wearing his aviators too, protecting his eyes from the glare of the sun bouncing off the snowbanks. Phil looked every bit the handler he once knew rather than the wreck of a man he saw a few months ago. Clint’s heart brimmed with hope that the Phil Coulson standing in front of him was his Phil Coulson.

“Iowa in the winter an’ you’re wearin’ a fancy suit and drivin’ Lola?” Clint smirked,  straightening from the column to amble down the steps to greet him.

“Call me crazy but...  I thought it showed a certain panache,” Coulson smiled back, plumes of breath puffing from his mouth. He removed his sunglasses revealing those incredible blue/grey eyes of his. Clint’s mouth suddenly became dry as his gaze locked onto Phil’s. It took a lot of control to force himself to act casually, or at least calmly under the circumstances.

“You’re crazy,” he replied, causing Phil to roll his eyes in mock-exasperation. Clint ducked his head and gave him a shy smile. “At least you put her roof on. That’s something I guess.”

“Crazy but not a dumbass,” Coulson deadpanned, giving a small shrug of his right shoulder. It would appear his left was still causing him problems after all.

They fell quiet for a moment drinking each other in. Eventually, it was Clint who broke the silence. He knew if he continued to stare at Phil much longer he’d want to touch him, melt into his arms, and he was nowhere near ready for that. He doubted Phil was either.

“Made some food if you’re hungry.”

“Sure. I could eat. And coffee?” Coulson added hopefully, the corner of his mouth quirking up in the little half-smile Clint thought he’d never get to see again.

He gave Phil a quick flash of a grin. “Maybe. Go park Lola in the barn ‘round the side an’ I’ll heat it up. An’ come in the front door, yeah?”

Coulson looked at him like he wanted to say something but in the end, he just nodded and slipped his aviators back on.

“Seeya in few,” he said, climbing back into Lola. Clint’s forehead creased in a frown as he once again noted Phil’s stiff posture even though he was trying to hide it. Seriously, what was wrong with the man? Was this his thing now? Was it some kind of penance? Was he trying to make amends for something? For surviving? Shit, he had so many questions.

Rather than watch him drive away, Clint jogged back up the few stairs and headed inside. Closing the door behind him, he leaned heavily against it and took a deep, calming breath. Seeing Phil again made him wonder if he’d done the right thing allowing him to come. He wasn’t sure if he was strong enough to go through it again if there was a repeat of what happened back at the Playground.

And there was no-one here to help him out if it all went to shit.

Angrily, he pushed himself away from the door and toed off his boots, shaking his head like a wet dog. Seriously? Fuck that noise! Phil had finally reached out to him and that’s what mattered. They never had the chance to talk about his death or his return the last time. Maybe this time they would. To move forward, maybe this time they had to.

*** *** *** KEEP READING UNDER THE BREAK *** *** ***

“Something smells good,” said Coulson. Clint didn’t jump. His butt cheeks may have clenched a smidge inside his jeans but he definitely didn’t jump. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Nah, all under control,” he said, casting a glance over his shoulder at Phil.

He’d been lost in thought and didn’t hear him come in. Skye’s words about “ninja abilities and invisibility cloak” popped into his head making him smile. At least some things didn't change. However, other things apparently did.

Somewhere between the front door and the kitchen Coulson had removed his suit jacket, loosened his tie to open the top couple of buttons of his collar, and was currently rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt. It was rare to see him in such a state of undress. Even back when they were… whatever they were doing… he was suited and booted until they were in bed. Or against a wall.

Scratch that. He’d fucked Clint against a wall fully dressed once. He could still remember the soft rasp of the suit against his naked skin as Phil pushed inside, murmuring quietly into his ear while he fucked into him with long, deep strokes. Neither of them had lasted long that night.

Feeling the heat rise in his cheeks as he remembered their shared intimacy in the desert, Clint turned back to the stove and tried to focus his thoughts on food again. It wasn't going to do him, or them, any good if he continued down that road.

He cleared his throat and said, “Food shouldn’t be long. You wanna grab a coupla forks from that top drawer?”

He nodded his head towards the unit beneath the kitchen countertop while he gave the contents of the casserole dish, liberated from the oven a short time before Phil arrived, another stir releasing more of the rich, savoury aroma into the air.

“Sure,” Coulson agreed amiably, taking another deep sniff. Clint’s chest puffed just a little at the appreciative look on Phil's face.

“After I visit the head? Been a long drive.”

Clint grinned sympathetically. He should have thought of that himself. “Room by the front door.”

On his return to the kitchen, Clint was fully aware of Phil's presence. He watched him out the corner of his eye as Phil crossed the floor to Clint’s side, touching his fingertips lightly to the work surface, gliding them across it as he moved. It seemed to have a certain sensuous quality to it. But then that could just be Clint’s current mindset.

In reality, there was nothing nefarious behind Coulson’s actions. He simply enjoyed the warmth and beauty of natural timber over cold, hard granite. This was lovingly crafted and well-cared for. Oiled and rubbed down regularly. As reached into the drawer to lift out the cutlery, Coulson took a guess and asked, “This your work?”

Clint shrugged and nodded keeping his attention firmly focussed on the dish in front of him. He didn't want Phil to see the blush that was colouring his cheeks anew at the praise hidden behind the words.

Coulson nodded. “Thought so. It’s dope.”

Clint froze. Then snorted. Then laughed out loud… or should that be LOL to use Phil’s vernacular? It was a full belly laugh that would leave his ribs aching when he finished. He let the spoon slip out of his hand into the pot to hold onto the kitchen surface. Probably a good idea seeing it was the only thing preventing him from face planting into the warm stew.

“It’s what?” he wheezed. He felt kinda shitty busting a gut at Phil's expense but he honestly never expected to hear a phrase like that coming from Senior Agent… sorry, Director Phillip J Coulson, badass of S.H.I.E.L.D. Seriously, if he didn't have his ears in and fully charged he'd have figured he'd misheard. Phil had to have picked it up from Skye. Or maybe Trip. Either way, it was as funny as fuck. And god knows he needed the release. The tension that had been building inside him throughout the morning had him coiled like an over-tightened spring.

Coulson watched Clint’s body shake with mirth as he completely lost it. Torn between being a little hurt by Clint’s reaction and finding it funny himself he groused, “Fuck you, Barton. I have kids on my team who appreciate my boyish charm and witty banter.”

“You sure about that?” Clint asked, through a couple of laughter hiccups finally regaining control of himself. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands wiping away the tears.

Coulson appeared to think about it for a moment. “Not as sure as I was. Thanks for that.”

Clint turned to face him attempting to look contrite. Difficult to do when he was obviously trying his damnedest not to snigger. He opened his mouth to apologise and snapped it shut turning his head away again as another fit of the giggles threatened to spill out.

“Shut up. You’re such a jerk,” Coulson said. There was no heat to his words. Instead, the corner of his mouth curled up in a half-smile. He’d given up pretending to be pissed. He never could remain annoyed with Clint for long especially when he found something so funny he couldn’t breathe because of it. It was one of his more endearing qualities.

Clint grinned back and picked up the wooden spoon then wrinkled his nose when he realised his hands were now covered in goop.

“Aww, stew no!” he muttered then licked and sucked the gravy from his fingers.

Coulson tried not to dwell on the way Clint’s tongue travelled thoroughly over and around each sticky digit before disappearing it into his warm, wet mouth. That wasn’t so much endearing as downright pornographic. Fuck! He closed his eyes and swallowed. Wrong. So wrong on so many levels. He should not be thinking things like that. Not now. Definitely not now.

For a change, Clint was oblivious to what he was doing and gave his fingers final lick before wiping the spoon with a cloth and resumed his stirring.

“Pretty sure they do appreciate you,” Clint told him after a moment, pulling Coulson back to the here and now. “Back at The Playground, it seemed they’d do anything for you. Except maybe keep you out of trouble by the looks of things.”

Coulson clenched his jaw and ducked his head, tilting it to the side to give Clint a bashful look. “They try but… you know me.”

“Yeah… I used to.” It was out before Clint could think about it. Or hold it back. His spine stiffened at his own words but now that he’d said them, it was as though a dam had burst and he couldn’t control the flood.

“Why, Phil? It was me an’ Nat. You could’ve told us anything. We’d’ve been there for ya. I thought you trusted us. Trusted me.”

Coulson winced. He wasn’t surprised by Clint’s outburst. Not really. In fact, he’d been expecting something like this but it was the rapid change from such good humour just moments before to such a profound sadness that shook him.

“You sure you wanna do this now?” he asked, gently.

Defiantly, Clint turned off the heat under the casserole dish and turned to face him folding his arms across his chest. The tension he’d managed to release with his laughter was back, the air heavy and thick with it.

Coulson nodded, his mouth turned down. “You weren't part of the mission.”

Clint’s eyes widened in shock and hurt. He tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry. His eyes, however, were prickling with tears and he blinked several times willing them away.

“That simple, huh?” His voice was hard and bitter.

Coulson couldn't blame him. He’d been blunt. Too blunt probably. But to get through this, to give Clint the explanation he needed, he was going to have to distance himself from his emotions. And Clint’s. Flick that switch inside him that turned him into the stoic senior agent, unflappable and controlled.

Again, Coulson nodded, grim-faced. “That simple. Alien tech had been rummaging around in my head. Reprogramming my mind. It was altering memories of the procedure and… of my life. Memories it had identified as interfering with my survival. And... it was planting new ones. When it was finished, T.A.H.I.T.I was a magical place and not a hellish torture OR in some secret S.H.I.E.L.D. facility that I knew nothing about. Only… I did.”

He narrowed his eyes at Clint’s expression. He looked like he was about to throw up. Definitely too blunt. He also looked confused as hell.

“How much of my being brought back to you know about?” Coulson asked warily, his forehead creasing in a frown.

Clint stared at him. His defiant stance turned defensive as he hunched over, his hands unclenching under his arms to become more of a hug as though protecting himself from Phil’s words. Or maybe Phil himself. Eventually, in a quiet voice, he spoke.

“Some. Fury told me bits before I came to get you at HYDRA an’ May told me some of it back at the Playground after… the writing thing. But I wanna hear it from you. All of it.”

“It’s gonna take a while.”

“Not going anywhere, Phil. Not this time.”

Clint took a deep breath and uncurled himself. He gestured towards the kitchen table while he fixed two mugs of coffee. His back was to Coulson so hopefully, he wouldn't see the way his hands were shaking.

Accepting the inevitability of the situation, it’s why he'd come after all - to talk, to explain… to ask forgiveness - Coulson took his own deep breath and pulled out a side chair. He turned it to face Clint who’d slipped into a seat at one end, and sat down.

The simple but meaningful gesture wasn’t lost on Clint and with a brief quirk of his lips, he passed Phil a mug doctored with milk and sugar the way he liked it. Phil breathed in the steam then took a long swallow closing his eyes as the liquid rolled over his tongue and down his throat. It was only the seriousness of the task ahead that prevented him from moaning out loud. It was good. Excellent actually. But then he’d expect nothing less from Clint Barton, the coffee hound.

Clint gave him a knowing look as though completely aware of what Phil was holding back. And perhaps he was at that. He’d often done the same himself after gulping down his first throat-blistering draught from a fresh pot. He didn’t comment however believing, like Phil, now wasn’t the time for jokes or innuendos. Now was the time to talk; to clear the air.

He swallowed his own mouthful of coffee and observed the way Phil was sitting; spine straight against the backrest of the chair, breathing slow and steady, a determined set to his jaw. His left hand was flat on the surface of the table. The only sign of nervousness he could detect was the way Phil’s fingertips touched the wood, bouncing against it lightly as he gathered his thoughts. He didn’t mention the cuts and bruises on Phil’s knuckles but on some level, he was glad to see them. It meant whatever had happened to him, he’d at least put up a fight.

After a few moments Coulson’s eyes locked onto Clint’s and he began without preamble.

“They told me I was dead for eight seconds. But… it felt longer. Turned out I was right. I’d been in a body bag for days when Fury decided to ship me to one of his... secret facilities and reactivate Project T.A.H.I.T.I. to bring me back...”

[imagineclintcoulson]

Either of them has a phobia nobody knows about. Other finds out and either helps them overcome it or go around it and shows huge amounts of compassion and understanding instead of ridicule that the mortified phobic one was expecting -> feeeels + kisses ensue.

The steady slog of footsteps behind him comes to an abrupt halt.

Clint takes another step, just so he doesn’t have to stop in the middle of a puddle—which is probably full of snakes and leeches and, like, piranha, or something, fuck you South America—and turns around.

“Go on ahead, I’ll catch up,” Agent Coulson says, stone-faced.

Clint tilts his head. Coulson is standing in the middle of the trail. He looks utterly calm. True, Coulson generally is calm. And the calmer Coulson gets the more on-alert Clint has learned to be. Utterly calm, stone-faced Agent Coulson is DEFCON 1. It’s the bat-phone. It’s that red flashy thing on the bridge of the starship Enterprise.  

Clint draws his handgun noiselessly, hyper-alert, eyes sifting through the dense green chaos of the jungle surrounding them.

He glances back at Coulson, searching for some sign. His boss hasn’t moved, his weight awkwardly unbalanced, frozen between one step and the next.

Clint scans the trees again, confused.

“I told you to go ahead,” Coulson says, voice clipped and borderline angry. “I’m aware of your reputation for issues with authority, but I’ll thank you to obey a direct order, specialist.”

That hurts a little. Sure, Clint doesn’t have the greatest history with people telling him what to do, but he respects Coulson. He thought he and his new boss were getting along. Besides, this isn’t making sense.

Clint sighs, holsters the gun and starts back down the path, resigned. Whatever, he was getting a little too comfortable with Coulson anyway. Maybe the next handler SHIELD gives him won’t listen to incomprehensible jazz in the car at 120 decibels while driving the interstate like a bat out of hell.

“I’m not leaving you alone in the middle of the rainforest. That’s just crazy pants…sir.”

If anything Coulson’s expression hardens into something even calmer. How does he even do that, it’s uncanny.

“It’s my job to make sure you get to extraction in one piece, I don’t care what you say,” Clint says, overlooking that fact that Coulson hasn’t actually said anything else. “So why—”

Clint stops. Up close Coulson’s face is bloodless. There’s a tremor in his hands and it’s apparent he’s fighting to control his breathing.

Clint’s heartbeat picks up. Is Coulson sick? Oh crap, he can’t be sick, they’re in the middle of nowhere, at least two days out from the pickup point. Maybe he should check his temperature? Or—? He reaches out a hand and encounters something sticky.

It’s a spiderweb. Now that he’s looking he can see it. It’s plastered all over Coulson like he’d walked right into it. The threads are heavy with humidity, draped over half of Coulson’s face, across his neck and down along his chest.

“Oh, you’ve walked into a spiderweb. That’s not so—oh shit, did the spider bite you, sir?” Clint desperately tries to remember the pre-mission briefing they’d all gotten about the deadly wildlife of Brazil but he’d eventually just stopped listening. Pretty much everything in the Amazon rainforest could kill you as far as he could see. It would have been easier to memorize the list of things that were actually benign instead.

Coulson shakes his head, a tiny, abrupt movement. Clint’s relief is a wave that washes through him.

“Okay, well, lemme just help get this crap off you then,” he reaches out a hand to pull the sticky threads from Coulson’s face.

“Don’t touch me!” Coulson’s voice is like a gunshot. Clint flinches back. This is just getting weirder. Why…? Then a distant memory of a kid back at the orphanage with ophidi— ophidiosi— something—phobia comes floating up out of memory. That time the mean kids shoved a battered old National Geographic in his face, the one with the article on snakes. And the light goes on.

“It’s okay, sir” Clint says, very slowly reaching out to pull gently at one of the strands. “This’ll just take a sec, won’t hurt, just lemme get—”

Coulson closes his eyes. Except for the tremor in his hands and his quick, shallow breaths he could be carved from granite.

Clint carefully lifts a sticky strand away from his hair. He makes his voice even, keeping all judgement out of it. “Whatever it is, it’s okay. This’ll just take a sec, I promise I’ll be careful, okay?”

“Do…do you see it?”

Clint’s concentrating on picking up another nearly invisible thread. “See what, sir?”

“The spider. Do you see it? Is it on m—” Coulson’s words cut off with the gulp of air he takes. The click as he swallows is audible in his throat.

Clint looks. There isn’t a—oh crap.

A bloated, nasty monster of a big hairy spider is just behind Coulson’s shoulder. It’s on top of his flak jacket, so his boss probably doesn’t feel it, but it’s really close to his neck and…about the best that can be said about the impending, inevitable disaster is that the spider is out of his line of sight for now.

It’s got really long legs. And it’s all…furry. And, like, eyes. Gross. Clint is not afraid of spiders but whatever that is it’s one ugly, Freddy Krueger-lookin’ motherfucker. Clint picks up another strand of silk, keeps his voice gentle.

“Are you scared of spiders, sir?

“Of course not. That would be ridiculous,” Coulson snaps.

“Sure,” Clint says. Coulson’s eyes are still tightly shut. Clint slowly raises his other arm, across Coulson’s chest, carefully not touching, his hand flat and directly in the path of the multi-legged horror creeping slowly over Coulson’s shoulder.

“Well, anyway, I don’t see a spider, sir, it’s probably an old, abandoned web.”

Clint pinches another long strand with his right hand, lifts it gently away from Coulson’s face. The spider stops, maybe checking out Clint’s hand for stability, or something. Who the hell knows with spiders. Are those…teeth?? Christ. Clint breaths in, forces his right hand to move slowly and methodically, and his left hand to remain rock steady.

“Keep your eyes closed for me, sir, don’t wanna get this stuff in your eyes by mistake.”

Coulson’s nod is almost imperceptible. The spider lifts a couple of its front legs into the air—smelling him? Do spiders smell things? Anyway, ew.

“Okay, well if you’re not scared of spiders, then tell me if you’ve heard this one,” Clint says. The spider touches its front legs down on his outstretched hand. His stomach clenches up. He doesn’t let the disgust into his voice.

“So there’s this man, yeah? He’s goin’ to a movie. And he walks into the movie theatre and he sits down. Got his popcorn, coke, jujubees—he’s all good. Ready to see the flick. So he sits back and kinda glances over to the seat beside him and—whoa!—he sees what looks like a spider, just sitting there. Little spider. What the fuck.”

The spider touches down another couple of legs on Clint’s hand. How many goddamn legs does this thing have anyway. Clint picks up another strand of the web, pulls it gently, so gently away from Coulson’s neck.

“So he says to the spider, he says, ‘Yo, what the hell, are you a spider?’ And the spider just looks at him, right? Like, not impressed with this asshole. And he says, ‘Yes. I’m a spider.’ You know, like who the fuck is asking, I’m just sitting here being a spider, wow, some people.”

The spider hesitates, back legs still on Coulson’s jacket, front legs on Clint’s hand. Clint focuses on his hand, locking it into place. C’mon. C’mon you horrible bastard, move! He picks another bit of the web.

“And the man is thinking, ‘Oh like it’s normal, getting attitude from a spider. Fine, whatever. So he says, ‘Well then, spider, what are you doing at the movies?’ And the spider says—”

The spider steps delicately onto Clint’s hand. Clint takes a breath, pivots on his back foot and swings his whole arm away from Coulson, turning so the hand with the spider and his whole body is now facing outward, stretched half-off the trail, hand right next to some tree. Which has got ants the sizes of gumdrops crawling up it, again, fuck you South America. Clint takes a chance and gives his wrist a little flick. It launches the spider into the air, where lands on the tree, seems to puff itself up like it meant to do that, then scuttles away. Clint soundlessly swings his body back around again. Lifts up a final thread of spider-silk.

“…and the spider replies, ‘What am I doing at the movies? What am I doing at the movies? Well, I liked the book.’”

Coulson snorts. Then opens his eyes. “That’s a terrible joke.”

Clint shrugs. Glances fractionally over at the tree trunk to make sure the spider really has buggered off. He pats Coulson’s shoulder. “All done. Got most of it. And definitely no spider.”

“You're…sure?”

“One hundred percent, sir.”

Coulson looks away, takes a deep breath. A little color comes back into his face. He raises his eyes. Clint is standing a bit close, his hand resting on Coulson’s shoulder. Coulson’s eyes are blue. Huh. He’s never noticed that before.

“Good work, specialist. Thanks.” Coulson’s voice is warm, a little raspy, sincere.

Clint grins sheepishly, blushing a little at the praise. Coulson’s eyes widen at that. Then he smiles. It’s not a big smile or anything but it kinda does something to Clint. He’ll think about that smile later. In his bunk. Wait what? Not in his bunk, where did that come from, what the hell.

“Anytime, sir,” he says.