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Trailing a suspect all across Northumberland was as close to a holiday as Clint had come in a long time. The place was spectacular with rugged hills one side of the county easing into long sandy beaches on the other. Clint had never seen so many castles, ruins and fortified houses in one place and more than once the signs of centuries of incessant warfare made him shiver and rethink his life choices. Then the car would crest a rise in the road and the views would take his breath away. His mind and breathing would calm and he would follow his mark to explore yet another castle or find a small inn to while away the nights.
While it appeared as if the freckled, sandy-haired Scot had nothing on his mind but medieval architecture and the branches of a long-lost family tree, Clint knew this to be a ruse. In the wee hours of the night, when few law-abiding citizens stirred in the small towns and tiny hamlets that formed stops on their route, Gavin McKirby rose from his bed to attend mysterious meetings in unexpected places. Clint trailed him diligently. Instead of his bow he was armed with the camera Coulson had specifically requisitioned for him; a serious piece of equipment fitted with night vision lenses, able to take thermal images and almost powerful enough to see through walls. The Scot met with men Clint recognised from SHIELD’s most wanted list, men with a violent past and - if Clint had any say in it - a short and pain-filled future.
On the day they crossed a long, sand-bounded causeway only for the sea to rise up behind them and keep them prisoner on the small island, Clint Barton fell in love with the spirit of Northumberland. For once, his phone actually had a signal and he called Nat to tell her that he was thinking of quitting SHIELD and settling down in a cottage on Lindisfarne.
“If you’re not bringing some of that mead back with you, I’m gonna hurt you,” she threatened without batting an eyelash and Clint laughed, loving her for getting him so completely when barely anyone else ever did without the aid of an instruction manual and lengthy explanations.
“The beer’s good, too,” he said, laughing more when Natasha’s disgusted snort came clearly over the line. “They’re a friendly bunch, these Northumbrians,” he continued. “A lot of places have live music at night and it’s great.”
“I thought you’re undercover?”
“Yep. Just another American tourist, soaking up the history.”
“And the mead.”
“Nothing much else to do until the tide turns,” Clint said cheerfully.
“Have you checked in?”
“Nope. ’m not going to until later. Coulson’s in church.”
“He’s where?”
Clint shrugged even though Nat couldn’t see him. “Evensong? Something to do with a choir.”
Nat digested that in silence while Clint finished his beer and held the empty glass up towards the bartender for a refill.
“You are talking?”
“Yes, of course.” It wasn’t a lie. He and Coulson had resumed their efficient handler and asset personas and they worked as well on missions as they ever had. But too much trust had been lost in that week of miscommunication and misunderstandings to let Clint return easily to their out of hours friendship. It went all the way to how he thought about the other man, how he addressed him. It wasn’t Phil now. Just Coulson.
Clint had no problems with Coulson calling the shots on missions, but he relished the freedom that came with his current assignment. Phil Coulson was miles away in York, coordinating activities and bending people and events to his will, while Clint was making his own choices and enjoying the space and solitude. For over a week now he’d had no occasion to look over his shoulder, expecting censure and judgement for every move he made. It was… liberating.
“Clint.”
Nat’s voice held an edge and Clint sighed. “What?” he asked quietly. “Give me a little credit, Nat. I’m doing my homework and I haven’t missed a single check-in.”
“But have you talked about anything outside of work?”
“Coulson told me he’d be in church.”
“So, no.”
Clint reached for the new pint the bartender had placed before him and took a deep draught.
“I never pegged you for a coward.”
“Just picking my battles.”
“Bullshit,” Natasha snapped. “You’re ditching something good because you got hurt.”
“That’s usually my cue, yes.”
“He made a mistake, Clint. One. Mistake.”
“It only takes one bullet, Nat. You know that.” Clint shivered and the quiet joy bled out of the evening, turning it shades of grey and hopeless. Being left alone and unable to defend himself was Clint’s biggest fear. It hadn’t been physical this time, but it had hurt just as much. And if nobody else understood that, Natasha did.
“He won’t ever make that mistake again.”
“Nat?”
“Yes?”
“Why are you fighting his corner?” Clint found it difficult to ask. The lump in his throat almost strangled him.
“I’m fighting yours, idiot,” Natasha said affectionately. “You’re good for each other. Coulson’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Don’t give up on it because you’re scared.”
“Why do you care?”
“Two reasons,” Natasha’s voice came over the line, calm and reasonable as if she wasn’t baring her soul. “I rely on you to watch my back and help me up when I go down.”
Clint acknowledged that debt freely, even if they never spoke of it. “And the other reason?”
“I couldn’t be what you needed. Coulson is.”
***
Clint had watched the moon rise over jungles, deserts and cityscapes. He’d seen its crescent shape cleave battalions of storm clouds, or silver the crests of tall waves. He’d never seen the full moon rise over the ruins of an ancient church, turning the sea beyond the gutted walls and torn windows the colour of lead and dried blood. This country breathed war and blood and destruction like no place Clint had ever been, yet at the same time, the peace and faith it exuded were so tangible, Clint almost turned into a believer. Lindisfarne, at the mercy of the tides since time immemorial, had been a refuge, a sanctuary. The monks who had made the island their home, to work and to study and to worship, had deemed themselves safe from the world in the cradle of the sea.
Mellowed by mead, Clint found that the island’s history mirrored his own. He’d been alone in the cold when he had been offered a refuge. Over the years, SHIELD had turned from a sanctuary to a place he considered a home. And like the monks of Lindisfarne he’d deemed himself safe, protected, at peace, even useful. Clint found the comparison oddly ironic. The sea - the element the monks had entrusted their safety to - had brought peril and demise to their doors. And the one man Clint had trusted above all others had…
You’re overreacting, Clint heard Natasha’s voice in his head. She was right, too. Coulson hadn’t betrayed him. He’d merely turned away from Clint for a brief time. And standing in the ruins of an ancient church Clint wondered whether, after the carnage and mayhem the Vikings brought, the monks had stopped believing. Or if they’d held fast to their god despite the blood and tears. Had they felt abandoned by the power they’d sworn themselves to? Or had they regarded their suffering a test of their faith?
Clint didn’t frequent churches. He used the buildings for cover or as high ground as the need arose, but as a whole churches reminded him of things he’d grown up without. Things he didn’t miss most days. It hadn’t bothered him that he’d had to ask for an explanation when Coulson had mentioned Evensong. This church though, this gutted, disembowelled, ravaged shell of a church, spoke to something deep in Clint’s soul. Like the many ruined castles that dotted the landscape, this church spoke of loyalty and dogged determination. It spoke of second and third chances, of getting up after being knocked down, of trying again, of trust and faith. And Clint was finally ready to listen.
***
Tailing a suspect on foot shouldn't be so easy. York’s ancient centre was a maze of narrow streets and thoroughfares full of cafes and small shops. The Friday afternoon crowds were just dense enough to allow Clint to blend in without losing sight of his prey. Gavin McKirby walked briskly from the Railway Museum towards Micklegate Bar while Clint mingled with a large group of art students, his jeans, long-sleeved Henley and portfolio case making him seem one of them… though he was much better armed than any art student. Portfolio cases had their uses, and there was no way he was going to Coulson’s rescue without his bow to hand.
Their break in the case had come four days after Clint’s extended visit to Lindisfarne, when Clint had caught a conversation between McKirby and four men whose faces he’d not seen before.
“You were right, boss,” he’d reported later that night. “They’re after Professor Graylaw.”
“Graylaw is under SHIELD protection in New York.” Coulson’s voice had sounded husky, even over the crackling, fading phone line, and Clint had wondered if the other man had caught a cold. In the old days he would have just asked, but even after his epiphany on Lindisfarne he was still too uncomfortable to voice his concern.
The towering front of York’s Minster was nothing like Lindisfarne’s ruined abbey, but Clint stopped for a brief look, hoping that the sight might calm the nerves that had him tense and tight and wondering briefly if Evensong was a special event or something that happened every week.
“They took the bait. Repeat. They took the bait.”
Clint had just decided to continue on his way when the message he waited for lit up every nerve ending with a shot of panic. His stomach clenched and he froze in place, impressive views and Evensong all but forgotten. He had argued hotly when Coulson decided to let the kidnapping attempt go ahead. He’d lost the argument as he’d known he would and now Coulson - pretending to be the eminent chemist - was a captive.
On the other side of the square, McKirby’s steps quickened - probably in response to a similar message - and Clint hurried to catch up. The Scot was the mastermind behind this coup. He’d done similar jobs in the past, but SHIELD had never been able to find out who had given the orders. Coulson wanted that particularly riddle solved.
York’s city centre wasn’t large and after only a few more moments McKirby passed through Monk Bar and out of the walled city. Clint was glued to the man’s back, listening to the voice in his ear calling out street names and glad beyond reason when he realised that they were heading straight towards Coulson and his captors. It didn’t surprise him when the Scot turned right, crossed a bridge and approached one of the blocks of newly built riverside apartments.
“I’m going high,” he said instead and slipped into an alley that led to a row of warehouses. “Let me know when he’s stationary.”
***
Coulson had insisted on eyes and ears but no bodies close by, so Clint was the only one who could stop Coulson turning up dead if matters went south. It wasn’t standard SHIELD protocol by any means - though they’d both played this particular game before - and it left Clint wondering if it was Coulson’s way of apologising for his earlier lapse of trust. He watched, from up on a roof an easy distance away, as two men dragged Coulson into the room and tied him to a chair while a third man guarded the door. Coulson was calm and compliant, but Clint saw the beginnings of a bruise on his jaw and his fingers clenched just a little tighter on his bow.
“McKirby’s on the way up.”
Clint acknowledged the update and his eyes narrowed. He’d gotten the Scot’s measure while he trailed the man across Northumberland and he wasn’t looking forward to the coming confrontation. McKirby was subtle with an edge of cruel hidden under the smooth, guileless exterior. He also did his homework. He would know that Coulson wasn’t Graylaw and Clint was ready for that.
He switched the comm to his and Coulson’s private channel as McKirby walked through the door.
“I'm in position," he said quietly, confidently. "It's your call… Phil.”
***
Seventeen minutes later, Clint’s bow sang. The arrow found its target and the knife in McKirby’s hand clattered to the floor, unused. Three more arrows - loaded with a paralysing agent - secured the room and then Clint was up and running.
“You were supposed to call it, not sit there and wait to be stabbed,” Clint raged as he burst through the door.
“Didn’t… see…,” came the wheezing reply as Coulson sagged in his bonds. His jacket and tie were gone and his shirt showed the abuse of the last two hours. Blood ran down the side of his face from the split in his left brow, soaking his shirt collar. His lip was bleeding too and a hefty bruise was slowly closing his left eye. No wonder he hadn't seen McKirby draw the knife.
Clint was by his side as soon as he’d checked on the kidnappers. He cradled Coulson’s face in his hands and peered closely into the dark blue eyes. “That brow needs stitches, but your eyes look normal,” he pronounced finally. “Status?”
“Headache,” Coulson said quietly, moving his shoulders and breathing deeply. “They may have gotten a rib when they first grabbed me.”
Clint sawed through the tape holding Coulson’s wrists together. “I’ve relayed your information. Sitwell and Nat are all over it.”
“Thank you,” Coulson said, rubbing his wrists. “We need the cleanup crew. And I need to get you out of the country.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Clint, we’re in England. And you’ve just killed a man. Admittedly, he deserved it, but…”
“Don’t flip your lid. It’s fine. It’s legal. I’ve looked it up.”
“What?”
Clint looked into confused blue eyes before he leaned down to undo the knots that held Coulson’s ankles to the legs of the chair. “It’s fine,” he repeated, a small grin curling the corners of his mouth. “McKirby’s a Scot. And this is York. You can legally kills Scots in York as long as you use a bow and arrow. And seeing what he did to your face, he had it coming.”
“So… case closed?”
“Case closed,” Clint answered decisively, and Coulson’s wide, delighted smile drew an answering smile from him.
***
The wooden bench he sat on vibrated. The Minster's very walls shook. The ground under his feet shivered. Voices rose higher and Clint drowned in sound. Candlelight and music merged into a golden glow and when the organ’s deepest registers joined the melee the very air caught alight. Clint stared around the Minster, as close to shock as he’d come in a long time. He had never heard anything like this before, had never seen anything like this before. Slender columns drew his eyes upwards to the gold and red decorations that brightened the roof and led up to the Minster’s great towers. The massive space was awash with music, floating on sound and only Coulson’s hand on his thigh anchored him and kept him from sliding out of his seat. Was this what Lindisfarne had been like? Clint pictured the abbey by the sea, the sound of the waves merging with glorious music and for just a moment, he could see it and the image pleased him. He covered Coulson’s hand with his and wove their fingers together while the sounds of choir and organ rose and swirled around them in a magnificent display of faith. And while the music cradled and soothed his soul, the tight clasp of Phil Coulson’s hand on his reminded Clint Barton of the sanctuary he’d found that had become his home.