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owned_by_a_catRating: PG-13
Pairing: Clint/Coulson
Story Summary: ... and Clint’s alone with a bottle of Jack after a mission gone bad. Natasha, hundreds of miles away, can only do so much to help him face his demons, but then, there’s a knock on the door.
“Good work, Barton. We’ll take it from here.”
Director Fury was waiting on the roof as Clint brought the remains of the team back to SHIELD HQ. The mission had been a disaster and between bad intel, an inexperienced handler and four rookie agents it had gone to hell in a handcart in no time flat. Why Agent Roskoff had needed to set foot outside the barn that served as their command post was anyone’s guess. He hadn’t survived his decision long enough to explain it. Clint had taken command to stave off the ensuing panic, directing the rookies and covering their retreat. They’d made it to the waiting chopper and that’s when the arguments had started.
Clint – strapping himself into the pilot seat and getting the hell out of Dodge – had kept his head down and out of the way of the accusations that flew fast and hard between the junior agents. Just as he was keeping out of the way of the ordered chaos right now. He stood off to the side, blending with the background and keeping his eyes front and centre, while SHIELD personnel rushed this way and that.
Nick Fury found him anyway and Clint braced himself for a tongue lashing. It never came. The man looked him over as if trying to reassure himself that Clint wasn’t an impostor, before he nodded a dismissal.
“Go home, rest. We debrief you when you’re not asleep on your feet.” A broad hand briefly clasped Clint’s shoulder and then the director was gone, following the medical team down the corridor.
Clint didn’t even think to argue. He turned smartly on his heel and left the building before anyone could suggest that he should take the trip down to medical, too. He hailed a cab and was proud that he managed not to fall asleep on the way.
Once he was home, though, sleep was the last thing his mind contemplated. He showered and fixed up the slash in his side. He poured himself two fingers of Jack and downed them in one before pouring some more. He tried to watch some mindless disaster movie... nothing helped settle him. Fury’s words spiralled endlessly like one of those annoying Christmas songs you couldn’t get out of your head for days once you heard three bars. How a mission that ended with four agents wounded and two in body bags could be called good work was beyond him. Had Fury sent him to the brig he could have accepted that. Understood it even. But praise from the Director – rare as unicorns as a rule – for a fuckup?
He had his phone out and was dialling before he checked the time or even thought to calculate time differences. Nat answered anyway.
“Why do I always end up with the rookies?” Clint asked without greeting or explanation, not caring that Nat would be able to hear the pain in his voice.
“Because you do your crazy-ass best to bring them home.”
It wasn’t the answer he had expected to hear. Actually, scratch that. He had no idea what kind of answer he’d expected. Just that this wasn’t it.
“So do you.”
He got just a small chuckle in reply. “Stop worrying and get some sleep,” Natasha said instead. “You’re too worn out to think.”
“I’m too worn out to sleep,” Clint muttered, but he disconnected the call with a quiet, “Thanks, Tasha.”
He never understood how just hearing her voice for a moment could make a difference. Maybe it was the fact that with her he didn’t have to hide, didn’t have to pretend. Wherever his mind took him, she’d been there already. Natasha was the strongest person he knew and she was always willing to share her strength with him.
The brief call had comforted him in an indefinable way, but sleep was still out of the question. Clint knew he was grieving and that coming to terms with two deaths needed time. Time and a lot more Jack. Because right now he couldn’t look at the op and see anything but failure, omissions and mistakes. Couldn’t think about the day’s events without hearing the junior agents bicker and argue and blame each other.
The knock on his door surprised him. He raised his head, realising for the first time that he was slumped in one of his armchairs. Judging by the painful kink in his neck he’d sat there for hours. The clock showed a quarter after one. Surely Fury didn’t want him now?
Before Clint had collected himself enough to make it into the hallway, a key rattled in his lock. Then the door swung wide and Phil Coulson strode in, holding a large bag of Chinese takeaway.
“Here,” he said cheerfully, “I got all your favourites.”
Clint stared at the vision of Coulson in sneakers, jeans and a deep blue sweater. He scrubbed a hand over his face as if the vision would change if he blocked it from his sight for just a moment.
“How did you get here?” he managed finally. “Why did you...?”
“Chopper,” Coulson replied succinctly and headed for the kitchen. “Nat’s too far away to get here before you drowned, so I got creative with the paperwork.”
“Drowned?”
“Uh-hm.” Coulson had a dish towel over his shoulder when he reappeared and plates and cutlery in his hands. “How badly are you hurt?”
“Just a gash. I fixed it.” Clint thought it best to cooperate and let Hurricane Coulson blow through his apartment as if he owned it. It was less exhausting than to start and maintain an argument.
“I’ll see that before you sleep. Now come eat.”
Coulson hadn’t been fibbing. He had brought all Clint’s favourites. And after a few cautious mouthfuls Clint realised that he was ravenous.
“I stuck my head into medical before I came over and your rookies are fine. They asked me to apologise.”
“For?”
Coulson’s smile, had they seen it, would have scared the rookies into the jitters. “Letting you do all the work while they sat and argued over who was to blame.”
Clint shrugged. “They panicked. When it all went to shit they... panicked.”
“They know you saved their lives. And wondered if you’d be prepared to include them in the training you offered to Agents Avent and Franks.”
“That’s just...”
“Something you do in your spare time, I know.” Phil’s voice was gentle. “Both Cecily’s and Tom’s field performance has improved dramatically since you’ve started working with them. And you know how word gets around.”
Clint’s ears and neck heated with the unexpected praise. He wasn’t doing anything special. Just passing on what Nat and Coulson had taught him since they’d become a team.
“Will you do it?”
“If it saves me from having to cart their battered asses back home,” he grumbled. “They were pretty useless.”
“The same could be said about Avent and Franks.”
“No. Never.” The sheer vehemence in his tone caught Clint by surprise. He hadn’t realised how protective he felt about the two young agents. Was that what had brought Coulson to his apartment in the middle of the night? That same need to protect?
“Cecily and Tom were sent out with a self-important git for a handler. They didn’t panic when they were captured. They kept their heads and Franks – not Cooper – was the one who triggered the extract beacon. The four today...,” Clint shrugged.
“Tell me,” Coulson demanded softly. “Nat said something really got to you.”
Clint set his chopsticks down and stared at the table. “When Roskoff and Kentish went down, none of the four on the ground bothered to check on them. I had to threaten them, Coulson. Honest to god, I had to fucking threaten to shoot them. Roskoff died of a bullet to the head. He was beyond saving. But Kentish ... They let him die.”
Clint wanted to shoot something. Tear something apart with his bare hands. Anything to wipe out the image of his brother – walking away while Clint lay in the dirt, hurt and bleeding, abandoned like a piece of trash. Instead, he bowed his head and tried to breathe, will away the helpless anger that burned like acid in his soul but never accomplished anything. “Rob Kentish died while I was stuck on a roof protecting four agents who couldn’t be bothered to help him.”
He fully expected Coulson to talk about hard choices. To tell him to snap out of it. He didn’t expect the arm around his shoulders, the brief hug or the warm palm that settled soothingly across his nape.
“You made sure they got home. You don’t have to train them.”
Clint was silent for a long time. Only deep shaking breaths broke the quiet. Coulson didn’t speak. He kept his palm on Clint’s neck, anchoring him against grief and recriminations. At a quarter after one, when your world fell to pieces, it was comforting to be known.
***
Four Days Later
The four rookies across the desk from Agent Coulson were visibly nervous. And Coulson hadn’t even opened his mouth yet. He didn’t relish his skill to scare junior agents, but he used it ruthlessly when needed. He sat at the head of the conference table, calmly filling out forms and ignoring the men who stood in the centre of the room. He’d done that to Barton once, and the archer hadn’t flinched or shifted his weight for almost three hours. The four agents weren’t nearly as resilient. And Director Fury storming into the room sent their level of discomfort right through the roof.
“Have you told them?” Fury barked as soon as the door had fallen shut behind him.
“I was waiting for you.” Coulson’s voice was mild, almost gentle. A stunning contrast to the anger that radiated from SHIELD’s director.
“Gentlemen, you have two options,” Fury came right to the point. “You can clear your desks and leave. Right now. Or you can train with one of the best agents we have. He won’t go easy on you, but if you survive you’ll be better men, as well as better agents.”
He turned and took notepads and pens from Coulson. “Before you make your choice, I have one more task for you. You will write to Agent Kentish’s parents. Explain to them why their son is not coming home.”
