Chapter Text
Clint’s fingertips are shriveled from the blistering heat of the tap. He tiredly scrubs the last of the dishes. The dishwasher technician was supposed to come today and didn’t, which is going to cause further problems than he’s already anticipating. Brock should have been home two hours ago. Clint can guess where he is at this hour. His eyes fall to the still purple bruises on his arms, blame for the dishwasher breaking bloom across his skin. As he was reminded, Clint’s domain is the house and if the dishwasher isn’t working, he’ll be the dishwasher until it’s fixed.
Just like when the plant died. Clint knew next to nothing about plants but Brock insisted he learn after throwing the pot at his head. And shoving his face in the dirt and broken ceramic like a disobedient dog. He’d been on his knees long into that night. Sometimes he can still picture Brock sitting at the table, stoic and unyielding, not even looking slightly tired as he watched Clint to make sure he stayed on his knees until the sun came up and Brock wanted coffee. It’s an image he doesn’t like to think about and tries to erase in favor of better moments. Like how Brock had fucked him on the kitchen table while the coffee brewed, praising him for being obedient, encouraging him to learn how to be a better caretaker of the nice things he’s given.
There are always promises, and occasional good moments. Sure, Clint doesn’t really like plants but Brock had bought it for him as a gift just because. And he did give Clint the number of the dishwasher service guy instead of making him be the dishwasher forever.
He looks up to a picture of the two of them on the windowsill. The glass is gone, broken in a fight, but they’re smiling, Brock’s arms wrapped around Clint’s shoulders. It’s from a trip back up to the waterfall where they first met. They had jumped in over and over until their lips were blue. Brock had presented Clint with a key. The situation was either move in or sign another year on Clint’s lease and he wasn’t going to turn his boyfriend down. Everything had moved fast but they were in love so Clint reasoned it was right.
When things started to get bad, Clint fought back. They broke the coffee table Brock had inherited and Clint still has the scars on his back. At some point though, Clint was too worn down. This pattern has taken a toll on his mind, on his body. Instead of physically fighting back, Clint tries the charm, the sunshine smile, anything sweet he can to lessen the blows or turn them to words instead of fists and teeth.
The door slam makes Clint jump and he drops the plate in the sink, even though he’s been anticipating Brock for hours. Praying it isn’t broken, Clint wipes his hand on a towel and plasters on his most charming smile.
“Welcome home!” he calls sweetly, hoping that Brock is toeing off his boots. Except he knows those footsteps. Brock is drunk.
“Dinner ready?” Brock stalks into the kitchen, eyes landing on Clint in an unmistakable heat. There was a time that seeing Brock in his police uniform made Clint swell with pride, a time when it used to make Clint’s brain stutter with attraction. Now, Clint’s eyes fall to the gun on his hip to double check if he left it at the office like he’s supposed to or if it sits on his hips. Most nights, it comes into the house, reminding Clint of just how dangerous Brock can be if not kept happy.
“Of course.” Clint gestures to the platter where steaks and roasted potatoes sit waiting.
Brock levels him with a look of annoyance that makes Clint’s skin crawl. “And dishes are done?”
Clint’s smile falters. “Almost. Just a few more. I’ll take care of them. Why don’t you eat?”
“Why didn’t you finish? Is it just too hard for you? All I ask is that you take care of the house. You get to sit here all day and you can’t even-” Brock stops as he finally gets to the sink. “What’s this?”
As he holds up the plate, Clint’s heart clenches. A visible crack like lightning splits across the plate. “A mistake,” he whispers.
Brock, in one furious moment, slams the plate over Clint’s head. Glass scatters across the kitchen, sprinkling their dinner so it is completely inedible. “How dare you break the nice things I’ve bought you! How many times do you need to learn this lesson? I provide everything for you and you give me no respect in return!”
Clint blinks hard, the pain making his vision swim. Blood slides down the side of his head behind his ear. His hand immediately goes to it, staring at his red fingertips in disbelief. It’s been bad before, intense before, but Brock has never made him bleed. “It’s a plate,” Clint murmurs.
“What did you say? Are you arguing with me?”
“They’re like three dollars at IKEA.” Clint looks up at his fuming boyfriend, the rage showing in his every muscle. Trouble. He’s in so much trouble. Against the instinct to bow out, Clint clenches his fists. “How is that plate more important than me?”
Brock raises an eyebrow, shaking his head. “Don’t speak back to me.” His hand rises quickly, and Clint knows the movement all too well.
For the first time in a long time, too long, Clint dodges.
The two stare at each other in shock for a moment at the broken pattern but then Brock lunges. His thick fingers catch Clint by the hair. Dragging him back, Brock hisses in his ear, “You want to fight? Think you’re so tough?” He slams Clint’s face into the counter. The crack of his nose against the marble hits before the pain. Clint cries out, kicking against Brock. He thrashes his head. The movement makes him dizzy. He wrenches himself from Brock’s grasp, standing back with a heaving chest.
Clint, hair matted from the blood on his scalp, nose at a crooked angle, licks his lips and wipes his sleeve across his face. His mouth immediately fills with the metallic taste of blood. Standing with his shoulders squared, he holds up his arm. “Oops. Want to punish me for that too?” It’s dumb thing to say. At first, it sounds to him like he’s got no self-preservation. But maybe that’s exactly what it is. Because when Brock jumps at him again, Clint moves for the counter. His fingers close around the chef’s knife he had out to cut the steak.
“Oh, you do want to fight,” Brock huffs, his eyes narrowing at Clint. “This is fun. Where did you find your nerve? Time to rip it out again.”
Clint is fast but this time Brock is faster. The jolt of their bodies slamming together sends the knife sprawling to the floor. Brock’s hand is around Clint’s neck, pinning him against the wall. “Stop!”Clint screams at him, spitting in his face. “Look at yourself! Stop!”
“You are not in control here, puppy. On your knees!” Brock rocks Clint off balance to throw him to the floor.
Clint can’t stop the wince that comes from the impact to his knees. “Brock. This doesn’t have to be us.” His eyes sweep the floor for the knife.
Brock kicks Clint hard in the ribs, knocking the wind out of him. Clint lays on his side as he desperately tries to catch his breath. “So disobedient!” Brock shouts as he drops to his knees on top of him. His fingers dig into Clint’s neck. The thumbs pressed against his windpipe make Clint choke.
This time, Clint isn’t going to beg. His hand fumbles for the knife on the hardwood, but just as his fingertips touch the wood of the handle, the knife skitters too far out of reach. Through teary eyes, Clint looks up at Brock. Fumbling for some sort of answer, anything, Clint sees death on the edge of his vision. Maybe that’s better than this.
In his last, desperate attempt, Clint gropes at Brock’s belt. The gun. Not exactly what he’d been hoping for but it’s better. Like a godsend. Clint yanks the glock from the holster and clicks off the safety. The realization, the shock, the pain, all flash fast across Brock’s face as his hold lessens on Clint. His body sways just enough to the side that Clint can push him off. He scrambles up from the floor and runs.
“Phil please!” Clint begs, banging on the door.
A moment later the porch light turns on and in the dim light is Phil, the closest thing he has to a friend. His usually kept hair sticks up, an old army t shirt hangs over his boxers. His brow furrows and he nearly starts into Clint but then he notices the blood around his midsection and his eyes widen. “Clint?”
“Please.”
Phil moves aside immediately, looking both ways down the street for a pursuing body. Shutting the door and locking all three bolts, Phil follows Clint into the kitchen. “What’s the stomach wound?” he asks as he rummages through his cupboards, pulling out a first aid kit and bowls.
“Not mine,” Clint huffs as he lowers himself into the kitchen chair.
Phil’s hands stop, hovering in the cupboard. He slowly lowers them and turns to Clint. “Whose?”
“Brock’s.”
“Did you call an ambulance? We need to go back.”
Clint shakes his head. “I did it, Coulson.”
Phil blinks. Looks away. Crosses his arms over his chest. “Clint.”
“I shot him,” Clint says by way of more explanation. “I don’t know.”
With a sigh, Phil gathers up the materials and arranges them on the kitchen table. “Let’s start with your nose and we’ll get to what the hell happened.”
Clint sits straight as Phil assesses his face. And he barely winces as Phil realigns his nose. After stuffing in a few tissues to stop from bleeding on the floor, Clint slumps in the chair. “Might be glass in my scalp.”
Phil pours rubbing alcohol on a pad and starts to clean the wound. Normally Clint would squirm, insist on doing it himself, just shower and call it a day, but his mind is focused on the murderous way Brock had looked at him, thumbs pressed into his throat. It’s a look he’s seen in enough eyes for a lifetime. His father, his brother, his commanding officer, his enemy, and now his lover.
“What happened?”
Clint is quiet for a long time and Phil doesn’t push. “I fought back.”
“The glass?” He asks as a piece clinks into the ceramic dish on the table.
“A plate.”
Phils sighs, ruffling the stray hairs on Clint’s head. “I didn’t know. Was wondering where you’d been.”
“I need to go.” Clint knows he has to run. He’s got to go far enough, start over. When they had moved in together, Clint had hoped the days of running would be over. There was a time when he lived out of a backpack, never in one place for long. Being a spy was at least a steady paycheck but nothing else about it was steady. Meeting Brock at the mandatory recovery camp had felt like a blessing, a steady hand, a place to stay and build. More than the ache of his body, the loss of a future he’d wanted hurts.
“I’ve got a go bag.”
A wry smile lifts the corner of Clint’s mouth. “I knew you would.”
The unspoken words are heavy, even if he’s thankful for their reality: And you know how to disappear.
“I’ll let you know,” Clint murmurs. “When I’m settled.”
“Brock’s good. You’ll need to be careful.”
Clint nods, his eyes locked on a knot in the wood of the floor. That’s true too. All he can really hope is that Brock is dead. A gunshot wound to the stomach isn’t absolutely lethal. “I’m always careful.”
At that, Phil shakes his head. “Whatever you need to tell yourself, kid.”
When he’s cleaned up and in a pair of jeans that are just a little stupidly high-water and a shirt they had to cut the sleeves from for him to fit, Clint hefts Phil’s bag over his shoulder to disappear into the night.
It’s not far enough, he knows in his gut it isn’t far enough, but a small beach town in the south is where Clint stops. Just until he can get his head right. And there is something so unexpected to this place that he isn’t sure Brock would even think to look here. If he’s even alive. Clint’s not a big fan of the ocean or small towns. He stands with his arms crossed on the cement path that separates the beach and the road, squinting out over the waves as seagulls fly overhead. For being the end of winter, it’s warm.
It’s fine. For now.