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Drip.
With every raindrop the weight of Clint’s clothes pulled at his calves, making it harder to keep his fingers pressed against the metal railing. Only his grip and sheer determination stood between the sudden death that’d come from of falling thirty-eight floors.
Drip
The muscles of his face strained against the rain as he shifted. His eyes bugged as he tried, in vain, to find the comm unit that had fallen towards the rooftop. Coulson, silent on the other end because this was supposed to be the calm part of the storm - the one that rained water instead of bullets. And he was the best eye in the world but the crumbling remains of the building had been unexpected. He hadn’t even had time to call Coulson and -
Drip.
His arm ached, he didn’t have much time. He thought of his team, knew each of them would take his death differently but each would feel guilty. He thought of Coulson, and he couldn’t, not anymore.
Plop.
He threw his head up against the rain, but the rain disappeared. In its place was a face, and behind that face an umbrella. Coulson. He smirked and Clint had never hated and loved the man more. That was until he asked, “How’s it hanging, Agent?” before offering a hand that Clint seriously considered not taking out of spite.
Plop.
Coulson’s arms were warm around his body, pulling him under the umbrella. “I had it under control, Sir.”
Plop.
“Sure you did, Agent.”
.