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The first time it happened in front of Phil, it was in SHIELD's infirmary. Clint was totally held against his will and somebody (Coulson) had the foresight to lock the vents and windows.
It was just a mild wound infection! No biggie! Hell, Clint's had worse with... a lot more things. He just couldn't think quite right... But this was still blowing the situation out of proportion!
Absolutely. Definitely. Everything that ended with an -ely.
"Coulson!" Clint whined. "'S not that bad! 'S just a scratch! A teensy, tiny scratch." You couldn't even see it. Well. If one could ignore the angry red lines and puss coming out of it.
"Barton." It was the no-nonsense voice Coulson liked to use to say I'm exasperated with a slight touch of fondness but don't push it. Which no.
"Really!" Clint persisted, finally getting the buzz that morphine provided. "'S not the worse I've had." The glass still felt sharp in his skin, violent spurts of blood like you'd see in a horror movie flowing down the side of his face. He couldn't hear.
"I wanna bird," Clint muttered. "Maybe a dog... a bird dog." Those things existed, right? 'S like... like... a pelican. Yes. Pelicans definitely had dogs hidden inside them. Only explanation to all the facts.
There was a point he was trying to make... "Morphine can take over the world." Clint wasn't 100% certain, but he was fairly sure that was it.
"I have full confidence that narcotic drugs will bring an end to all of humanity," Coulson replied, deadpan.
Clint opened his eyes (when did he close them exactly) and looked at Coulson approvingly. "That's why you're my favorite."
Coulson just snorted but it was his I'm fond of you but let's just pretend I'm not because I'm a doof. Clint's Phil-Translation might've gotten warped up somewhere, but he and Coulson have totally mastered the silent-y, cool conversation-ness perfected.
"Mm," Clint's eyes closed without him telling them to and his consciousness slipped away like rain.
Phil liked Barton.
He wasn't like any of the other agents, which, most people didn't approve of. At all. Phil Coulson saw past that.
Barton's rules for life weren't conventional and he had an unorthodox childhood but that was what made him such a good agent. Phil tried to explain it to Jasper once, but his friend wasn't hearing it. He tried to feel sorry for him, but really couldn't, because it was Jasper's failure that brought Barton to him.
"Mm," Barton hummed before closing his eyes. Phil could feel his lip curl up at his agent before forcing himself to look down at his paperwork once again.
It wasn't long before Barton started twitching and mumbling in distress. But before Phil could even think of doing something, Barton woke with a jolt. The younger man groaned and looked around blearily.
"Uaagh," Barton moaned, rather incoherently. ".....?"
Phil shook his head before reaching out for the water provided for all patients and offered it to Barton. Barton nodded gratefully, taking several careful sips.
"Coulson..."
"What do you need?" Phil asked, gently.
Clint shrugged, looking helplessly at Phil with big blue-gray eyes. Phil's heart might've non-metaphorically melted.
"I could call the doctor," Phil suggested but stopped as Clint frantically shook his head. He continued on in the most soothing voice he could. "Okay. Just do whatever you need to do, Clint." Trust me.
Clint looked conflicted then nodded and melted back into the covers. He raised up his left arm and settled it on his chest. He hesitantly brought his left hand closer to his mouth and Phil was sure to appear as non-threatening and nonjudgmental as possible.
Finally, Clint sighed and slipped his thumb into his mouth, his forefinger slipping over the crook of his crooked nose as he sucked. Clint relaxed immediately. Phil legit didn't have a heart anymore because it saturated away and poured over this trusting, admittedly adorable man.
Phil Coulson vowed right then to always be there for Clint.
The first time it happened in front of Tasha, was when they were on a mission. Clint was just hit with a non-life threatening native dart (because yes, that was his life) and was completely and 100% delirious.
It wasn't their first mission together, not by any means, but it was the first mission Tasha saw the archer trusting and vulnerable in her presence. They were partners, but they were also emotionally stunted spies.
Spies with trust issues. Go figure.
"R'manov," Clint groaned. "I feel f-fucking... fucking rocked." He snorted. Hah. Rocked. Pebbled. Stoned? Whatever.
"Yes, Barton. I can see that," Romanov replied, straight faced. "Delirious."
"'M not, 'm not del- del... that word."
"Of course not," and that was really all she said after that. Tasha didn't indulge in casual conversation way back when. She absolutely refused to work with anyone without Clint, but that didn't mean she fully trusted him. Clint got that. It was hard his first few years with SHIELD too- he was just glad she had somebody.
Even if that someone was a- he cut his own thoughts off. Nope, not getting into that.
"Do ya think bees are aliens?" Clint muttered. "It totally makes sense right?" Yes definitely. Bees were aliens. Brilliant theory confirmed by Hawkeye.
"And- and..." His brain hurt. This safe house sucked ass. God. If they had to hide from native islanders with fucking darts, they at least deserved... a dog. Yes. Dogs make everything better. Another fantastic theory confirmed by Clint Francis Barton.
Romanov just made a humming noise, not looking up from her book. Which rude.
With a humph, Clint turned away from his partner, muttering something about cats and melted into the ratty excuse for a bed. Cats are just tiny Romanovs, he decided at last before falling into the black.
Natalia Romanova died when she left the Red Room and all that was left of Natalia was red. Red in a ledger that was up to Natasha Romanov to empty.
Natasha owed Barton everything. He gave her a home within SHIELD and never pushed her. He gave her room to grow into something that fit agent and friend instead of cold blooded assassin. He gave her compassion.
It killed her to see the man who did all this for her without thought so vulnerable and hurt. It made her seethe and want to curse said man.
Clint Barton with the sad, old eyes. Clint Barton who was only twenty six.
There were rumors within SHIELD. About Barton. Natasha heard them all.
Hawkeye sleeps with all his superiors, that's how he's level 4. Hawkeye is a carnie. Hawkeye is stupid. Hawkeye didn't even finish the 5th grade. Hawkeye is a fluke. Hawkeye is a huge fucking baby.
Hawkeye... Hawkeye... Hawkeye...
The book Natasha held in her hands was a Warriors book. Barton insisted. Something about the series suiting her. It was about cats?
She was mid-chapter when she heard a whimpering noise coming from the bed. Natasha set the book down and crept to the sound.
It wasn't unusual for delirium patients to suffer from nightmares. That didn't make it any less pleasant.
"Barton," she murmured. "You're all right. You're here with me, Natasha. We're in a safe house."
It didn't seem to work, but Natasha wasn't surprised. With fingers that twitched minutely, she reached over and laid her hand delicately against her partner's shoulder.
"Clint."
Hawkeye shifted and the whimpering stopped. He settled in a fetal position and raised a fist to his cheek. Natasha stared as his thumb slipped into his mouth.
Clint looked... he looked almost innocent. Natasha had seen what this SHIELD agent could do and... he wasn't by any means innocent. But just looking at him...
Natasha Romanov vowed that day to forever protect this silly dumbass with her life.
It wasn't unusual to find Tasha or Phil at Clint's place during the weekend. Or anytime any of them could find free time, really.
They were watching a movie adaptation from the Captain America comics. Phil was a complete dork and he wasn't afraid to admit it. Still, Clint couldn't deny that the leading actor- some guy named Chris Evans- was very aesthetically pleasing.
Tasha was curled up on his right side, her feet tucked under Clint's thighs and Phil say on his left, arms wrapped around his cappillow. Natasha was dressed in one of Clint's shirts and her own pajama bottoms and Phil wore a soft knitted sweater with sweatpants.
Clint himself was in purple footie pajamas. Which awesome.
"The Red Skull is the perfect depiction from the comics," Phil informed them. "He doesn't look realistic at all. Which is why I appreciate this adaptation."
Clint wasn't really paying attention. He focused on the warmth his friends emitted and lolled his head onto Phil's shoulder. His left hand was stroking the material on Phil's shirt and he was resisting the urge to- (what was wrong with him).
It wasn't as though Phil or Tasha cared that he still sucked his thumb, they've seen him do it dozens of times. But it still didn't make it any less humiliating.
He was a grown ass man and there was other grown ass ways to draw comfort from dammit!
There was a hand on his knee and he instinctively knew it to be Tasha's. He glanced at her and quirked a smile. Tasha raised an eyebrow, not deceived, and squeezed his leg. Another hand joined onto his other knee and squeezed reassuringly.
That was all that was needed, really. Clint turned his attention to the tv and allowed his hand to creep up to his face. The soothing bob as he sucked lulled him to a doze.
Clint Barton never felt more safe.
...
New Mexico changed everything.