snippet snippety snippet
Today's been full of ups and downs. Started well, went down, then back up. I had a lot of people around, bless twitter for being such a happy place for me at the moment. Work is nothing I can't handle, but it's super busy, and this past few weeks have been draining. For those wondering, I didn't win the Employee of the Month thing - not that I expected to ^_^.
Anyway, as I'm drudging through the middle parts of Cagefighting!Clint, let me show you a little bit of a pretty pivotal scene.
It’s desperate, and it’s stupid, and Clint has no idea what he’s doing, but then he’s ringing the doorbell, and man, does he hope Coulson doesn’t have a 2.5 family and a dog, because if he does, then Clint’s in deep trouble.
A minute later the door is opening and Coulson is looking at Clint owlishly from behind a pair of black thick-framed glasses. “Clint, what are you doing here?”
Clint lets out a shaky breath, closing his eyes for a second, before opening them again. Nope, not a dream, not a nightmare, they’re still there and he’s still doing this. It’s the most idiotic thing he’s done in a while, even counting the fights, because he’s giving Coulson the perfect opportunity to tear him a new one when the last thing he wants is to be judged. But he can’t take care of this himself, and he really needs to take care of it, and Coulson was the first and only person Clint could think of.
“I need your help,” he says, and by way of explanation, turns around, about to lift his hoodie. Coulson gasps even before that, though, because blood has gone through the light grey material of Clint’s hoodie, a long, jagged path down his side.
“The fuck happened to you? Come on, come on in, don’t stay here, come on.” Coulson ushers Clint inside and closes the door behind him, his hands careful on Clint’s shoulders, guiding him towards what Clint guesses is the bathroom. He’s still tired, dizzy, a little nauseous, but the relief he feels at Phil helping him without question is palpable, thrumming into his veins.
“The cage’s had a defect. Think it was a broken nail.” His words are slow, heavy in his mouth; he’s so tired he could lie down right here and sleep for a few days. Phil’s hands direct him to sit, cool against Clint’s heated skin when he touches Clint’s cheeks and neck.
“A broken nail. A broken nail, Clint? Do you even realize?”
Clint shrugs, forcing his eyes to stay open.
AM I KEEPING YOU WANTING MORE? ♥
Anyway, as I'm drudging through the middle parts of Cagefighting!Clint, let me show you a little bit of a pretty pivotal scene.
It’s desperate, and it’s stupid, and Clint has no idea what he’s doing, but then he’s ringing the doorbell, and man, does he hope Coulson doesn’t have a 2.5 family and a dog, because if he does, then Clint’s in deep trouble.
A minute later the door is opening and Coulson is looking at Clint owlishly from behind a pair of black thick-framed glasses. “Clint, what are you doing here?”
Clint lets out a shaky breath, closing his eyes for a second, before opening them again. Nope, not a dream, not a nightmare, they’re still there and he’s still doing this. It’s the most idiotic thing he’s done in a while, even counting the fights, because he’s giving Coulson the perfect opportunity to tear him a new one when the last thing he wants is to be judged. But he can’t take care of this himself, and he really needs to take care of it, and Coulson was the first and only person Clint could think of.
“I need your help,” he says, and by way of explanation, turns around, about to lift his hoodie. Coulson gasps even before that, though, because blood has gone through the light grey material of Clint’s hoodie, a long, jagged path down his side.
“The fuck happened to you? Come on, come on in, don’t stay here, come on.” Coulson ushers Clint inside and closes the door behind him, his hands careful on Clint’s shoulders, guiding him towards what Clint guesses is the bathroom. He’s still tired, dizzy, a little nauseous, but the relief he feels at Phil helping him without question is palpable, thrumming into his veins.
“The cage’s had a defect. Think it was a broken nail.” His words are slow, heavy in his mouth; he’s so tired he could lie down right here and sleep for a few days. Phil’s hands direct him to sit, cool against Clint’s heated skin when he touches Clint’s cheeks and neck.
“A broken nail. A broken nail, Clint? Do you even realize?”
Clint shrugs, forcing his eyes to stay open.
AM I KEEPING YOU WANTING MORE? ♥