148 "why do you only kiss me when I'm sleeping?" (thank you for all the lovely Phlint posts tonight!)
The room wasn’t quiet enough, Phil thought, watching as Clint stirred restlessly, his eyes moving behind closed lids. Too many damn machines beeping and whooshing and whirring and humming. Nurses in the hallway, conversations seeping through the door, orders and doses and gossip and greetings. The PA system, supposedly muted, with clear clarion calls for people to report and call in and depart. Clint’s rough breathing, the rattle in his chest, occasional cough, and long sighs.
Then there was the light level. Red LEDs blaring out readings, EKG blips and lines, nurse call buttons. Cracks that let in the artifical brightness from the hallway, casting shadows towards Clint’s bed, slivers of white that cut across the room, one right over Clint’s eyes. Phil’s own tablet and cell phone, turned down to the lowest possible setting, rectangular windows to the world outside medbay.
Clint tried to move his arm, rattling the I.V. line and the metal pole the bag of fluids was attached to. A fit of coughing, liquid and deep, ripped from Clint’s throat, leaving him gasping. Beads of sweat trickled down the side of his face, running from his soaked hair along the curve of his jaw and down to the pillowcase. Hands clenched as Clint murmured, still fighting the battle they’d almost lost. He called Natasha’s name, warning her then his legs jerked as he cursed under his breath.
“It’s all right,” Phil told him, standing and taking the cloth from the ice bucket by the bed. “She’s safe. We’re all safe. You’re in medical.”
He wiped Clint’s brow and cheeks, cooled his neck and soothed the heated skin of Clint’s chest. The anger had subsided, his frustration with Clint long gone in the face of a burning fever. Phil had long ago come to terms with Clint’s lack of self-preservation; he’d stay in his post and keep going even with pneumonia wasn’t a surprise. Even after all this time together, Clint still had his secrets.
A shudder ran through Clint then a deep exhale as Phil pushed the medicine pump, a little more pain relief flowing into Clint’s body. Brushing the locks of hair that clung to Clint’s face, Phil leaned over and kissed Clint’s forehead, barely a touch, the only display he’d allow himself.
“Phil.” Distinct and clear, Clint spoke. “”Why do you only kiss me when I’m sleeping?”
Blue-grey eyes, glazed with fever, stared at him through a small slit of lids.
“”You’re sick, Clint. Go back to sleep. I’ll be here,” Phil said.
“Want you to kiss me when I’m awake,” Clint mumbled, eyes already closing again. “Want you.”
Phil picked up his tablet, sat back down in the uncomfortable chair, but never turned the device on. Instead, he watched the rise and fall of Clint’s chest and thought about daylight and laughter and good food and Clint Barton in his arms.
