Round 1
* * * Round 1 is now OPEN to new prompts. * * *
Prompt Post No. 1
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This round will be closed to new prompts for a 24 hour hiatus once it reaches two thousand comments. Fills may still be posted. After another 2000 comments, Round 1 will close. Round 2 will go live one week after this ( Read more... )
Prompt Post No. 1
Please make sure to read the rules.
Click here for flat view.
This round will be closed to new prompts for a 24 hour hiatus once it reaches two thousand comments. Fills may still be posted. After another 2000 comments, Round 1 will close. Round 2 will go live one week after this ( Read more... )
Except, not really, obviously, since he can hear and see everything. He’s pretending to be unconscious because he drew a short straw when they were planning the drill.
And of course they’re doing a drill instead of using the quiet time to catch up on some sleep, or stay in bed for different reasons, or fuck, even go to the fucking movies.
Technically the orders came from Fury, but Clint knows who’s going to sleep on the couch, and it damn right isn’t Fury.
Okay, because one, Fury. No way, and also, fucking scary, and he probably sleeps hanging from the ceiling upside down anyway. Two, because Clint knows Phil and this drill has Phil written all over the meticulously drafted minutes and scenarios beyond C and into D, E, F, and G.
And fine, okay, Phil isn’t sleeping on the couch. Once they finally get home, they won’t even make it as far as the couch, Clint can promise that.
But, back to the important things (not that fucking against the hall wall isn’t important. It really, really is), like the fact that apparently half of the medical staff wants to fuck Phil just about as much as Clint does.
And that’s a lot.
So, unconscious in medical. It’s near the end of the simulation and he put up a good imaginary fight, so he’s fine with the scenario. He even plays it up for the new nurse, sticks his tongue out to the side and plays near-dead. Good times.
It actually seems like a good chance of catching up on some sleep, while he still can, and as the simulated explosions subsided and no one is running along the corridors anymore. He’s near following on that thought when he catches someone mentioning a familiar name.
“Really, have you seen Agent Coulson today? I know you’re partial to the suits, but fuck me, the field uniform is really working for him.”
It’s not that Clint doesn’t agree, but, the fuck?
He lifts his eyelids a little, peering at the people talking suspiciously. He wasn’t mistaken, the voice really belongs to Dr. Stark (no relation), whose unflappability rivals Phil’s. She regularly patches up Captain America, for god’s sake, and she’s the one they call in when Fury needs medical assistance (which Clint supposes means mostly delivering him blood bags. Come on, like you didn’t think about that for at least a second. It’s the coat, and the stare.) She also slaps Tony Stark (no relation) over the head when he overtly flirts with the nurses.
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Hey, you know what’s a deadly combination? Clint and arrows.
He pushes down on the irrational surge of hot jealousy. Tom can’t help seeing what Clint sees, after all.
Except... except. The irrationality rears its ugly head. Clint spent years slowly discovering the man behind the suits and the competence. And sure, both things are extremely sexy (and so is the field uniform, he won’t lie), but there’s also Phil’s patience, the quiet concern, the way he actually cares and worries for all the Avengers even when he threatens some (Stark) with his taser, the way his smiles are rare but always honest, the way his eyes are warm when he looks at Clint...
“Barton, you’re still here? We’re starting on the briefing.”
Speak of the devil. Clint slides off the gurney and shrugs. “Enjoying some peace and quiet. You should try it sometime, sir. Lie down for a while.”
There’s an edge to Phil’s shrug, but his lips quirk almost imperceptibly and he nods. “I’ll take this under advisement, specialist. Now, if you could please follow me,” he adds before turning briefly to the others in the room. “Good job everyone, your briefing will be tomorrow morning, carried out by agent Sitwell. Tom, Captain Rogers was particularly impressed with your actions on deck, he wants you to know,” he adds, offering a rare pat to the man’s arm. Clint could swear he sees Tom sway a little.
“Seriously,” he mutters as he follows Phil out. When he glances over his shoulder, Tom is making a show of fanning himself, to the general amusement of the nurses, who all seem to be flustered. Seriously.
“You okay?” Phil asks, shrugging at Clint’s look. “The fall looked quite real.”
The quiet acknowledgment of worry is not unwelcome. Clint shrugs right back. “I fully commit myself to the performance.”
“I’m aware,” Phil says flatly. He waits for a second, in case Clint wanted to follow it with a punchline.
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They don’t do this at work unless they do.
“So, when you said briefing, you meant...” he drawls, pushing his hips forward. It startles a soft laugh out of Phil, warm air huffed against Clint’s lips before Phil closes the space in a too-short kiss.
“You’re impossible,” Phil tells him. It’s a compliment, really.
So, Clint would like to point out: Clint, one. Tom, zero. Just saying.
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THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I WAS HOPING SOMEONE WOULD WRITE!!!!
I adore this. There are no words to express my love for this fic so far.
Keep on going, please. :)
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I'm so happy you like it, the prompt practically jumped at me and demanded to be written. I just wanted to lurk, for once :D
There'll be more. I'm writing my thesis at the moment and this is an excellent de-stresser ;D
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Thanks for reading :)
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