Come Undone (4/?, Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, PG-13)
Title: Come Undone
Fandom/Pairing: The Avengers, Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Spoilers/Warnings: Is there anyone who hasn't seen the movie yet? Well, if not, this is a fix it. Eventually.
Rating: PG-13 (going up to R next chapter)
A/N: I just realized I hadn't been posting this up on my journals. Doh! But it's also up on AO3.
Summary: It was supposed to get easier, afterwards.
He'd let himself get pinged in Toronto, he'd gotten on Stark's jet to come back, and still hasn't actually gone back to the apartment. He and Phil might qualify as state secrets themselves, and Fury, Natasha, and a very few others might be the only people on the planet who know about their relationship, but Clint's not going to risk bringing any attention home with him.
He doesn't have a lot that's intact, at the moment. He does what he can.
Invisibility is a commodity, and his supply's running low. He'd been more anonymous working in the circus, back in the day, because everyone would watch the act, but the kids, streaming out of the tents day after day, only ever went home knowing the names of the lions and elephants. The lack of name recognition hasn't changed, at least- Phil would be pleased to hear that there haven't been any leaks to the press, and really, Hulk, Captain America, Iron Man and Thor are the elephants and lions of the group, but his image and Natasha's are on the television screens too. It's ridiculous to think that nobody's watching.
Any other time, New York City would be big enough to hide in, but the news outlets are still running every bit of phone-camera shot footage of the fight with the Chitauri, and he's recognizable, now. The beard he's been trying to grow the past few days- because it's better if the scruff's deliberate, and not just a sign of not giving a fuck anymore- helps a bit. Not enough.
Whatever. Fine. It's practice, then. He makes an art of avoidance, doesn't take the streets during the day, changes hotels every night and thinks about leaving Brooklyn. His phone is a freakin' lifeline, now, even if he never answers it. When Fury texts him, though, he scours each message intently, burns them into his memory. If he memorizes them well enough, they'll fill in the space of his brain that's still hearing the absolute silence of Fury's borrowed office, the plummeting sensation of bad news- Phil's dead- waiting to be heard.
It's the closest he comes to actual conversation for days.
---
When his phone goes off, he's just waking up from another dream where he's grabbing an arrow stuck in someone else's chest and he's twisting it, and it's only in retrospect that it's a nightmare, because he knows that in the dream itself, he'd been laughing.
The antibiotics are working. Fever broke, he's stabilized, the message from Fury says, and Clint's first thought is good. That makes one of us, at least.
---
No news, Fury reports, and hours later, Clint still hasn't put the phone down. He plugs it into the charger and lies on the bed, curled around it, thumbing the keypad whenever it goes dark. The display burns itself into his eyes and when he closes them, the afterimage glows green, splits into two eyes, laughing at him.
---
There are messages, too, from Natasha- at some point, he'll need to call her back and explain that he's not angry, that not telling him that Phil's dead is nothing she'll ever have to apologize for, but there's a tone in her voice that puts him off. It's the same one she'd used with him when he'd woken up in the holding cell and told him not to think about all the people he'd killed.
As if that was even an option.
He's had days, now, and the memories aren't fading away. The most he's been able to do with them is sort them into a narrative. First arrow to the last, and every target- every person he should've come up enough to save- in between.
---
Today's surgery went fine, Fury texts, and Clint nearly throws his phone against the wall, because it's not enough information. He doesn't even have enough to go on to mentally picture the room Phil's in, let alone what's actually happening to him.
It's been three days, now, and someone, somewhere, is still in the process of saving Phil life, and Clint should really be good enough to not resent them for it.
---
Eventually, Stark apparently decides to get in on the action.
I know you're in New York, the first message reads.
You might as well come over to the tower. We need to decide how we're going to make Fury's life a living hell.
It's the first time he's laughed at anything in days.
Why?
Fury lied, Pepper cried and chivalry's not dead.
A few minutes goes by before another arrives. I'm calling the others back, too.
Thought we were supposed to lay low? Going the ten miles or so over to Stark tower seems insurmountable, and not just because of all the closed roads. The others being there only make the prospect more unappealing, because yeah, he's better now, but they know he hadn't been. They'll be watching him, waiting for him to crack even though he's dusted himself off, he's done with all that.
You'd rather be hiding out in Brooklyn? Also, I know where they're keeping Coulson. I think we owe him a fruit basket or something.
Clint's firing off a response, saying that he'll be there, when he's interrupted by a message from Fury. From the looks of it, SHIELD is monitoring Stark's phones as closely as Stark's monitoring theirs.
Heat's off but stay low. Get your ass down to Philly. A. Einstein Med Center under the name Mark Cutter. 9:00 AM tomorrow.
---
Phil wakes up, and somehow, that's supposed to solve everything. But for six days, he's out more than he's in, he's got tubes running everywhere, and nobody will tell him anything. By the seventh, two days after they pull him off the ventilator, the medical staff is getting sick of him asking. Just not enough that they'll actually give him a goddamned phone.
---
"I owe you some trading cards," Fury says by way of greeting on the eighth day, surveying the room as he steps inside. "Yours didn't make it."
Phil can feel every inch of bandage against his skin, chooses to focus on it rather than the news he's been waiting for and suddenly doesn't want to hear. "Who did?"
"Everyone we care about. And Barton's fine." He sits down, scratching at his eye patch, letting Phil ride the wave of relief- Clint's okay, Clint's Clint- in some semblance of privacy before turning his attention on him. "They'll be here soon enough, and can fill you in on the details."
"Or you could tell me first." It's just Fury, here, so it's no big deal if Phil needs to use the button on the side of the bed to sit himself up a little more. "You know it would irritate Stark to no end."
"I've been putting up with his irritation all damned week- all of their irritation." At Phil's questioning glance, he shrugs. "I may have exaggerated the extent of your death in order to con them into rallying."
Phil thinks about this for a moment. He's not surprised that Fury would do something like this; it's the apologetic wince that comes with the admission that's confusing.
He coughs- he swears he can still feel the tubes they'd shoved down his throat and up his nose- and hopes it comes across like he's merely clearing his throat. "I see."
"Stark's not even the worst of it. Have you ever been guilt-tripped by Captain Fucking America?"
Phil blinks, fingers toying with the edge of the blanket because if they don't, he'll start scratching at the bandages again. "No, sir. Though I imagine it to be one of his greater superpowers, I never had the opportunity to witness it firsthand."
Fury suppresses a smirk. "Give it time. So. How're you feeling?"
"Sore and bored. When can I get out of here?"
"Sorry, Phil. You are to remain dead until such a time that you can get to your own desk and change your personnel files in the system. And believe me when I tell you that you don't want to go anywhere near your desk right now. The moment you're back on the radar, our friends-" and by friends, Fury means armchair assholes in the DoD, the UN's Security Council, Congress and their cronies- "are going to start filling it with orders and subpoenas both useless and stupid."
"I'll take that under advisement, sir."
"See that you do," Fury's eyes dart momentarily sideways; Phil hadn't realized he'd been wearing his earwig. "Now, speaking of angry friends, I've just been informed that your visitors have cleared security. I'm guessing at least two of them are still armed."
At least? "Should I be worried?"
"No, but I probably should be." Fury stands, straightening his jacket. "Feel better, Coulson. I'll keep you in the loop."
"Thanks, sir."
---
At 8:56 in the morning Banner and Rogers are all waiting in the hospital lobby, where the security check-in attendant, who clearly recognizes them, is currently trying very hard to pretend that she doesn't. She's suppressing a grin, and her hands flail a little bit as she moves them to her keyboard, and it's a relief to find himself being only the second-most awkward person in the room.
"Hey, Barton," Rogers is grinning awkwardly enough that Clint drops his own position down to third place as they shake hands. "How've you been?"
"I'm good," he replies easily enough, though it hadn't occurred to him until now to believe it, but maybe it's only becoming true right now. The clock on the wall ticks over to 8:57. "You?"
"I'm doing well," Rogers actually sounds surprised to be asked the question, but his shrug draws Clint's attention down to the paper bag in his hand, and he thinks that Rogers might notice him looking; the bag is pulled back, slightly, almost like he's trying to hide it. "Thanks."
Natasha's the next one through the door; she leans against him for the moment. Her shoulder pressing into his is as close as she ever gets to outright hugging in mixed company, and she's grinning knowingly up at him when she catches him glancing at the clock again. See? I told you he was alright.
He's shaking hands with Banner when Ms. Potts comes around the corner from down the hallway, waving at them all with her usual beleaguered amusement, and suddenly Clint's angry, because Stark, he sent her, he couldn't even be bothered to come himself.
Turns out, Stark's just looking to make an entrance. He's merely following behind; the balloons and the gigantic green stuffed animal he'd presumably picked up down at the gift shop is slowing him down, and the bags on his wrist and the flowers in his hand aren't helping any. He hands the bear off to Barton, who accepts it with wary resignation; the bouquet goes to Natasha.
"I can't punch him in the face right now," Stark tells Clint, handing him a gift bag that seems to be full of sudoku books and crosswords, "but damned if I can't try to make him blush like the idiot that he is."
"I'm good," Rogers tells Stark when he holds out another bag, nodding down at the one he's already holding. Stark hands the rest of the bags off to Ms. Potts before going to check in at the desk, and Natasha, under the guise of snooping through the various gifts, hands the flowers off to Clint with a wink, and takes the sudoku books for herself.
---
Clint had honestly been more at ease when he'd been waiting downstairs with a bunch of flowers in his hand. Phil's room is just three doors away, now, and Tony's got his camera at the ready.
---
The door opens, and the onslaught begins, more ridiculously than Phil had been expecting. He's apparently being besieged by balloons and a green, Hulk-sized teddy bear.
Stark, of course, is loving this; everyone else is embarrassingly amused by all of it, enough that maybe they're not paying attention when it's Clint's turn, and he's handing him a bunch of flowers with a wide eyed expression on his face that's gone the moment he steps back. In the periphery, Phil's aware of a camera flash going off and muffled cursing.
"Apologies for the flowers, sir," he says, smirking now, eyes darting sideways to where Natasha's smoothly stepping away from where she'd been standing, blocking Stark's shot. "Glad to see you're not dead."
Phil can play along. "They're lovely, Barton. Thank you," he says in his driest tone; a smirk seems to be enough to hold himself back from ordering everyone out of the room besides Clint, because while it's great to see everyone, he just doesn't have much to say to any of them.
---
He thinks, with some irritation, that he probably looks like an idiot, looking down at the cards- all of them signed by Rogers himself- but Rogers is the only one actually blushing as he stammers his way through a winding explanation. It's almost a relief when Stark interrupts to summarize.
"Long story short, when Captain America asks a favor, even the nerdiest of collectors sit up and take notice."
---
Banner and Clint are leaning up against the wall at the back of the group, adding small details here and there, but otherwise quiet. Banner, it's his habit, and Phil thinks nothing of it. Clint's a little more expressive, whenever Phil's looking his way. He's trying not to smile, or rolling his eyes, or cutting quick impatient glares at the others.
I know. Me too, Phil shoots back, before turning back to Natasha, who at least knows to be brief.
It's when nobody's looking at Clint directly, though, that Phil starts realizing that something's up. Part of him has been expecting it. Clint looks a little thrown, a little uneasy, and his eyes aren't quite as amused as everyone else's. His posture's a little too rigid and he only watches the others when they're not looking at him.
Yeah, they need to talk.
But right now, Stark's going off about Fury, about intelligence agency bureaucracy, the pointlessness of laying low, and this entire damned situation, and Rogers isn't the only one joining in. While it's nice to see that they've all come together so well, it should probably be a little worrying that in a certain light, it looks an awful lot like they're uniting against SHIELD.
Talking them down is draining, especially with Banner getting so worked up, and as the discussion finally starts to wind down, it's increasingly obvious that there's only one more elephant in the room to discuss. Everyone's eyes are holding on Clint a little bit more, but nobody's actually talking about it. Clint smirks back at them in resigned, bordering on bored, irritation.
It's Natasha who takes the lead. She starts with receiving Phil's phone call and goes from there. She ends with the words, cognitive recalibration.
"Yeah, she knocked my ass out," Clint cuts in, cheerily enough, and Natasha's the only other person here who knows him well enough to see through it.
"You're okay now, though?" Phil asks, and it's okay if he lies, right now, here in front of the others. "Right?"
"Right as rain, sir."
And it's an opening, at least, and more awkward than he'd like, but he'll go with it. "Good. I'm glad to hear it." He has to stop for breath already, but at least he's not coughing, this time. "There are a few points of detail Fury would like me to discuss with you, Barton, if you've got the time?"
"Right now, sir?" His skepticism is real, even though he's got to know Phil's ulterior motives, but he can handle the order, so Phil makes it.
"I'm not going anywhere, so now would be good."
---
The moment the door's closed, Clint's heading for the chair Natasha's just vacated, but Phil's shaking his head, gingerly maneuvering himself to one side of the bed because this is how it always goes, with them, when the conversations are too important to be had from a distance, or when breathing enough for words is a chore. It's always the same, whether they're at home, in a hotel, or braced against the last standing wall of a bombed-out building. It's got to be the forth or fifth time they've done this in a hospital room, now, but at least there aren't a troubling amount of tubes or cords getting in their way this time.
It's not that this time wasn't the worst, though. It's just the most delayed.
Clint's got his knee on the bed, ready to sit down once Phil's situated, and for a moment, he thinks Phil's raising his hand to brace himself on Clint's shoulder as he moves, but his fingers splay around his collar, and he's pulling him close.
Clint's known this was coming for days, but hasn't believed it until now. The kiss is quick, just Phil's chapped lips and an apologetic, "I haven't brushed my teeth since yesterday," which is probably when he'd last shaved, too. Clint's not usually so enamored of the stubble, but he can't stop his thumb from stroking upwards against the grain as his forehead presses against Phil's.
Easing back, Clint sits down, back against the pillows, shoes on the blanket, easing his arm carefully behind Phil's neck and shoulder. Once Phil's settled against him, though, Clint realizes he hasn't been thinking about anything other than the sensation of being here, like this.
"So, you're really okay? Any side effects?"
"Rough week, but I'm okay now." At least he thinks he is, but Phil deserves more of an explanation than that. "There was Loki in my head, and then he was gone, and then you were gone." There's a tacky patch on Phil's forearm, catching slightly at the pads of his fingers, medical tape glue that hasn't washed off yet. All of the signs of greater injury are hidden underneath Phil's hospital gown. What he can see, though, is just one small bandage, on the back of Phil's hand. It's almost easy to pretend that's all there is.
Phil's moving his head, "I haven't really..."
"Parsed it all out?"
"Yeah." Clint coughs. "How about you? How long before you're out of here?"
"Two, maybe three days."
"Oh." Part of him, Clint realizes, had actually been expecting that he'd be taking him home today. He swallows the disappointment "Seriously?"
"You planning on busting me out?"
"Give the order, and I'll make it so."
Phil's shrug is slight. "But I have all these sudoku books to get through."
He's not actually saying that he doesn't want to leave, but he's not saying otherwise, and Clint's been here for over half an hour, he's heard all the broad strokes and he's gotten the updates from Fury, but he doesn't, he's just realizing, actually know what's going on with him.
"How bad is it?"
"It's better. It was worse. They pulled me off the oxygen a few days ago," Phil trails off to breathe for a minute.
"I'll get the details from the doctors," Clint decides, stroking Phil's arm and wondering if he's imagining the lost muscle mass.
"Yay."
"The painkillers are working okay?"
Phil nods; the arm he's splayed against Clint's chest squeezes just a bit, then eases. He sounds like he's falling asleep. "You're working more though. Sorry."
Phil can't see him grinning from here, but for this instant, at least, Clint's feeling like he's the best boyfriend in the world. "Want me to let you get some sleep? We can pick this up later."
Another shrug, and Clint's reluctant to move, but Phil's injured, and this isn't doing him any favors.
"Love you," he says, leaning over him once he's extricated himself, and Phil opens his eyes enough to search him out when Clint kisses his brow. "Love you too...really good to see you."
And because Clint's not actually the best boyfriend in the world, he sits in the chair, works his way through half of Phil's sudoku puzzles, fucks off for coffee down the street when the nurses need to check in, and when he comes back, he starts in on the crosswords.
Chapter 5
Fandom/Pairing: The Avengers, Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Spoilers/Warnings: Is there anyone who hasn't seen the movie yet? Well, if not, this is a fix it. Eventually.
Rating: PG-13 (going up to R next chapter)
A/N: I just realized I hadn't been posting this up on my journals. Doh! But it's also up on AO3.
Summary: It was supposed to get easier, afterwards.
He'd let himself get pinged in Toronto, he'd gotten on Stark's jet to come back, and still hasn't actually gone back to the apartment. He and Phil might qualify as state secrets themselves, and Fury, Natasha, and a very few others might be the only people on the planet who know about their relationship, but Clint's not going to risk bringing any attention home with him.
He doesn't have a lot that's intact, at the moment. He does what he can.
Invisibility is a commodity, and his supply's running low. He'd been more anonymous working in the circus, back in the day, because everyone would watch the act, but the kids, streaming out of the tents day after day, only ever went home knowing the names of the lions and elephants. The lack of name recognition hasn't changed, at least- Phil would be pleased to hear that there haven't been any leaks to the press, and really, Hulk, Captain America, Iron Man and Thor are the elephants and lions of the group, but his image and Natasha's are on the television screens too. It's ridiculous to think that nobody's watching.
Any other time, New York City would be big enough to hide in, but the news outlets are still running every bit of phone-camera shot footage of the fight with the Chitauri, and he's recognizable, now. The beard he's been trying to grow the past few days- because it's better if the scruff's deliberate, and not just a sign of not giving a fuck anymore- helps a bit. Not enough.
Whatever. Fine. It's practice, then. He makes an art of avoidance, doesn't take the streets during the day, changes hotels every night and thinks about leaving Brooklyn. His phone is a freakin' lifeline, now, even if he never answers it. When Fury texts him, though, he scours each message intently, burns them into his memory. If he memorizes them well enough, they'll fill in the space of his brain that's still hearing the absolute silence of Fury's borrowed office, the plummeting sensation of bad news- Phil's dead- waiting to be heard.
It's the closest he comes to actual conversation for days.
---
When his phone goes off, he's just waking up from another dream where he's grabbing an arrow stuck in someone else's chest and he's twisting it, and it's only in retrospect that it's a nightmare, because he knows that in the dream itself, he'd been laughing.
The antibiotics are working. Fever broke, he's stabilized, the message from Fury says, and Clint's first thought is good. That makes one of us, at least.
---
No news, Fury reports, and hours later, Clint still hasn't put the phone down. He plugs it into the charger and lies on the bed, curled around it, thumbing the keypad whenever it goes dark. The display burns itself into his eyes and when he closes them, the afterimage glows green, splits into two eyes, laughing at him.
---
There are messages, too, from Natasha- at some point, he'll need to call her back and explain that he's not angry, that not telling him that Phil's dead is nothing she'll ever have to apologize for, but there's a tone in her voice that puts him off. It's the same one she'd used with him when he'd woken up in the holding cell and told him not to think about all the people he'd killed.
As if that was even an option.
He's had days, now, and the memories aren't fading away. The most he's been able to do with them is sort them into a narrative. First arrow to the last, and every target- every person he should've come up enough to save- in between.
---
Today's surgery went fine, Fury texts, and Clint nearly throws his phone against the wall, because it's not enough information. He doesn't even have enough to go on to mentally picture the room Phil's in, let alone what's actually happening to him.
It's been three days, now, and someone, somewhere, is still in the process of saving Phil life, and Clint should really be good enough to not resent them for it.
---
Eventually, Stark apparently decides to get in on the action.
I know you're in New York, the first message reads.
You might as well come over to the tower. We need to decide how we're going to make Fury's life a living hell.
It's the first time he's laughed at anything in days.
Why?
Fury lied, Pepper cried and chivalry's not dead.
A few minutes goes by before another arrives. I'm calling the others back, too.
Thought we were supposed to lay low? Going the ten miles or so over to Stark tower seems insurmountable, and not just because of all the closed roads. The others being there only make the prospect more unappealing, because yeah, he's better now, but they know he hadn't been. They'll be watching him, waiting for him to crack even though he's dusted himself off, he's done with all that.
You'd rather be hiding out in Brooklyn? Also, I know where they're keeping Coulson. I think we owe him a fruit basket or something.
Clint's firing off a response, saying that he'll be there, when he's interrupted by a message from Fury. From the looks of it, SHIELD is monitoring Stark's phones as closely as Stark's monitoring theirs.
Heat's off but stay low. Get your ass down to Philly. A. Einstein Med Center under the name Mark Cutter. 9:00 AM tomorrow.
---
Phil wakes up, and somehow, that's supposed to solve everything. But for six days, he's out more than he's in, he's got tubes running everywhere, and nobody will tell him anything. By the seventh, two days after they pull him off the ventilator, the medical staff is getting sick of him asking. Just not enough that they'll actually give him a goddamned phone.
---
"I owe you some trading cards," Fury says by way of greeting on the eighth day, surveying the room as he steps inside. "Yours didn't make it."
Phil can feel every inch of bandage against his skin, chooses to focus on it rather than the news he's been waiting for and suddenly doesn't want to hear. "Who did?"
"Everyone we care about. And Barton's fine." He sits down, scratching at his eye patch, letting Phil ride the wave of relief- Clint's okay, Clint's Clint- in some semblance of privacy before turning his attention on him. "They'll be here soon enough, and can fill you in on the details."
"Or you could tell me first." It's just Fury, here, so it's no big deal if Phil needs to use the button on the side of the bed to sit himself up a little more. "You know it would irritate Stark to no end."
"I've been putting up with his irritation all damned week- all of their irritation." At Phil's questioning glance, he shrugs. "I may have exaggerated the extent of your death in order to con them into rallying."
Phil thinks about this for a moment. He's not surprised that Fury would do something like this; it's the apologetic wince that comes with the admission that's confusing.
He coughs- he swears he can still feel the tubes they'd shoved down his throat and up his nose- and hopes it comes across like he's merely clearing his throat. "I see."
"Stark's not even the worst of it. Have you ever been guilt-tripped by Captain Fucking America?"
Phil blinks, fingers toying with the edge of the blanket because if they don't, he'll start scratching at the bandages again. "No, sir. Though I imagine it to be one of his greater superpowers, I never had the opportunity to witness it firsthand."
Fury suppresses a smirk. "Give it time. So. How're you feeling?"
"Sore and bored. When can I get out of here?"
"Sorry, Phil. You are to remain dead until such a time that you can get to your own desk and change your personnel files in the system. And believe me when I tell you that you don't want to go anywhere near your desk right now. The moment you're back on the radar, our friends-" and by friends, Fury means armchair assholes in the DoD, the UN's Security Council, Congress and their cronies- "are going to start filling it with orders and subpoenas both useless and stupid."
"I'll take that under advisement, sir."
"See that you do," Fury's eyes dart momentarily sideways; Phil hadn't realized he'd been wearing his earwig. "Now, speaking of angry friends, I've just been informed that your visitors have cleared security. I'm guessing at least two of them are still armed."
At least? "Should I be worried?"
"No, but I probably should be." Fury stands, straightening his jacket. "Feel better, Coulson. I'll keep you in the loop."
"Thanks, sir."
---
At 8:56 in the morning Banner and Rogers are all waiting in the hospital lobby, where the security check-in attendant, who clearly recognizes them, is currently trying very hard to pretend that she doesn't. She's suppressing a grin, and her hands flail a little bit as she moves them to her keyboard, and it's a relief to find himself being only the second-most awkward person in the room.
"Hey, Barton," Rogers is grinning awkwardly enough that Clint drops his own position down to third place as they shake hands. "How've you been?"
"I'm good," he replies easily enough, though it hadn't occurred to him until now to believe it, but maybe it's only becoming true right now. The clock on the wall ticks over to 8:57. "You?"
"I'm doing well," Rogers actually sounds surprised to be asked the question, but his shrug draws Clint's attention down to the paper bag in his hand, and he thinks that Rogers might notice him looking; the bag is pulled back, slightly, almost like he's trying to hide it. "Thanks."
Natasha's the next one through the door; she leans against him for the moment. Her shoulder pressing into his is as close as she ever gets to outright hugging in mixed company, and she's grinning knowingly up at him when she catches him glancing at the clock again. See? I told you he was alright.
He's shaking hands with Banner when Ms. Potts comes around the corner from down the hallway, waving at them all with her usual beleaguered amusement, and suddenly Clint's angry, because Stark, he sent her, he couldn't even be bothered to come himself.
Turns out, Stark's just looking to make an entrance. He's merely following behind; the balloons and the gigantic green stuffed animal he'd presumably picked up down at the gift shop is slowing him down, and the bags on his wrist and the flowers in his hand aren't helping any. He hands the bear off to Barton, who accepts it with wary resignation; the bouquet goes to Natasha.
"I can't punch him in the face right now," Stark tells Clint, handing him a gift bag that seems to be full of sudoku books and crosswords, "but damned if I can't try to make him blush like the idiot that he is."
"I'm good," Rogers tells Stark when he holds out another bag, nodding down at the one he's already holding. Stark hands the rest of the bags off to Ms. Potts before going to check in at the desk, and Natasha, under the guise of snooping through the various gifts, hands the flowers off to Clint with a wink, and takes the sudoku books for herself.
---
Clint had honestly been more at ease when he'd been waiting downstairs with a bunch of flowers in his hand. Phil's room is just three doors away, now, and Tony's got his camera at the ready.
---
The door opens, and the onslaught begins, more ridiculously than Phil had been expecting. He's apparently being besieged by balloons and a green, Hulk-sized teddy bear.
Stark, of course, is loving this; everyone else is embarrassingly amused by all of it, enough that maybe they're not paying attention when it's Clint's turn, and he's handing him a bunch of flowers with a wide eyed expression on his face that's gone the moment he steps back. In the periphery, Phil's aware of a camera flash going off and muffled cursing.
"Apologies for the flowers, sir," he says, smirking now, eyes darting sideways to where Natasha's smoothly stepping away from where she'd been standing, blocking Stark's shot. "Glad to see you're not dead."
Phil can play along. "They're lovely, Barton. Thank you," he says in his driest tone; a smirk seems to be enough to hold himself back from ordering everyone out of the room besides Clint, because while it's great to see everyone, he just doesn't have much to say to any of them.
---
He thinks, with some irritation, that he probably looks like an idiot, looking down at the cards- all of them signed by Rogers himself- but Rogers is the only one actually blushing as he stammers his way through a winding explanation. It's almost a relief when Stark interrupts to summarize.
"Long story short, when Captain America asks a favor, even the nerdiest of collectors sit up and take notice."
---
Banner and Clint are leaning up against the wall at the back of the group, adding small details here and there, but otherwise quiet. Banner, it's his habit, and Phil thinks nothing of it. Clint's a little more expressive, whenever Phil's looking his way. He's trying not to smile, or rolling his eyes, or cutting quick impatient glares at the others.
I know. Me too, Phil shoots back, before turning back to Natasha, who at least knows to be brief.
It's when nobody's looking at Clint directly, though, that Phil starts realizing that something's up. Part of him has been expecting it. Clint looks a little thrown, a little uneasy, and his eyes aren't quite as amused as everyone else's. His posture's a little too rigid and he only watches the others when they're not looking at him.
Yeah, they need to talk.
But right now, Stark's going off about Fury, about intelligence agency bureaucracy, the pointlessness of laying low, and this entire damned situation, and Rogers isn't the only one joining in. While it's nice to see that they've all come together so well, it should probably be a little worrying that in a certain light, it looks an awful lot like they're uniting against SHIELD.
Talking them down is draining, especially with Banner getting so worked up, and as the discussion finally starts to wind down, it's increasingly obvious that there's only one more elephant in the room to discuss. Everyone's eyes are holding on Clint a little bit more, but nobody's actually talking about it. Clint smirks back at them in resigned, bordering on bored, irritation.
It's Natasha who takes the lead. She starts with receiving Phil's phone call and goes from there. She ends with the words, cognitive recalibration.
"Yeah, she knocked my ass out," Clint cuts in, cheerily enough, and Natasha's the only other person here who knows him well enough to see through it.
"You're okay now, though?" Phil asks, and it's okay if he lies, right now, here in front of the others. "Right?"
"Right as rain, sir."
And it's an opening, at least, and more awkward than he'd like, but he'll go with it. "Good. I'm glad to hear it." He has to stop for breath already, but at least he's not coughing, this time. "There are a few points of detail Fury would like me to discuss with you, Barton, if you've got the time?"
"Right now, sir?" His skepticism is real, even though he's got to know Phil's ulterior motives, but he can handle the order, so Phil makes it.
"I'm not going anywhere, so now would be good."
---
The moment the door's closed, Clint's heading for the chair Natasha's just vacated, but Phil's shaking his head, gingerly maneuvering himself to one side of the bed because this is how it always goes, with them, when the conversations are too important to be had from a distance, or when breathing enough for words is a chore. It's always the same, whether they're at home, in a hotel, or braced against the last standing wall of a bombed-out building. It's got to be the forth or fifth time they've done this in a hospital room, now, but at least there aren't a troubling amount of tubes or cords getting in their way this time.
It's not that this time wasn't the worst, though. It's just the most delayed.
Clint's got his knee on the bed, ready to sit down once Phil's situated, and for a moment, he thinks Phil's raising his hand to brace himself on Clint's shoulder as he moves, but his fingers splay around his collar, and he's pulling him close.
Clint's known this was coming for days, but hasn't believed it until now. The kiss is quick, just Phil's chapped lips and an apologetic, "I haven't brushed my teeth since yesterday," which is probably when he'd last shaved, too. Clint's not usually so enamored of the stubble, but he can't stop his thumb from stroking upwards against the grain as his forehead presses against Phil's.
Easing back, Clint sits down, back against the pillows, shoes on the blanket, easing his arm carefully behind Phil's neck and shoulder. Once Phil's settled against him, though, Clint realizes he hasn't been thinking about anything other than the sensation of being here, like this.
"So, you're really okay? Any side effects?"
"Rough week, but I'm okay now." At least he thinks he is, but Phil deserves more of an explanation than that. "There was Loki in my head, and then he was gone, and then you were gone." There's a tacky patch on Phil's forearm, catching slightly at the pads of his fingers, medical tape glue that hasn't washed off yet. All of the signs of greater injury are hidden underneath Phil's hospital gown. What he can see, though, is just one small bandage, on the back of Phil's hand. It's almost easy to pretend that's all there is.
Phil's moving his head, "I haven't really..."
"Parsed it all out?"
"Yeah." Clint coughs. "How about you? How long before you're out of here?"
"Two, maybe three days."
"Oh." Part of him, Clint realizes, had actually been expecting that he'd be taking him home today. He swallows the disappointment "Seriously?"
"You planning on busting me out?"
"Give the order, and I'll make it so."
Phil's shrug is slight. "But I have all these sudoku books to get through."
He's not actually saying that he doesn't want to leave, but he's not saying otherwise, and Clint's been here for over half an hour, he's heard all the broad strokes and he's gotten the updates from Fury, but he doesn't, he's just realizing, actually know what's going on with him.
"How bad is it?"
"It's better. It was worse. They pulled me off the oxygen a few days ago," Phil trails off to breathe for a minute.
"I'll get the details from the doctors," Clint decides, stroking Phil's arm and wondering if he's imagining the lost muscle mass.
"Yay."
"The painkillers are working okay?"
Phil nods; the arm he's splayed against Clint's chest squeezes just a bit, then eases. He sounds like he's falling asleep. "You're working more though. Sorry."
Phil can't see him grinning from here, but for this instant, at least, Clint's feeling like he's the best boyfriend in the world. "Want me to let you get some sleep? We can pick this up later."
Another shrug, and Clint's reluctant to move, but Phil's injured, and this isn't doing him any favors.
"Love you," he says, leaning over him once he's extricated himself, and Phil opens his eyes enough to search him out when Clint kisses his brow. "Love you too...really good to see you."
And because Clint's not actually the best boyfriend in the world, he sits in the chair, works his way through half of Phil's sudoku puzzles, fucks off for coffee down the street when the nurses need to check in, and when he comes back, he starts in on the crosswords.
Chapter 5