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Lately I've been losing sleep dreaming about the things that we could be ...
After Clint has been at S.H.I.E.L.D. for a year and has earned his Specialist/Agent status, he's permitted to move out of his rooms at the facility and into a place of his own. He finds that more terrifying than any op he has been on since being snagged by Coulson. Since that day he's nearly died twice, been to Budapest once, saved Coulson's life three times, and killed more men than he liked to think about, even if most of them had been either in self-defense or in defense of innocent lives or the lives of his fellow agents. He still has nightmares, and can't help but wonder if everybody knows it because, well, S.H.I.E.L.D. He thinks it would be better for everybody if he found a place off-site.
It will also keep him from haunting the vents over Coulson's office, cut down on the time he spends sleeping on his couch, since it is starting to take on the contours of his body, and maybe stop this unrequited crush he has on his handler. He doesn't know where to start.
Jasper Sitwell is the closest person to a "friend" he has at S.H.I.E.L.D. thanks to his stupid crush on Phil. He takes his lunch tray over to the table where Jasper is sitting texting something. He finally looks up at him. "Are you going to sit with me or merely loom?"
Clint grins. "Just waiting for an invite." He puts his tray down and eats a few french fries. He knows it's cruel since Jasper is on a perpetual diet, but it's not Clint's fault he has the metabolism of a hummingbird. "Can I ask you something?"
"No, Maria still won't go out with me." Jasper looks glum.
"Not what I was going to ask. Have you tried flowers?"
"A dozen red roses."
"Man, that's too much! Red roses mean 'I love you'."
"You're fucking joking, right?"
Clint laughs. "Sorry, dude. Bring her daisies or black-eyed Susans. She looks like a Black-eyed Susan kind of woman ... she'll love them."
"When was the last time you were on a date?" Sitwell asks sourly and to his shock, Clint blushes.
"This isn't about dates, Sitwell," he evades. "You have a place off-site?"
"Yeah."
"Rent?"
"Own. In Tribeca."
"I'm thinking about moving out."
"Good. This place is claustrophobic -- even for a guy who hangs out in the vents."
Clint opens his mouth to object, closes it. "How do I make it happen?"
Sitwell talks him through the process of applying for S.H.I.E.L.D.'s residency release and the process of moving gear, some of which could be classified (Clint's bow and arrows, weapons) out of the facility. "So, where are you looking?"
"Don't know. I-I'm not an upscale guy," Clint admits.
"Brooklyn. Bed-Sty. Those are more reasonable than Manhattan. Anywhere in New York ain't cheap."
"I know, but thanks for the advice, Jasper."
"Black-eyed Susans, huh?"
Clint gives him a thumbs-up and goes to get the paperwork started. The one person he isn't looking forward to telling is Coulson. He doesn't want Phil to think that he's moving away from S.H.I.E.L.D. to move away from him. Clint decides the quick cut will hurt less. He finds the nearest vent and makes his way to Coulson's office.
He looks through the grate. Coulson is hunched over his computer, fingers flying as he types almost without pause. There is a furrow between his brows that Clint aches to soothe away because he knows Phil is probably fighting a migraine. He allows himself to make a slight scratching sound and Coulson looks up, his lips softening from a hard line of concentration. "I knew you were up there, Barton."
Clint slides the grate aside and drops gracefully to the floor. "You looked pretty busy. I thought I'd give you a chance to tell me to go away."
Coulson smiles wearily. "Frankly, Barton, I was hoping for a distraction."
"Oh, I can be distracting, sir." He fucking blushes because he didn't intend for it to be such a double entendre. Is Coulson blushing?
"I am well aware of that." His voice is dry as good champagne. "Why are you here?"
Clint nearly backs down from his resolve, thinking maybe this isn't the best time to tell Phil that he's moving out, but he owes Phil everything, including the truth. He takes a breath. "Sitwell helped me file a 1068."
Phil's eyes widen and then crinkle but he doesn't look shocked or disappointed. He looks ... pleased? "I've been wondering when you would leave the nest."
"I'm not anybody's idea of a fledgling."
"So, have you started looking?"
"No. I-I don't know what I want, where to look, what I can afford ... God, that sounds pathetic."
Coulson pulls a card out of a file. "Take walks, look around and when you see something you think you might like, call Linda Garcia. If I could afford her, she'd be working for S.H.I.E.L.D."
That makes Clint grin. "Thank you, sir." He starts to leave, then looks back. "I'm not running away."
"I never thought you were." His phone sounds a reminder chime and he looks at it. "Meeting with R&D. At least I'll get away from this damn computer."
They leave the office, each going their different ways. Clint takes the next few days while things are quiet to wander the city, to look around. He sees brownstones in Brooklyn, lofts in Tribeca which are well out of his price range, but which appeal to him for their openness and sense of light. He shies away from the newly chic meat-packing district, and narrows his search to Bedford-Stuyvestant. He feels more comfortable with the mix of nationalities, the less than pristine storefronts, the hole in the wall bars and diners. When he comes across a loft over a small corner bar, he calls Ms. Garcia.
She meets him there the next day. She's a small, dynamic woman who is both warm and fierce at the same time. She shakes his hand and looks at the building. "It seems solid," she observes. "Let's go up."
The only elevator is an old industrial freight elevator with doors that open horizontally. The pulleys groan and the car shakes. He looks at Ms. Garcia. She shrugs. "It needs maintenance," is all she says.
They step out into an open space. The windows are grimy and the previous owners had a taste for graffiti. The kitchen is small and ugly with ancient, cheap appliances that scare Clint. He swears he can smell gas. He's not the most fastidious housekeeper, but there isn't enough money in the world to persuade him to open the rusty refrigerator. A long wall blocks off the entry for no purpose Clint can discern.
"Don't look at anything but the bones," Linda says. "Everything else is changeable. Close your eyes and think about what could be."
Clint does. He sees enough room for an indoor archery range, He sees a long leather couch and a big screen TV. He sees an open kitchen and room for a bed and bath behind a glass brick wall. He sees a view of the city through the tall windows. He sounds the wall separating the spaces with his knuckles. "It's not sturdy enough to be a structural impediment. Would the landlord let me knock it out, make this one long space?"
"It won't hurt to ask. Do you trust me to negotiate?"
Clint's mouth is so dry it tastes like sawdust. "Yeah. I do. I'll pay for it, do the reno myself. I've got enough put away for that." He thinks about the money he's stashed in various accounts, some of it brought with blood. He thinks maybe can spend it in some way that will say that he's changed, that he's a new person, that the man who earned that money is gone.
"I'll let you know what happens, Mr. Barton. I know Phillip will vouch for you."
He would, and Clint would be grateful, but he looks at Linda. "I want to do this on my own."
"I understand." She pats his arm and he blushes.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Two weeks later, and a considerable amount of money drained from his accounts, he has the keys to the loft in his hand. He opens the door and stands looking for a moment, wondering what the hell has he done? He shoves the sick feeling aside. What was he saving the money for? His old age? Yeah, like that's going to happen. Better to spend it. It's not like S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't pay him a ridiculous salary.
He takes out his phone and starts taking pictures, planning what sort of tools he'll need to start the project. He almost wishes he could just shoot the walls out with the exploding arrows Stark Industries has provided for him. Instead, he he thinks about sledgehammers, saws, drills. He'll have to hire a contractor because his work will undoubtedly get in the way of progress, and he doesn't want to wait five years -- again, if he lives that long -- to move in. He starts by scouring the grime from the windows to let in the natural light and takes a block of chalk out of his pocket. He scores the lines of the layout he imagined. A kitchen, a study/guest room, a living area, master bedroom and bath, and what will eventually stretch the length of the two apartments, an archery range and workout room. He sits on the floor and makes a rough sketch for the contractor. Then calls him arranging for two weeks of demolition and framing. There will be electricians and plumbers, and plasterers, and then he'll do the finishing work himself.
He sighs, because the light is fading and he can't stay there tonight. He, Coulson and Sitwell are scheduled to take off for the Philippines to check out a secret lab that might be working on some sort of Super Soldier serum. Sometimes, he thinks Coulson has super-soldier serum on the brain due to Captain America, but this is his job and Coulson wouldn't risk lives on rumor.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
The Philippines are hell; hot and humid enough to grow mold. Half of the mission is spent in the jungle, half in the slums of Manila. Sitwell gets cut by some wire in the jungle and ends up with an infection that sends him home for treatment. Clint starts off each morning puking, which makes Coulson joke about "mpreg" even as his eyes worry at Clint's weight loss. Coulson, of course, wears tropical weight suits and jungle camouflage with the same unparalleled ease. Clint is so fucked when it comes to Coulson that he retreats into near silence and lets Coulson think it's due to his physical misery.
The lab is not manufacturing serum. It's a straight-up designer drug factory importing opium from Afghanistan and China and refining it into ultra high grade heroin that will sell for millions and cause almost immediate addiction. They call in a strike team and Clint spends the last two days of the mission supporting the team, taking down the mercenaries protecting the labs while the strike team rounds up the scientists and clears out the supplies. In the end, Clint shoots several explosive arrows into the compound and destroys the factory.
As soon as he and Coulson are on the plane to New York, he throws up, curls up on the row of seats, and sleeps all the way back, only waking to use the bathroom, hydrate, and make sure Coulson's all right. He's back in an immaculate suit, but he looks pale and tired. Most of the time, he's awake and working on reports or texting, but once in a while when Clint checks, he is dozing from sheer exhaustion.
Back in New York, he makes Clint go to medical to sort out his stomach issues, where after taking a lot of tests, the doctors determine his nausea was caused by a virus, complicated by stress and insufficient nutrition while on the op. Since he hasn't thrown up since getting on the plane, they release him with the admonition that if the nausea returns, he's checking himself back in to the facility for more tests. They give him orders to drink plenty of water for the next day, then work up to broth, softer foods, and high-nutrient drinks. If the nausea doesn't recur, he can resume regular meals in three days.
He finds Coulson his office. He's still at his desk despite his obvious fatigue. He's wearing glasses and his shirt sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, which is distracting. He looks up at Clint. "How are you?"
"Virus, stress, exhaustion. Nothing to worry about." He is somewhat gratified to see that Coulson will worry.
"You have your instructions?"
"Yeah, and I'll follow them, I promise." He holds up his hand like he's taking an oath.
"Good. You're on stand-down for the next week."
"What about you, sir? I look better than you do -- which isn't saying much."
"I'm going home as soon as I finish the draft report." He rubs the bridge of his nose and resettles his glasses. "Anything else?"
Aside from wanting to take the man's glasses off and kiss him stupid, Clint can't think of a thing. "No. I'll just ... just go to my quarters and have a big glass of water just like the docs ordered."
"See that you do." Coulson's eyes crinkle at the corners and Clint flees to find water because his mouth has suddenly dried out like the Sahara.
He stops in medical, alarming the doctors until he asks to see Jasper. He looks in, Sitwell has a visitor, AD Hill. She's looking becomingly flustered and is holding a big bouquet of Black-Eyed Susans. Clint backs out. Clearly, Jasper doesn't need to be cheered up. He already looks like this is the best dream ever.
Clint, feeling unaccountably lonely, blames it on not having solid food and goes to his quarters. He's tempted to make some Ramen noodles, but remembers his orders and settles for water, which he takes into the bedroom. He stretches out, propped up by pillows, and starts watching the episodes of Iron Chef he recorded while he was away. He falls asleep before he's ten minutes into the first episode and wakes up twelve hours later. His whole body is stiff and he's been drooling into his pillow. He drags himself upright and staggers into the bathroom. He deliberately avoids the mirror over the sink.
^*^*^*^*^*^
He drinks more water, and it stays down. Apple juice works and gives him enough energy to shower and shave. Then he gets on his bike and rides over to the apartment. There is a dumpster filled with construction debris out front. Clint's heart is pounding as he risks the elevator. It opens on to ... Clint's heart nearly stops. It opens into a large, light space with sunlight pouring through the windows, revealing views of the Manhattan skyline and the East River. The walls are framed in: the kitchen, the bath and bedroom, the long stretch of his range. He decides, right then that he wants the wall between the living and archery range to be made of glass block. He calls his contractor and asks if that's a possibility. It is, and he hangs up, smiling.
Two weeks later, the walls are up and the flooring is laid. Clint goes out of town for five days with Agent Woo's team. They follow a man who is planning a coup in an eastern province of Afghanistan. They blow his ammo dump, gather up laptops and hard drives from his headquarters and return home. Easy op, no worries. No wounds.
Coulson looks as tired as he had when Clint left. He seems thinner, grayer, but he smiles warmly when Clint appears at his office door, a mug of coffee and cinnamon scones from Coulson's favorite coffee shop in his hands. "Lucy, I'm hooo-ome," he sing-songs softly.
"How was the op?"
"Fine. See, not even a bruise." Clint pulls up the sleeves of his henley. He nearly misses the way Coulson's eyes widen slightly and linger on his forearms. It's oddly gratifying. He collapses on Coulson's couch and stretches out his legs. "So, how's Jasper?"
"Fine."
"Good." He tries to read Coulson's reply, but gives up. He'll find Jasper eventually. "Umm, I should tell you, I brought a place."
"I know."
"Paperwork?" Clint hazards a guess.
"As your supervisor, financial sent me your applications for verification." He turns off his computer. "How are the renovations going?"
Clint shrugs. He doesn't know how much has been done over the last week and is oddly embarrassed that it means so much to him. "I trust my contractor. I'll see later today after the debrief."
"Let me know if there's anything I can do."
Clint is gobsmacked by that. "Sir?"
Coulson looks like he wants to take the words back. "I mean, I'm not an electrician or a plumber, but I wield a mean paintbrush."
Clint smiles. "Thanks, sir, but I think I have that covered." He turns and doesn't looks back as he heads out the door just to hide the smile he feels tugging at his lips.
^*^*^*^*^*^
The walls are taped and primed, the appliances are ready to be hooked up, the hardwood floors are laid, the track lights are in and the range/workout area is ready with rings, bars, targets and the electric pulley system to recall them is installed. The brick walls have been cleaned, the paint sanded off the wooden beams, revealing scarred wood which is a surprising silver-gray that will play a counterpoint to the pale gray paint Clint chose for the walls. He's left the graffiti on the brick walls in the entry as a reminder of what this place used to be -- how far it has come.
Looking at what seems to be acres of white walls, Clint wishes he had taken up Coulson on his offer. Instead, he starts cutting in with the gray paint. He works on one small area at a time, moving steadily until he realizes that the shadows are long and he's thirsty. He's finished a whole wall, and it looks good. He wipes his hands off, mops his forehead with the hem of his shirt and takes a half-liter bottle of water out of his cooler.
He slides down to sit on the floor, imagining his way to a finished home. He ticks off the places he's lived from the farm, the circus, the migrant camp, about six different bases in the Army, his apartment in DC, S.H.I.E.L.D., and finally, here. The places he lived all had one thing in common. He was, essentially, alone. His phone rings, and he digs it out of his pocket. He looks at the display. Coulson.
"C'mon, Coulson. I just got back," Clint sighs.
"That's not why I'm calling."
"Why?"
"I thought you might like a hand with painting."
Clint wants to say yes, so badly that he aches with it. "Umm, yeah. Where are you?"
"At the bar downstairs."
Clint swallows. "I'll be right down." He closes the phone. He wonders how much paint he has on his face. His arms are speckled with it. Coulson has seen him bloody, he doesn't think he'll mind paint spatters. He rubs the worst of them off his face and heads for the stairs.
Coulson is leaning on the bar, talking to the bartender. He's wearing ... Clint's heart stutters ... torn jeans, a paint-smeared sweatshirt and battered boots that look like they've literally been through the wars. It's a good look on him. He sees Clint and holds up a bottle of Sam Adams. "Buy you one?"
Clint nods, his throat dry. "Yeah, thanks," he croaks. "Painting is thirsty work."
"That's what I figured. I should still be able to paint straight lines." He points to a smear of gray paint on Clint's arm. "I like the color."
"Come up and see how it looks on the walls?"
Coulson sets a ten on the bar and they go upstairs. "The elevator is iffy at best," Clint explains.
"I'm not decrepit, Barton."
"No, sir." He is anything but decrepit. He's strong and hot and Clint's wet dream of everything he finds irresistible in a man. Add to that calm competence, integrity, and the unfamiliar comfort of somebody watching his back, and he's so gone.
He can't let any of that show. It's fucking torture, he sighs inwardly as he unlocks the door and opens it wide. "Welcome to my humble abode." God, he's such a dufus.
Coulson just gives him that smile. His blue eyes take in the space in appreciation. "Show me around before we get to work?"
Clint can feel his cheeks warm. "Um ... sure. This here --" He sweeps his arm through the air. "This is my range and workout area. Up those three steps is the rest of the space. That's what I'm painting. I'll probably paint the range a darker color to absorb the light for better shooting."
Coulson nods and follows him up to the living area. He gets right to work, rolling up his sleeves, which makes Clint spill paint on the floor instead of in the pan. Fortunately, the hardwood is covered by canvas. He gives it a swipe with a rag and pretends he isn't looking at Coulson's muscled forearms.
"Mind if I put on some tunes?" Clint asks.
"Classic rock?"
"Hell, yeah." Clint grins. He puts on Pink Floyd and Coulson grins. "Just another brick in the wall ... That seems appropriate."
They knock out three walls before Clint's back starts giving him hell. He sets the roller down and does a slow stretch, grimacing at the stiff ache. Coulson looks like he could paint the rest of the walls and start on the trim. Clint kind of hates him.
"I thought you didn't hurt yourself on the op?" There is a crease between his brows, one that Clint has come to recognize as concern. He's never had anybody look at him that way in his adult life.
"Not the op. I pulled a muscle in my back lugging paint and lumber in and out of the freight elevator. The hardware store's van broke down so I did it myself."
"Barton," Coulson sighs.
"I know, sir. I'm an idiot. It's just a muscle strain. I'll be fine after a hot shower and a night's sleep."
"Throwing in the paint roller?"
Clint has to smile. "Yeah." He looks around at what they'e done. Even with the harsh shop lights they've been using, the paint color looks better than he had imagined. It's not a cold gray but a soft one, made warm by the weathered brick walls, which have been scrubbed down to reveal the aged russet and gold of the original clay. "You do good work."
"I've painted a few walls in my day. We can finish it up tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"It's Saturday, Barton. Barring the apocalypse, I think I'm due a weekend."
"Sure. I could use the help. Once the painting is done, I can move in."
"You know S.H.I.E.L.D. pays for that."
"Sitwell mentioned it. I thought I'd do it myself since --"
"No. I'm not risking a top asset. Use the service. That's an order."
Clint would laugh if Coulson didn't have his Supervising Agent face on - the one that brooked to argument. "Yes, sir."
Coulson eyes warm and he smiles. "I mean it, and why not take advantage of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s dollar. You risk your life for us daily when you're on a mission. This is the least we can do."
Clint has never thought of what he does in that light or considered that he has earned perks because of it. He has three squares a day and a roof over his head; on top of that, he works with Phil, for which he would gladly surrender everything except his bow. He does have that much self-awareness.
Tonight, he's tired enough to accept the offer. He crouches by the cooler and takes out two bottles of beer. "I can't let you go without paying," he holds it out and Coulson's fingers brush his in a casual caress. Clint's breath seems to stop in his throat. He looks up and Coulson doesn't take his hand away. Instead, his grip tightens and he pulls Clint upright.
Clint can see the dark gray flecks in Coulson's blue eyes, the fan of wrinkles at their corners, the scattering of freckles across his cheekbones, the texture of his five-o-clock shadow. He has an insane desire to lick Coulson's neck which would just be so wrong in all the right ways.
For a moment, they stand there, close. It is the most intimacy Clint has shared with another person since that first meeting with Natasha. Clint imagines that Coulson sways toward him briefly, and then back again.
Coulson steps back leaving Clint believing it was just his imagination after all. "So ... anyway ..." Clint swallows. "Thanks again for helping."
"I'll be back tomorrow," Coulson says as he wipes his hands on rag.
"It's a deal," Clint, not thinking, holds out his own hand and Coulson clasps it. His hand is hard, and for a man who spends a good deal of time behind a desk, he still has gun calluses and a firm grip. It's pure Coulson. Clint wonders how he manages to infuse strength, warmth and trust into a gesture as common as a handshake.
"Need a ride back to S.H.I.E.L.D.?"
"I think I'm gonna stay and get ready for tomorrow. I'll take the subway." Coulson's brows raise and Clint laughs. "What? You think I can't take care of myself?"
"On the subway, yes."
"I'll be home by 1am, Dad." Coulson just makes one of his noncommittal noises and Clint walks him to the door and lets him out. After the door closes, the loft seems huge and empty.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Of course, neither of them make it back to the loft the next day. Instead, they're flying off to Singapore to investigate a report of an unconventional weapons stash. The op involves Coulson playing the part of a shady investor with Clint as his bodyguard. They don't know what the weapons are; R&D is baffled, they will need to call in a "consultant." The word makes Coulson groan.
"What?" Clint asks. They are in the hotel (a barracks-like building that would make Conrad Hilton despair). Clint is stripping his gun, oiling it, keeping the humidity from jamming the works. Phil has discarded his jacket and tie. Despite the lightweight wool, there is a broad T of sweat on his back. The air conditioner is rusty and wheezing as it releases a sorry wisp of air that is only slightly less humid and cooler than that outside.
"They're bringing in a consultant."
"And this is bad?" Clint slips the gun back in the holster. He wants a shower, he wants a glass of ice water, he wants Coulson to strip off his shirt ... no, that isn't happening soon. Coulson puts his phone away.
"It is when it's Tony Stark."
"As in Stark Industries? The fine people who provided the guns and ammo we used in Afghanistan? Think they can consult the way to fix the AC in this place?"
"I hope we are out of this place before we need it fixed." Coulson finally sits on the bed and takes off his shoes. He lies back, his hands behind his head. "Wake me up in an hour."
"I'm taking a shower." He braces the metal desk chair under the doorknob and closes the curtains after a quick scan of the area. There is a parking lot that is mostly weeds and a weakly pulsing sign featuring a pallid neon palm tree. Everything is quiet.
Clint puts his gun on Coulson's stomach, which makes Phil smile as he takes it in his hand. Clint pulls off his sweat-soaked shirt and goes into the dingy bathroom. Mold is already darkening the tiles, but the tub is relatively clean. The water trickles out in a lukewarm stream. Not exactly the invigorating spray Clint craved, but at least it was wet. It's better than nothing. He washes quickly with a grainy bar of soap, dries off with a postage stamp size towel and dresses in clean boxer-briefs and his tac pants.
Coulson is dozing, but as soon as Clint comes into the room, the gun is leveled faster than he can blink, and then just as quickly locked and set down on the nightstand. "How's the shower?"
"Wet. The soap feels like pumice and the towels aren't any better."
"That's disheartening."
"Yeah. Well still better than nothing."
Dinner is power bars and gatorade. They can't go out to the local cantina, not until they get a report from S.H.I.E.L.D. Clint sighs. "When we get back to New York, the first thing I'm going to do is get some real food."
Coulson sighs. "Sorry, Barton. The first thing you're going to do is file your report."
"That shouldn't take long. Sat behind a rock observing subjects. Came back to the Pituyan Hilton and sat around eating power bars. 'Nough said."
Phil's phone pings with an incoming text. "Stark's scans indicate a concentration of gamma rays emitting unstable beta-particles."
"Okay, so that's a bad thing."
"It shouldn't be happening here. S.H.I.E.L.D. is sending in science and extraction teams. Our job is to provide the defense."
Coulson's eyes have that sharp blue light of almost wolfish interest, and Clint has to look away briefly to keep him from grabbing Coulson and kissing him. "Defense. Right."
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Of course, nothing goes as smoothly as planned. The op is delayed by a number of logistical difficulties. This sets up a series of misfortunes which stretch out for two weeks. The weapons cache is suddenly guarded by a company of commandos, the monsoon season starts off with a thunderous storm and pouring rain, S.H.I.E.L.D. is late arriving and Clint has to deal with a lot more than he had intended. He takes down most of the guards shooting at Coulson, watches with his heart in his throat as the agent manages to hack into the bunker just as the chopper arrives.
Clint keeps firing until he's out of arrows and bullets. He has to use hand-to-hand to take out the last commando. By the time the man is broken and bleeding at Clint's feet, Clint has amassed an impressive collection of cuts and bruises, including a slice from a knife that is bleeding freely down his ribcage. It doesn't hurt, which means that the damage is pretty deep. He ignores it to go in search of Coulson.
Phil has a cut over his eyebrow and is mopping at it with his handkerchief. Jasper Sitwell is urging him to sit so that the medic can take care of him while they pack up the device that was emitting the gamma radiation. They'll cart it back to headquarters and get Stark to figure it out. Clint's assuming that it's not the same radiation that turned mild-mannered Bruce Banner into the Hulk. Nobody seems that concerned, so he sags against the wall feeling the blood clotting stickily against his side.
Phil comes up to him, concern furrowing his brow. "You're hurt."
"Little cut, that's all."
"Where?"
"Aw, sir. You just want to see me with my shirt off."
"I've seen it, Barton." Sitwell snickers. Coulson gives him a look. "Jasper, get the medic to look at Agent Barton."
"I'm fine,"
"Any time there's blood involved, you're not." He flicks a glance at the medic. "Check Agent Barton's wound, and let's get back to S.H.I.E.L.D."
Clint muffles a sharp intake of breath as the medic gently peels away the cloth from his side. She purses her lips and shoots him up with lidocaine before cleaning the wound and using dermabond to close it temporarily. She applies a pressure bandage. "He'll hold to New York, sir," she tells Coulson. "He should have a surgeon look at it when we get back."
"Surgeon? I don't need a surgeon."
"Who's the medical expert here?" She says sharply. She looks at Phil. "Sir?"
"Agent Barton will go to medical as soon as we get home."
"Sir, what about my reports?" Clint tries to make it sound like he's totally with it and dedicated to his job, just to give Coulson a rush.
"Reports are secondary to medical treatment."
Clint feels like an idiot. "Yes, sir. But I'm really fine." He is betrayed by a wince as the chopper lifts off and banks, putting pressure on his side. He feels Coulson's arm around his shoulder, steadying him as the chopper rises. It's nothing he hasn't done before, but this time, Clint leans into it gratefully, thinking that he'd die happy right here pressed against Coulson's warm body.
They transfer from the chopper to a plane. The pain meds the medic and Coulson made him take, leave him tired and fuzzy-headed. By the time the plane lands in New York, he doesn't remember a thing except Coulson's voice murmuring into his cell phone, the way he keeps his hand on Clint's shoulder as they wait for the driver from S.H.I.E.L.D. to arrive.
Medical is brief. They examine the cut, place too many stitches to close the wound, and give him an IV of antibiotics before they release him with a prescription for pain pills and more antibiotics. It's old hat, and now that he's not in pain, he's starving. He wonders if Coulson has eaten, but he doesn't even know if he's in the building.
Clint picks up a ham sandwich and a bottle of lemonade from the mess. He's on his way to his quarters when he meets Sitwell. After the usual How was the op? Heard you got hurt, and thanks, I'm fine, Clint asks, "So, Jasper, how goes the wooing of Maria Hill?"
Sitwell goes pink around the ears. "Shit, why not announce it to the world."
"Newsflash, Jasper. I think it's pretty common knowledge."
"Seriously?"
"Dude, everybody knows you're hot for teacher," Clint jokes and Jasper's entire skull blushes, but he's not so easily put off his game. You don't get to be a top level S.H.I.E.L.D. operative without developing balls of steel.
"Pot, kettle, black, Barton. Remember that. And by the way, I've graduated to roses." A smug self-satisfied smirk follows. "If you need some floral advice, I happen to know that somebody has a thing for paperwhites."
When he thinks about it, it's disgustingly logical. "Is that somebody still in the building?" Clint asks.
Jasper rolls his eyes. "Where else would he be? Goodnight, Barton. I've got a date."
"Thanks to me ... " Clint mutters at Jasper's departing back. He wants to see Coulson, make sure he's all right. Yeah, that's it. He's fooling nobody but himself.
Coulson is at his desk. He's wearing the same suit which is showing mud and dust and what looks like a lot of Clint's blood on the jacket and shirt. Clint knocks and slips inside, waiting for Coulson to finish typing. He sits on the sofa, eating his sandwich and drinking his water.
Phil raises a brow at him but doesn't say anything. Finally, Coulson shuts down his computer. He looks at Clint, his eyes narrowed."What did medical say?"
"The usual. Take my antibiotics. Come back in a day to have the dressing changed. Don't do anything to pull the stitches."
"How many?"
"Fifteen." Coulson looks disapproving and concerned. "It wasn't my fault. I wasn't being reckless. I was watching your back."
"I know that, Barton. Why are you here?" For the first time there is an edge of weary irritation in Coulson's voice.
"I-I ... Just checking in, Boss."
"Why are you really here?"
"I live here?"
"In my office, here." His voice softens. "You should be in your quarters."
"It's three fifteen and thanks to the IV in medical, I had a nice nap."
Coulson rubs his eyes. "I lost track of time." He stands up and slings his jacket over his arm. "Let's get out of here. Come to my place. You look hungry."
Food wasn't exactly what Clint had in mind.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
It doesn't seem to be on Coulson's either. As it becomes apparent from the turns Coulson takes he's driving towards Clint's loft. "Sir, this isn't the way to your apartment."
Phil smiles. "I thought you'd sleep better if you saw how things are progressing at the loft."
"I'll be lucky if the contractor showed up." The elevator has caution tape crossed over the doors, which means the stairs. Clint is tired and his side hurts, but he isn't going to tell Coulson that. "It looks like we're taking the stairs." He tries not to sigh. Coulson stays close, like he's afraid Clint is going to keel over. They reach the door and Clint opens it and lets Coulson slide it open. He steps inside and nearly does keel over.
The walls are painted, the windows are sparkling, the appliances are installed ... and his furniture is moved in and placed where he had described to Coulson as they painted. He feels his throat tighten. "Sir? I - I don't understand ... When - how did this happen?"
"The S.H.I.E.L.D. elves came while you were away."
"You did this?" Clint turns to Coulson and sees what looks a little like doubt and hope in his eyes.
"I hope I didn't overstep, but I wanted you to have this to come home to, not just the quarters at HQ."
"Nobody has ever done anything like this for me," Clint says quietly. "Thank you, sir."
"Phil."
"What?"
"Call me Phil, please, when we're not at work. We're adult enough to deal with it."
"Phil ... " He says it like he's trying it out on his tongue. He likes it. His breath hitches as he is hit with a wave of vertigo. "Whoa ... " He sways and Phil's arm comes around his waist.
"Clint, are you all right?"
"Dizzy. I think I need to sit down."
Coulson guides him to the sofa, his sofa. He is handling Clint like he's made of glass. Like he is something precious, which is ridiculous. Clint holds on to his forearm, and Phil leans forward lowering Clint. They are so close that Clint can see the way the sun tips his eyelashes with gold, the way his eyes reflect the warm light, the faint concerned purse of his lips. He focuses on that, not on the way the room is still shifting. "Phil ..."
Coulson tilts his head, lining up his lips with Clint's. "Tell me to stop," he says.
"Don't stop," Clint whispers and closes the inch of space between them. He always knew this would be the best, the only thing he wanted in a life filled with loss and denial. Coulson's warm palm is behind his neck, his lips are firm, his thumb caresses the angle of Clint's jaw.
He eases down on the sofa, not breaking the kiss, just drawing Clint down until he is cradled in the crook of Coulson's arm. When they break from the kiss reluctantly, Coulson urges him to be still, to lie still. Clint obeys, not arguing.
Coulson smiles. "If kissing you is what it takes to stun you into not arguing with me, I should have tried it long ago." He runs the pad of his thumb across Clint's lips. Clint nips lightly at the pad, which makes Coulson chuckle. "How are you?"
Clint sighs and risks looking beyond Phil. The vertigo seems to have settled. "I'm okay. The room has stopped spinning."
"I should get you some water."
"I think you should stay here and kiss me again."
He does, and he stays, and Clint could drown in the sensation of feeling alive.
The End