[Avengers: Fiction] "A Place in the Future" [Clint/Coulson, G]
Title: A Place in the Future
Prompt: writerverse challenge #14 weekly quick fic #5 prompts “You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.” (The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint Exupery) & ‘the color of valor’
Bonus: historical fiction (Napoleonic War AU!)
Word Count: 1,329
Rating: G
Original/Fandom: Avengers (movie ‘verse-ish)
Pairings: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Summary: Phil is the first mate of Her Majesty’s ship Triskellion, and Clint is a conscripted sailor.
Note(s): originally posted to the writerverse wv_library
A Place in the Future
Lieutenant Phil Coulson, first mate of the Triskellion, hid his surprise behind a carefully-blank face as the constables led a short, rough-looking figure up her gang-plank.
“Sir,” said one of them. “Is Captain Fury aboard?”
“He is ashore,” Coulson replied. “But I have been authorized to speak in his stead.”
“If you say, sir,” said the constable. “We’ve one more for your crew. A convict, sir.”
“Of what crime was he convicted?” the first mate asked.
Coulson listened to the constable’s explanation, how the young man had been arrested as part of a criminal gang led by his older brother. Because he hadn’t actually been caught doing anything illegal, he was given the choice of naval service or hard labor.
He looked the new conscript over, face still blank- he was very young, far younger than Coulson had thought when he’d been marched aboard, thin to the point of looking undernourished, and quite the worse for wear. His eye had been recently blackened, and there were shallow scratches on his bare forearms. His shirt, open at the collar and rolled at the sleeves, seemed too large for him, while his threadbare trousers looked too small, yet there was confidence in his stance as he gazed levelly back at Coulson.
“On behalf of Captain Fury, I accept his conscription,” Coulson said, to the constable, then turned to the young man. “And what name shall I put in the ship’s register?”
“His name-” the policeman began, but Coulson cut in, “Let him answer for himself.”
There was a pause, then his new crewman said, “It’s Barton. Clinton Barton.”
“And how old are you, Barton?”
“Nineteen,” said Barton, promptly.
Coulson looked at him, because underfed or not, this boy could not be more than sixteen, but Barton simply looked back, and at last, the first mate nodded.
“That will be all, Constable,” he said. “Your duty has been fulfilled.”
The policemen nodded respectfully and left.
Coulson held Barton’s gaze for another moment, then said, “This way, Barton. Can you sign your name?”
“Yes,” the young man answered, then hesitated. “I can read, some.”
“Excellent,” Coulson said. “Follow me.”
Captain Fury returned just before they were scheduled to set sail, bearing a set of sealed orders from Her Majesty. He stopped beside Coulson on the deck, watching the new sailors, some convicts, some freemen seeking their fortunes. They stood in a ragged line, as ‘Marius’ Hill bellowed at them- it would be a sight when they were out at sea, and she went back to being Maria.
“So,” Fury said, an amused gleam in his one eye. “Which one is it?”
Coulson’s mask didn’t falter. “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
“Right,” said Fury. He watched for another minute, as Hill set the new sailors to the ropes. “It’s Barton, isn’t it?”
“He has… potential,” Coulson said.
Fury grinned. “I look forward to seeing it.”
Barton had more than just potential. He was the only new hand who made no reaction when Maria appeared on deck after her duty shift, wearing a gown instead of her uniform, and followed her orders with just as much respect once she’d put it back on again. Within a fortnight of their setting sail, he moved about the deck as though he’d been at sea all his life, his footing always sure, and he scaled the ropes as though he had no fear of falling.
He was friendly with all of his shipmates, easy-going enough that he caused no trouble, but self-assured enough that he had none caused against him. But, Coulson noticed, he kept his distance. When he thought no one was looking, the smile slid from his face, replaced with a tired, distant look. He never engaged another man, never initiated contact or conversation, never joining in with the other men when their duties were done and they were given leave to relax.
“Do you not know how to dance, Barton?” he asked, one night, when one of the older hands had brought out his fiddle.
“Do you, sir?” the younger man asked, smiling.
It was the third such night that he’d settled against the rail nearer to Coulson than to his fellow sailors. He was often nearer to Coulson than to anyone else, the first mate realized.
“I know how,” Coulson said. “I am not much good at it, however, and I should like to keep my reputation intact.”
Barton laughed. “The secret is safe with me, sir.”
“And yours?” Coulson asked, without thinking. “The books in your seabag?”
“I…” Barton said, then smiled, wryly. “I should have known you’d spot them, sir.”
“There’s no shame in reading.”
“No,” the younger man agreed, then blurted, “They’re navigation books, sir. I’ve only been reading them on my own time, I swear it! But I want to learn, to earn my place here.”
Coulson frowned. “You already have a place here. You are required to stay for the length of your sentence, but you can choose to stay afterwards.”
“I know,” Barton said, softly. “Hill explained everything. But I… From the moment I came aboard, you’ve treated me like I was worth something, like I had a future. And I want that future, sir, I want to belong here.”
“You do-” Coulson began, when the night watchman shouted, “Sails! Sails to starboard!”
Instantly, everyone was on their feet, running to their posts. Fury raised his spyglass, searching the horizon. “They fly the Hydra flag,” he spat. “All hands to the cannons! Come alongside them, men, full sail!”
Coulson repeated his orders, calling the men to their tasks. Automatically, he tracked Barton, climbing into the rigging, as he watched the others race across the deck.
Soon, the Hydra ship was close enough to see, turned broadside to them and presenting a wide target. Her cannons flashed in the dark, but the Triskellion’s gunners were better shots- nearly all of their shots made their mark, while the enemy was lucky to make contact with one in five.
But one in five caused plenty of damage. Debris flew into the air as they hit, and the Hydra ship continued toward them, still firing. Coulson stayed at the Triskellion’s rail, shouting orders as the deck exploded about him. The enemy closed in, still firing.
“Mr. Coulson, sir, look out!”
He saw the flash of gunpowder, and found himself thrown to the deck, cushioned by something soft that nevertheless knocked the wind from him. Coulson lay still for a moment, stunned, then gasped, “Barton!”
The younger man had jumped from the rigging to pull him out of the way as the cannonball hit, and he struggled to sit up, falling back against the rail. “All right, sir?” he asked, breathless.
There was a streak of crimson on Barton’s white shirt, and when he pulled aside his jacket, there was a jagged piece of wood in his side.
Coulson caught his hand as he made to pull it out. “You’ll just make it worse,” he said. “Hold on, don’t move. We’re turning about, now, the doctor will be on deck any moment.”
Barton shook his head. “Tell him not to bother, sir,” he said, trying to stand, but falling back into the rapidly-expanding slick of blood on the deck. “I can’t-”
“You will,” Coulson said, fiercely. “You will live, Barton, because you are needed here.”
The younger man blinked at him. “Why?”
“Because-” he began, then sighed. “Because I want to see that future, Barton. Clint. I want to share that future with you.”
“Oh,” said Barton, softly, and passed out just as the doctor pulled Coulson away.
*
A year later, Coulson stood on the deck of the Triskellion, ignoring the weight of his new captain’s epaulets and hiding his nervous impatience behind the usual indifferent mask, as the ship sat in dock waiting for the rest of her crew.
“Permission to come aboard?” asked a familiar, warm voice.
He smiled. “Permission granted, Mr. Midshipman Barton.”
THE END
Current Mood:
rainy
Prompt: writerverse challenge #14 weekly quick fic #5 prompts “You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.” (The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint Exupery) & ‘the color of valor’
Bonus: historical fiction (Napoleonic War AU!)
Word Count: 1,329
Rating: G
Original/Fandom: Avengers (movie ‘verse-ish)
Pairings: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Summary: Phil is the first mate of Her Majesty’s ship Triskellion, and Clint is a conscripted sailor.
Note(s): originally posted to the writerverse wv_library
A Place in the Future
Lieutenant Phil Coulson, first mate of the Triskellion, hid his surprise behind a carefully-blank face as the constables led a short, rough-looking figure up her gang-plank.
“Sir,” said one of them. “Is Captain Fury aboard?”
“He is ashore,” Coulson replied. “But I have been authorized to speak in his stead.”
“If you say, sir,” said the constable. “We’ve one more for your crew. A convict, sir.”
“Of what crime was he convicted?” the first mate asked.
Coulson listened to the constable’s explanation, how the young man had been arrested as part of a criminal gang led by his older brother. Because he hadn’t actually been caught doing anything illegal, he was given the choice of naval service or hard labor.
He looked the new conscript over, face still blank- he was very young, far younger than Coulson had thought when he’d been marched aboard, thin to the point of looking undernourished, and quite the worse for wear. His eye had been recently blackened, and there were shallow scratches on his bare forearms. His shirt, open at the collar and rolled at the sleeves, seemed too large for him, while his threadbare trousers looked too small, yet there was confidence in his stance as he gazed levelly back at Coulson.
“On behalf of Captain Fury, I accept his conscription,” Coulson said, to the constable, then turned to the young man. “And what name shall I put in the ship’s register?”
“His name-” the policeman began, but Coulson cut in, “Let him answer for himself.”
There was a pause, then his new crewman said, “It’s Barton. Clinton Barton.”
“And how old are you, Barton?”
“Nineteen,” said Barton, promptly.
Coulson looked at him, because underfed or not, this boy could not be more than sixteen, but Barton simply looked back, and at last, the first mate nodded.
“That will be all, Constable,” he said. “Your duty has been fulfilled.”
The policemen nodded respectfully and left.
Coulson held Barton’s gaze for another moment, then said, “This way, Barton. Can you sign your name?”
“Yes,” the young man answered, then hesitated. “I can read, some.”
“Excellent,” Coulson said. “Follow me.”
Captain Fury returned just before they were scheduled to set sail, bearing a set of sealed orders from Her Majesty. He stopped beside Coulson on the deck, watching the new sailors, some convicts, some freemen seeking their fortunes. They stood in a ragged line, as ‘Marius’ Hill bellowed at them- it would be a sight when they were out at sea, and she went back to being Maria.
“So,” Fury said, an amused gleam in his one eye. “Which one is it?”
Coulson’s mask didn’t falter. “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
“Right,” said Fury. He watched for another minute, as Hill set the new sailors to the ropes. “It’s Barton, isn’t it?”
“He has… potential,” Coulson said.
Fury grinned. “I look forward to seeing it.”
Barton had more than just potential. He was the only new hand who made no reaction when Maria appeared on deck after her duty shift, wearing a gown instead of her uniform, and followed her orders with just as much respect once she’d put it back on again. Within a fortnight of their setting sail, he moved about the deck as though he’d been at sea all his life, his footing always sure, and he scaled the ropes as though he had no fear of falling.
He was friendly with all of his shipmates, easy-going enough that he caused no trouble, but self-assured enough that he had none caused against him. But, Coulson noticed, he kept his distance. When he thought no one was looking, the smile slid from his face, replaced with a tired, distant look. He never engaged another man, never initiated contact or conversation, never joining in with the other men when their duties were done and they were given leave to relax.
“Do you not know how to dance, Barton?” he asked, one night, when one of the older hands had brought out his fiddle.
“Do you, sir?” the younger man asked, smiling.
It was the third such night that he’d settled against the rail nearer to Coulson than to his fellow sailors. He was often nearer to Coulson than to anyone else, the first mate realized.
“I know how,” Coulson said. “I am not much good at it, however, and I should like to keep my reputation intact.”
Barton laughed. “The secret is safe with me, sir.”
“And yours?” Coulson asked, without thinking. “The books in your seabag?”
“I…” Barton said, then smiled, wryly. “I should have known you’d spot them, sir.”
“There’s no shame in reading.”
“No,” the younger man agreed, then blurted, “They’re navigation books, sir. I’ve only been reading them on my own time, I swear it! But I want to learn, to earn my place here.”
Coulson frowned. “You already have a place here. You are required to stay for the length of your sentence, but you can choose to stay afterwards.”
“I know,” Barton said, softly. “Hill explained everything. But I… From the moment I came aboard, you’ve treated me like I was worth something, like I had a future. And I want that future, sir, I want to belong here.”
“You do-” Coulson began, when the night watchman shouted, “Sails! Sails to starboard!”
Instantly, everyone was on their feet, running to their posts. Fury raised his spyglass, searching the horizon. “They fly the Hydra flag,” he spat. “All hands to the cannons! Come alongside them, men, full sail!”
Coulson repeated his orders, calling the men to their tasks. Automatically, he tracked Barton, climbing into the rigging, as he watched the others race across the deck.
Soon, the Hydra ship was close enough to see, turned broadside to them and presenting a wide target. Her cannons flashed in the dark, but the Triskellion’s gunners were better shots- nearly all of their shots made their mark, while the enemy was lucky to make contact with one in five.
But one in five caused plenty of damage. Debris flew into the air as they hit, and the Hydra ship continued toward them, still firing. Coulson stayed at the Triskellion’s rail, shouting orders as the deck exploded about him. The enemy closed in, still firing.
“Mr. Coulson, sir, look out!”
He saw the flash of gunpowder, and found himself thrown to the deck, cushioned by something soft that nevertheless knocked the wind from him. Coulson lay still for a moment, stunned, then gasped, “Barton!”
The younger man had jumped from the rigging to pull him out of the way as the cannonball hit, and he struggled to sit up, falling back against the rail. “All right, sir?” he asked, breathless.
There was a streak of crimson on Barton’s white shirt, and when he pulled aside his jacket, there was a jagged piece of wood in his side.
Coulson caught his hand as he made to pull it out. “You’ll just make it worse,” he said. “Hold on, don’t move. We’re turning about, now, the doctor will be on deck any moment.”
Barton shook his head. “Tell him not to bother, sir,” he said, trying to stand, but falling back into the rapidly-expanding slick of blood on the deck. “I can’t-”
“You will,” Coulson said, fiercely. “You will live, Barton, because you are needed here.”
The younger man blinked at him. “Why?”
“Because-” he began, then sighed. “Because I want to see that future, Barton. Clint. I want to share that future with you.”
“Oh,” said Barton, softly, and passed out just as the doctor pulled Coulson away.
*
A year later, Coulson stood on the deck of the Triskellion, ignoring the weight of his new captain’s epaulets and hiding his nervous impatience behind the usual indifferent mask, as the ship sat in dock waiting for the rest of her crew.
“Permission to come aboard?” asked a familiar, warm voice.
He smiled. “Permission granted, Mr. Midshipman Barton.”
THE END
Current Mood:
rainy