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The lighthouse is his everything and has been since his parents died and his maternal grandfather came to whisk him away to Nova Scotia. He’d been eight, his brother thirteen, and he took to everything nautical like a fish to water. Barney hadn’t liked it one bit, said it smelled and went his own way after high school. He’d taken off to Alberta or the States or something like that. Clint hadn’t heard from him in years and he doubts he will again.
Clint had grown up racing down and up the spiral of stairs and using his slingshot to chuck barnacles out at the boats that came to close—thinking that maybe, just maybe, he could reach them and warn them away before the lights could. (He’d kept at it, going to flinging bread balls at gulls to the rifle team through high school and then the little bit of college he’d done before giving up.)
Gramps had taught him everything about the lighthouse. He knew the history of the Gallantry Light like he knew the names of nautical knots. He breathed the stories of horrible storms, buccaneers, pirates from the South, and saving sailors as easily as he did the briny air. Gramps instilled the belief that he is the only one to save and protect those off-shore. He and the other Wickies like them, they’re the saviors of the sea.
Gallantry Light had been in Clint’s family for scores. No one can handle all its quirks and stubbornness like he could now that Gramps is gone. It’s as if the lighthouse itself is an extension of himself and he could never give that up.
He slouches in his favorite chair, the radio next to his propped-up feet on the desk as he cradles a stein of coffee. Who needs mugs when he has the night, his lights, and the fog horn blaring twice per minute? (However, his watchroom is reasonably sound-proofed. He can hear the radio in case anyone calls out to him.) He licks the coffee off his upper lip as the radio hisses and someone speaks.
“Lamp,” the voice says, a little searching, a lot calm and cool, “this is Triskelion. What’s the weather like ashore?”
“Hullo, Loner,” Clint replies with a lazy drawl and a smile in his voice. It’s always nice to hear someone. He eyes the gauges at his side measuring wind, barometric pressure, and anything else he might need to know. “Got the wind up us here.” The light flashes over the water and he can see how choppy it is with a glance. “Strong gale, maybe. Can’t you feel it?” It’s definitely strong enough to make a noticeable change in otherwise peaceful sailing.
“Too far out. Not much here. Calm night.”
Clint nods even though he can’t be seen. “How’s the fishing?” He shifts and carefully drops his feet to the floor. He sets the stein down and picks up his logbook to write down the time and the boat’s name along with the standards of weather, time, and wind.
“Running pretty well. ‘Course, that's without the entire fleet on my back chasing them. Heard from any of the others?” There’s more crackling from the radio as he talks, but Clint has sharp ears and can pick out the words with little effort.
“Pretty lonely out here,” He’s not heard or seen anyone except the locals, and they don’t go out and stay out very long. “How long you got?” Maybe he’d have a friendly voice for a night or two to go with his usual insomnia. He knows the locals, likes them too,but even after all these years he doesn’t really have friends. They don’t quite understand the lighthouse and the thrill of being the lone protector of his shores to all the boats in his piece of the ocean.
“Maybe a month or two. Aiming to be first off the water. Haven’t failed yet, and I’ve been fishing the Banks twenty years now.”
That sounds familiar. He knows he makes a noise and half a second later he responds with a laughter-warm voice. “Well, if that isn’t Phil Coulson, I’ll be damned. Got a reputation for yourself, Loner.” Boy, has he. He’s heard all kinds of stories from the other Wickies over radio and occasionally in person when they get together to help each other out when repairs require more than one man. More—and just as grossly exaggerated—stories come from the other fishermen.
“Do I want to know?”
A smirk twists his features. He toasts Coulson, wherever he is, and takes a heavy sip. “More fun if you don’t.”
“If you know my name,” his voice is reasonable and solid, once free of static, “I should have yours.”
Clint shakes his head. It’s late and Coulson’s the only voice he’s heard in the last forty-six hours. “Just call me Hawkeye, Loner.” His Gramps had called him that after spotting a wrecked ship way out at sea when he was nine. He’d saved lives that night and it stuck as he became a hobbyist marksman. “Lighthouse man sees everything.”
“And has no one to tell,” Coulson finishes.
Clint shrugs a little. He has him there. “Got the boats,” does he really need anyone else? (Okay, so Natasha might thrash him for thinking that, but she’s over on Brunette Island. They have plenty of water between them to keep him safe for now.) “Don’t need anyone else. G'night, Loner.”
Good night, Hawkeye.”
And again he’s alone, but he has his clay stein in hand, the wind making music with the whir and hum of the light as it spins, and the soft crackle of a radio that promises company again soon.
About a week later the wind has turned a mean eye and the seas are angry with it. Clint is active and can’t leave his post for fear of other ships to close. His neighbor comes by to keep an ear on the radio so he can relieve himself every couple of hours and brings by food so he can stay nourished. He has never been more glad of the coffee maker he keeps up here.
Another ship in the area is picked up on radar and he’s given a ding that he can barely hear over the howls of the wind. He grabs his radio quick, not wanting to risk any life, not after the horror story of last night up the way. “Loner, come in.” He’s not sure who is out there, but no one else is around. It’s dangerous to be out there without backup. His pulse is up and he’s breathing quick as he waits for a response.
Two minutes.
Five.
Ten.
His radio crackles and finally, a response. “You called, Lamp?”
Of course. It’s his loner. Clint tries not to sag in relief. At least he knows Coulson’s okay right now. “Dangerous out there tonight, Loner.” He even sounds a little relieved to have a confirmation of the man’s status. He looks out the window and through the roiling water and hellish downpour, he can see the lights. If he loses the radio, he can at least keep watch like they did way back when.
“Under control, Hawkeye. Anything I should know?”
I’ll hunt you down and kick your ass if you let this storm get the better of you, he thinks without a second’s hesitation. “Not going to let up for a few days yet. Batten down the hatches, Triskelion, it’s a rough one.” He worries a hand through his hair as he presses closer to the window. He’s hardly blinking, his eyes on the lights on the sea.
“I hear you.”
Clint nods and holds the radio closer. It’s the only solid thing he has to connect them. “How you doing for supplies?” He’d risk going out if he could leave his post to drag the Triskelion’s captain in to safe harbor himself.
“We’re fine.”
“How you doing for doing?” Clint almost snappishly replies.
“What does that mean?”
He rubs a calloused hand over his face, a touch exasperated on top of how high strung he is. “Not easy out there on your own, loner. Just making sure.” He always over-worries about the boats in his care. He can’t let any of them down. He has to protect them all. They are his charges, his wards. Their lives are in his hands.
“Everything’s under control, Hawkeye, but thanks for asking.”
The calm in Coulson’s voice does very little to ease his own worries, but at least it says that he’s capable. Clint doesn’t doubt that if he’s been around in this area for as long as he claims (and Clint knows he has because there’s notes of him in the log book from when his Gramp was still the one writing in it). He knows he can trust Phil Coulson.
It’s the weather he can’t.
The weather doesn’t stay dour for too long, as it is wont to do, and Clint finally catches up on his sleep during the sunniest days when he doesn’t have to run maintenance on the light or the old house he lives in attached to it. (The house always has something that needs doing, something he could add to make it better or just plain nicer looking. He’s in a tourist spot whether he likes it or not and if the weather is good, he’ll do tours of his own place for extra cash.)
He gets plenty of chatter and a few boats talk to him about others they’ve seen and he writes it all down on in his log. The Howling Commando talks about running into Coulson and it makes Clint smile almost as much as hearing from the man himself. The other stories may have been third or fourth hand at this point and fishermen exaggerate like nobody’s business, but the stories he hears makes him laugh and share a few tales of his own when there’s time.
As nice as it is to talk with his “regulars”, he’s itching to hear from Coulson again and soon enough, on a semi-foggy night, he thinks sees lights over the water. He reaches for his radio, settles in with a dish of Shepherd’s pie, his stein of coffee, and a content smile as he listens to the breakwater and breeze. “Long time, no see, Loner.” There’s only pinpricks of light, but he’s sure they are Phil’s pinpricks.
Huh. When had the captain of the Triskelion become Phil in his head? He shrugs it off, that’s for his weekly get-together with Nat tomorrow. He can talk to her about that when she comes over to help once-over the entire light to make sure she’s clean and perfect.
“Good fishing in the shallow water,” Phil explains. “Couldn’t lose the opportunity.”
“I get it,” Clint says to the familiar voice. He sips at his coffee and the warmth and caffeine are almost—almost—as comforting as Phil’s voice. He doesn’t know when this happened, but it had, and he’s not going to fight it. Gut instinct says that this is right. He trusts his gut above all else because it told him before when there were boats getting dangerously close to the rocks. He realizes that he’s been over-thinking again and forces a calm and teasing drawl. “Gonna stick around a bit this time?”
Clint hopes for it. Of all the men and women he’s talked to over the radio, he enjoys talking to Phil the most. It’s odd because he’s said so much more to mere acquaintances, but there’s something between them, hiding in the static and silence. He doesn’t notice that he’s been holding his breath until he hears Phil reply.
“Yes,” comes the response from the radio. “I think I will.”
And he does.
Clint goes about his days with repairs and going into town for his errands. Sometimes he runs over to a neighbor light to help fix something when the weather is so clean and clear that he can trust the light to run on her own. He’ll do anything and everything during his day that he needs to do but he’s always home at sundown.
He grabs the radio as soon as he’s in the door. He’ll tidy up and make himself dinner and bring it up to the watchroom to wait. His eyes are out on the water to find Phil. Phil who comes back every night, Phil who has a wonderful laugh and talks with a smile in his voice, Phil who has great stories to share, Phil who will let Clint talk until he’s passed out and resting for the next day’s work, Phil who is quickly becoming someone so very important to Clint. If he could see the lights during the day, he’d always know where Phil is, he’s that close (close not being completely accurate with the benefit of Clint’s eyesight, but if he can see it than it is close enough for him).
As soon as it’s dark enough that Phil’s settled in and likely to be near the radio, Clint reaches out to him. “Good day's catch, loner?” He grown so accustomed to the voice that answers. He listen carefully to Phil speak and he knows that as it gets later and later that man on the water should be sleeping. He feigns a yawn to prompt himself to yawn for real through his story until it gets Phil to chuckle.
“Good night, Hawkeye,” he says, and Clint smiles and pinches himself so he doesn’t mess up when saying, “G’night, Triskelion.” He’ll admit that he tricks Phil into going to sleep when he needs it by pretending to be tired when he’s not. But only to himself in the quiet of his own mind.
On a whole it’s the best three weeks that Clint’s had in a long time. (Natasha threatens to join him on watch one night to meet the infamous Phil Coulson that he won’t shut up about but never goes through with the threats). Clint spends his nights talking with Phil and guarding his waters and his mornings with Natasha telling her all about the brilliant man he can’t keep out of his thoughts.
He treats her to lunch more than once a week during the time that Phil’s hanging around to apologize for talking about him so much. Originally it was just once but then he couldn’t shut up about him after that and soon it just became a thing they did after a particularly long rant.
One night he sends text messages about the upcoming Wickies meeting with Nat and watches the waters although it’s quiet while Phil works. The crackle of the static is almost completely drowned out by the sound of the waves that come through Clint’s thrown open the window. Tonight he’s in the mood to listen to the world around him.
“You there, Lamp?” Phil calls over the radio and Clint’s heart jumps excitedly at his voice. It’s well past midnight, he’s sure, and he’s glad to hear from the man before he retires for the night.
“’m here,” it’s half-mumbled because he’s biting his lip to keep the smile from splitting his face.
“All our salt’s wetted,” he tells him.
“Mmm—wait, what?” Clint’s awake now, paying attention more than usual as his heart sinks. “Already?” Everyone else won’t be finished for at least a couple weeks, maybe longer.
“Just finished,” Phil says, a smile in his voice. “Heading for land tomorrow. Strike in at the Cape, tally the load, then take a vacation.”
He’s still talking to him and already the loneliness is creeping in to settle heavy on his chest. “Vacation, huh?” Of course Phil’d do that. Who doesn’t? He’ll probably be off and away to wherever he’s from and Clint won’t hear from him again for months or possibly longer. The offer of his phone number sticks at the tip of his tongue.
Offering that would change everything. He doesn’t even know what Phil looks like, he doesn’t know more than his voice, his laugh, his boat’s lights, and some stories.
They’re as good as strangers.
“Think I’ve earned it.” Phil is still talking and Clint has to jerk himself back to the present and not his own, pitiful thoughts. “I’m guessing I have three weeks on the next boat from the fleet. Good prices with that kind of head start.”
“Better get going, then.” He can’t put into words how much he hates that he’s just said that. He wants to cling to the airwaves and keep Phil as close as he can. Life just won’t be the same without him.
“Tomorrow. Getting some sleep first. You too. Good night, Hawkeye.”
Clint’s throat feels thick and he can’t reply for a while. Whatever he can say right then, it’s not enough. It can’t be enough. “G’luck, Loner,” he finally says. He wishes he could say anything else, not just good luck, but good night, or maybe even manage a proper goodbye.
He doesn’t want it to be ‘goodbye’.
Time seems to have slowed to a stop. Each day drags on longer than the last with no one to fill his nights. He texts Natasha so much more than before to the point that she starts to run out of texts and has to bump up her limit on her phone. Clint starts to resent his radio for its too-long silences and the crackles that give him hope but it’s never the voice he’s hoping for.
It takes him five days to realize that he has a pilot light burning constantly. It’s just a small flame lit and constantly going, used in the days when it was kerosene and a wick, not a collection of bulbs. He didn’t even know that the old lamp still had gas in it. He’s been using the electric light for years now. He’s about to dampen it and let it die when he realizes... it’s a bit of hope. A light to bring Phil home no matter the condition.
He tends the light after that, checking on it so it’s safe to let it burn while he’s asleep or out running errands. He buys more gas for it and carefully pours it in the tank as he carries the radio around with him. It’s been a week since he last heard Phil’s voice.
At two weeks, an awful Nor’easter blows through and sends a tree through his roof. He’s lucky he had fallen asleep in the watchroom listening for Phil, the branches had speared his favored side of the bed. Luckily, it’s mostly just the roof and some of the wall that’s damaged. His place is old, but it’s built of large, thick beams that hadn’t even so much as splintered at the rough storm’s treatment. On the bright side, he at least has a project to work hard on until he exhausts himself, too tired to think.
It’s nearing three weeks when Clint drags himself from his new bed and into the kitchen for dinner before trailing up the stairs to the watchroom. He eats downstairs for once. There’s no use to rush up the stairs to get to the radio. No one is out there, the fishermen have finished and headed back in to dock in the harbor.
A text message rattles his phone on the table. He checks it and sees that it’s an image from Nat. He zooms in on the writing and discovers a log entry from today from Nat’s log. He checks the time and the weather, wondering why she sent it. Scrolling over he spots “saw the Triskelion clipping at 4 knots toward Gallantry Light.”
His phone clatters to the floor as Clint throws himself toward the spiral stairs. He leaps up them as he yanks himself along with the rails. A blip on the radar and lights out his window makes his heart swell in his chest. He’s damn-near breathless with sudden exertion and excitement when he snatches up the radio. He grabs the microphone with two hands to hold steady and sinks into his chair. Be cool, Barton. “How’s the sailing, loner?”
“It’s been good.” Phil sounds just as amazing as ever and Clint can feel his heart hammering in his chest.
“Yeah?”
“But I think,” he says, “I’m about ready to come ashore.”
“I got a pilot light,” he offers. His eyes flick over to it fondly before locking onto the lights on Phil’s boat. “Been lit ever since you left. C’mon in.” He doesn’t let go of the radio even though Phil has to leave it to bring the Triskelion in to dock. He watches the lights grow larger as he gets closer.
When he can’t stand it any longer, he goes up to the light’s level and out onto the small balcony that runs around it to watch for Phil. It’s settling in to darkness when Phil’s close enough that Gallantry’s light makes his person visible on the deck. Clint’s breath catches and it doesn’t take him a second to decide to do something he’s never done before.
Clint abandons his post as he sprints down to the docks.