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owned_by_a_catSeries: Sane Safe Alive
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Clint/Coulson
Story Summary: Clint is ready to commit murder. Coulson is there when he's needed. That's nothing new. But when Coulson loses his cool, Clint can't help but wonder.
A/N: I can't stop writing for those two, even though I've deliberately not caught up with the movies yet. (Waiting for a long rainy weekend and having the house to myself.) So this series is something I am determined to finish this year... It would be a shame not to after following them so far down their road.
Clint let his eyelids droop for just a moment and sent a prayer of thanks to gods he usually didn’t believe existed. Reason had arrived, just in time to save him. The spark of anger he’d clung to all day faded at the sound of Coulson’s calm voice. Darkness started to edge his vision. He dropped his head and tried to draw a deep breath. The fabric of his tac suit – usually as pliable as a second skin – clung to his torso like a tightly laced corset. A fine sheen of ice covered straps and buckles, making it impossible for him to adjust the fit. He had spent sixteen hours on a roof exposed to freezing winds, with an officious voice ranting in his ear and junior agents making cheap puns about people sitting down on the job while they were forced to walk patrol in the ball-busting cold. He’d been just about ready to commit murder.
Barton?
“Thawing out my vocal cords, sir.”
In your own time, then.
The dry tone spread warmth through his body and dragged a smile from Clint when he hadn’t thought he could smile anymore. Not on this fuckup of an op, anyway. He didn’t question where Coulson had sprung from, just thanked the higher powers that the man always knew when he was needed.
“Targets didn’t show,” he reported when he had finally decided what needed saying and what could wait. “The clowns down there spooked them.”
Coulson’s quiet sigh was drowned out by vociferous denial from a voice Barton detested, though he’d heard it the first time only two days ago. He forced his numb fingers to tighten and raised the bow:
“I have a shot, sir. Call it.”
Negative.
What?! He’s made us wait hours and now you’re here he suddenly has a shot? He’s already impossible to work with and you’re letting him get away with…
Stand down, Agent Cooper.
I’m not having that. Barton’s an arrogant little shit. I’m gonna…
Pete Cooper’s shrill tone reminded Clint of his brother dragging a nail down a chalkboard to make him squirm. It worked, just as it ever had. Agent Cooper clearly despised him, thought him worthless or – even worse – a liability. It wasn’t a comfort that the feeling was mutual. There was little Clint could do about Cooper. But what if Coulson found he agreed with the man’s assessment? If Phil Coulson thought Clint was impossible to work with he could refuse to partner with him. And ops like the current one would become the norm again rather than the exception they’d been over the last couple of years. Clint would be forced to go out with handlers he didn’t trust, who didn’t understand how he worked and who didn’t care.
Clint swallowed past the obstruction in his throat and closed his eyes for a moment. He couldn’t do that again. Not after he’d grown so comfortable working with Coulson. The man never panicked, never yelled, never even raised his voice on comms. He was the steady centre of Clint’s world, the stable point he could lean on. Clint watched over Coulson and had come to accept that Coulson did the same for him.
He couldn’t lose the trust they’d built. Not ever.
Clint was so spun into his painful ruminations that he paid but scant attention to the argument in his ear. Cooper’s voice got louder as the man grew more and more irate. Coulson’s calm tones never changed. But the sudden sound of flesh impacting flesh spoke volumes. As did the welcome silence a moment later.
It’s under control. Come on down.
Barton. Clint – are you alright?
Clint was on his knees beside the waist-high parapet, wondering how he had gotten there. His bow lay on the concrete beside his left knee. He reached up a hand and checked for the quiver.
Clint. Let me hear you.
“I’m here,” Clint answered, surprised to find the words slurring together as if he was drunk. “Trying to...” he drifted off wondering what he had been doing. Something.... His right hand was raised halfway to his face. He must have been... reaching...
The fire escape to the roof suddenly slammed open and a dark shape rushed towards him. Adrenaline burned its way through Clint’s body and he managed to reach the knife sheath at his thigh. Before he could draw, the shape became familiar.
“Barton, are you hurt?”
It was the urgency in Coulson’s voice that roused Clint far enough to comprehend what was happening. He was hypothermic. His body was shutting down. His brain wasn’t processing at speed. Tying a simple knot was now a challenge. Rappelling down to the street was out of the question.
His body flopped, loose and soft, and he slumped against the parapet. “Tricky,” he mumbled, hazily aware of the danger he was in. “Too long...”
“Can you walk?”
Clint shrugged. He neither knew nor cared. The comms was quiet – finally – and he revelled in the peace. He had everything he wanted right here. His bow in his hand and Coulson's calm voice in his ear. He didn’t hurt. He was safe. He was even almost warm.
Then, suddenly, Coulson was yelling.
That had to be a dream.
"Barton, open your eyes! Breathe, man, breathe. Goddammit! BARTON!"
"Barton! Clint - open your eyes. Now!"
Warm and drowsy as he was, Clint really couldn't be bothered. He curled himself into a tighter ball, desperate for the warmth to remain, wishing he could keep sleeping. His brain had other ideas, though. He was waking up, whether he wanted to or not, while Coulson's voice continued to demand he open his eyes, move, wake...
No way, Clint argued, mind still sluggish. Coulson did not sound like that. Not ever.
Curiosity got the better of him. He slitted his eyes open and Phil Coulson's face was right there. The skin beside the deep blue eyes was pinched with tension and worry. The straight brows were drawn tightly together. Coulson's whole face spoke of worry and concern - and it was the most amazing thing Clint had ever seen. For many years, the only person who cared for him had been Natasha, and she didn't show her concern as openly as Phil Coulson was doing right then. Gone was the unflappable handler, the super-efficient agent he'd come to appreciate. The man looking down at him was badly scared. And that was .... fascinating.
"What happened?" Clint tried to move and found himself buried under an avalanche of blankets and sleeping bags. He wasn't wearing a stitch of clothing. And Coulson's legs were tangled with his.
"Thank god you're awake! You almost froze to death." For just a few moments Coulson didn't bother to hide his relief. His forehead touched Clint's shoulder and his words were a soft huff against his cheek. Then he sat up and started to slip from the heap of blankets. "Stay there. Let me get you some tea."
Clint relaxed as soon as Coulson's efficient handler persona returned. This, he could do. There'd be time later to unpick everything else he'd just heard and seen. Or he could consign it to the realm of dreams. Where it undoubtedly belonged.
He was sitting up when Coulson came back with a mug of hot, sweet tea, and reached for it eagerly. "I feel like the fourth day after a three-day pass," he said as he started on the hot brew. "I remember about as much. Fill me in?"
Coulson did, and slowly Clint's memory returned. Along with a spark of the anger. "He didn’t realise, did he? Cooper, I mean. He didn’t realise what I was telling you."
A dismissive shrug was all the answer Coulson had for that. "He's an incompetent fool," he elaborated after a moment, idly rubbing the knuckles of his right hand. "He wasn't listening. He wasn't paying attention. And no, he had no idea how close you were to putting an arrow through him."
"Never thought I see the day," Clint commented softly, when random memories clicked into place and linked together to form... something whose shape and nature he couldn't discern quite yet. He only knew that at the centre of it was calm. A quiet voice that guided and kept him sane, safe and alive. It was a calm that drew him with irresistible force.
Clint Barton had no intention of resisting that draw. Even if it turned out to be the quiet centre of a firestorm.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Clint/Coulson
Story Summary: Clint is ready to commit murder. Coulson is there when he's needed. That's nothing new. But when Coulson loses his cool, Clint can't help but wonder.
A/N: I can't stop writing for those two, even though I've deliberately not caught up with the movies yet. (Waiting for a long rainy weekend and having the house to myself.) So this series is something I am determined to finish this year... It would be a shame not to after following them so far down their road.
Sane
Barton, report.Clint let his eyelids droop for just a moment and sent a prayer of thanks to gods he usually didn’t believe existed. Reason had arrived, just in time to save him. The spark of anger he’d clung to all day faded at the sound of Coulson’s calm voice. Darkness started to edge his vision. He dropped his head and tried to draw a deep breath. The fabric of his tac suit – usually as pliable as a second skin – clung to his torso like a tightly laced corset. A fine sheen of ice covered straps and buckles, making it impossible for him to adjust the fit. He had spent sixteen hours on a roof exposed to freezing winds, with an officious voice ranting in his ear and junior agents making cheap puns about people sitting down on the job while they were forced to walk patrol in the ball-busting cold. He’d been just about ready to commit murder.
Barton?
“Thawing out my vocal cords, sir.”
In your own time, then.
The dry tone spread warmth through his body and dragged a smile from Clint when he hadn’t thought he could smile anymore. Not on this fuckup of an op, anyway. He didn’t question where Coulson had sprung from, just thanked the higher powers that the man always knew when he was needed.
“Targets didn’t show,” he reported when he had finally decided what needed saying and what could wait. “The clowns down there spooked them.”
Coulson’s quiet sigh was drowned out by vociferous denial from a voice Barton detested, though he’d heard it the first time only two days ago. He forced his numb fingers to tighten and raised the bow:
“I have a shot, sir. Call it.”
Negative.
What?! He’s made us wait hours and now you’re here he suddenly has a shot? He’s already impossible to work with and you’re letting him get away with…
Stand down, Agent Cooper.
I’m not having that. Barton’s an arrogant little shit. I’m gonna…
Pete Cooper’s shrill tone reminded Clint of his brother dragging a nail down a chalkboard to make him squirm. It worked, just as it ever had. Agent Cooper clearly despised him, thought him worthless or – even worse – a liability. It wasn’t a comfort that the feeling was mutual. There was little Clint could do about Cooper. But what if Coulson found he agreed with the man’s assessment? If Phil Coulson thought Clint was impossible to work with he could refuse to partner with him. And ops like the current one would become the norm again rather than the exception they’d been over the last couple of years. Clint would be forced to go out with handlers he didn’t trust, who didn’t understand how he worked and who didn’t care.
Clint swallowed past the obstruction in his throat and closed his eyes for a moment. He couldn’t do that again. Not after he’d grown so comfortable working with Coulson. The man never panicked, never yelled, never even raised his voice on comms. He was the steady centre of Clint’s world, the stable point he could lean on. Clint watched over Coulson and had come to accept that Coulson did the same for him.
He couldn’t lose the trust they’d built. Not ever.
Clint was so spun into his painful ruminations that he paid but scant attention to the argument in his ear. Cooper’s voice got louder as the man grew more and more irate. Coulson’s calm tones never changed. But the sudden sound of flesh impacting flesh spoke volumes. As did the welcome silence a moment later.
It’s under control. Come on down.
Safe
Clint found it surprisingly difficult to follow that order. His body barely moved when he told it to. Securing a rappelling line to the edge of the roof became a complex task, almost too difficult to be attempted.Barton. Clint – are you alright?
Clint was on his knees beside the waist-high parapet, wondering how he had gotten there. His bow lay on the concrete beside his left knee. He reached up a hand and checked for the quiver.
Clint. Let me hear you.
“I’m here,” Clint answered, surprised to find the words slurring together as if he was drunk. “Trying to...” he drifted off wondering what he had been doing. Something.... His right hand was raised halfway to his face. He must have been... reaching...
The fire escape to the roof suddenly slammed open and a dark shape rushed towards him. Adrenaline burned its way through Clint’s body and he managed to reach the knife sheath at his thigh. Before he could draw, the shape became familiar.
“Barton, are you hurt?”
It was the urgency in Coulson’s voice that roused Clint far enough to comprehend what was happening. He was hypothermic. His body was shutting down. His brain wasn’t processing at speed. Tying a simple knot was now a challenge. Rappelling down to the street was out of the question.
His body flopped, loose and soft, and he slumped against the parapet. “Tricky,” he mumbled, hazily aware of the danger he was in. “Too long...”
“Can you walk?”
Clint shrugged. He neither knew nor cared. The comms was quiet – finally – and he revelled in the peace. He had everything he wanted right here. His bow in his hand and Coulson's calm voice in his ear. He didn’t hurt. He was safe. He was even almost warm.
Then, suddenly, Coulson was yelling.
That had to be a dream.
"Barton, open your eyes! Breathe, man, breathe. Goddammit! BARTON!"
Alive
Waking up cocooned in warmth was blissful. One of Clint's most cherished dreams, and one he clung to whenever circumstances and his job forced him to endure cold and wet and discomfort. He snuggled closer to the source of the heat, curling his body around it, only to have it jerk away from his touch."Barton! Clint - open your eyes. Now!"
Warm and drowsy as he was, Clint really couldn't be bothered. He curled himself into a tighter ball, desperate for the warmth to remain, wishing he could keep sleeping. His brain had other ideas, though. He was waking up, whether he wanted to or not, while Coulson's voice continued to demand he open his eyes, move, wake...
No way, Clint argued, mind still sluggish. Coulson did not sound like that. Not ever.
Curiosity got the better of him. He slitted his eyes open and Phil Coulson's face was right there. The skin beside the deep blue eyes was pinched with tension and worry. The straight brows were drawn tightly together. Coulson's whole face spoke of worry and concern - and it was the most amazing thing Clint had ever seen. For many years, the only person who cared for him had been Natasha, and she didn't show her concern as openly as Phil Coulson was doing right then. Gone was the unflappable handler, the super-efficient agent he'd come to appreciate. The man looking down at him was badly scared. And that was .... fascinating.
"What happened?" Clint tried to move and found himself buried under an avalanche of blankets and sleeping bags. He wasn't wearing a stitch of clothing. And Coulson's legs were tangled with his.
"Thank god you're awake! You almost froze to death." For just a few moments Coulson didn't bother to hide his relief. His forehead touched Clint's shoulder and his words were a soft huff against his cheek. Then he sat up and started to slip from the heap of blankets. "Stay there. Let me get you some tea."
Clint relaxed as soon as Coulson's efficient handler persona returned. This, he could do. There'd be time later to unpick everything else he'd just heard and seen. Or he could consign it to the realm of dreams. Where it undoubtedly belonged.
He was sitting up when Coulson came back with a mug of hot, sweet tea, and reached for it eagerly. "I feel like the fourth day after a three-day pass," he said as he started on the hot brew. "I remember about as much. Fill me in?"
Coulson did, and slowly Clint's memory returned. Along with a spark of the anger. "He didn’t realise, did he? Cooper, I mean. He didn’t realise what I was telling you."
A dismissive shrug was all the answer Coulson had for that. "He's an incompetent fool," he elaborated after a moment, idly rubbing the knuckles of his right hand. "He wasn't listening. He wasn't paying attention. And no, he had no idea how close you were to putting an arrow through him."
"Never thought I see the day," Clint commented softly, when random memories clicked into place and linked together to form... something whose shape and nature he couldn't discern quite yet. He only knew that at the centre of it was calm. A quiet voice that guided and kept him sane, safe and alive. It was a calm that drew him with irresistible force.
Clint Barton had no intention of resisting that draw. Even if it turned out to be the quiet centre of a firestorm.
