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Phil Coulson doesn’t consider himself to be a self-indulgent man. Sure, he likes designer suits, and there’s his Captain America collection, which puts most collectors to shame. And his apartment is, truthfully, much nicer than a man who’s never home and lives alone and mostly on a helicarrier really needs. But compared to everything he’s sacrificed in his life—any shot at normalcy in a relationship, sleep patterns, or human conversation that doesn’t include someone plotting to save the world or kill someone—he generally feels confident in his assessment.
Except for days like today, when he doesn’t.
Because an un-self-indulgent man would absolutely not be able to find anything to relish about his current position. And an un-self-indulgent man certainly wouldn’t want at least some parts of said current position to go on any longer than it has to.
He’s stretched out in the corner of a creaky boxcar on a train in god-knows-where going god-knows-where-else and watching a dot on a locator device that’s his only indication of their approximate progress towards what’s supposed to be a safe house, but could just as easily be nothing at all. But that isn’t the half of it.
The half of it is that his arms (and lap, and everything else) are full of a semi-conscious and more than semi-injured Clint Barton. The same Clint Barton whose blood is staining Phil’s shirt, and whose body is shivering so violently that Phil is a little afraid he’ll rip the stitches they’d just managed to get into his side before the train started to move. It was a deep, jagged gash, and the stitches aren’t holding, and if the blood seeping into the wooden floor is any indication, Clint needs more than field treatment. And that’s not taking into account the shoulder Phil’d had to reset on the run, and if Clint can’t shoot the same after this, it’ll be on Phil’s head for the rest of his life. All in all, Phil should be counting this op, this day, hell, this month as a complete disaster.
Except in moments like this one, he can’t.
Because this is also the same Clint Barton that Phil has been quietly falling for since Clint uttered his first “sir” over comms all those years ago. Phil has been just as quietly denying it to himself as much as to anyone else, and the only time he allows himself a moment or two to acknowledge just how far this absolutely infuriating, marvelous man has winnowed his way into Phil’s head and heart and life is when Clint is dancing on the edge of unconsciousness and clinging to Phil like his life depends on it. Which, sometimes, it actually does.
The train hits a rough patch of track and Clint hisses a mumbled fuck and grits his teeth, and Phil can feel the muscles in Clint’s jaw tightening against his chest where Clint’s head lolls with the rhythm of their movement.
“Stay with me, Barton,” he whispers, because it’s what he always says in times like this, except they’ve rarely been in a time quite like this before—no backup, no extraction plan, no medical, and no fucking clue where they’re going. He breathes in and out through his nose once, twice, and closes his eyes for just a moment. Stay calm.
“Yes, sir,” Clint mumbles, because it’s what he always says, but breaks with tradition when he goes on. “Hope you’re prepared to- shit, can they not fix this fucking track?”
Phil tightens his grip, trying without much luck to help hold Clint still.
“Prepared to what?” he murmurs into Clint’s ear, because he can tell it’s important to keep him talking, keep him awake. He’s not looking too closely at the fact that it’s maybe more important for his own sanity than for Clint’s physical well-being, because that would also be self-indulgent.
He looks down at Clint’s face, pale and shining with sweat, and he knows if he touched it, his fingers would come away clammy. The lines around Clint’s eyes—the ones that usually crinkle up just before he says something especially snarky—are deeper, more pronounced, and Phil would try to smooth them away if he thought he could get away with it. But again: self-indulgent, and this is so not the time.
Clint sucks in an uneven breath and winces. “Prepared to write me up for disobeying an order, sir,” he whispers back. “Not sure I’m going to be able to…”
He trails off, and Phil closes his eyes again.
“Not giving you the choice, Barton,” he says, trying his best to find his I’m Agent Phil Coulson and you will listen to what I have to say voice.
“Not arguing the point, sir,” Clint’s voice cracks and Phil doesn’t think he’s imagining Clint’s fingers tightening for a moment where they’re clenched in Phil’s shirt. “Just...not sure it’s gonna matter-” he grunts and hisses again, “this time.”
Phil tenses ever so slightly—not enough that anyone but Clint would notice, because Clint notices everything—because it’s unlike Clint not to laugh off even the worst injuries, not to pretend to be fine even when he’s being mostly held together with staples and fiberglass casts. He feels his heart speed up in his chest, even as he wills himself to stay calm. We’ll get to the safe house and patch him up, just like we always do.
“You worried, boss?” Clint gasps, and Phil realizes Clint is tapping out Phil’s own rapidfire heartbeat with his fingers where they rest on Phil’s side, mirroring the staccato that’s probably pounding in the ear he has pressed against Phil’s chest. “Sir?” Clint is barely getting sound through his lips now, little more than breath, and Phil feels him going soft in his arms.
Suddenly Phil wishes he could stick his head between his knees and get his breathing under control, stop the pounding in his ears that snuck up between Clint’s muttered curses and clenching fingers, and suddenly the words are too much for him to bear. He looks at the dot on the screen of the stupid monitor—the only piece of tech that wasn’t wiped out by some godawful magnetic wave during the op—watches it get closer and still not close enough, wonders how he’ll ever get Clint out of the boxcar, much less to a building, and the walls close in around him.
“Shhhh,” he says, because it’s all he has left. He’s dangerously close to babbling, but he’ll do anything to keep Clint there, solid, breathing. Alive. “Sleep. I’m here. We’ll be alright.”
“Always are,” Clint mumbles, fingers still brushing against Phil’s ribs to the beat of his pulse, but he goes slack almost right away, giving in to unconsciousness.
~*~
Clint Barton generally considers himself to be an extremely self-indulgent man. Sure, he spends most of his time getting shot up, beat up, and otherwise fucked up in the name of saving other people. And sure, he gives half the money he makes away to Boys and Girls Clubs and city youth programs because what the fuck does he need all that cash for when S.H.I.E.L.D. pay for everything anyway? Yes, okay, so he’s fucking up self-indulgence a little, but he still likes to think of himself that way. Growing up with less than nothing and stealing what little he had means that there’s something pretty badass about being able to get whatever he wants now that he’s an adult. Legally, and usually without anyone shooting at him (except at work).
The point is, he eats what he wants (when he’s not on a mission eating fuck-all-knows-what on top of a damn telephone pole), drinks what he wants, comes and goes when he pleases (except, well, see that point about the pole again), and generally exists as though his world revolves around him and him alone.
And sometimes he wishes it wasn’t just his world that revolved around him, and that makes him feel guilty, and goddamnit, self-indulgent people don’t feel guilty. But still, he does, because apparently he can even fuck that up.
Because even here, half-conscious and completely delirious from pain and blood loss and probably dehydration and possibly an early onset infection, he just wants Phil to keep talking, keep running his fingers through Clint’s hair, holding him in his arms. And okay, because of the bleeding and delirium and maybe-infection, he supposes he’s earned a little self-indulgence, but they’re on the run on a train to fuck-all-knows-where, and plus, Phil’s not exactly unscathed in this whole mess. Clint hasn’t missed the growing red stain on Phil’s pants, and he’s pretty positive they weren’t torn before the mission, because this is Phil fucking Coulson, who’s never looked dishevelled a day in his life that he wasn’t also injured. He’s also got a split lip, but Clint’s trying not to focus on that, because he wants to lick it, and he’s pretty sure that’s taking the self-indulgence too far, even in his current state.
“We there yet, sir?” he mumbles, which, hey, someone punched him in the mouth, so it’s not like he could really enunciate anyway.
Phil’s arms tighten around him for just a moment, and Clint doesn’t miss the raggedness in Phil’s breath. Kind of hard to miss, seeing as how Clint’s face is still pressed into the space between Phil’s jaw and his shoulder, and if Clint never wants to move again, well, sue him. Like he said, he wants what he wants. When Phil doesn’t answer, though, just keeps sucking in those uneven breaths, Clint thinks he might need to try to look up.
Which, yeah, that was a goddamn mistake.
“Goddamnit,” Phil hisses, and Clint can only imagine what he looks like, because his ears are ringing and he knows there’s a sheen of cold sweat on his forehead that wasn’t there a minute ago, and he’d be fucking thrilled if those white spots in front of his eyes would go away because he needs to see Phil’s face, to make sure he’s okay, but fuck did that hurt.
“...thought I lost you...tore your fucking stitches...swear to…”
Okay, so maybe the ringing in his ears isn’t the worst thing that could have happened, since he’s clearly missing about 60% of a dressing down, but his eyes are clearing and he can see deep lines of exhaustion and worry etched into Phil’s face, and it makes his chest ache in a totally different way. Because of course Phil’s worried, he’s Clint’s handler, hell, he’s Clint’s friend, and Clint only has about two of those in the world, so the concern is more than appreciated. It’s just...not what he wants. Or not all he wants, anyway.
Phil is still muttering when Clint’s head clears from the pain of moving, and he’s maybe a little dumb but he’s not so dumb as to move again, so he just lays his head back against Phil’s chest.
“‘m not that easy to get rid of,” he says.
Phil’s fingers—and Phil really must be worried because his hands are shaking and Phil Coulson doesn’t shake, not in the face of drug dealers or mob guys or a class full of kindergartners trying to understand why Miss Natasha isn’t coming to school today and Mr. Phillip had to come be her substitute (although that last one was damn close)—come up to run gently over Clint’s arm.
“Doesn’t give you privilege to check the fuck out on me, Specialist,” Phil whispers, and his hand tightens on Clint’s arm.
“Gonna write me up for insubordination, sir?” Clint tries to make his voice light, tries to fight how much he wants to cling to Phil and not let go,
Phil snuffs a little, and Clint thinks—hopes—it’s the shadow of a laugh.
“Wouldn’t do any good, would it?”
Clint grins into Phil’s neck, and he suspects Phil’s just on edge enough to feel it.
“Hasn’t yet.”
They’re quiet for a long moment, nothing but the din of the train and Clint’s hiss when the car shakes a little too hard around a bend.
“Getting close now,” Phil murmurs into Clint’s forehead, and Clint refuses to consider how closely it felt like a kiss.
“Not sure how I’m gonna jump,” he says seriously, because fuck.
“I wasn’t planning to give you much choice,” Phil says.
Clint takes a deep breath and steels himself before he lifts his head a little more slowly than before to look up at Phil.
“This some weird ‘you jump, I jump” scenario?”
Phil really does laugh at that.
“You’ve never needed me to jump to entice you,” he says. “You’re always willing to do that all on your own.”
Clint ducks his head again, but he’s still smiling a little, even through the pain. Phil’s not wrong, and if he had a nickel for every time he’d been chewed out for jumping off something most people wouldn’t climb to begin with, well, he’d be donating a hell of a lot more money every year.
“One more minute,” he says, settling back against Phil’s chest. He knows it doesn’t matter, knows that “getting close now” is really more like 10 minutes out from the jump point, and that Phil is just giving him fair warning and some time to figure out how the hell he’s going to stand up and jump off a fucking train without tearing his side wide open and bleeding out on the spot.
“Always one more minute with you, isn’t it?”
It is when we get in these flusterfuck messes and the only good thing about them is how close to you I get to be.
The thought is instantaneous; the realization that the words had slipped out of his mouth a little slower, somewhere in between the thought itself and the fact that he’d just managed not to correctly even think/say ‘clusterfuck.’ Which is what he’s just made this whole thing into. Fuck.
Phil goes still and quiet, quieter than before; Clint may be completely wrecked, but he recognizes deliberately measured breathing when he feels it.
“Should be freakin’ out right ‘bout now,” he mumbles, and boy, does he ever mumble and maybe there’s a concussion problem after all, or else the blood loss is getting worse.
“We’re talking about this when you’re back on your feet,” Phil says.
His voice is so calm, so measured, but so warm—or is Clint hallucinating that, because Christ, he’s lost a lot of fucking blood—that maybe Clint hasn’t been mixing up the signals all this time.
“‘Kay.”
The remaining moments pass in silence, followed by a lot of swearing when Phil drags him up and all but throws him off the train, then some more mumbling while Phil drags him again, this time through some woods to a shit hole of a safe house that looks like the motherfucking Taj Mahal to Clint, because it’s got a bed and running water and a medical kit.
Once Phil’s satisfied that Clint won’t bleed out, has eaten and drank enough not to add dehydration to the long list of shit that’s wrong with him, and he’s weighed the pros and cons of letting Clint sleep without knowing if he has a concussion (cons: sleep could kinda kill him, because concussion; pros: not sleeping pretty much will kill him, since they still have to get out of this place after some rest), he shuffles Clint to the bed. Clint watches him consider the other side of the mattress for a split second before he shakes his head and throws the only two (ratty, moldy) chair cushions in the place onto the floor.
“Nuh uh.” Clint’s voice is muffled by the mound of musty blankets that Phil’s wrapped him in. “Bed’s big enough for both of us and you gotta sleep too, sir, or you won’t be able to drag my sorry ass outta here tomorrow.”
“You need the rest more.”
“Fuck that, and besides, I already made an ass out of myself about this, so you already know the whole reason I don’t mind getting shot to shit is because it means you don’t let me go until someone with medical clearance makes you. And maybe I didn’t get hugged enough as a kid, or maybe that’s just an excuse and I’ve been compromised since the minute you gave me a chance to be anything other than some dumb, worthless merc kid. Either way, it goes without saying that I’ll sleep better if you c’mere and get in the fucking bed, but I’m saying it anyway since I can’t seem to shut the fuck up. Sir.”
Phil stares at him for a moment, just long enough for Clint to start to feel itchy under his gaze. He laughs low and tired and a little strained, but it’s still a laugh, so Clint will take it.
“We’re still talking about this when you’re back on your feet,” Phil says as he crawls into the bed on Clint’s other side.
Clint immediately turns to burrow into Phil’s chest, because fuck it, he’s said something now, and like he said, self-indulgent, okay?
“Yessir.”
Phil sighs and wraps an arm loosely around Clint’s shoulders, carefully avoiding every place he knows there’s a bruise or a cut.
“You alright?” he asks.
“Am now,” Clint says without thinking.
He must be in a shitload of pain (spoiler alert: he really fucking is), because he isn’t even all that embarrassed. It’s like he’s been holding the way he feels about Phil behind a wall, and the wall’s been broken and here he is, bloody and broken and faced with the fact that he’s told Phil that he’s pretty much willing to get bloodied and broken if it means he also gets to spend any period of time wrapped in Phil’s arms, and it isn’t making him want to crawl out of his skin.
“Sleep,” Phil says. “Morning’s on its way soon enough.”
Clint hopes so, because he’s almost on edge with excitement about being able to talk about this with Phil. But then he slides down just the tiniest bit and finds just the right spot on Phil’s chest, and Phil’s arms tighten ever so slightly, and he thinks maybe he hopes morning doesn’t come too soon, because this is just about perfect, other than the shithole safe house and the bleeding and the bruises and the fact that he has no idea where they are or how they’re getting out.
But otherwise, just about perfect and Clint’s not ready to give that up.
Self-indulgent.
He sighs and presses tighter against Phil and whispers, “Closer.”
And miraculously—Clint’s not big on miracles, but from where he’s sitting, this is one—Phil tightens his grip just a little more and whispers back, “Only good thing about this whole mess, right?”
Yep, maybe this really is what perfect feels like, and Clint’s definitely not giving it up.
“Yessir. Thanks. I’mma sleep now. Just...stay?”
Phil nods, Clint feels it, and then he really does press a featherlight, dry kiss to Clint’s forehead and runs his hand over Clint’s scalp softly,
“We’ll be alright.”
“Always are, sir,” Clint says as sleep takes him. “Long as you’re around, we always are.”