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This is the business to say what you mean.
Coulson wakes up with Clint pressed to his side, an arm curled around his waist in his sleep. Content, quiet, peaceful- unlike any waking moment, when he’s a ball of energy and sarcasm. He pulls away, climbs out of bed, starts the coffeemaker for the younger man, and gets into the shower.
This is the business to say what you mean, and Coulson learned that a long time ago. He learned it hard, and he knows it, but watching Clint wake up from the doorway of his bedroom... he doesn’t say anything. He turns his head to let the archer press a kiss to his cheek in passing, before he disappears into the bathroom for his shower, and the apartment is silent again.
They ride separately to SHIELD, at Coulson’s insistence. He leaves first. Clint arrives an hour after, late for the meeting on the mission to Moscow, routine retrieval. When he settles down next to Natasha, she doesn’t look at him- she looks at Coulson. She rolls her eyes, and then turns her attention back to Fury.
He watches Clint throughout the meeting, tries to be subtle about it. The man is stiffer than usual, bites back comments he would normally gladly make about the mission, keeps his criticisms to himself. Even Fury looks surprised.
Coulson finds Clint in the armoury, sliding black arrows into his quiver. Clint knows he’s there, standing by, Coulson sees the tension in his shoulders, but it’s minutes before Clint looks up. They hold each other’s gaze for a long minute before Clint scoffs and stands up.
“Going to Moscow tonight, you know,” he starts, and Coulson steps closer to smooth out the archer’s vest, fidgeting with the fabric.
“I know.”
“Gonna miss you, Coulson.”
Clint is waiting for something.
“I know.”
He is waiting for something Coulson can’t give him.
“Tell me I’m right.”
“About?”
“You know what about, Coulson.”
Phil is silent.
Clint waits one more minute before he looks away, and leaves the range without another word.
We lost contact near Prypiat.
It’s six weeks before Coulson gets the call. He reports to the base at midnight on a Tuesday, and Fury presses a coffee into his hand. Coulson doesn’t speak. He nods, and takes a long sip before following through to the hangar.
I know.
He’s silent throughout the unloading, watches with abject horror. And then, the small squad lowers the black coffin to the ground at his feet.
Coulson takes another sip of coffee to hide the fact that he can’t breathe, that his world is crumbling, that he feels like he’s about to pass out. He’s so angry, at himself, at Clint, at Natasha, at Fury for ordering the mission, but mostly, at Clint. For going. For walking away. For letting him be stupid and silent, for giving up on him.
For six weeks, he never gave up on Clint.
Natasha is at his shoulder, pressing a dossier into his hands- a death certificate, a surrender of remains form, next of kin information (blank, except for his name), a will.
He is the only name on the will.
Fury waves his hand, and the young men step forward again to hoist the coffin up onto their shoulders, and Coulson watches them go, taking it away.
He’ll be cremated, Fury says, but Coulson stares after the coffin long after it’s gone.
It’s six weeks later.
Six weeks since.
He’s barely been at his apartment- silent and vacant, but finally, Fury forces him into time-off. At first, it’s a vacation.
When Coulson shows up the next day, it becomes leave without pay.
After arriving the day after, it’s suspension.
Coulson lays on his side of the bed, like every other night in the last twelve weeks. He never says it at his forced psychiatric evaluations. Never says he’s saving that space.
His hand slides under the pillowcase, and his fingers touch something unfamiliar. Hard, smooth, a slim leather-bound book.
The first page says, in a messy scrawl,
keeping a journal has to be the fucking stupidest thing ever, fancy shield shrink, and i will not fucking do it. so there’s my entry for the fucking week. fuck you and your degree.
Coulson can’t keep from smiling at those words. He can imagine Clint smiling wide and handing over the little book, still beaming as the doctor reads that first page.
He flips through the little black book to make sure there’s nothing else within its confines, and sees just one other page with writing on it. The back page, in that familiar hand,
fuck i am so fucked. i love him.
Coulson takes a deep breath, opens up to page two of the book, and starts to write his own story down.
It begins with,
He was right. I did love him.