Fic Time! Cross Fire 11/11
So, yeah, last part. Thinking of writing a couple of oneshots in this verse maybe, who knows.
Title: Cross Fire 11/11
Pairing: Eventual Clint/Coulson, deep Clint/Coulson/Natasha friendship
Fandom: The Avengers
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 1216
Warning: Not much, wrapping up some ends.
Summary: A mission gone wrong. A confession that Phil Coulson had never prepared himself for. A bond built on trust that Clint Barton believed as shattered as his true feelings for his handler. How could they fix everything that had seemingly been broken between them? Sometimes, it's easier to throw yourself into the cross fire than to walk away.
Epilogue: 9 months later
It was dark.
Clint couldn't hear any sounds to indicate that the hostiles were still around, but that didn't mean he could let his guard down for one second. He could feel the heat in the room rising, his lungs struggling for any oxygen that was being burnt from the air as he gasped ineffectually, trying not to let his panic overwhelm him.
Sometimes, it was the psychological torture that scared him more than the physical. At least you could compartmentalise broken bones, blood and bruises, but when you had all your senses stripped from you, your ability to fight back taken away, that was when the cold sweat would run down your back.
Clint had no idea how long he'd been bound to the table he was on, his wrists chafed and bloody from his struggles against the rope that held him there. The blindfold his capturers had tied around his eyes hadn't moved in his violent attempts to break free, even when he'd been caught in the throes of agony.
He was alone.
He was helpless.
It terrified the hell out of him, flashbacks of Canada assaulting his already disorientated mind and making him feel ill.
He couldn't scream; the capsicum slick gag they'd forced into his mouth made sure of it. He didn't want to scream anyway.
He needed to reserve his energy.
The white hot fire that had been left to blaze in the corner of the room was releasing thick, cloying wisps of smoke that made Clint's chest ache as it stole the breaths he was trying desperately to keep hold of.
His stomach was knotted; his fear and near hysterical anxiety were growing stronger with every slow minute that ticked past.
He needed a distraction.
He needed something.
He needed Phil to hurry his ass up.
Grasping onto the mantra 'Phil is coming, Phil is coming' like it was some kind of lifeline to keep him sane, Clint clenched his eyes shut, taking deep steadying breaths in through his bloodied nose to try and compose himself.
Unaware of the rest of reality that was starting to fast disappear from his clutches, Clint started to weakly hum. It was a different tune to what it used to be; this was one that reminded him of Phil, and as he felt his body reflexively relax at the broken sound, he suddenly heard an explosion of noise coming from somewhere outside the room he was being kept in.
A flicker of hope broached through him, but Clint refused to let himself to lulled into a false sense of security as he renewed his efforts to finish the cracked hum with an urgency pounding in his veins.
He felt his sanity beginning to fray around the edges, his panic throbbing in the pit of stomach, and when the heavy sound of boots on gravel descended on him, Clint could no longer retain that modicum of composure he'd frantically tried to create as he thrashed against his bonds, his skin and chest feeling like it was on fire.
When a hand touched his face, Clint flinched, a whimper escaping him despite his best efforts to hide his weakness. The scrap of fingertips against his stubble disappeared for a moment, before he felt the back of his head lifted.
The blindfold fell from his eyes, and the sudden influx of light that blinded him made the nausea he'd tried to hold back attack him voraciously. As the gag was prised from between his swollen, cracked lips, the sudden deep breath that Clint greedily gulped down was so sharp and so painful that within moments, Clint had rolled onto his side, retching violently as he threw up what little contents there was in his stomach.
A gentle hand appeared at the back of his neck, a thumb rubbing soothing circles into the tense, trembling muscle, and when a bottle of water was eventually pressed to his lips, Clint dared to open his eyes, groaning weakly as the world spun around him.
The dull burn of the rope being cut off of his wrists was barely acknowledged; the sudden coldness of the air was though, and as the smoke cleared, his body shivering uncontrollably against the drop in temperature, Clint could finally see through the haze of lights and fog that had clouded his vision.
Phil smiled at him, his eyes black with what Clint knew from personal experience was a mix of concern, relief and adrenaline as that soothing hand never stopped its anchoring caresses.
"Hey, Phil," Clint slurred heavily, his tone rough and gravelly.
Just forming those two words had taken so much energy out of him, and he felt his eyes drift shut when Phil's thumb trailed up the side of his neck to the edge of his jaw, encouraging him to open his mouth and take another sip of water. The icy liquid was like the nectar of the gods as it soothed his throat, the pain in his chest and lungs settling down into a dull, deep ache.
When he finally managed to open his eyes again, he could see the way that Phil was kneeling on the ground beside him, Natasha stood over the top of him as she steadied Clint's upper body.
Phil leaned in closer to Clint as he let his thumb drift to stroke over the corner of Clint's lips, Clint feeling his entire body melt into Phil's reassuring touch even as he continued to shake.
"Hey Clint, time to take you home I think."
Clint could clearly hear the tremor of nerves and fear that coloured Phil's otherwise strong, authoritative tone as his handler leaned back and started barking out orders at the rest of the Agents that Clint hadn't even noticed were present.
"Reckon you can stand, Barton?" Phil asked him seriously, the professional in him taking over from the concerned lover, and Clint's lips twitched.
"Only if you're holding me, Sir."
Now that Clint was coming down from the wave of panic and adrenaline, the pain that had previously wracked his body beginning to fade into the background, he sounded almost drunk.
Belatedly realising that Phil, or medical, or somebody, must have slipped the good drugs in with his water to make sure that he took them, Clint gave a hoarse hiss when, with the help of Natasha, Tony, and a blur of red, white and blue that he assumed was Steve, he was sat upright, before being pulled onto his feet.
If it wasn't for the hands that reached out to support him, Clint probably would've ended up collapsed into a heap on the floor; as it was, he heard the whoosh of breath the escaped Phil's lungs when he let himself become dead weight against his solid, warm body.
He felt woozy, unsteady and nauseous; he wasn't sure that he could muster up the strength to do something as simple as putting one foot in front of the other. Phil wrapped an arm around his waist, throwing one of Clint's arms across his shoulder as Steve took up position on his other side, supporting him between them.
Clint barely managed to restrain the instinctive flinch that he wanted to give at the feeling of them both plastered so close against his clammy, over sensitised flesh; he felt the way that Phil's knuckles brushed soothingly against his stomach, and Clint let his temple rest against Phil's shoulder, letting out an exhausted sigh.
"Knew… you'd come, Phil," Clint mumbled out beneath his breath, the combination of the drugs, heat and exhaustion obviously blocking out the filter that Clint usually had in place.
He normally wasn't one to get so emotional and open in the field, especially when it came to Phil. In the field, whilst on missions, they had to push aside any inclination of their connection with each other, any feelings that could compromise them; they were both consummate professionals at the end of the day, and whilst they weren't actively hiding their relationship, it wasn't like they were screaming it from the rooftop of SHIELD base either.
Clint couldn't bring himself to care this time though as he felt himself being directed through the maze of corridors to the Medevac jeep awaiting them outside. Apparently, neither could Phil.
Giving a weak, vulnerable smile at the way that Phil sat next to him in the back of the jeep, his hands brushing against every inch of skin that Phil could touch as he pressed a gentle kiss against the side of Clint's head, Clint let out a sigh when Phil pulled him down, his head being pillowed against the wad of material Phil had placed on his thighs.
Belatedly realising that it was Phil's jacket cushioning his face, Clint roughly turned himself over, nuzzling his face comfortingly against Phil's stomach as he felt the tremors coming back full force again, his body tense and aching as he let out a choked whimper that he was too tired to hold back.
Within seconds, the backs of Phil's fingers were stroking tenderly down his cheek, smoothing out the lines of distress and anxiety creasing his face as his other hand laced itself with Clint's, hugging it close to him like an anchor for Clint to hold on to.
"It's okay Clint, I've got you. I promised I wouldn't abandon you. You're safe now."
As Phil's soft, lilting honey tones broke through the fractured images and sensations in Clint's mind, Clint gave a faint smile, the weight of his exhaustion too much to bear as he fell into a fitful sleep, cradled by Phil's protective touches.
Yes, this was safety.
This was where he belonged.
Title: Cross Fire 11/11
Pairing: Eventual Clint/Coulson, deep Clint/Coulson/Natasha friendship
Fandom: The Avengers
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 1216
Warning: Not much, wrapping up some ends.
Summary: A mission gone wrong. A confession that Phil Coulson had never prepared himself for. A bond built on trust that Clint Barton believed as shattered as his true feelings for his handler. How could they fix everything that had seemingly been broken between them? Sometimes, it's easier to throw yourself into the cross fire than to walk away.
Epilogue: 9 months later
It was dark.
Clint couldn't hear any sounds to indicate that the hostiles were still around, but that didn't mean he could let his guard down for one second. He could feel the heat in the room rising, his lungs struggling for any oxygen that was being burnt from the air as he gasped ineffectually, trying not to let his panic overwhelm him.
Sometimes, it was the psychological torture that scared him more than the physical. At least you could compartmentalise broken bones, blood and bruises, but when you had all your senses stripped from you, your ability to fight back taken away, that was when the cold sweat would run down your back.
Clint had no idea how long he'd been bound to the table he was on, his wrists chafed and bloody from his struggles against the rope that held him there. The blindfold his capturers had tied around his eyes hadn't moved in his violent attempts to break free, even when he'd been caught in the throes of agony.
He was alone.
He was helpless.
It terrified the hell out of him, flashbacks of Canada assaulting his already disorientated mind and making him feel ill.
He couldn't scream; the capsicum slick gag they'd forced into his mouth made sure of it. He didn't want to scream anyway.
He needed to reserve his energy.
The white hot fire that had been left to blaze in the corner of the room was releasing thick, cloying wisps of smoke that made Clint's chest ache as it stole the breaths he was trying desperately to keep hold of.
His stomach was knotted; his fear and near hysterical anxiety were growing stronger with every slow minute that ticked past.
He needed a distraction.
He needed something.
He needed Phil to hurry his ass up.
Grasping onto the mantra 'Phil is coming, Phil is coming' like it was some kind of lifeline to keep him sane, Clint clenched his eyes shut, taking deep steadying breaths in through his bloodied nose to try and compose himself.
Unaware of the rest of reality that was starting to fast disappear from his clutches, Clint started to weakly hum. It was a different tune to what it used to be; this was one that reminded him of Phil, and as he felt his body reflexively relax at the broken sound, he suddenly heard an explosion of noise coming from somewhere outside the room he was being kept in.
A flicker of hope broached through him, but Clint refused to let himself to lulled into a false sense of security as he renewed his efforts to finish the cracked hum with an urgency pounding in his veins.
He felt his sanity beginning to fray around the edges, his panic throbbing in the pit of stomach, and when the heavy sound of boots on gravel descended on him, Clint could no longer retain that modicum of composure he'd frantically tried to create as he thrashed against his bonds, his skin and chest feeling like it was on fire.
When a hand touched his face, Clint flinched, a whimper escaping him despite his best efforts to hide his weakness. The scrap of fingertips against his stubble disappeared for a moment, before he felt the back of his head lifted.
The blindfold fell from his eyes, and the sudden influx of light that blinded him made the nausea he'd tried to hold back attack him voraciously. As the gag was prised from between his swollen, cracked lips, the sudden deep breath that Clint greedily gulped down was so sharp and so painful that within moments, Clint had rolled onto his side, retching violently as he threw up what little contents there was in his stomach.
A gentle hand appeared at the back of his neck, a thumb rubbing soothing circles into the tense, trembling muscle, and when a bottle of water was eventually pressed to his lips, Clint dared to open his eyes, groaning weakly as the world spun around him.
The dull burn of the rope being cut off of his wrists was barely acknowledged; the sudden coldness of the air was though, and as the smoke cleared, his body shivering uncontrollably against the drop in temperature, Clint could finally see through the haze of lights and fog that had clouded his vision.
Phil smiled at him, his eyes black with what Clint knew from personal experience was a mix of concern, relief and adrenaline as that soothing hand never stopped its anchoring caresses.
"Hey, Phil," Clint slurred heavily, his tone rough and gravelly.
Just forming those two words had taken so much energy out of him, and he felt his eyes drift shut when Phil's thumb trailed up the side of his neck to the edge of his jaw, encouraging him to open his mouth and take another sip of water. The icy liquid was like the nectar of the gods as it soothed his throat, the pain in his chest and lungs settling down into a dull, deep ache.
When he finally managed to open his eyes again, he could see the way that Phil was kneeling on the ground beside him, Natasha stood over the top of him as she steadied Clint's upper body.
Phil leaned in closer to Clint as he let his thumb drift to stroke over the corner of Clint's lips, Clint feeling his entire body melt into Phil's reassuring touch even as he continued to shake.
"Hey Clint, time to take you home I think."
Clint could clearly hear the tremor of nerves and fear that coloured Phil's otherwise strong, authoritative tone as his handler leaned back and started barking out orders at the rest of the Agents that Clint hadn't even noticed were present.
"Reckon you can stand, Barton?" Phil asked him seriously, the professional in him taking over from the concerned lover, and Clint's lips twitched.
"Only if you're holding me, Sir."
Now that Clint was coming down from the wave of panic and adrenaline, the pain that had previously wracked his body beginning to fade into the background, he sounded almost drunk.
Belatedly realising that Phil, or medical, or somebody, must have slipped the good drugs in with his water to make sure that he took them, Clint gave a hoarse hiss when, with the help of Natasha, Tony, and a blur of red, white and blue that he assumed was Steve, he was sat upright, before being pulled onto his feet.
If it wasn't for the hands that reached out to support him, Clint probably would've ended up collapsed into a heap on the floor; as it was, he heard the whoosh of breath the escaped Phil's lungs when he let himself become dead weight against his solid, warm body.
He felt woozy, unsteady and nauseous; he wasn't sure that he could muster up the strength to do something as simple as putting one foot in front of the other. Phil wrapped an arm around his waist, throwing one of Clint's arms across his shoulder as Steve took up position on his other side, supporting him between them.
Clint barely managed to restrain the instinctive flinch that he wanted to give at the feeling of them both plastered so close against his clammy, over sensitised flesh; he felt the way that Phil's knuckles brushed soothingly against his stomach, and Clint let his temple rest against Phil's shoulder, letting out an exhausted sigh.
"Knew… you'd come, Phil," Clint mumbled out beneath his breath, the combination of the drugs, heat and exhaustion obviously blocking out the filter that Clint usually had in place.
He normally wasn't one to get so emotional and open in the field, especially when it came to Phil. In the field, whilst on missions, they had to push aside any inclination of their connection with each other, any feelings that could compromise them; they were both consummate professionals at the end of the day, and whilst they weren't actively hiding their relationship, it wasn't like they were screaming it from the rooftop of SHIELD base either.
Clint couldn't bring himself to care this time though as he felt himself being directed through the maze of corridors to the Medevac jeep awaiting them outside. Apparently, neither could Phil.
Giving a weak, vulnerable smile at the way that Phil sat next to him in the back of the jeep, his hands brushing against every inch of skin that Phil could touch as he pressed a gentle kiss against the side of Clint's head, Clint let out a sigh when Phil pulled him down, his head being pillowed against the wad of material Phil had placed on his thighs.
Belatedly realising that it was Phil's jacket cushioning his face, Clint roughly turned himself over, nuzzling his face comfortingly against Phil's stomach as he felt the tremors coming back full force again, his body tense and aching as he let out a choked whimper that he was too tired to hold back.
Within seconds, the backs of Phil's fingers were stroking tenderly down his cheek, smoothing out the lines of distress and anxiety creasing his face as his other hand laced itself with Clint's, hugging it close to him like an anchor for Clint to hold on to.
"It's okay Clint, I've got you. I promised I wouldn't abandon you. You're safe now."
As Phil's soft, lilting honey tones broke through the fractured images and sensations in Clint's mind, Clint gave a faint smile, the weight of his exhaustion too much to bear as he fell into a fitful sleep, cradled by Phil's protective touches.
Yes, this was safety.
This was where he belonged.