Clint has woken up in hospitals four times in his life that he remembers. There was the time his dad used the buckle-end of the belt and Barney wasn't home to stop him. There was the time he got the flu in the orphanage and his temperature started going above 103. There was the time after the Swordsman beat the crap out of him. And now, there's this time, with a bullet in his outer thigh and evidently some malnutrition and sleep deprivation problems.
Of the four, this is the only time someone has been there when he awoke. And sure, it's the guy who shot him, but the man also took him to the hospital-or whatever medical facility he's in-which is more than he can say for the last two people who caused him hospital-worthy injuries.
The man, who is reading what appears to be an InStyle magazine, immediately reaches for the cup at Clint's bedside and feeds him an ice chip. Clint takes it, blinking.
"I'm guessing you don't remember much about our conversation?" the man asks.
Clint sucks on the ice and thinks. When he's swallowed the last of the moisture, he says, "Agent Coulson of SHIELD."
"I have an employee contract all ready for you to sign."
Clint can't say he's surprised: Coulson seems like the type to come prepared. He thinks about arguing undue influence or something else fancy-sounding, but he doesn't like to renege on his word, which he vaguely remembers giving. Clint nods. "'Kay."
Coulson squeezes his shoulder, a bizarrely kind, strangely comforting move, and says, "When you've slept some more.
***
Four months into Clint's probationary period, Coulson finds him. He hasn't seen the senior agent in probably five or six weeks, had kind of figured the guy had unloaded him onto someone else. But Coulson says, "Sorry for the radio silence, unexpected mission."
Clint doesn't ask. He knows it's above his paygrade.
"Have a moment?" Coulson asks.
Clint is just logging extra time on the range, so he nods and follows when Coulson tells him to. They walk to a part of HQ Clint has never seen, into a set of rooms much like a studio apartment. There's a double bed beneath a window and a small kitchen off to the side. There are photos on the wall of people who look similar to Coulson, and covers from old jazz 45s. Nothing fancy, but the place isn't just somewhere to sleep, either.
"Y-you live on base?" The second he's asked the question Clint regrets it. It's none of his business.
"No, but I spend enough time here that I'd prefer it not to feel like a barrack."
Clint nods, turning the words over in his mind. He's been here four months, he intends to stay, but there's not one personal item in his space. He can't remember the last time somewhere felt like a home, like a place he had the right to make his own.
Coulson points to the kitchen counter, where there is a box. "Open it."
Inside there are four different desserts. Clint looks over at Coulson who shrugs. "I know you eat candy bars, and I figured sweets were traditional. I could have done cake, but I wasn't sure what flavor you liked, so I thought variety was the key."
Clint frowns. Traditional? Then it comes to him. "What day is it?"
Coulson doesn't laugh at him, just says softly, "January 27th. Happy birthday."
Clint's pretty sure the last person who remembered his birthday without Clint mentioning it was Clint's mom. Over the past six or so years, he hadn't even bothered marking the date. Clint takes a breath. "I, uh. This all looks good, but I've got no idea what it is."
Coulson approaches. "Let me educate you in the ways of my favorite bakery."
Of the four, this is the only time someone has been there when he awoke. And sure, it's the guy who shot him, but the man also took him to the hospital-or whatever medical facility he's in-which is more than he can say for the last two people who caused him hospital-worthy injuries.
The man, who is reading what appears to be an InStyle magazine, immediately reaches for the cup at Clint's bedside and feeds him an ice chip. Clint takes it, blinking.
"I'm guessing you don't remember much about our conversation?" the man asks.
Clint sucks on the ice and thinks. When he's swallowed the last of the moisture, he says, "Agent Coulson of SHIELD."
"I have an employee contract all ready for you to sign."
Clint can't say he's surprised: Coulson seems like the type to come prepared. He thinks about arguing undue influence or something else fancy-sounding, but he doesn't like to renege on his word, which he vaguely remembers giving. Clint nods. "'Kay."
Coulson squeezes his shoulder, a bizarrely kind, strangely comforting move, and says, "When you've slept some more.
***
Four months into Clint's probationary period, Coulson finds him. He hasn't seen the senior agent in probably five or six weeks, had kind of figured the guy had unloaded him onto someone else. But Coulson says, "Sorry for the radio silence, unexpected mission."
Clint doesn't ask. He knows it's above his paygrade.
"Have a moment?" Coulson asks.
Clint is just logging extra time on the range, so he nods and follows when Coulson tells him to. They walk to a part of HQ Clint has never seen, into a set of rooms much like a studio apartment. There's a double bed beneath a window and a small kitchen off to the side. There are photos on the wall of people who look similar to Coulson, and covers from old jazz 45s. Nothing fancy, but the place isn't just somewhere to sleep, either.
"Y-you live on base?" The second he's asked the question Clint regrets it. It's none of his business.
"No, but I spend enough time here that I'd prefer it not to feel like a barrack."
Clint nods, turning the words over in his mind. He's been here four months, he intends to stay, but there's not one personal item in his space. He can't remember the last time somewhere felt like a home, like a place he had the right to make his own.
Coulson points to the kitchen counter, where there is a box. "Open it."
Inside there are four different desserts. Clint looks over at Coulson who shrugs. "I know you eat candy bars, and I figured sweets were traditional. I could have done cake, but I wasn't sure what flavor you liked, so I thought variety was the key."
Clint frowns. Traditional? Then it comes to him. "What day is it?"
Coulson doesn't laugh at him, just says softly, "January 27th. Happy birthday."
Clint's pretty sure the last person who remembered his birthday without Clint mentioning it was Clint's mom. Over the past six or so years, he hadn't even bothered marking the date. Clint takes a breath. "I, uh. This all looks good, but I've got no idea what it is."
Coulson approaches. "Let me educate you in the ways of my favorite bakery."
Clint is ready to learn.
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I love seeing Clint through your eyes. Coulson, too.
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