Work Text:
I'll leave my window open
Cause I'm too tired at night to call your name
Just know I'm right here hoping
That you'll come in with the rain
Clint always knows when it's going to rain. He can feel it in his head, behind his eyes, in every bone he's ever broken and joint he's ever damaged. It makes him feel sick and old, weary from carrying the weight of the storm. He snarls at the range attendants, at Sitwell, at the other agents. He hates to be this way, and after his mood lifts, the guilt is almost as much of a burden as the rain.
Nobody knows why his temper is so foul when the skies open, they only know it's best to stay out of his way, give him the range to himself and let him work it out. Not even Natasha knows the whole story; only that when they were together in the dark period in their lives before S.H.I.E.L.D. , Clint would huddle under the covers and she would curl her body around his as he shivered. When he warmed, she would set a cup of tea at his elbow and leave. The next day, if the rain had stopped, he would still feel like he'd been whipped, wincing when she got too close, or moved too quickly. If the rain continued, he would take whatever painkillers Natasha could steal from the local pharmacy and pick up his bow, ready to go out into the weather. She often wondered why, but the one time she asked, he told her to shut the fuck up and vanished for three days. Yeah, that wasn't the smartest thing he could have done. The next time it rained, she abandoned him to S.H.I.E.L.D.
In his quarters, in the depths of S.H.I.E.L.D., the storm preys on him like a beast; tearing at him with icy fangs and bone-breaking cold breath. There's nothing for it but to hunker down under his blankets and shake. He doesn't have Natasha to give him her warmth, to leave him with tea and extra blankets. It's indicative of his misery that he misses her.
He can't stay here. He can't cower and shake and hurt. He forces himself to get up, to move, to pull on a long-sleeved sweater over his black t-shirt and to go to the range. He loosens up his arm muscles, his back, and when he feels marginally warmer, he takes of his sweater and begins shooting at targets.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Phil Coulson is up to his elbows in paperwork. He’s vaguely aware of the passage of time, of the low rumbles of thunder in the distance. It hasn’t started raining yet, but the atmosphere is oppressive. The air-conditioning in the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters has been erratic with most of the resources piped into the lower levels where R&D, the gyms and the shooting ranges are located. If you’re in the offices on the top floor, you’re out of luck, and of course, the windows don’t open.
Phil shrugs out of his jacket and rolls up his sleeves. It’s one of the few occasions when he wishes he had a tall iced tea on his desk instead of a lukewarm bitter cup of coffee from the dregs of the last pot. He takes of his glasses and rubs his eyes. Briefly, he considers going home, but the low rumble of thunder and the sudden slap of rain on his windows change his mind. He keeps working until there is a knock on his door. Even through the frosted glass he can recognize Jasper Sitwell.
"I'm in," he says. Sitwell comes into the office and stands awkwardly for a moment before Phil gestures to the chair on the opposite side of his desk. Sitwell rubs his hands down his thighs, as if his suit is wrinkled, which it isn't. "Yes?" Phil sits back. "Something on your mind?"
"Barton." Normally, when Sitwell says that, it sounds like he's chewing on broken glass. This time, there's more concern rather than annoyance overlaying the name. "Something's off."
"Can you be a little more specific?"
"No. That's why I'm here. He might talk to you." Jasper sighs.
If it had been any other agent, Phil would have told him to grow some backbone and get Barton to medical. Sitwell, however, has Phil's respect as an agent and a supervisor. "Where is he?"
"I left him in his quarters an hour ago. He didn't look too good."
Phil's phone rings and he picks it up. He listens for a moment and says, "I'm on the way," before he hangs up. "We need to get down to the range."
"What is it?"
"Agent Lichinsky just found Barton."
They are greeted at the door by Anna Lichinsky, a quietly competent agent who Phil has high hopes for as an analyst. Her weapons skills need work, something he had planned on asking Barton to take on while he's awaiting his final status review.
"I didn't know if I should call medical," she says hesitantly.
"Thank you, agent. Where is he?"
"The far target bay."
Phil loosens his sidearm in the holster, which is probably unnecessary but reflexive. "Sitwell, take Agent Lichinsky out of here. I can deal with this."
Sitwell wants to argue, but Phil Coulson isn't a rookie agent. He's the best S.H.I.E.L.D. has, so Sitwell escorts Lichinsky to safety ... or at least someplace away from whatever is going on in Barton's head.
Phil walks softly towards the far bay; not silently because he doesn't want to end up with an arrow in his throat, but with gentle paces that announce his presence to the skittish archer. "Barton?" Softly, almost a whisper. There is no answer. Coulson lowers his weapon and enters the bay.
Barton is sitting with his back against the wall, his knees drawn up, his arms wrapped tightly around them making himself small. His head is lowered. He is shaking with an almost imperceptible tremor. Phil crouches next to him. "Barton, do you need to go to medical?"
He lifts his head. His eyes are sunk in bruised sockets and he's so pale that Phil looks for blood on the floor. The only sign of an injury is the web of welts on Barton's forearm. His fingers are raw, but not bloody. "Medical?" Phil prompts again.
"No." Barton's voice is hoarse. "I'm not sick."
"You look sick," Phil, for no reason he can discern, puts two fingers under Barton's chin and tilts his head up to the light. Barton winces, and Phil starts getting an idea. "Migraine?"
Clint nods miserably. "Fucking weather."
Phil takes a breath. "Do you have meds?"
"No. They took the drugs out of my kit, remember?"
"We can get more," Phil says gently. "The doctor will give you a prescription, no questions asked."
Clint sighs. "It's too late." He starts to unfold his body and winces. "Everything fucking hurts," he says, more to himself than Phil, but he hauls himself upright. "I'm okay, Agent Coulson. I'll just go back to my quarters and try to get some shut-eye."
On impulse, because Barton looks so miserable and almost fragile, Phil asks, "Come to my office. I'll brew up some tea."
"I don't need a nanny," Barton sounds irritated, two flags of faint color tint his cheekbones.
"I'm not a nanny," Phil says equitably. "If you don't want the tea --"
Cint, startled by the offer gathers his gear. "No! I mean, um ... thanks."
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
God, I sound like a fucking teenager, Clint thinks as he follows Coulson to his office. He almost backs out of Coulson's offer of tea, but truth is, he needs it, needs the heat and sugar and caffeine. If he has that, maybe he'll make it through the night.
He sits on Coulson's couch. It's old and leather, worn and comfortable as his best shooting glove. He sinks down, his aching bones and tense muscles easing into relaxation. He tips his head back against the cushions and breathes lightly, trying to escape the band of tension tightening around his head.
"Barton?"
He opens his eyes. Coulson is offering two white pills and a glass of water. "It's just aspirin," he explains. "Drink all the water."
Clint hesitates. "Just aspirin?"
Phil sighs. "Do you have something you need to tell me? Allergies? Addictions?" The last word quiet and sympathetic. "I wouldn't slip you anything harmful, you know."
"I know." Still, he doesn't tell Coulson about his past struggles with substance abuse. Clint takes the aspirin and drinks the water. Trust doesn't come easily to him, but as Clint meets Coulson's blue eyes, he realizes he trusts him. "Got tea?" he tries to grin and fails.
"It's brewing." Coulson pours two mugs, straining the leaves. He adds honey to Clint's and carries it over. "Earl Grey, a special blend that's my mother's favorite."
Clint, whose experience runs more to generic leaves and twigs and Natasha's ridiculous Russian tea that is more like tar than a soothing beverage, inhales the slightly smoky, rich aroma of bergamot and wildflower honey. "I've never had this before." He sips cautiously. It's wonderful and warming. He takes another sip and feels the heat at the core of his body. He sighs, closes his eyes, lets the pain drift away ...
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
He has no idea how young he looks. Coulson shakes his head. He has a blanket folded on the arm of the couch. He opens it and spreads it over Barton who seems to have gone completely boneless, his body curving into the cushions. The couch really isn't that comfortable, Phil thinks, which makes him wonder about Barton's life before S.H.I.E.L.D.
Fury had played those cards close to his leather-clad chest; only giving Phil the bare-bones file. Fury is a bastard like that. Wearily, Phil sits at his laptop and gets to work, using the power of his security clearances to finally dig his way into the files HR has on Clinton Francis Barton.
An hour later, his eyes burning and dry and his head aching, Phil closes his laptop. Barton is still breathing quietly and deeply, and Phil wouldn't wake him for the world, knowing what he does now.
He can't do anything about it unless Barton talks to him. Right now, he has to fight that painful and obvious protective instinct that he has always had for the underdog. His mother always said that he attracted trouble like a magnet. Right now, trouble is stretched out on his couch. Phil turns his desk light to low and sits in the shadows watching Barton sleep.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Moscow, two years later
It's raining and Clint is sitting in a car with Phil ... two years of ops together have put them on a first name basis when they're not in S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, and they have been a team long enough that they know each other's quirks -- like Phil's predilection for pre-packaged snack cakes, and Clint's nesting in the ducts and ceilings of the headquarters because he feels safe and small there. He tells Phil it's good practice for being a sniper. Phil lets him have that illusion and it works for both of them. Tonight, Phil just passes two migraine pills to Clint and hands him a bottle of water. "Go in fifteen."
"Yeah." He's grateful for the pills. His head is throbbing, but not unbearably. The OTC meds should do the job on this one. "So, what's Plan B?"
Phil gives him a wry grin. "Let's start with Plan A."
"Fucking mafyia," Clint grumbles. "I've told you how much I hate them, right?"
"So, kneecap them. Just get the briefcase and get out."
"You're a cruel man," Clint laughs. "Got it, boss."
There's something feral and sharp in Coulson's eyes that Clint loves. Sitwell is a good handler, but he's not Coulson with his cool manner, perfect suits and the undercurrent of danger humming under his skin that Clint can feel even without physical contact. Phil looks at his watch. "Go."
Clint is out of the car, running across the rain-wet street. He vanishes into the warehouse, recalling the floor plan in is mind. There is a wrought iron staircase to the right that leads to a catwalk over the main floor. He climbs silently, drops and creeps along the catwalk until he can hear the low rumble of male voices. He inches to where the catwalk makes a sharp right-angle away from the wall and spans width of the room like a bridge. He takes out his rifle -- no room to draw a bow in these quarters. He stretches out, eases forward until he can see the Russians. There are three massive thugs, tattooed and bald, wearing poorly fitting suits that Coulson would consider a defamation of the tailoring profession.
Their backs are to Clint, and he can't see past them. It looks like they are gathered around something or somebody. One of the men picks up a bucket of ice water and dumps it. As he moves away, Clint catches a glimpse of breathtakingly familiar red hair and white skin. A voice dripping with venom and utterly fearless curses in Russian. Natasha. Clint closes his eyes and can taste the cold New York rain on his lips and the wash of blood over his fingers. He could kill her as well, but he can't, because he can also taste her last kiss and the warm trail of her fingers along his jaw. "Little hawk" she had whispered, " someday you will understand."
He paints the back of the biggest man's skull and shoots. When the others turn in alarm, he kills them, too. So simple. Then there is only Natasha. Clint attaches his grapple and drops easily to the floor. "Hello, Tasha. Need some help?"
"I would have had them when they untied me."
Clint raises a brow. "And that would have been...?"
"When I said I would sleep with the one who survived." She looks up at him through her lashes. "Will you untie me, Little Hawk?"
"Spare me the endearments." He speaks into his com. "Targets neutralized. They had a hostage. Send in reinforcements."
"For the hostage?"
"Trust me, boss. I'm not going to be the one to untie her." He looks around and retrieves the blood-spattered briefcase. "I've got the case." He looks at Natasha. "Sorry, babe. Gotta run. Someday you will understand."
"Bastard."
"That name's lost its power over me a long time ago." He gives her a mocking salute and leaves her tied up in the chair. He passes the briefcase to Agent Woo. "Don't tell me I never give you presents." He pulls Coulson aside. "I should have killed her," he says.
"Who?"
"The Black Widow." He goes out into the rain, leaving Coulson to deal with the messy details. He slumps in the bay of the helicopter, waiting. He half expects to hear gunfire, instead Woo carries Natasha inside. She's been tranquilized. Clint gives Phil a half-smile. "Don't take off the restraints," he reminds him. "She can kill you before you blink."
"That's why I had Woo slap her with the tranquilizer."
"What are you going to do with her?"
"She has three choices. Death, life-long imprisonment, or become a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Same deal you got."
Clint's lips quirk. "Here I thought I was special."
Coulson gives him a calm, enigmatic appraisal. "You look cold."
"Yeah, it's the rain," he sighs and rests his head against the bulkhead. "I hate the rain."
Coulson slides his trench coat off and lays it over Clint. "Get some rest. It's a long trip back."
The coat is warm from Coulson's body and smells like the rain and his soap. Clint burrows underneath it and breathes in the scent. "Thanks, boss," he murmurs and drifts off despite the whump, whump of the rotors overhead.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Budapest -- Six months later
Clint hates Budapest. He's been there six times, and every fucking time it's been raining. This makes seven, and he's lying prone on a rooftop sighting through his scope at the building opposite. Inside, Natasha, wearing velvet and diamonds, is dancing with an ugly man in a black Hydra uniform. He is holding her close, and she's not objecting. Her head drops back and he lowers his lips to her throat. Clint grins as he sees her deftly pluck a flash drive from the his pocket and slips an identical one in its place. She twirls away, waggling teasing fingers at the Hydra agent, but her eyes are fixed on Clint as she drops a wink.
Job done. Clint's chest hurts when he breathes and every bone in his body aches from four hours of lying motionless in the cold rain. Not even his waterproof field gear and heavy wool sweater can keep the chill away. He breaks down his rifle and packs it up. "Coulson. We're coming in," he rasps. "Tasha has the drive." He muffles a deep cough in his sleeve. "Pick us up?"
"On my way. That cough sounds nasty."
"Nothing some bourbon won't cure," Clint says, and coughs again. He feels like his lungs are shredding, but he won't tell Coulson that.
He shimmies down the drainpipe and waits in the shadows. Natasha steps outside. The velvet dress has been changed for a black field suit and a long wool coat. She plucks the diamonds from her ears and puts them in her pocket. Clint moves and she has a gun in her hand before she can register his identity. Good girl Clint thinks, though he'd never say that to her face. She lowers the weapon when she recognizes him.
"You look like shit," she tells him, peering into his eyes.
"I've been in the rain for the last four hours while you've been wined and dined. No wonder --" he breaks off, coughing into his sleeve again. Natasha tugs off her glove with her teeth and puts her palm on his forehead.
"You're burning up."
"I wish." He shivers and leans against the wall. "Coulson's on the way." His voice breaks on another wracking cough.
"Little Hawk," she sighs and shores him up with her shoulder. He doesn't know if he should be grateful or ashamed. Now that the adrenalin of the op is fading, he can scarcely stay upright. He's about to give up and sink to the ground when a black Lada pulls up. Natasha opens the door, her gun trained on the driver until she certain it's Coulson. Then she opens the back door and shoves Clint inside, tucking in his booted feet neatly and closing the door. She gets in the front seat. "He needs a doctor."
"I don't," Clint says weakly. "Just need to get warm, that's all."
Coulson guns the engine and dodges through the dark streets to an open field outside of the city. A helicopter is waiting and Clint is dimly aware of the rotors and the touch of Coulson's hand on his forehead, and the warmth of a blanket spread over him.
"Take these," Natasha's voice tells him, and he feels the touch of pills against his lips. The bitterness is washed away with water and he lays back.
Coulson is kneeling next to him. Clint likes the way his fingers feel on his pulse. He's almost comfortable, but his chest hurts and he struggles to breathe. Tasha's warm hands lift him and she supports him as Coulson folds a blanket and fits an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. Clint struggles weakly until Coulson's voice speaks to him. "Just breathe, Barton. Just breathe." Phil gently kneads his aching left shoulder, and the last things he knows are Natasha whispering to him in Russian, and Coulson's touch.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters: A Week Later
Clint still feels like the world is wrapped in cotton wool, but his fever is gone and the drugs have pretty much knocked out the pneumonia that laid him low in Budapest. He hardly remembers now how he got out of the damn place. God, he hates Budapest!
Tasha is out on another op with Sitwell's team, and Clint doesn't really want to be alone when he's less than sharp. He goes to Coulson's office. It's dark and locked. He stands in front of the door, feeling unaccountably bereft.
"Hey, Barton. They let you out of medical or did you bolt?" Agent Woo asks.
"Nope. The docs signed me out -- all legit. Where's Coulson?"
"Director Fury sent him home early after a week of sitting in medical with your sorry-assed self." Woo picks up his jacket. "'Night, Barton. You should get some rest. You still look like crap."
He's been resting for a week. He doesn't think he can stand another night spent closed in. He could go back to his quarters. He could go to the range, but he doesn't have enough strength to draw a real bow, and shooting pistols is just more than he can handle. He decides coffee, real coffee, would be a good thing. He retrieves his leather jacket from his locker and heads out for the nearest decent coffee shop. The air smells like rain, but the night is mild and for once, Clint doesn't ache.
He orders a black coffee and a cinnamon scone. As he turns from the counter, he sees Coulson sitting at a table with his laptop and a cup of coffee. He crosses the room quietly and sits opposite Coulson. "I thought Fury told you to go home," he says.
Phil looks up from his laptop. "And I left you in Medical. Please tell me you didn't sneak out ..."
"Scouts honor, the docs cleared me."
"You were never a scout."
"No. But give me some credit, Coulson. I know I had pneumonia. I'm not doing anything monumentally stupid."
"Just out for a stroll in the rain?" He lifts a brow.
Clint shrugs. "A drizzle. It's warm and I'm fine." He drinks his coffee. "You look terrible."
"I'm fine," Coulson says with a small smile. "Get a lid for your coffee."
"W-why?" Clint stammers.
"Because it's late, you'll get sick again, and I'm obeying orders from my superior. Something you should try."
Clint gets a lid for his coffee and wraps his scone in a napkin. "Where are we going? Back to S.H.I.E.L.D.? Because, honestly, Phil, if I don't get some real air I'm going to turn into a mushroom."
"We're going to my apartment. It's close and the heating works."
"Once I know where you live, I could end up being a nuisance, sir. Just so you know."
"You're already a nuisance, Clint."
They go out into the spring rain and walk a block to Phil's building. It's older, built in the fifties, with a cool, post-modern vibe that Clint finds interesting. Phil takes his key out and opens the inner door. The wind rises and the low rumble of thunder makes Clint wince.
"Well?"
Clint hesitates. The scent of rain washes around him. Coulson holds out his hand. "Come in," he says.
Clint takes his hand, Coulson's palm is warm and strong against his own. He comes in with the rain, not releasing Phil's hand. He leans in, questioning, and sees the flicker of lightning reflected in Phil's eyes; danger and heat mingling. Phil's hand curls around the nape of Clint's neck. He drawn him close, and Clint tilts his head, meeting Phil's lips at just the right angle. He tastes of coffee and rain. He isn't ready for this. His knees start wobbling and Phil's hand closes around his bicep to steady him.
"We should ..." Phil breathes against his lips.
"Yeah, we should," Clint says and backs away. He has to lean against the wall while Phil opens the door. I am so screwed, he thinks dizzily. This is not happening ...
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Phil's seventh floor apartment is light and airy, but still masculine. One wall is taken up by a state of the art TV and media shelves. The long couch looks deep enough to sleep on and the blanket on the arm tells Clint that Phil has slept there often enough to keep it at hand.
The rest of the furniture fits in with the apartment in scale and era, except for the leather recliner that seems to have as much wear as the sofa. Clint heads towards it, but Phil steers him towards the couch. “In case you keel over.”
“Right.” Clint drops down on the couch and slides his spine down the back in a spectacular slouch. “Nice couch.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Do you have more of that tea?” Clint asks.
“I can brew some. I’d tell you to make yourself comfortable, but it looks like you already have.” Phil’s smile is gentle, his eyes amused. Clint figures he just wants to forget that kiss in the lobby, and he’s okay with that, though the memory will keep him warm for a while.
He doesn't hear Phil return with two mugs of tea. He's asleep, deeply. He doesn't feel the drift of Coulson's hand down his shoulder, or the way Phil tucks the blanket around him before dimming the lights. Outside, the rain comes down, streaking the windows like tears.
Phil has never liked the rain, either, until tonight.
The End