Fic for sharpiesgal: A Different Kind of Magic (Part 2) | Clint Barton/Phil Coulson | R
Back to Part 1
~~~
"Sir? You do realize the Avengers are on board."
Fury doesn't bother glancing back at Hill. "I'm aware."
"Are you ever going to tell them--"
"I'm not planning on interrupting Agent Barton right now. Once he's finished paying his respects--" His coat makes a rustling, slithery sound as he shrugged.
"With all due respect, sir--"
"If you're going to tell me you don't agree with my decisions in regards to Coulson's medical condition, you've made your point quite clear already."
There is blessed silence for a long moment. "The Avengers need to be able to trust SHIELD, sir."
"And you think they don't."
"Not where you're concerned, sir."
Fury turns to look at her, eyebrow raised, but she only stares back at him implacably. Her expression bears a disturbing resemblance to Coulson's.
"Sir, where the Avengers are concerned, you haven't shot yourself in the foot. You've damn well committed suicide, and someone has to pick up the pieces." A muscle in her jaw twitches. "Phil doesn't count, because as far as they're all concerned -- Phil included -- he's an Avenger."
~~~
Seconds tick away, drops in an endless ocean of time, but they don't have forever. Phil doesn't have forever, and neither does Clint. Tony's eyes flick from Thor to Natasha and Clint to Steve to Bruce and Phil, and doesn't move.
No one does. No one so much as breathes, unwilling to do something, anything, that might break Clint's concentration.
He can see the shift from concern to panic to the dawn of grief, feel it on his own face despite his attempts to hide it. They hadn't known it would be like this, had known less than Clint about how his magic worked, but they knew it was two lives at stake now, two members of their team they stood to lose, and still nothing, no shimmery blur, no color-change to black.
Bruce's swallow, shallow breath and rustle of clothing are loud in the forced silence as he leans over the bed, both hands reaching out to start CPR in a last-ditch attempt to keep Phil alive, keep Clint alive in the face of a magical failure--as if the magic hadn't been a last-ditch attempt in itself--
Bruce's hands never meet the smooth cotton of scrubs, but get lost in thick white fur, his low grunt of surprise lost in Natasha's soft exclamation in Russian, and Tony whips around, reaching out to steady himself on the wall.
Clint's not sleek black panther, but cloud-soft grey, charcoal rosettes, still limp against Natasha, but--
"Bruce?" Tony cuts off his own train of thought.
"Phil's vitals are strong. No sign of injury," and Tony can hear the relief in Bruce's voice, in Steve's sigh, the soft clap of hand to face as he wipes sweat from brow and cheek. "How he wound up as snow leopard--"
"--doesn't matter," Natasha finishes for him. Light sparkles on her cheek as she bends, pressing her lips to the back of the furry head against her chest, nose tucked in her cleavage.
Tony swallows hard, the "he okay?" he offers rough and raw in his throat.
"Asleep or unconscious, don't know which, and don't care because he's alive," Natasha says, interrupting the constant flow of whispered Russian comfort, one arm buried in the fur across Clint's shoulders, holding him in place. The other hand carefully arranges his limbs more comfortably, folding foreleg against her body so his paw rests on her abdomen.
Tony runs a shaking hand over his own face and slides down the wall, uncaring of how it wrinkles his suit. The briefcase armor hits the ground, and he scoots forward awkwardly, half crab-walking, until he's close enough to Natasha to brush shoulders if he leans a few inches. "This okay?" Asking is a formality, they all know it, what with Clint seeking them out for touch, any of them, practically purring under their hands even in his human form.
Natasha nods, and he runs a hand down Clint's spine, over and over, stroking until the feeling in his hand goes fuzzy.
A flick of an ear is the first sign Tony gets of consciousness, and then a half-panicked yowl and rustle of cloth from above. He lets Natasha deal with Clint, looking up to see Steve pinning Phil to the bed with both hands, the "You're safe, sir, we won, you're in medical, please don't panic," drone firm and forceful over the harsh whispers of Natasha's Russian.
There's a few minutes more of struggling, tearing fabric as claws come out but no startled cries of pain, so Tony assumes that Steve has Phil well in hand; for his part, Clint seems content to saturate himself with Natasha's scent, and remains nose-down between her breasts even as his own kneading paws and soft purring rumble betray the fact he's conscious.
"Son of Coul." Everything stops at the heavy weight of power, of dignity in Thor's voice, and Tony looks up to see Steve smile, see Phil raise his head, ears swivelling toward the door Thor's still guarding.
"Good," Steve says then, breaking the silence. "You were badly injured, but you're going to be fine, thanks to Clint. You're just going to have to put up with being on four feet instead of two for a few days."
Phil gives an interrogatory rumble then, half demand, half question.
"Don't give me that look," Tony says, getting what can only be a glare from Phil, the rhythmic appearance and disappearance of the end of a furry tail, and a wry chuckle from Bruce and Steve. "If you can refrain from shredding the linens some more, there's someone who'd like to see you," because Clint's peeled himself away from Natasha, curling over on himself until he's little more than a ball of fur with two legs and a face.
Phil snorts, staring up at Steve until he carefull lifts his hands up in a gesture of surrender.
"It is true, Son of Coul," Thor says. "Clint risked much--" Whatever he had been about to say is interrupted by Clint's grumbling, and Tony watches, helpless to do anything but bury his fingers in the fur between Clint's shoulderblades. "Do not belittle your sacrifice," Thor continues. "You nearly died here but a short time ago."
That gets a sound of distress from Phil, one of the kitten-cries that had become painfully familiar two days before. Phil pushes himself to his feet, unexpectedly clumsy on paws, and manages to turn around, staring down at Clint, who's all but flattened himself on the floor in abject misery.
"Go on, he's waiting for you." Tony nudges at Clint's shoulder, getting a half-hearted clawless swipe at his wrist in answer.
Phil gives another little distress call, one forepaw fishing around below the edge of the bed as if looking for a hold, and it's oh-so-obvious he isn't used to his current form, that the grace Clint's displayed the last couple days while in fur or feathers is practiced and not entirely instinctive.
That sound is enough to make Clint's ears go back and uncoil himself, and then he's on the bed behind Phil.
And Phil whirls on him, proving that the awkwardness was faked; Clint lets out a hiss and then a mutter of complaint.
Tony pushes himself to his feet, unable to see anything but a mound of spotted fur from the floor, and can't suppress a smirk at the sight of Clint submitting to Phil, one huge paw at the back of his neck pinning him down (much as Steve had done to Phil, he imagines) and grooming his face.
"It was a risk any one of us would have taken, sir." Tony manages not to startle at Natasha's statement coming from just behind him. "Clint just happened to be the only one of us with the ability to save you."
"It's true," Bruce continued. "You were on life support -- you weren't breathing on your own, it's been five days."
"We would have been here sooner, but Fury told us you were dead," Steve finished.
Phil freezes, then slowly lets Clint up and turns to stare at Steve wide-eyed, a threatening rumble pitched so low it's almost inaudible.
"Truth, Son of Coul. We did not know of your survival until Clint found you," Thor says.
It's Clint's turn to sound distressed, and Phil turns back to him, nipping his ear sharply.
"Sir, Director Fury is on his way to the morgue," JARVIS says, and Tony touches his earpiece reflexively.
"Guys, our cover's going to be blown in a few minutes. Suit, no suit?" Tony asks with a raised eyebrow, watching as Thor straightens attentively at the door, Steve turning from the bed. "Suit," he says agreeably at Phil's snarl and shrugs out of his jacket, throwing it over the back of a chair. "Natasha?"
She glances down at her bare torso and back up at him pointedly. "Avenger," she says bluntly, crossing braceletted arms over black and red lace.
~~~
It's been long enough not to be too intrusive; if nothing else, Fury can speak with the other Avengers, the ones who didn't know the agents Clint had killed, out in the hall while he waited.
Except--
Except the morgue is dark and empty when he gets there, echoingly silent.
"Hill."
"Yes, sir?"
"What do you see on the morgue security cameras?" Fury already knows the answer to that, knows it down in his gut, vibrating in his bones.
"The Avengers, sir. Shouldn't they be?"
"The morgue is empty, god damnit." His fist stings where he hit the wall, metal unforgiving, but he knows how hard not to hit. This is his ship, after all.
"Far be it for me to say so, sir, but--"
"You told me so," Fury snaps back.
"They wouldn't have to sneak around if you'd been honest with them, sir."
"Like I said, Hill, you told me so. Fury out," and he turns off his comm, unwilling to hear her cough of covered laughter.
~~~
Tension hums through the room, suddenly too small for the Avengers now that Tony's in his armor even if the Hulk hasn't made an appearance. Yet. Steve meets Thor's gaze, hoping -- thankful -- that Allspeak includes body language.
There's a small thump behind him, Phil -- it has to be Phil, Clint wouldn't cede the high ground even if that's just the extra three feet the bed offers -- hopping to the floor, and the whine of Iron Man's repulsors charging, Widow's Bite powering up. Clint's threatening rumble was so low as to be almost inaudible in comparison.
"JARVIS, let him through," Steve says, knowing the AI will hear him, through Iron Man's sensors if nothing else.
It's another minute or two -- time seems to stretch endlessly -- before the door slides open, hissing in its track, and Fury steps through.
No one moves for a split second.
Then--
Clint screams, launching himself off the bed. Steve steps forward, grabbing Fury by the front of his coat and pivoting out of the way, slamming him bodily up against the wall.
"Don't even try it," Steve snaps, leader to leader, Clint hissing and spitting behind him, wrestling with Thor; claws screech against metal.
"I was coming to tell you," Fury bites out, smart enough not to struggle despite the pressure keeping him pinned.
"Too little, too late," Iron Man says in flat monotone. "We found out two days ago, you bastard."
"Phil wasn't expected to survive, I didn't want to get--" Fury stopped as something hit him in the side of his head.
"You know, I'm really glad you made me wear a tux, Tony, cufflinks actually come in handy," Bruce says mildly. "You're a goddamned moron if you think that's going to hold as an excuse, Director."
"Cufflinks, Bruce?" Natasha asks. Steve can hear the raised eyebrow.
"Hulk likes Clint. Enough to know better than to risk hurting him in here," Bruce finishes, tone going from shy pleasure to promise of violence.
"Put me down, Captain," Fury snarls, still not fighting.
"I don't think so, sir," Steve snaps back, making the honorific derogatory. "Don't even think about it," he adds, shifting to block a knee. "Let me know when you're done."
"I am done--"
"I wasn't talking to you." Steve can feel fur pressed against his ankles, shift of muscle, hear tear of leather over Clint's continued fighting with Thor -- and he'll have to thank them both for helping cover Phil's petty revenge later. "I was talking to Phil."
Fury glances down between their bodies; Steve doesn't bother. "Goddamnit, Phil, my coat? Really? Ow! Damnit--"
"Enough, boys," Hill barks out from the open doorway. "Captain, put the Director down. Please."
Steve thinks about it, thinks about ignoring the order until it's not one anymore. "You done?"
Phil lets out a grumbling yowl.
"I don't care whether you're done or not--" Hill says, but Steve's not listening.
He can hear a clawed paw scrape across leather, then feel cheek against his own boot before Phil leaps to the bed again. "Don't try anything," he warns as he lets go, backing up as Fury regains his balance.
"Director, with all due respect, get out."
"Hill--" Fury doesn't even turn to look at her.
"Get the fuck out. I won't ask again." It isn't even a question -- it's all too obvious one word will have Fury thrown out entirely.
"This isn't over," Fury snaps, straightening his collar.
"You'd better hope it's over," Tony says, Iron Man's electronic drone following Fury out the door.
"Satisfied, Captain?" Hill asks, one eyebrow raised.
Steve ignores the question. "Clint, get off of Thor, please. Thanks for the diversion, by the way." He reaches out, scratches at a shoulder and doesn't flinch as Clint uses his outstretched arm to turn and jump to the bed next to Phil. The two rub cheek-to-cheek for a moment before circling in the shredded sheets and lying down, staring at Hill.
"Coulson and Barton, I take it," Hill says, tilting her chin at the pair.
"Gee, I wonder how you came to that conclusion," Tony says acidly, Iron Man mask retracting and collapsing around him; the rest of the suit follows, and he steps out of it absently.
"Honestly? I'm damned grateful that you found out," she snarls. "That Clint -- I'm assuming Clint here -- could save Phil. He's a friend, and Clint's partner, and I've spent the last five days beating my head against a fucking brick wall trying to tell the Director hiding him was a mistake."
"And we've spent the last five days being lied to," Steve shoots back.
"Don't take my word for it." Hill shoves her StarkPad at Tony and waits for him to take it. "Documentation. Memos, email, audio/video. Have JARVIS verify it if you want, I know you hacked the 'carrier, I know he's in our systems."
Tony takes it warily, does--something, flipping through screens, touching his earpiece and shaking his head. "You sound pleased by that possibility."
Hill snorts at the qualification. "I am."
That gets her a sharp look from--everyone. "You're pleased that--" Steve can't figure out how to finish the statement diplomatically.
"Director Fury thinks very ends-justify-the-means. The Council is worse, as you discovered during the invasion. So yes, when you ask me if I'm pleased that someone with the ethics and ability to enforce them sticks a safety valve on our weaponry? I'm going to fucking say so, Captain." Her glare is unwavering. "Like I said, sir, I didn't agree with the decision to lie to you. We're your support, and if you can't trust Fury, I'd hope you could at least trust me."
Steve doesn't know how to answer, doesn't know her well enough to give one.
"I'm sorry it came to this," she says, gesturing toward the furry ball of Phil-and-Clint on the bed. "I'm sorry you had to sneak around to do it."
"Wait," Bruce says. "Safety valve?"
"Why are you doing this?" Tony asks before Hill can answer.
"Because you aren't a soldier," Hill says softly, meeting Tony's gaze.
"Is this the first time you lost a soldier?"
"We are not soldiers."
Steve has to suppress a shudder, a hard swallow in reaction, in remembrance; he can only imagine the kind of self-control it takes for Tony not to break eye contact just to glance his way.
"I know one battle isn't enough to make the six -- seven, sorry, sir -- of you comfortable working as a team. I know there are still things you're still working through from Loki's manipulation, and the Director's hand in things. I may not be able to stop it in the future, but I can promise you right now, I won't knowingly be a part of it. And if you have concerns about information you've been given, I'll give you a straight answer if I have it."
"That's a lot of qualification," Natasha says.
"It's better than Fury will give you. It's the best I can give you without lying, Romanoff." Steve watches Hill glance around the room, meeting everyone's eyes unflinchingly. "I can't give you information I don't have. I'll warn you if I have any suspicion at all about anything, but I'm not the Director. Not yet. Quite frankly," she starts, pausing to take a breath, "I'd rather put my faith in the seven of you than a purely military response."
"Most people would say we are a purely military response," Bruce murmurs.
"Really, Doctor? I don't know what battle you lived through a few days ago, but the one I fought in had the seven of you win a war against your own team, our people, Thor's brother and a gods-be-damned alien army. The only military personnel among you is Rogers, and even that is questionable at this point."
"It's not a rank," Steve snaps.
"You're right, it's not, Rogers. You're outside the military establishment, and for good reason. The same reason Tony got out."
"I got out because my weapons were in the hands of terrorists, and I needed to clean up my mess," Tony hisses.
"And you wonder why I trust you with this planet's nuclear arsenal and not the military or the World Security Council."
Tony's eyes go wide at the unequivocal support and approval; Steve can't blame him, and the more he learns about the man the less he wants to know--the more he needs to know--about Tony's past, about what damaged him so much a backhanded compliment in the middle of an argument would effectively mute him.
"I didn't come here to argue with you or turn myself into another enemy to unite against," Hill says, more calmly. "I came here to thank you for saving Phil. To let you know you have my support, and my permission to put JARVIS anywhere you damn well please, because I don't trust the Council any more than you do," and she directs that to Tony, still white with shock.
"I don't need your permission." Tony's outrage is all but lost in the defensiveness.
"You're right, you don't," Hill says agreeably, taking the wind out of Tony's anger. "I'm not giving it to you, I'm just letting you know I'll run interference when Fury tries to take it out of your hide."
A disgruntled yowl stops anyone else from reacting; Steve guesses it's Clint protesting Phil jumping down from the bed, because he can't see Clint bending enough to claim Hill with a cheek-rub to her thigh-holster, one paw resting on her knee.
"You're welcome." Hill skips the obvious target and bends enough to rest a hand on Phil's shoulder, rather than trying to turn him into an overgrown housecat by going for the obvious ear- or chin-scratch. "Guys, go home. Take Clint and Phil and spoil them rotten. It's not like they haven't earned it. Let me deal with things here."
It's not exactly an order, but it's definitely a suggestion Steve can get behind. He catches everyone's eye and nods, and as soon as Tony slips back into his tux jacket and slacks, Natasha back into her uniform, he ushers them out of the room.
He knows it's long past time they left when Thor watches Clint hesitate after jumping off the bed and scoops him up, draping him over his shoulders like an overly exotic shawl.
Clint doesn't even flinch in protest, just lets his tail curve gently around Thor's upper arm and rubs cheeks before letting his eyes roll shut trustingly.
~~~
The next three days are almost surreal, Clint spending most of it luxuriating in the simple pleasures of being a cat: sprawling out over anyone providing a lap, even if he does make sure they're on the couch or loveseat before demanding attention; getting distracted by anything that moves quickly enough to arouse his current hunting instincts, like Tony fidgeting with a pen (Tony learns not to the third time he winds up on the floor with a hundred fifty pounds of snow leopard standing on his chest -- at least not on purpose -- after that the whole team winds up in the gym at one point or another, being pounced on or throwing things to be pounced on); sleeping, whether curled up with Phil, a furry puddle on his own, or tangled up in sheets with anyone who leaves their door open.
Staring at Tony until he wakes up under the scrutiny, panics and goes flailing off the far side of the bed will never fail to be hilarious.
It almost makes up for the fact that only Phil, who he needs to talk about more than to, and Thor, who won't understand what he needs to talk about on account of being an alien, can understand more than basic things; as much as he would like to pretend, this isn't the feline version of Lassie.
Though being able to rescue someone from a well might be nice at this point.
Phil, on the other hand--
Phil is more like his human self, restrained, dignified where Clint doesn't mind looking like a pleasure-drunk idiot falling over under Natasha's gentle fingers. And definitely letting Clint get away with limiting their communication, letting him wait until they're human again, until Phil can actually pin him down and hold on and keep him from teasing Bruce into letting Hulk out for full-body petting in order to avoid things neither one is willing to face while on four feet.
~~~
Clint only knows it's been three days -- seventy-two hours exactly since he shifted, according to JARVIS -- because JARVIS tells him. And he's paranoid enough about it not having been long enough, about shapeshifting not working for Phil the same way it works for him, to get in a hissing, spitting argument with Thor over it until Tony stops them.
"We don't need to go to SHIELD just for medical support, Clint, just who do you think I am anyways? Stark Industries builds most of the equipment in SHIELD's medical facilities, and the Avengers' infirmary's the first thing I had finished." Tony tapped the reactor. "Let's face it, we're going to need it. A lot. And I'd much rather have medical services available at home rather than have to go to whatever hospital's available, or SHIELD."
Clint sits up on his haunches at that, curling his tail so the end covered his front paws.
"It is a most generous thing to have our own healers, shieldbrother," Thor says, more to Clint than to Tony though the gratitude is there.
"Mrrp." Clint can't help complaining for its own sake, shakes his head, and uncoils himself, crossing the room to nudge at Bruce until he pulls himself out of his chair and laughingly head for the elevator.
"You know I'm not that kind of doctor--" Bruce protests mildly, amused, voice hitching each time Clint headbutts him in the leg.
"I think he'd rather have a 'not that kind of doctor' than someone he doesn't trust." Tony sets his snifter down on the counter. "Okay, okay, everyone downstairs, you too, Agent."
The elevator is crowded, four humans, a demigod and two snow leopards, enough that Clint lets himself be feline one last time and start climbing Thor, enough that he crooks an arm and lets Clint jump up to his shoulders. The ride doesn't last long, almost not long enough to be worth the effort, but it will be weeks before Clint can shift again -- he doesn't know if the others realize that -- and he can't resist.
The infirmary level is large enough to make everyone's eyes go wide, a few startled "Tony!"s getting dismissed offhandedly. It's an entire floor of the Tower, after all, Tony passes it off with, "We need the space, it won't be just the seven of us forever, and if I don't have to settle for hospital standards neither do you. My money, I'll do what I want with it, thanks."
Clint finds it's true, the room Tony shows them to is roughly twice the size of the one Phil had been in on the helicarrier, set up more like a regular bedroom than a hospital room. Once everyone's there, though, it's too crowded, too many people, and all Clint wants to do is crawl under the bed and shiver, scared out of his mind that if this doesn't work--
--Phil could die. For real this time, and it would be his fault, for daring to try the unorthodox.
He couldn't shift back. He couldn't risk it. What if his magic didn't work right?
"Won't it?" Thor asks patiently. "You say your magic works the way you need it to. You say broken bones heal in a matter of but hours, and it has been three days since you both took this form. How much longer need you wait? A week? Your lifetime? Would you waste your tomorrows on fear?"
That's the problem with being a cat, it won't allow Thor to favor words, won't allow them to overlook the reality that body language is still language.
Still, he doesn't need the whole team here. Doesn't need them, if Thor's words be true, and grumbles.
"Very true, my friend. What was necessary then is not now."
Clint mrrps his thanks, ears twitching as he ignores the weak protests as Thor herds everyone else out of the room, telling Bruce to wait outside. Then it's just him and Phil, and this infirmary room he can almost be comfortable in.
~~~
Clint doesn't want to look up, doesn't want to let go of the edge of the chair despite the ache in his knuckles as he hangs on; smell and hearing are muted now, his gear feeling wrong against his skin.
"Clint?"
He can't suppress the flinch, can't stop the gasp that catches in his throat, and then Phil's in front of him, fingers cupping his jaw and making the front of his scrubs gape open.
"'m sorry," he whispers, feeling his throat close up.
"What for?" and Phil sounds like an apology sounds ludicrous, not like he's looking for clarification.
It's enough to make him look up, make him look at Phil, at the worry and understanding and love in his eyes, in the openness of his expression. He can't hold eye contact for long, so many crimes, so many lies and reasons making him forget he's not feline-flexible anymore, trying to twist away.
Phil catches him before he topples the chair, pulls him against warm skin and loose cotton curled together on the floor, whispers soothingly into finger-combed hair.
"'m sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I can't--I'm sorry--" Other words escape his grasp, and it's like being in that fugue state again, Natasha and Steve bracketing him, but it's Phil holding him.
Phil who's warm and alive and peeling Clint out of his armor, unwrapping bandages from around his own chest and guiding Clint's shaking fingers to the tiny silver scars that are all that's left, all that's left of what would have killed a lesser man, a man who hadn't had Clint for a partner and lover.
"I'm here, Clint, I'm here and I'm alive and I love you..."
~~~
Two days go by before Clint's feeling enough at ease in his own skin -- Phil knows him well enough to tell, this is Clint, asset, partner, lover, possibly the one person on the planet Phil is the absolute expert on, after all -- to even attempt a well-earned conversation. They haven't made love yet, haven't done anything more than cuddle, sleep tangled up in each other, press not-quite-chaste kisses to lips and jaw and neck; Clint's been alternating between being unable to let Phil out of his sight and unable to stand being in the same room, and Phil knows the latter is only because JARVIS keeps him monitored well enough that Clint feels secure enough to risk it, secure enough that he'll have enough warning to shift in case Phil--
--in case Phil was wrong, in case Bruce was wrong when he gave Phil a clean bill of health hours after the fact, after Clint had more passed out from terror-fueled exhaustion than fallen asleep.
They're in bed, Clint's head against Phil's chest so he can hear the steady thump-thump of his heartbeat as he has been so often since the shift back, when Phil thinks to try and ask a question, but Clint gets there first.
"I don't. I can't, can't really explain why," he rumbles into Phil's skin. "No one knew. No one. And--and it's not something I can--I'm a universal donor, Phil, it's not something I would do for many, but I--"
"You almost died saving me, it's not something I would expect you to try again." Phil leaves the ever unspoken, because he has more respect for Clint than to ask him to make promises he can't -- won't keep. Not if it's Phil's life in danger again, not if it's Tasha, or Tony, or--
"I don't think you needed two pints," Clint says after a long pause. "I was, I was aware after the first, the second--"
"Thor mentioned the magic works how you need it to."
Clint shrugged. "It's saved my life more than once. It saved yours. I don't know what else--"
"Why didn't you tell me, instead of spending the last ten years trying not to go to medical?"
Clint freezes in place against him, even the hot gust of breath stopping. That's the big question then, that's what Clint's afraid of now.
"Breathe, Clint, I'm not--I'm not blaming you." Phil has to get this right. "The magic, the shapeshifting, the--what you did to save me, what you risked, that's--that's your choice, I'm not mad at you."
The choked laugh almost tickles. "I hear a but in there somewhere."
"Would you just--tell me you need to spend some time in fur instead of going to medical next time? It's not that I don't like coddling you when you get hurt, it's that you'd be hurting when you don't have to. When you have other options."
There's enough silence that Phil gets worried, idly runs his hands up and down Clint's back, through his hair.
"Clint?"
"You do," Clint starts, swallows, then starts again. "You do realize that my shapeshifting is why I've been trying to avoid medical. Right?"
"Yes. You don't have to avoid anymore, is what I'm saying, just tell me, okay? I don't like seeing you hurt."
"I can't shift now anyways." Clint's voice is small, almost a sob caught in his throat.
"What?" Phil hooks two fingers under Clint's chin and tugs until he's looking up at him, Clint's eyes a carefully blank mask. Phil hates it, hates that Clint still feels he has to hide. "Why can't you--"
"My magic works the way I need it to, not the way I want it to, Phil. If I shift, you shift. If I shift on a mission, or after a mission, that means the team doesn't have you to give orders, or help pick up the pieces." The words are bland, dull and monotone.
"Do it. If what you say is true, if it works the way you need it to, then shift. Prove it."
Clint stares at him in shocked disbelief before withdrawing entirely.
"We're at home, in our bed, it smells like us. If I shift with you, the worst that can happen is we'll have to replace a set of linens and maybe the mattress. But I don't think I will," he adds quietly.
"You don't--" Clint cut himself off, eyes flickering away.
You don't know what you're asking, Phil finishes for him silently. Maybe it's selfish, maybe he doesn't understand. But maybe-- "Trust me? Just. Just try." He doesn't add a for me, doesn't reach out to touch, doesn't try to bridge the distance Clint's put between them.
"Try not. Do, or do not. There is no try," Clint whispers into the sheets, bleak and empty, and then there's a blur of skin and fur and the black leopard form the others had told Phil about is getting tangled in the sheets.
Phil lets Clint thrash for a moment, seeing as he apparently has enough control post-shift not to pop his claws. Then-- "Clint."
Clint lets out a small snarl and then freezes, tipping over on his side as his ears swivel toward the sound of Phil's voice.
"See? You're--gorgeous," Phil says, because when isn't he, even coming home half dead from an op, because half dead is still alive, beautifully and gloriously alive. "And I'm still human." The purr under his hands is broken, loud, painful in the pauses Clint takes to swipe that sandpaper-rasp tongue over his wrist, and he is still breathing too fast in panicked relief, but--
"I don't think we shift together if I'm awake." Phil has to smile at Clint's snort of disdain; his expression even in this form clearly reads Duh. Clint doesn't protest, doesn't pull back when Phil drapes an arm over his shoulders, just licks a pink stripe up Phil's throat when he presses his lips to a furry forehead. "You can stay like this tonight, I don't mind--" but there's another blur of fur and skin, and Clint's pushing him over on his back, a comedy of errors as his legs get trapped in the sheets, in the sweatpants twisted around his legs. "Hey, hey--mmph." The rest is lost in Clint's mouth.
"Phil, Phil--" Clint's all hands and desperation, mouthing at his throat and wrestling with his sweats, Phil's.
"I'm here," Phil whispers back, gentle fingers running over Clint's shoulders, feeling muscle pull and flex as Clint strips them of clothing.
Clint's hard and trembling when he sprawls over Phil's chest again, hips grinding a little, not demanding, not yet.
Phil threads fingers through Clint's hair, pulling him back and up and into a kiss, swallowing down his moans. His free hand slides down Clint's back, curving over the swell of his ass and grips hard, getting a full body shudder and answering fingers digging into his hip, his shoulder where Clint is clinging to him like he might disappear. "What do you want?" Phil murmurs in Clint's ear, voice rough. "You want to fuck me, want to go so deep neither of us know what belongs to who? Want to ride me?" His breath catches, and he nips at Clint's ear, getting an answering thrust of hips against him; there's enough precome between them to make it easier, and Phil knows it's only a matter of time. They don't need more than this, more than skin-on-skin and a voice in Clint's ear. "Want to show off all those muscles you only let me touch? Manhandle me, get me at just the riiiight angle so you're all fireworks inside," and the grinding is rhythmic now, a steady push-slide, Clint suppressing his own gasps and grunts only because Phil's words are soft and he doens't want to miss any. "I could blow you, suck you down and swallow everything you have to give me, you know how good I am at that, how much you like it, how much I like it--"
He has to pause, has to breathe through the feel of teeth in his shoulder, and it is teeth, he can feel lips pulled back, hot breath panted into skin, and it hurts, but it's so good, so fucking good. He never thought to wonder these last two days, never thought to ask if Clint had any instinctive holdovers, if there were leftovers from a shift-- "You want me to roll you over and pin you down, take you on all fours with your ass in the air, ride you hard?" His shoulder is going to feel like raw meat in the morning and damned if he cares. "Fuck you raw until you can't help but come all over the sheets and you can't hold yourself up, much less me? Want me to leave you a trembling wreck while I spread you open and eat you out, until you're so sensitive you can't tell whether you want me to stop or want to feel my tongue in you forever?" There's no way he can do any of it, any way he can follow through with his filthy promises, not with Clint pinning him to the sheets-- "I've got enough ties here to serve, I could tie you down and have you at my mercy--" and that's enough, wet heat spilling between them, Clint whining through his teeth, and Phil lets himself follow, a few jerky thrusts of his own hips and all he can manage is a ragged "love you, love you so much, Clint, god," into sweat-damp skin.
Clint's weight is a solid wall of muscled warmth and life, comforting and comfortable even with the sticky mess between them. Phil lets Clint, lets them both pant to a half-doze, Clint nudging and lapping gently at the bitemarks on his shoulder every so often, before squirming a bit, reaching down to snag discarded sweats with a "sorry, just want to--" and wiping them both down. Clint gives a twitch of aborted interest, eyes opening to slits at Phil's huff of amusement. "Go to sleep, Clint, I'll still be here in the morning," he promises, tossing the soiled pants to the floor.
"Love you," Clint murmurs into Phil's neck, and from the wave of heat over his skin, Phil knows Clint's oblivious to the "love you, too" he whispers back.
~~~
Epilogue
"You got me presents? Aww, you shouldn't have," Tony says, not bothering to hide the laughter in his voice.
"Shut up and open your presents like a little kid with some manners, Tony." Steve pokes him in the shoulder, but he's got a huge smile on his face anyways, and why not? It's Tony's birthday.
The public party was typically Tony -- huge, loud, gorgeous women and hot men in abundance, liquor flowing freely and all the big names who want the chance to hobnob with the Avengers, with one of the richest (and smartest) men on the planet.
This one, the one where it's just them and a handful of close friends -- Pepper, Rhodey, Darcy and Jane, of course, and Sitwell and Hill from SHIELD -- is just good food and cake and the bots, free from the workshop for the evening, making a mess as per usual, and all the more meaningful for all that.
It's surprisingly not hard to buy gifts for someone who can afford anything he wants -- the team sticks to things Tony wouldn't think of, things he wouldn't buy himself because they're childish, children's toys, kits he might have been given by an attentive parent (and they know by now that he hadn't had them, and that the end product would be so much more...modern than what's on the box), mechanical models and dioramas that don't require wiring, but a steady hand and the kind of precision it takes to build and maintain the Iron Man armor.
The small, self-published booklet of coupons with things like "Get out of paperwork free" from Coulson and Hill gives Tony the hiccups he laughs so hard.
Clint goes last, and from the looks on several faces -- the Avengers', at least -- it's something they all know about. Clint's nervous as he sets the box down in front of Tony and backs up, one hand hooking the other elbow, and Natasha nudges him in silent support.
"That bad, is it?" Leftover humor and contentment warm Tony's voice, and he's relieved to see some of Clint's anxiety fade with a shrug before he turns his attention to the box.
"Have to wait and see, I guess," Clint says with a ghost of his usual smirk.
Paper falls away under nimble fingers, and Tony freezes, recognizing the insulated cooler, the biohazard labels. "I--Jesus."
"You don't have to--" Clint says quickly, and Tony shoots to his feet, Steve catching his chair before it crashes to the floor behind him.
"No, no you don't, you don't--come here." Tony doesn't let him, closing the distance too fast for Clint to respond and pulls him into a full-body hug. "You--thank you, this is--this is--"
"I have lived for the day when the great Tony Stark is struck speechless." Phil raises his glass in toast.
"Fuck you, Phil," Tony mutters into Clint's shoulder, but he's laughing, and finally, finally Clint's arms are coming up, returning the hug, fierce and strong.
~~~
"Sir? You do realize the Avengers are on board."
Fury doesn't bother glancing back at Hill. "I'm aware."
"Are you ever going to tell them--"
"I'm not planning on interrupting Agent Barton right now. Once he's finished paying his respects--" His coat makes a rustling, slithery sound as he shrugged.
"With all due respect, sir--"
"If you're going to tell me you don't agree with my decisions in regards to Coulson's medical condition, you've made your point quite clear already."
There is blessed silence for a long moment. "The Avengers need to be able to trust SHIELD, sir."
"And you think they don't."
"Not where you're concerned, sir."
Fury turns to look at her, eyebrow raised, but she only stares back at him implacably. Her expression bears a disturbing resemblance to Coulson's.
"Sir, where the Avengers are concerned, you haven't shot yourself in the foot. You've damn well committed suicide, and someone has to pick up the pieces." A muscle in her jaw twitches. "Phil doesn't count, because as far as they're all concerned -- Phil included -- he's an Avenger."
~~~
Seconds tick away, drops in an endless ocean of time, but they don't have forever. Phil doesn't have forever, and neither does Clint. Tony's eyes flick from Thor to Natasha and Clint to Steve to Bruce and Phil, and doesn't move.
No one does. No one so much as breathes, unwilling to do something, anything, that might break Clint's concentration.
He can see the shift from concern to panic to the dawn of grief, feel it on his own face despite his attempts to hide it. They hadn't known it would be like this, had known less than Clint about how his magic worked, but they knew it was two lives at stake now, two members of their team they stood to lose, and still nothing, no shimmery blur, no color-change to black.
Bruce's swallow, shallow breath and rustle of clothing are loud in the forced silence as he leans over the bed, both hands reaching out to start CPR in a last-ditch attempt to keep Phil alive, keep Clint alive in the face of a magical failure--as if the magic hadn't been a last-ditch attempt in itself--
Bruce's hands never meet the smooth cotton of scrubs, but get lost in thick white fur, his low grunt of surprise lost in Natasha's soft exclamation in Russian, and Tony whips around, reaching out to steady himself on the wall.
Clint's not sleek black panther, but cloud-soft grey, charcoal rosettes, still limp against Natasha, but--
"Bruce?" Tony cuts off his own train of thought.
"Phil's vitals are strong. No sign of injury," and Tony can hear the relief in Bruce's voice, in Steve's sigh, the soft clap of hand to face as he wipes sweat from brow and cheek. "How he wound up as snow leopard--"
"--doesn't matter," Natasha finishes for him. Light sparkles on her cheek as she bends, pressing her lips to the back of the furry head against her chest, nose tucked in her cleavage.
Tony swallows hard, the "he okay?" he offers rough and raw in his throat.
"Asleep or unconscious, don't know which, and don't care because he's alive," Natasha says, interrupting the constant flow of whispered Russian comfort, one arm buried in the fur across Clint's shoulders, holding him in place. The other hand carefully arranges his limbs more comfortably, folding foreleg against her body so his paw rests on her abdomen.
Tony runs a shaking hand over his own face and slides down the wall, uncaring of how it wrinkles his suit. The briefcase armor hits the ground, and he scoots forward awkwardly, half crab-walking, until he's close enough to Natasha to brush shoulders if he leans a few inches. "This okay?" Asking is a formality, they all know it, what with Clint seeking them out for touch, any of them, practically purring under their hands even in his human form.
Natasha nods, and he runs a hand down Clint's spine, over and over, stroking until the feeling in his hand goes fuzzy.
A flick of an ear is the first sign Tony gets of consciousness, and then a half-panicked yowl and rustle of cloth from above. He lets Natasha deal with Clint, looking up to see Steve pinning Phil to the bed with both hands, the "You're safe, sir, we won, you're in medical, please don't panic," drone firm and forceful over the harsh whispers of Natasha's Russian.
There's a few minutes more of struggling, tearing fabric as claws come out but no startled cries of pain, so Tony assumes that Steve has Phil well in hand; for his part, Clint seems content to saturate himself with Natasha's scent, and remains nose-down between her breasts even as his own kneading paws and soft purring rumble betray the fact he's conscious.
"Son of Coul." Everything stops at the heavy weight of power, of dignity in Thor's voice, and Tony looks up to see Steve smile, see Phil raise his head, ears swivelling toward the door Thor's still guarding.
"Good," Steve says then, breaking the silence. "You were badly injured, but you're going to be fine, thanks to Clint. You're just going to have to put up with being on four feet instead of two for a few days."
Phil gives an interrogatory rumble then, half demand, half question.
"Don't give me that look," Tony says, getting what can only be a glare from Phil, the rhythmic appearance and disappearance of the end of a furry tail, and a wry chuckle from Bruce and Steve. "If you can refrain from shredding the linens some more, there's someone who'd like to see you," because Clint's peeled himself away from Natasha, curling over on himself until he's little more than a ball of fur with two legs and a face.
Phil snorts, staring up at Steve until he carefull lifts his hands up in a gesture of surrender.
"It is true, Son of Coul," Thor says. "Clint risked much--" Whatever he had been about to say is interrupted by Clint's grumbling, and Tony watches, helpless to do anything but bury his fingers in the fur between Clint's shoulderblades. "Do not belittle your sacrifice," Thor continues. "You nearly died here but a short time ago."
That gets a sound of distress from Phil, one of the kitten-cries that had become painfully familiar two days before. Phil pushes himself to his feet, unexpectedly clumsy on paws, and manages to turn around, staring down at Clint, who's all but flattened himself on the floor in abject misery.
"Go on, he's waiting for you." Tony nudges at Clint's shoulder, getting a half-hearted clawless swipe at his wrist in answer.
Phil gives another little distress call, one forepaw fishing around below the edge of the bed as if looking for a hold, and it's oh-so-obvious he isn't used to his current form, that the grace Clint's displayed the last couple days while in fur or feathers is practiced and not entirely instinctive.
That sound is enough to make Clint's ears go back and uncoil himself, and then he's on the bed behind Phil.
And Phil whirls on him, proving that the awkwardness was faked; Clint lets out a hiss and then a mutter of complaint.
Tony pushes himself to his feet, unable to see anything but a mound of spotted fur from the floor, and can't suppress a smirk at the sight of Clint submitting to Phil, one huge paw at the back of his neck pinning him down (much as Steve had done to Phil, he imagines) and grooming his face.
"It was a risk any one of us would have taken, sir." Tony manages not to startle at Natasha's statement coming from just behind him. "Clint just happened to be the only one of us with the ability to save you."
"It's true," Bruce continued. "You were on life support -- you weren't breathing on your own, it's been five days."
"We would have been here sooner, but Fury told us you were dead," Steve finished.
Phil freezes, then slowly lets Clint up and turns to stare at Steve wide-eyed, a threatening rumble pitched so low it's almost inaudible.
"Truth, Son of Coul. We did not know of your survival until Clint found you," Thor says.
It's Clint's turn to sound distressed, and Phil turns back to him, nipping his ear sharply.
"Sir, Director Fury is on his way to the morgue," JARVIS says, and Tony touches his earpiece reflexively.
"Guys, our cover's going to be blown in a few minutes. Suit, no suit?" Tony asks with a raised eyebrow, watching as Thor straightens attentively at the door, Steve turning from the bed. "Suit," he says agreeably at Phil's snarl and shrugs out of his jacket, throwing it over the back of a chair. "Natasha?"
She glances down at her bare torso and back up at him pointedly. "Avenger," she says bluntly, crossing braceletted arms over black and red lace.
~~~
It's been long enough not to be too intrusive; if nothing else, Fury can speak with the other Avengers, the ones who didn't know the agents Clint had killed, out in the hall while he waited.
Except--
Except the morgue is dark and empty when he gets there, echoingly silent.
"Hill."
"Yes, sir?"
"What do you see on the morgue security cameras?" Fury already knows the answer to that, knows it down in his gut, vibrating in his bones.
"The Avengers, sir. Shouldn't they be?"
"The morgue is empty, god damnit." His fist stings where he hit the wall, metal unforgiving, but he knows how hard not to hit. This is his ship, after all.
"Far be it for me to say so, sir, but--"
"You told me so," Fury snaps back.
"They wouldn't have to sneak around if you'd been honest with them, sir."
"Like I said, Hill, you told me so. Fury out," and he turns off his comm, unwilling to hear her cough of covered laughter.
~~~
Tension hums through the room, suddenly too small for the Avengers now that Tony's in his armor even if the Hulk hasn't made an appearance. Yet. Steve meets Thor's gaze, hoping -- thankful -- that Allspeak includes body language.
There's a small thump behind him, Phil -- it has to be Phil, Clint wouldn't cede the high ground even if that's just the extra three feet the bed offers -- hopping to the floor, and the whine of Iron Man's repulsors charging, Widow's Bite powering up. Clint's threatening rumble was so low as to be almost inaudible in comparison.
"JARVIS, let him through," Steve says, knowing the AI will hear him, through Iron Man's sensors if nothing else.
It's another minute or two -- time seems to stretch endlessly -- before the door slides open, hissing in its track, and Fury steps through.
No one moves for a split second.
Then--
Clint screams, launching himself off the bed. Steve steps forward, grabbing Fury by the front of his coat and pivoting out of the way, slamming him bodily up against the wall.
"Don't even try it," Steve snaps, leader to leader, Clint hissing and spitting behind him, wrestling with Thor; claws screech against metal.
"I was coming to tell you," Fury bites out, smart enough not to struggle despite the pressure keeping him pinned.
"Too little, too late," Iron Man says in flat monotone. "We found out two days ago, you bastard."
"Phil wasn't expected to survive, I didn't want to get--" Fury stopped as something hit him in the side of his head.
"You know, I'm really glad you made me wear a tux, Tony, cufflinks actually come in handy," Bruce says mildly. "You're a goddamned moron if you think that's going to hold as an excuse, Director."
"Cufflinks, Bruce?" Natasha asks. Steve can hear the raised eyebrow.
"Hulk likes Clint. Enough to know better than to risk hurting him in here," Bruce finishes, tone going from shy pleasure to promise of violence.
"Put me down, Captain," Fury snarls, still not fighting.
"I don't think so, sir," Steve snaps back, making the honorific derogatory. "Don't even think about it," he adds, shifting to block a knee. "Let me know when you're done."
"I am done--"
"I wasn't talking to you." Steve can feel fur pressed against his ankles, shift of muscle, hear tear of leather over Clint's continued fighting with Thor -- and he'll have to thank them both for helping cover Phil's petty revenge later. "I was talking to Phil."
Fury glances down between their bodies; Steve doesn't bother. "Goddamnit, Phil, my coat? Really? Ow! Damnit--"
"Enough, boys," Hill barks out from the open doorway. "Captain, put the Director down. Please."
Steve thinks about it, thinks about ignoring the order until it's not one anymore. "You done?"
Phil lets out a grumbling yowl.
"I don't care whether you're done or not--" Hill says, but Steve's not listening.
He can hear a clawed paw scrape across leather, then feel cheek against his own boot before Phil leaps to the bed again. "Don't try anything," he warns as he lets go, backing up as Fury regains his balance.
"Director, with all due respect, get out."
"Hill--" Fury doesn't even turn to look at her.
"Get the fuck out. I won't ask again." It isn't even a question -- it's all too obvious one word will have Fury thrown out entirely.
"This isn't over," Fury snaps, straightening his collar.
"You'd better hope it's over," Tony says, Iron Man's electronic drone following Fury out the door.
"Satisfied, Captain?" Hill asks, one eyebrow raised.
Steve ignores the question. "Clint, get off of Thor, please. Thanks for the diversion, by the way." He reaches out, scratches at a shoulder and doesn't flinch as Clint uses his outstretched arm to turn and jump to the bed next to Phil. The two rub cheek-to-cheek for a moment before circling in the shredded sheets and lying down, staring at Hill.
"Coulson and Barton, I take it," Hill says, tilting her chin at the pair.
"Gee, I wonder how you came to that conclusion," Tony says acidly, Iron Man mask retracting and collapsing around him; the rest of the suit follows, and he steps out of it absently.
"Honestly? I'm damned grateful that you found out," she snarls. "That Clint -- I'm assuming Clint here -- could save Phil. He's a friend, and Clint's partner, and I've spent the last five days beating my head against a fucking brick wall trying to tell the Director hiding him was a mistake."
"And we've spent the last five days being lied to," Steve shoots back.
"Don't take my word for it." Hill shoves her StarkPad at Tony and waits for him to take it. "Documentation. Memos, email, audio/video. Have JARVIS verify it if you want, I know you hacked the 'carrier, I know he's in our systems."
Tony takes it warily, does--something, flipping through screens, touching his earpiece and shaking his head. "You sound pleased by that possibility."
Hill snorts at the qualification. "I am."
That gets her a sharp look from--everyone. "You're pleased that--" Steve can't figure out how to finish the statement diplomatically.
"Director Fury thinks very ends-justify-the-means. The Council is worse, as you discovered during the invasion. So yes, when you ask me if I'm pleased that someone with the ethics and ability to enforce them sticks a safety valve on our weaponry? I'm going to fucking say so, Captain." Her glare is unwavering. "Like I said, sir, I didn't agree with the decision to lie to you. We're your support, and if you can't trust Fury, I'd hope you could at least trust me."
Steve doesn't know how to answer, doesn't know her well enough to give one.
"I'm sorry it came to this," she says, gesturing toward the furry ball of Phil-and-Clint on the bed. "I'm sorry you had to sneak around to do it."
"Wait," Bruce says. "Safety valve?"
"Why are you doing this?" Tony asks before Hill can answer.
"Because you aren't a soldier," Hill says softly, meeting Tony's gaze.
"Is this the first time you lost a soldier?"
"We are not soldiers."
Steve has to suppress a shudder, a hard swallow in reaction, in remembrance; he can only imagine the kind of self-control it takes for Tony not to break eye contact just to glance his way.
"I know one battle isn't enough to make the six -- seven, sorry, sir -- of you comfortable working as a team. I know there are still things you're still working through from Loki's manipulation, and the Director's hand in things. I may not be able to stop it in the future, but I can promise you right now, I won't knowingly be a part of it. And if you have concerns about information you've been given, I'll give you a straight answer if I have it."
"That's a lot of qualification," Natasha says.
"It's better than Fury will give you. It's the best I can give you without lying, Romanoff." Steve watches Hill glance around the room, meeting everyone's eyes unflinchingly. "I can't give you information I don't have. I'll warn you if I have any suspicion at all about anything, but I'm not the Director. Not yet. Quite frankly," she starts, pausing to take a breath, "I'd rather put my faith in the seven of you than a purely military response."
"Most people would say we are a purely military response," Bruce murmurs.
"Really, Doctor? I don't know what battle you lived through a few days ago, but the one I fought in had the seven of you win a war against your own team, our people, Thor's brother and a gods-be-damned alien army. The only military personnel among you is Rogers, and even that is questionable at this point."
"It's not a rank," Steve snaps.
"You're right, it's not, Rogers. You're outside the military establishment, and for good reason. The same reason Tony got out."
"I got out because my weapons were in the hands of terrorists, and I needed to clean up my mess," Tony hisses.
"And you wonder why I trust you with this planet's nuclear arsenal and not the military or the World Security Council."
Tony's eyes go wide at the unequivocal support and approval; Steve can't blame him, and the more he learns about the man the less he wants to know--the more he needs to know--about Tony's past, about what damaged him so much a backhanded compliment in the middle of an argument would effectively mute him.
"I didn't come here to argue with you or turn myself into another enemy to unite against," Hill says, more calmly. "I came here to thank you for saving Phil. To let you know you have my support, and my permission to put JARVIS anywhere you damn well please, because I don't trust the Council any more than you do," and she directs that to Tony, still white with shock.
"I don't need your permission." Tony's outrage is all but lost in the defensiveness.
"You're right, you don't," Hill says agreeably, taking the wind out of Tony's anger. "I'm not giving it to you, I'm just letting you know I'll run interference when Fury tries to take it out of your hide."
A disgruntled yowl stops anyone else from reacting; Steve guesses it's Clint protesting Phil jumping down from the bed, because he can't see Clint bending enough to claim Hill with a cheek-rub to her thigh-holster, one paw resting on her knee.
"You're welcome." Hill skips the obvious target and bends enough to rest a hand on Phil's shoulder, rather than trying to turn him into an overgrown housecat by going for the obvious ear- or chin-scratch. "Guys, go home. Take Clint and Phil and spoil them rotten. It's not like they haven't earned it. Let me deal with things here."
It's not exactly an order, but it's definitely a suggestion Steve can get behind. He catches everyone's eye and nods, and as soon as Tony slips back into his tux jacket and slacks, Natasha back into her uniform, he ushers them out of the room.
He knows it's long past time they left when Thor watches Clint hesitate after jumping off the bed and scoops him up, draping him over his shoulders like an overly exotic shawl.
Clint doesn't even flinch in protest, just lets his tail curve gently around Thor's upper arm and rubs cheeks before letting his eyes roll shut trustingly.
~~~
The next three days are almost surreal, Clint spending most of it luxuriating in the simple pleasures of being a cat: sprawling out over anyone providing a lap, even if he does make sure they're on the couch or loveseat before demanding attention; getting distracted by anything that moves quickly enough to arouse his current hunting instincts, like Tony fidgeting with a pen (Tony learns not to the third time he winds up on the floor with a hundred fifty pounds of snow leopard standing on his chest -- at least not on purpose -- after that the whole team winds up in the gym at one point or another, being pounced on or throwing things to be pounced on); sleeping, whether curled up with Phil, a furry puddle on his own, or tangled up in sheets with anyone who leaves their door open.
Staring at Tony until he wakes up under the scrutiny, panics and goes flailing off the far side of the bed will never fail to be hilarious.
It almost makes up for the fact that only Phil, who he needs to talk about more than to, and Thor, who won't understand what he needs to talk about on account of being an alien, can understand more than basic things; as much as he would like to pretend, this isn't the feline version of Lassie.
Though being able to rescue someone from a well might be nice at this point.
Phil, on the other hand--
Phil is more like his human self, restrained, dignified where Clint doesn't mind looking like a pleasure-drunk idiot falling over under Natasha's gentle fingers. And definitely letting Clint get away with limiting their communication, letting him wait until they're human again, until Phil can actually pin him down and hold on and keep him from teasing Bruce into letting Hulk out for full-body petting in order to avoid things neither one is willing to face while on four feet.
~~~
Clint only knows it's been three days -- seventy-two hours exactly since he shifted, according to JARVIS -- because JARVIS tells him. And he's paranoid enough about it not having been long enough, about shapeshifting not working for Phil the same way it works for him, to get in a hissing, spitting argument with Thor over it until Tony stops them.
"We don't need to go to SHIELD just for medical support, Clint, just who do you think I am anyways? Stark Industries builds most of the equipment in SHIELD's medical facilities, and the Avengers' infirmary's the first thing I had finished." Tony tapped the reactor. "Let's face it, we're going to need it. A lot. And I'd much rather have medical services available at home rather than have to go to whatever hospital's available, or SHIELD."
Clint sits up on his haunches at that, curling his tail so the end covered his front paws.
"It is a most generous thing to have our own healers, shieldbrother," Thor says, more to Clint than to Tony though the gratitude is there.
"Mrrp." Clint can't help complaining for its own sake, shakes his head, and uncoils himself, crossing the room to nudge at Bruce until he pulls himself out of his chair and laughingly head for the elevator.
"You know I'm not that kind of doctor--" Bruce protests mildly, amused, voice hitching each time Clint headbutts him in the leg.
"I think he'd rather have a 'not that kind of doctor' than someone he doesn't trust." Tony sets his snifter down on the counter. "Okay, okay, everyone downstairs, you too, Agent."
The elevator is crowded, four humans, a demigod and two snow leopards, enough that Clint lets himself be feline one last time and start climbing Thor, enough that he crooks an arm and lets Clint jump up to his shoulders. The ride doesn't last long, almost not long enough to be worth the effort, but it will be weeks before Clint can shift again -- he doesn't know if the others realize that -- and he can't resist.
The infirmary level is large enough to make everyone's eyes go wide, a few startled "Tony!"s getting dismissed offhandedly. It's an entire floor of the Tower, after all, Tony passes it off with, "We need the space, it won't be just the seven of us forever, and if I don't have to settle for hospital standards neither do you. My money, I'll do what I want with it, thanks."
Clint finds it's true, the room Tony shows them to is roughly twice the size of the one Phil had been in on the helicarrier, set up more like a regular bedroom than a hospital room. Once everyone's there, though, it's too crowded, too many people, and all Clint wants to do is crawl under the bed and shiver, scared out of his mind that if this doesn't work--
--Phil could die. For real this time, and it would be his fault, for daring to try the unorthodox.
He couldn't shift back. He couldn't risk it. What if his magic didn't work right?
"Won't it?" Thor asks patiently. "You say your magic works the way you need it to. You say broken bones heal in a matter of but hours, and it has been three days since you both took this form. How much longer need you wait? A week? Your lifetime? Would you waste your tomorrows on fear?"
That's the problem with being a cat, it won't allow Thor to favor words, won't allow them to overlook the reality that body language is still language.
Still, he doesn't need the whole team here. Doesn't need them, if Thor's words be true, and grumbles.
"Very true, my friend. What was necessary then is not now."
Clint mrrps his thanks, ears twitching as he ignores the weak protests as Thor herds everyone else out of the room, telling Bruce to wait outside. Then it's just him and Phil, and this infirmary room he can almost be comfortable in.
~~~
Clint doesn't want to look up, doesn't want to let go of the edge of the chair despite the ache in his knuckles as he hangs on; smell and hearing are muted now, his gear feeling wrong against his skin.
"Clint?"
He can't suppress the flinch, can't stop the gasp that catches in his throat, and then Phil's in front of him, fingers cupping his jaw and making the front of his scrubs gape open.
"'m sorry," he whispers, feeling his throat close up.
"What for?" and Phil sounds like an apology sounds ludicrous, not like he's looking for clarification.
It's enough to make him look up, make him look at Phil, at the worry and understanding and love in his eyes, in the openness of his expression. He can't hold eye contact for long, so many crimes, so many lies and reasons making him forget he's not feline-flexible anymore, trying to twist away.
Phil catches him before he topples the chair, pulls him against warm skin and loose cotton curled together on the floor, whispers soothingly into finger-combed hair.
"'m sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I can't--I'm sorry--" Other words escape his grasp, and it's like being in that fugue state again, Natasha and Steve bracketing him, but it's Phil holding him.
Phil who's warm and alive and peeling Clint out of his armor, unwrapping bandages from around his own chest and guiding Clint's shaking fingers to the tiny silver scars that are all that's left, all that's left of what would have killed a lesser man, a man who hadn't had Clint for a partner and lover.
"I'm here, Clint, I'm here and I'm alive and I love you..."
~~~
Two days go by before Clint's feeling enough at ease in his own skin -- Phil knows him well enough to tell, this is Clint, asset, partner, lover, possibly the one person on the planet Phil is the absolute expert on, after all -- to even attempt a well-earned conversation. They haven't made love yet, haven't done anything more than cuddle, sleep tangled up in each other, press not-quite-chaste kisses to lips and jaw and neck; Clint's been alternating between being unable to let Phil out of his sight and unable to stand being in the same room, and Phil knows the latter is only because JARVIS keeps him monitored well enough that Clint feels secure enough to risk it, secure enough that he'll have enough warning to shift in case Phil--
--in case Phil was wrong, in case Bruce was wrong when he gave Phil a clean bill of health hours after the fact, after Clint had more passed out from terror-fueled exhaustion than fallen asleep.
They're in bed, Clint's head against Phil's chest so he can hear the steady thump-thump of his heartbeat as he has been so often since the shift back, when Phil thinks to try and ask a question, but Clint gets there first.
"I don't. I can't, can't really explain why," he rumbles into Phil's skin. "No one knew. No one. And--and it's not something I can--I'm a universal donor, Phil, it's not something I would do for many, but I--"
"You almost died saving me, it's not something I would expect you to try again." Phil leaves the ever unspoken, because he has more respect for Clint than to ask him to make promises he can't -- won't keep. Not if it's Phil's life in danger again, not if it's Tasha, or Tony, or--
"I don't think you needed two pints," Clint says after a long pause. "I was, I was aware after the first, the second--"
"Thor mentioned the magic works how you need it to."
Clint shrugged. "It's saved my life more than once. It saved yours. I don't know what else--"
"Why didn't you tell me, instead of spending the last ten years trying not to go to medical?"
Clint freezes in place against him, even the hot gust of breath stopping. That's the big question then, that's what Clint's afraid of now.
"Breathe, Clint, I'm not--I'm not blaming you." Phil has to get this right. "The magic, the shapeshifting, the--what you did to save me, what you risked, that's--that's your choice, I'm not mad at you."
The choked laugh almost tickles. "I hear a but in there somewhere."
"Would you just--tell me you need to spend some time in fur instead of going to medical next time? It's not that I don't like coddling you when you get hurt, it's that you'd be hurting when you don't have to. When you have other options."
There's enough silence that Phil gets worried, idly runs his hands up and down Clint's back, through his hair.
"Clint?"
"You do," Clint starts, swallows, then starts again. "You do realize that my shapeshifting is why I've been trying to avoid medical. Right?"
"Yes. You don't have to avoid anymore, is what I'm saying, just tell me, okay? I don't like seeing you hurt."
"I can't shift now anyways." Clint's voice is small, almost a sob caught in his throat.
"What?" Phil hooks two fingers under Clint's chin and tugs until he's looking up at him, Clint's eyes a carefully blank mask. Phil hates it, hates that Clint still feels he has to hide. "Why can't you--"
"My magic works the way I need it to, not the way I want it to, Phil. If I shift, you shift. If I shift on a mission, or after a mission, that means the team doesn't have you to give orders, or help pick up the pieces." The words are bland, dull and monotone.
"Do it. If what you say is true, if it works the way you need it to, then shift. Prove it."
Clint stares at him in shocked disbelief before withdrawing entirely.
"We're at home, in our bed, it smells like us. If I shift with you, the worst that can happen is we'll have to replace a set of linens and maybe the mattress. But I don't think I will," he adds quietly.
"You don't--" Clint cut himself off, eyes flickering away.
You don't know what you're asking, Phil finishes for him silently. Maybe it's selfish, maybe he doesn't understand. But maybe-- "Trust me? Just. Just try." He doesn't add a for me, doesn't reach out to touch, doesn't try to bridge the distance Clint's put between them.
"Try not. Do, or do not. There is no try," Clint whispers into the sheets, bleak and empty, and then there's a blur of skin and fur and the black leopard form the others had told Phil about is getting tangled in the sheets.
Phil lets Clint thrash for a moment, seeing as he apparently has enough control post-shift not to pop his claws. Then-- "Clint."
Clint lets out a small snarl and then freezes, tipping over on his side as his ears swivel toward the sound of Phil's voice.
"See? You're--gorgeous," Phil says, because when isn't he, even coming home half dead from an op, because half dead is still alive, beautifully and gloriously alive. "And I'm still human." The purr under his hands is broken, loud, painful in the pauses Clint takes to swipe that sandpaper-rasp tongue over his wrist, and he is still breathing too fast in panicked relief, but--
"I don't think we shift together if I'm awake." Phil has to smile at Clint's snort of disdain; his expression even in this form clearly reads Duh. Clint doesn't protest, doesn't pull back when Phil drapes an arm over his shoulders, just licks a pink stripe up Phil's throat when he presses his lips to a furry forehead. "You can stay like this tonight, I don't mind--" but there's another blur of fur and skin, and Clint's pushing him over on his back, a comedy of errors as his legs get trapped in the sheets, in the sweatpants twisted around his legs. "Hey, hey--mmph." The rest is lost in Clint's mouth.
"Phil, Phil--" Clint's all hands and desperation, mouthing at his throat and wrestling with his sweats, Phil's.
"I'm here," Phil whispers back, gentle fingers running over Clint's shoulders, feeling muscle pull and flex as Clint strips them of clothing.
Clint's hard and trembling when he sprawls over Phil's chest again, hips grinding a little, not demanding, not yet.
Phil threads fingers through Clint's hair, pulling him back and up and into a kiss, swallowing down his moans. His free hand slides down Clint's back, curving over the swell of his ass and grips hard, getting a full body shudder and answering fingers digging into his hip, his shoulder where Clint is clinging to him like he might disappear. "What do you want?" Phil murmurs in Clint's ear, voice rough. "You want to fuck me, want to go so deep neither of us know what belongs to who? Want to ride me?" His breath catches, and he nips at Clint's ear, getting an answering thrust of hips against him; there's enough precome between them to make it easier, and Phil knows it's only a matter of time. They don't need more than this, more than skin-on-skin and a voice in Clint's ear. "Want to show off all those muscles you only let me touch? Manhandle me, get me at just the riiiight angle so you're all fireworks inside," and the grinding is rhythmic now, a steady push-slide, Clint suppressing his own gasps and grunts only because Phil's words are soft and he doens't want to miss any. "I could blow you, suck you down and swallow everything you have to give me, you know how good I am at that, how much you like it, how much I like it--"
He has to pause, has to breathe through the feel of teeth in his shoulder, and it is teeth, he can feel lips pulled back, hot breath panted into skin, and it hurts, but it's so good, so fucking good. He never thought to wonder these last two days, never thought to ask if Clint had any instinctive holdovers, if there were leftovers from a shift-- "You want me to roll you over and pin you down, take you on all fours with your ass in the air, ride you hard?" His shoulder is going to feel like raw meat in the morning and damned if he cares. "Fuck you raw until you can't help but come all over the sheets and you can't hold yourself up, much less me? Want me to leave you a trembling wreck while I spread you open and eat you out, until you're so sensitive you can't tell whether you want me to stop or want to feel my tongue in you forever?" There's no way he can do any of it, any way he can follow through with his filthy promises, not with Clint pinning him to the sheets-- "I've got enough ties here to serve, I could tie you down and have you at my mercy--" and that's enough, wet heat spilling between them, Clint whining through his teeth, and Phil lets himself follow, a few jerky thrusts of his own hips and all he can manage is a ragged "love you, love you so much, Clint, god," into sweat-damp skin.
Clint's weight is a solid wall of muscled warmth and life, comforting and comfortable even with the sticky mess between them. Phil lets Clint, lets them both pant to a half-doze, Clint nudging and lapping gently at the bitemarks on his shoulder every so often, before squirming a bit, reaching down to snag discarded sweats with a "sorry, just want to--" and wiping them both down. Clint gives a twitch of aborted interest, eyes opening to slits at Phil's huff of amusement. "Go to sleep, Clint, I'll still be here in the morning," he promises, tossing the soiled pants to the floor.
"Love you," Clint murmurs into Phil's neck, and from the wave of heat over his skin, Phil knows Clint's oblivious to the "love you, too" he whispers back.
~~~
Epilogue
"You got me presents? Aww, you shouldn't have," Tony says, not bothering to hide the laughter in his voice.
"Shut up and open your presents like a little kid with some manners, Tony." Steve pokes him in the shoulder, but he's got a huge smile on his face anyways, and why not? It's Tony's birthday.
The public party was typically Tony -- huge, loud, gorgeous women and hot men in abundance, liquor flowing freely and all the big names who want the chance to hobnob with the Avengers, with one of the richest (and smartest) men on the planet.
This one, the one where it's just them and a handful of close friends -- Pepper, Rhodey, Darcy and Jane, of course, and Sitwell and Hill from SHIELD -- is just good food and cake and the bots, free from the workshop for the evening, making a mess as per usual, and all the more meaningful for all that.
It's surprisingly not hard to buy gifts for someone who can afford anything he wants -- the team sticks to things Tony wouldn't think of, things he wouldn't buy himself because they're childish, children's toys, kits he might have been given by an attentive parent (and they know by now that he hadn't had them, and that the end product would be so much more...modern than what's on the box), mechanical models and dioramas that don't require wiring, but a steady hand and the kind of precision it takes to build and maintain the Iron Man armor.
The small, self-published booklet of coupons with things like "Get out of paperwork free" from Coulson and Hill gives Tony the hiccups he laughs so hard.
Clint goes last, and from the looks on several faces -- the Avengers', at least -- it's something they all know about. Clint's nervous as he sets the box down in front of Tony and backs up, one hand hooking the other elbow, and Natasha nudges him in silent support.
"That bad, is it?" Leftover humor and contentment warm Tony's voice, and he's relieved to see some of Clint's anxiety fade with a shrug before he turns his attention to the box.
"Have to wait and see, I guess," Clint says with a ghost of his usual smirk.
Paper falls away under nimble fingers, and Tony freezes, recognizing the insulated cooler, the biohazard labels. "I--Jesus."
"You don't have to--" Clint says quickly, and Tony shoots to his feet, Steve catching his chair before it crashes to the floor behind him.
"No, no you don't, you don't--come here." Tony doesn't let him, closing the distance too fast for Clint to respond and pulls him into a full-body hug. "You--thank you, this is--this is--"
"I have lived for the day when the great Tony Stark is struck speechless." Phil raises his glass in toast.
"Fuck you, Phil," Tony mutters into Clint's shoulder, but he's laughing, and finally, finally Clint's arms are coming up, returning the hug, fierce and strong.