Fic: Blood in the Rain (1/1) Gen
Title: Blood in the Rain
Fandom: Avengers/Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, really, though I maintain it's Clint/Phil in my head, though not overtly in the fic
Characters: Phil Coulson, Clint Barton
Warnings: Mental Health Issues
Word count: 1061
Rating: PG-13? Do we still using the movie ratings or am I so outdated it's not even funny?
Note: Thanks to
lapillus for the beta.
The fic was the result of a dream that sent me on a meandering thought process pre-coffee and it ended up like this.
Summary:
It's been two years since Clint was diagnosed.
Blood in the Rain
by Epeeblade
The rain hit the ground with a rat a tat tat and the words spattered across the pavement. Kill Kill Kill was written in red swirls that pooled in the streets and no matter how far he walked or ran it follow follow followed him.
The liars had to die. He knew that as truth, but his fingers itched for a bow but the voices wouldn't let him have the bow.
So instead he climbed - needed to be high - with his gun at his side and the aim in his sights. There was a woman who needed to die. She lied with her mouth with every word she spoke and he knew knew knew it was time to make the shot.
The bullet bloomed across the air, and pierced his mark spinning and spinning until all was still.
Time to come in, Barton.
Time to come in.
Time.
He couldn't let them see him, the boys in blue. They wouldn’t understand. They believed the lies. But if they saw him, it was okay, it was all right. He'd just tell them about the voices in the rain.
There was a man with kind blue eyes. There was a hand on his arm, fingers gripping tight. There were stairs and they smelled, of odor pressing bite. There was a key and a door and then they were safe, because the rain was outside and they weren't.
"Barton. When was the last time you had a shower?"
He shook his head. No, not even for the man with the kind blue eyes. "The water tells me to kill. I don't want to."
But he did, every time. He followed orders. Killed the liars.
"Barton, stay with me, please."
"The voices are in the raindrops."
The man - Phil, this was Phil, he knew Phil, had to - didn't say anything, but his eyes melted. "Rain sounds like voices? How about a bath, then? Do you think you could sit in a bath?"
Maybe, maybe that would be okay. The water wouldn't be blood and he'd be warm. "I can't hear it."
"That's all right. Just put your head down and cover your ears, okay?"
He did, because he knew how to listen. And soon, soon, soon, he was warm and he was dry, and the man was telling him to sleep. But he couldn't sleep, never slept, hadn't dreamt since a long time ago.
"Can you try for me?"
Try try try. Always trying. Never succeeding.
Except for the gun, hot in his hands. His fingers itched for a bow, but the voices wouldn't let him have the bow.
Not anymore.
***
Phil didn't want to give Clint the sedative, not yet anyway. There was a still a chance he might salvage something of this mess. But if he couldn't, Phil had planned for a way out. So he tucked Barton under the scratchy covers of the cheap motel bed and went to the bathroom to call Fury.
"I have Barton."
"What about the target?"
"Terminated." Even like this, Clint was still a crack shot. Phil rubbed his forehead and pressed the phone closer to his ear. "It was a lucky thing I got to him before the cops did."
"Luck had nothing to do with it. You're extremely capable. And even if the police did apprehend Agent Barton, his condition …"
"I will not have another repeat of St. Louis," Phil cut him off. He'd spent weeks searching group homes and mental institutions, nearly losing Clint in the system, because some stupid government grunt had filed the paperwork wrong. Even SHIELD's resources were useless, because all the trails had led to dead ends.
"Coulson, there are some things beyond your control." Fury's voice was cold.
This had to stop. "He's been living on the streets. He wouldn't take a shower because there were voices in the water."
"Coulson, you know Barton is too valuable to take out of the field. And the medication…"
"I know." The meds made Clint's hands shake. Made him useless to SHIELD.
Phil turned and saw Clint watching him from the bed, eyes too wide and bright and open. They'd diagnosed him two year ago, after nearly ten years of perfect service. And like everything else, SHIELD had decided they could still use this broken sniper.
Clint had been caught in St. Louis. Another poor mentally ill man lost and sadly prone to violence. It couldn't be a government conspiracy to take out a Senator opposed to more defense funding. Of course not. Just another tragedy where no one was to blame.
God damn SHIELD.
"Bring him home. We've got another target for him."
It took a while to give Barton the orders. They'd perfected it by now, made them part of the voices and images swirling through his broken brain.
Phil remembered what Barton had said about the shower. The voices tell me to kill. I don't want to.
Clint couldn't refuse missions now. He wasn't capable of it. SHIELD didn't seem to care.
Phil did. So he told Fury he'd meet the extraction team in the morning and hung up. Then he threw the phone in the toilet and went to give Clint his first shot of anti-psychotic.
Fuck Fury. Fuck SHIELD and all their psychologists. Phil had failed Clint once before. This time he was going to make things right.
He pulled out the burner phone he'd been keeping in his back pocket for months now and sent off a quick text of meaningless numbers and letters to Natasha. Let the code crackers spin their wheels trying to figure out what it meant. She'd know it was the signal. If he was going AWOL with Clint, she wouldn't stay behind.
They had to leave now, though. There was always a chance Fury had picked up on his deception. Phil knelt next to the bed and stroked Clint's hair. "Can you walk? We have to leave."
***
The rhythm of the rhythm was soothing in his head. Almost time to sleep, but not yet. Soon the rain would flow away and there'd be nothing left. Nothing but a man with soft blue eyes and a gun in his hand.
It started to leave him, the pattern flowing, and he grasped for it but his mind cast ashore. There was only one way to go and that was to follow.
"Let's go."
Fandom: Avengers/Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, really, though I maintain it's Clint/Phil in my head, though not overtly in the fic
Characters: Phil Coulson, Clint Barton
Warnings: Mental Health Issues
Word count: 1061
Rating: PG-13? Do we still using the movie ratings or am I so outdated it's not even funny?
Note: Thanks to
lapillus for the beta.
The fic was the result of a dream that sent me on a meandering thought process pre-coffee and it ended up like this.
Summary:
It's been two years since Clint was diagnosed.
Blood in the Rain
by Epeeblade
The rain hit the ground with a rat a tat tat and the words spattered across the pavement. Kill Kill Kill was written in red swirls that pooled in the streets and no matter how far he walked or ran it follow follow followed him.
The liars had to die. He knew that as truth, but his fingers itched for a bow but the voices wouldn't let him have the bow.
So instead he climbed - needed to be high - with his gun at his side and the aim in his sights. There was a woman who needed to die. She lied with her mouth with every word she spoke and he knew knew knew it was time to make the shot.
The bullet bloomed across the air, and pierced his mark spinning and spinning until all was still.
Time to come in, Barton.
Time to come in.
Time.
He couldn't let them see him, the boys in blue. They wouldn’t understand. They believed the lies. But if they saw him, it was okay, it was all right. He'd just tell them about the voices in the rain.
There was a man with kind blue eyes. There was a hand on his arm, fingers gripping tight. There were stairs and they smelled, of odor pressing bite. There was a key and a door and then they were safe, because the rain was outside and they weren't.
"Barton. When was the last time you had a shower?"
He shook his head. No, not even for the man with the kind blue eyes. "The water tells me to kill. I don't want to."
But he did, every time. He followed orders. Killed the liars.
"Barton, stay with me, please."
"The voices are in the raindrops."
The man - Phil, this was Phil, he knew Phil, had to - didn't say anything, but his eyes melted. "Rain sounds like voices? How about a bath, then? Do you think you could sit in a bath?"
Maybe, maybe that would be okay. The water wouldn't be blood and he'd be warm. "I can't hear it."
"That's all right. Just put your head down and cover your ears, okay?"
He did, because he knew how to listen. And soon, soon, soon, he was warm and he was dry, and the man was telling him to sleep. But he couldn't sleep, never slept, hadn't dreamt since a long time ago.
"Can you try for me?"
Try try try. Always trying. Never succeeding.
Except for the gun, hot in his hands. His fingers itched for a bow, but the voices wouldn't let him have the bow.
Not anymore.
***
Phil didn't want to give Clint the sedative, not yet anyway. There was a still a chance he might salvage something of this mess. But if he couldn't, Phil had planned for a way out. So he tucked Barton under the scratchy covers of the cheap motel bed and went to the bathroom to call Fury.
"I have Barton."
"What about the target?"
"Terminated." Even like this, Clint was still a crack shot. Phil rubbed his forehead and pressed the phone closer to his ear. "It was a lucky thing I got to him before the cops did."
"Luck had nothing to do with it. You're extremely capable. And even if the police did apprehend Agent Barton, his condition …"
"I will not have another repeat of St. Louis," Phil cut him off. He'd spent weeks searching group homes and mental institutions, nearly losing Clint in the system, because some stupid government grunt had filed the paperwork wrong. Even SHIELD's resources were useless, because all the trails had led to dead ends.
"Coulson, there are some things beyond your control." Fury's voice was cold.
This had to stop. "He's been living on the streets. He wouldn't take a shower because there were voices in the water."
"Coulson, you know Barton is too valuable to take out of the field. And the medication…"
"I know." The meds made Clint's hands shake. Made him useless to SHIELD.
Phil turned and saw Clint watching him from the bed, eyes too wide and bright and open. They'd diagnosed him two year ago, after nearly ten years of perfect service. And like everything else, SHIELD had decided they could still use this broken sniper.
Clint had been caught in St. Louis. Another poor mentally ill man lost and sadly prone to violence. It couldn't be a government conspiracy to take out a Senator opposed to more defense funding. Of course not. Just another tragedy where no one was to blame.
God damn SHIELD.
"Bring him home. We've got another target for him."
It took a while to give Barton the orders. They'd perfected it by now, made them part of the voices and images swirling through his broken brain.
Phil remembered what Barton had said about the shower. The voices tell me to kill. I don't want to.
Clint couldn't refuse missions now. He wasn't capable of it. SHIELD didn't seem to care.
Phil did. So he told Fury he'd meet the extraction team in the morning and hung up. Then he threw the phone in the toilet and went to give Clint his first shot of anti-psychotic.
Fuck Fury. Fuck SHIELD and all their psychologists. Phil had failed Clint once before. This time he was going to make things right.
He pulled out the burner phone he'd been keeping in his back pocket for months now and sent off a quick text of meaningless numbers and letters to Natasha. Let the code crackers spin their wheels trying to figure out what it meant. She'd know it was the signal. If he was going AWOL with Clint, she wouldn't stay behind.
They had to leave now, though. There was always a chance Fury had picked up on his deception. Phil knelt next to the bed and stroked Clint's hair. "Can you walk? We have to leave."
***
The rhythm of the rhythm was soothing in his head. Almost time to sleep, but not yet. Soon the rain would flow away and there'd be nothing left. Nothing but a man with soft blue eyes and a gun in his hand.
It started to leave him, the pattern flowing, and he grasped for it but his mind cast ashore. There was only one way to go and that was to follow.
"Let's go."