Fanfiction: Love is... (FiveTimesBB; Multi-Fandom)
Five Times Three Words Remained Unspoken But Were Plain To See And The One Time It Was So Bloody Damn Obvious
Title: "Love is... "
Artist: numberthescars
Art Masterpost: here
Beta: shadownashira
Status: Complete
On AO3: HERE
Word Count: 4,901
Fandom(s): Person of Interest; James Bond - Skyfall; The Bourne Legacy; Mission Impossible - Ghost Protocol; 03:10 To Yuma; The Avengers
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Harold Finch/John Reese; Q/James Bond; Aaron Cross/Eric Byer; Ethan Hunt/William Brandt; Ben Wade/Charlie Prince; Loki/Clint Barton
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.
Rating: T
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, established relationship, (mild) slash, H/C, angst, friendship, (mild) humor
Warnings: minor depictions of violence
Note1: Μην πεθάνεις. - Don't die.
Note2: Written for the Bitty Bang level of the fivetimesbb 2013. A simple 'thank you' won't cut it, but it goes to numberthescars, for this absolutely beautiful piece of art and shadownashira for her encouragement and great job as my beta. Thank you both!
Summary: Love is...
… to accept pins and needles in your hand (even if you are in denial)
… going to McDonald's (much to Mr Bond's dismay)
… to massage his shoulders now (and get naked later)
… to let him go (he will need the head start)
… to follow, wherever he might lead (you thought you knew; you don't)
… to re-decorate Loki-style (happy coronary, Mr Fury!)
Five Times...
John woke to the sensation of his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his skin and the pressure of the covers aggravating the gunshot wound in his abdomen, though he was cold enough not to mind.
He kept his breathing even, not yet reacting to the play of light and shadows on his closed eyelids, not daring to while he was unsure of his location.
Then he relaxed, reassured by the distinct smells surrounding him: old paper, beeswax polish, sencha tea. All underlined by expensive aftershave and the bitter tang of pain medication.
The library.
Finch.
John remembered lying on the pavement with pain burning in his gut, bleeding sluggishly, stench of gunpowder strong in his nose. The pale smudge of a worried face had hovered over him, then a coppery taste on his tongue. There was only darkness after that, burned open and starched white by fever, flooded with surreal landscapes of memories and past regrets.
No details beyond that, just the feeling of cotton lining all his thoughts; Finch must have used the good stuff to drug him into oblivion.
When John felt composed enough to accept the pain, map it out and set it aside like he had learned during his training, Finch had already seen through his act of sleeping.
"You're awake, Mr. Reese, please stop pretending otherwise. I am sure by now you have ascertained that you are not in a hostile place."
John opened his eyes, blinked the library into focus and turned his head to that dry voice that had become so familiar to his ears. Finch was sitting at his bedside, posture more rigid than usual and -
"Are we..." John stopped and tried to swallow his horrible croak, "... holding hands, Harold?"
It certainly did look like it, their fingers lying intertwined on top of the duvet. With the numbness from the drugs receding, it felt like it, too. Finch had the delicate fingers of a pianist; skin pleasantly cool to the touch. John's own were furnace hot, rough and callused, far less used to typing than handling guns.
"We are, John concluded as no answer was forthcoming, his rough voice sounding quite pleased about the fact, even to his own ears.
"I couldn't say for sure since I lost all feeling in mine," Finch finally said.
John loosened his grip but did not let go, smiling at the wry tone. “How did that happen?”
"Well, Mr. Reese, when the blood flow is restricted due to - "
"Harold."
John's stern look lost much of its efficiency, seeing as it rolled from the bookshelves to the dark window before he managed to focus it on the prickly billionaire at his side. Finch looked pale and drawn, his immaculate three-piece suit rumpled, all signs that spoke of concern.
Confronted with the evidence, John felt something soften and smoothing out within himself and he began to try and massage the feeling back into Finch's fingers; ineffective one-handed, but the answering squeeze told him the effort was appreciated.
"How did that happen?" he repeated his question, tracing a delicate joint.
"I was checking on your bandage when you grabbed my hand and refused to let go."
John thought of the numbers that would never cease, the people that needed their help, HR, the CIA and Root, waiting to strike again and didn't point out that Finch couldn't have tried too hard to get free; he had made his choice in this like in everything else.
"I wouldn't."
Come morning it would be as if this exchange had never happened. Both of them knowing better; that was fine with Reese.
Three Words...
"I refuse."
Q ignored the bunch of female interns huddled together in the opposite corner of the room, half-hidden behind the big LCD screen. They were glaring daggers at him for brushing off 007's attempt to ask him out for lunch; jealousy was such an ugly emotion, even hidden under layers of flaking make-up.
He left Q-branch, hearing Bond catch the door behind him before it could fall shut and then steps hot on his heels, while he buttoned up his coat. Temperatures had taken a nosedive lately.
"Why?"
"You dragged me to Launceston Place." His voice sounded very much like an accusation, turning the head of another intern walking in the opposite direction. "They only let me in because I was your plus one."
"Your cardigans have that sort of effect on people." Bond huffed a quiet laugh. "And you seemed to enjoy your roe deer just fine."
"I congratulate myself on my acting skills. Needing to keep a stiff upper lip while trying to eat without embarrassing myself in that posh restaurant of yours gave me indigestion."
Bond stopped. “I hadn't noticed.”
Q was three steps ahead before he turned around, one eyebrow quirked, although his unruly hair ruined the effect. “Of course not. How do you think I survive board meetings?”
"You were uncomfortable," Bond said. His flat tone implied that was an insult, both to him as a person and as a special agent, who was trained to pick up on such things and had failed to do so.
"I enjoyed your company. Putting up with a waiter more haughty than the Queen on a bad day was hardly a sacrifice." Q scowled at himself for being so soft. After all, James was insufferable. But then again, "You were gone for a whole month."
Bond stepped close enough that Q started to wonder if the man would need a reminder of his own no PDA rule, but he only took the notebook bag from his left hand and started for the elevator. Q followed.
"Nothing fancy, then."
"That would be acceptable."
They wove through the MI6 crowd that had gathered to grab a quick bite during lunch break. Watching how people - mostly women - tried to flirt with James even in passing, while the men gave him a wide berth of respect (with a healthy dose of intimidation) never got old to Q.
But -
"What is it with everyone's need to feed me?" Q muttered darkly to himself, rounding another corner.
He knew for a fact that James liked how his sleek build fit into his arms at night and really, it was not as if he was malnourished. But that didn't deter Bond from wining and dining him at any given opportunity, nor Moneypenny from feeding him the high-stacked sandwiches she brought down daily or even Tanner, who had a secret passion for baking.
They entered the second elevator that led down to MI6's underground garage; no one dared to step in with them, courtesy of James' pointed stare.
"So. Nothing fancy."
Q stared ahead, waiting for the doors to close. “That would be highly appreciated.”
"Pizza Hut?" James suggested, sounding caught between amusement and what Q assumed was mock horror. "McDonald's?"
Q gazed at him sideways, studying that impeccable Tom Ford suit, the polished shoes, the perfectly matching tie... Fond memories of last night rose at that GQ-worthy picture, only Bond had looked far more debauched then and proceeded to make a mess - oh yes, that called for punishment.
"Yes to McDonald's."
"I was joking."
Maybe it had been genuine horror. Q suppressed a grin. “Tough.”
The elevator's doors opened to the gray monotone that was the underground car park. Of course 007's infamous Aston Martin was parked illegally close by, under a spotlight. Bond, ever the gentleman as per mission requirement or when the mood struck him, held Q's door open, before he settled into the driver's seat.
What followed was a ride that would have duly impressed seasoned Hollywood stuntmen, complete with two millimeters of rubber burned into the concrete while ascending the first ramp and a dramatic swerve as they spilled into London's streets. The only thing missing were pedestrians diving out of the way to save their lives.
"Child," Q muttered, watching how the buildings passed by in a blur, defying traffic, as they drove north from Vauxhall to the County Hall. "M will have your hide if you trash another car so soon."
James grinned and shifted gears, beating the red light at the next intersection by a millisecond, “Just relax.”
Q, who had already settled back into the leather upholstery with boneless grace and a calm pulse, shot him an incredulous look, “I am.”
Of course after arriving no more than four minutes later and finding a parking spot that was legal enough that the car wouldn't get towed away (Q had insisted) they got swallowed in a crowd of tourists. With Bond steering Q, a hand on his elbow, they naturally had no problem making a beeline for McDonald's despite the living and breathing obstacle course.
James took in the fast food restaurant: the signs with yellow styled M's on red, the clean floor, the tables and sniffed the air. “At least they are less obnoxious nowadays.”
"Did you expect Ronald McDonald and lots of plastic?" Q questioned, wondering when Bond had last ordered something as plebeian as hamburgers. "Even their coffee is half-way decent. - Speaking of which; what do you want?"
Coming closer, Bond studied the menu. “Will you take a Happy Meal?”
"Ha ha ha," Q said slowly, without inflection. "Careful James, your snarky wit is slipping."
"You decide."
"Don't complain later."
"I won't."
Q decidedly did not roll his eyes when James covered his six as he weaved around customers and got in line to order them their burgers, neither did he laugh at how Her Majesty's finest stuck out like a sore thumb in his crisp suit.
While they slowly moved forward to a harassed-looking trainee, rushing around behind the counter to gather fries and Big Mac's on trays, Bond attracted stares from affection-starved housewives that had mouthy kids and shopping bags dangling from their hands.
James, though, Q was gratified to note, was focused only on him, with the dogged determination of a bodyguard, had been in public ever since that botched kidnapping attempt, in fact. Q was still a little miffed about that, since the event had been completely unrelated to MI6 business and he had kicked arse, all on his own, thank you very much.
Q was next in line and treated to a brilliant fake smile and well-rehearsed line: “Welcome to McDonald's. May I take your order?”
"Two Big Tasty meals..."
XXX
Later, when Q was washing down the last bite of his burger with his strawberry milkshake, Bond delivered his verdict, “I'll live.”
"Don't sound so surprised. It's no caviar, but you get what it says on the tin."
James grimaced. “...tasty.”
"Exactly."
Q wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and offered Bond another one, “You'll need that.”
"Oh? Do I have something on my face?" James leaned closer, smiling suggestively. If the man wasn't careful he would break the giggling schoolgirls that sat at the next table. Their attention was practically laser-guided.
"Think lower. Gutter-level, in fact."
Bond's gaze fell to his lap and the liberal stain of brownish barbecue sauce that had seeped into the material. Another pained grimace, but at least he was savvy enough not to start rubbing at it.
"I liked that suit," Bond stated, his tone just this side of an undignified whine. The man had the gall to glower.
Q stared back, unimpressed and popped the last French fry into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed, taking his time to consider, going through the evidence in his mind; the warm glow of affection rising in his gut was really embarrassing.
"You know, I think it is actually quite flattering that you would ruin a suit on purpose, just to be able to follow it up with guilt-tripping me into 'making it up to you'. But please, you should know it's unnecessary."
Bond settled back into his chair, huffing another laugh, “I have no idea what you're talking about, Q.”
"James."
"Yes?"
"You need to get out of that suit."
"I like how you think."
They left, leaving starry-eyed schoolgirls and housewives behind in their hurry to reach Q's flat. The ruined suit landed on top of a white-stained cardigan, looking quite comfortable in a messily debauched way.
Remained Unspoken...
Aaron's hands stilled on the backpack HQ had provided for that so-called 'training mission' he would head out for in three hours. Nice euphemism for a punishment that meant freezing his ass off in Alaska's wilderness.
He listened, followed the sound of quick footsteps on the stairs, the creak and groan of their advance; two floors left, one. Aaron grabbed the knife from the bed where his equipment lay spread out on the duvet. It was viciously sharp, ideal for field dressing game.
Two steps and he was at the door, pressed into the space between wall and doorjamb, since the white painted yew wouldn't provide much protection against bullets.
Carpet-muffled noise stopped right on the other side; then, “It's me.”
Relaxing at the sound of Eric Byer's voice was a conditioned response, carrying over from Kenneth Kitsom; always eager to please, starving for affection, to be acknowledged, like a puppy. Aaron's skin crawled with the dissonance of his hated past and the present, but he lowered the knife anyway.
He couldn't afford to disobey, not now with a black mark in his records, and the tiny part of himself that had enjoyed a quick fuck to come down from an adrenaline high, his 'handler' slipping past his guard, didn't even want to.
Aaron tossed the weapon on the bed and opened the door. He had to blink twice before he recognized Ric in that careless slouch and cheap black coat that dripped water everywhere. He was unarmed and carried a suitcase, looking like any nondescript guy who could blend in with a crowd.
"Come in. To what do I owe this surprise visit?" Aaron had aimed for sarcasm and missed, it came out more bitter and angry than anything else. Seeing Ric always stung, ever since Somalia and what counted as a break-up in his fucked-up life. "Anyone follow you?"
"No."
"You sure? Intel coming from you leaves much to be desired."
It was a cheap jab, because he had no leverage, no knowledge of Ric's immediate complicity and anyway, his anger had burned to ashes and cooled down weeks ago. But thirty civilians had died. It was a sin Aaron was still chewing on, and yet here he was, doing his goddamned job, because going back to being Kenneth was unthinkable, especially with Ric in the same tiny room, close enough to feel the heat radiating off the man who looked over his shoulder as he packed.
"We talked about that, Aaron."
That voice, smooth, calm, giving nothing away, cadence unchanged, whether here or in bed, breathed on sweaty skin. Aaron struggled to suppress a shiver.
"Yeah, right," he muttered, checking the chems in his dog tag. "Sir," he added, as an afterthought, when he felt the disapproving frown rather than saw it.
"Ration them."
Aaron went rigid, alarm bells ringing. He finally turned, but Ric was staring through the smudged windowpane, hood still up and obscured in shadows.
"What's going on?"
"Marta Shearing. Remember that name."
"Ric - "
He wanted to reach out to Ric, get him to explain, but the suitcase was shoved into his hand with the force of a warning that stopped him short.
He didn't follow as Ric walked out of the room. “Take care of yourself, Aaron.”
When he recovered enough to move, the street down below was drowning in rain and trash, empty as far as he could see.
There was a Glock 19 and ammunition in the suitcase and a piece of paper in Ric's neat handwriting: "Μην πεθάνεις."
But Were Plain To See...
The insistent buzzing got louder even though Ethan had curled around the warm body in his arms and burrowed his ear into the pillow; his annoyed huff stirred fine hairs.
He would later blame his abysmal reaction time on the pain meds or the mild fever or his total exhaustion. He could take his pick after what Benji had dubbed 'the mission from hell'. As it was it took him ages to let go of Will and roll over. His searching fingers felt hardwood, then the half-empty blister pack; the reading lamp toppled over, landing on the carpet with a thump.
"It's mine." Will sounded alert, voice only slightly rough with sleep. His cell snapped open, the sound loud over the rustling of bed sheets as he sat up and scooted back to the headboard. "Brandt."
Ethan fumbled for the light switch, then gave up with a groan. He settled under the blanket, not paying much attention to the one-sided conversation. Instead he stared blankly up at the ceiling, a slightly brighter shade of darkness above him, and regulated his breathing against the throbbing in his busted leg and tender ribs.
"Has the sighting been confirmed?"
The tension in Will's voice preceded the sudden glare of light. Ethan blinked, blinded, then felt the mattress rock with hasty movement.
"I see. Yes, sir. Of course."
He watched in a bemused daze as Will moved around the room with focused intent, putting on fresh clothes after a short visit to the bathroom. There was something to be said about those chosen few who could look neat as a pin at a moment's notice.
Ethan managed to work his tongue loose from where it had been stuck to the roof of his mouth to ask, “Something up at headquarters?”
"They have a possible lead on Romanova," Will said, adjusting the knot of his tie.
Ethan sat up, slowed down by the unyielding mass of the cast that got caught in the sheets and the distracting flood of memories; four terrorist attacks on American embassies in the last three months. Will's look was disapproving but he didn't comment, only grabbed the car keys and shrugged into this suit jacket.
"The Banker? Really?"
"Yes. I need to go in. Johnson's team is on stand-by, ready to take Romanova out as soon as we have the Intel."
"I'll - "
"Here."
Ethan had no time to catch his cell phone before its cool weight hit his chest with perfect aim in the dark center of his largest bruise. He swallowed the rest of his sentence together with a curse.
"Ow! Injured man here!"
"I'm so glad we agree that you are in no condition to leave." Will rolled his eyes. "Stay right where you are. I'll keep you updated."
His protest was silenced with a kiss that disregarded the bitter-tasting fur on his tongue from the meds and left him lightheaded. Contrary to popular IMF opinion Ethan Hunt could recognize defeat, so he settled into the bed.
He hated the thought of lying around doing nothing while Will tracked down an international terrorist but HQ needed their chief analyst's expertise, not an injured field agent who would only get in the way and annoy the support staff.
"I'll see you later."
The door shut behind Will and their apartment fell silent.
XXX
Will kept his promise. Over the course of the next week he sent SMSes with updates on Romanova, the resulting chaos in HQ, and nagging reminders to take it easy on the leg, to use the crutches or Ethan would regret it, et cetera.
He headed downtown to the inconspicuous-looking office building the IMF had been using since last year as soon as he got rid of his cast. He had ditched the cane the doctor had forced on him and bought an extra strong coffee; judging by the deteriorating grammar of Will's messages he would need it.
Ethan breezed through security and down into the basement levels. The main workplace was eerily quiet, screens blank and documents scattered everywhere, while mission control was abuzz with activity - Johnson's team had been deployed.
Ethan slowed his pace, feeling the strain on his leg, which did not bode well for tomorrow's PT session, and passed through until he reached the offices.
Will was sitting astride a simple wooden chair, body slumped over the backrest, his head pillowed on crossed arms. His suit jacket was nowhere to be seen and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up. The man who had set out to tackle the problem had been replaced with one near total exhaustion, but there was an air of triumph around him.
"You're supposed to rest," admonished Will's muffled voice, though he didn't bother to look over his shoulder to see Ethan approach.
"Look who's talking," Ethan shot back mildly and offered the cup of coffee.
Will sniffed the aroma wafting through the air with the appreciation of someone parched before he took it. He nearly managed to drown his wince in the dark brown liquid but Ethan had noticed the stiffness of the movement.
"Sit up straight."
Will complying without any protest spoke for itself; he set the cup aside on the table. Ethan stepped closer and let his hands rest on Will's shoulders, letting their warmth seep into the tightly wound muscles and slowing his breaths to match.
He started his massage with the trapezium muscle, bands of steel under his hands, moving slowly from the back of Will's neck to the top of his shoulders, careful not to exert too much pressure. The tendons stood out hard under his fingertips, easily felt through the slightly damp material of Will's shirt.
"Mhmmngh."
"Alright?" Ethan asked, knuckling down Will's ramrod straight back between the spinal column and the shoulder blades, feeling the tension fading bit by bit; draining away with the initial pain.
"Yeah. You've gotten really good at this."
"I like to think so. I have plenty of practice, thanks to you."
"Hmm."
Will fell silent again, swaying gently with each kneading touch, unwinding as the minutes passed. Ethan gently squeezed his way along his upper shoulders, then let his hands flow upwards in a neck rub that ended with his fingers moving through soft brown hair in tiny circles.
Ethan finally stopped. As Will tilted his head back to look up at him, he dropped a kiss on his brow.
"Let's take this home and get naked?"
Will snorted. “I have to wrap things up first.”
"You've got five minutes."
"Bossy," Will mumbled under his breath, but he got up from his seat with a languid stretch that was notably devoid of the sound of popping vertebra. "Five minutes."
Ethan knew he would make it in three.
And The One Time It Was...
Charlie had never believed in God, neither the merciful nor the wrathful. He had survived at home without a mother, beaten by his father until the day he killed the old man and spit on his corpse, and made it through the war, all on his own.
Yet he had seen hell. Not then, drenched in blood, men dying all around him from wounds and sickness; the war zone made him feel alive. Leaving the service, deed done, no longer needed, soldier turned useless civilian, without the rush of excitement through his veins; that had been the rock bottom of the seventh circle.
It was living on the street, pride ground to dust with charity, starving and being kicked out of the saloon, into the mud. No matter how often Charlie stumbled back up on his feet, refused to give in, looked for honest work; eyes shied away from him, faces going pale in fright or beet-red with anger.
No drunkard would beat him ever again, he had sworn it as a boy, but four banded together on a moonless night tried and succeeded until blood bubbled up his throat.
He had never believed in God, but his Hand had saved him, for no reason Charlie had ever discovered, not even years after, but that was fine. He followed; a quiet voice, sharp wit and quick draw, and all else that was Ben Wade.
He followed, shaping himself to be what the boss needed, and when his thoughts roamed and his eyes followed, his hands wandered down to fist his cock almost angrily. It felt natural; the sweetest sin.
If he hoped for a sign, like a message from an angel's throat brought in a dream of divine clarity, he was less of a fool for knowing that nothing would come of it.
As long as Ben Wade didn't notice, the Hand of God would stay holstered and quiet, Charlie's presence and service welcome. He made himself indispensable as best as he knew how, the scratch of pencil on paper a comfort in the darkness when he stood guard.
And the greatest relief of all: the knowledge that he longed for what he couldn't have because the sketchbooks' pages were devoid of any person he had ever seen and Charlie Prince had long since understood that only things of worth would ever be immortalized by Ben Wade's hand.
XXX
"I'll be back at sunrise."
"We'll be ready by then, boss."
"I know you will, Charlie," the boss said, corners of his mouth rising in that familiar half-smile, its edge softened by the fading evening light.
Charlie watched as Ben Wade mounted his horse and turned it westwards, back to the dirt hole that counted as a city in these parts of the country. He didn't like having to stay here, left behind with the rest of the outfit, camped around a muddy waterhole, the only cover white boned shrubs and boulders, but he complied.
Boss always vanished into town before they attacked a stagecoach. Charlie burned with the knowledge what he would do there, having sweet-talked another woman to refill his glass and share his bed, complimenting her green eyes, most like, but he swallowed the acid in the back of his throat and got to work.
"Move, Jorgensen! You heard the plan!" Charlie watched the younger man scuttle off; imagined he could smell his fear in the dry air. "Campos, you move out now and take your position."
The preparations for the ambush didn't take long, not with Charlie keeping the men in line. Tomorrow the pay-packet would be theirs and the Southern Pacific Railway Company would double the bounty on their heads, send Pinkerton's after them, but no one was worried. Ben Wade's plans had never failed them and the loot was always good.
Of course Charlie would stay even when it all went to hell like it must; sadly, he couldn't say as much 'bout the rest of the outfit. His fingers itched for his Schofields whenever he thought of that day, the day he died for Ben Wade, guns blazing. A fitting end for a man with anger boiling in his guts and blood-red dreams that made him a light sleeper.
It was only later when he settled down at the fire and reached for the bag with dried meat that something white caught his eye, lying half-hidden in the sand.
Charlie felt the fine grains scratch over the expensive paper as he shook the sheet off to get a better look. He froze, felt cold rush through his veins despite the summer heat, shock-tainted violent joy and crazy hope.
It was only an outline. A few, hastily-drawn lines that shaped the idea of a face and some more to hint at a Stetson. But there was no mistaking Charlie's own angry eyes glaring up at him in loving detail.
...So Bloody Damn Obvious!
Clint stood and stared for a minute. Blinked slowly - and stared some more. The image didn't change.
Then he took a fortifying breath, like he had learned during training years back in the circus. Inhaling deep and letting all emotions that might threaten his impulse control rush out with the air from his lungs.
"Loki."
"Yes?" came the reply, in that smoky-honey kind of voice that never failed to send shivers down his spine.
"Is this your doing?"
"Do you like it? I heard grand gestures were very important to humans on this so-called 'Valentine's Day'."
Loki sounded a bit insecure, shooting him nervous glances, and Clint felt his insides turn to gooey happiness despite himself (and a bit of patriotic horror).
"I'm floored."
It came out a bit strangled, but Loki beamed and pulled him in for a kiss.
Mount Rushmore, redecorated with a magically carved L + C circled in a heart-shape and shot through with an arrow made for a beautiful backdrop. Fainting tourists were just an added bonus. Fury having a coronary... now that was extra sweet.
The End
Title: "Love is... "
Artist: numberthescars
Art Masterpost: here
Beta: shadownashira
Status: Complete
On AO3: HERE
Word Count: 4,901
Fandom(s): Person of Interest; James Bond - Skyfall; The Bourne Legacy; Mission Impossible - Ghost Protocol; 03:10 To Yuma; The Avengers
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Harold Finch/John Reese; Q/James Bond; Aaron Cross/Eric Byer; Ethan Hunt/William Brandt; Ben Wade/Charlie Prince; Loki/Clint Barton
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.
Rating: T
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, established relationship, (mild) slash, H/C, angst, friendship, (mild) humor
Warnings: minor depictions of violence
Note1: Μην πεθάνεις. - Don't die.
Note2: Written for the Bitty Bang level of the fivetimesbb 2013. A simple 'thank you' won't cut it, but it goes to numberthescars, for this absolutely beautiful piece of art and shadownashira for her encouragement and great job as my beta. Thank you both!
Summary: Love is...
… to accept pins and needles in your hand (even if you are in denial)
… going to McDonald's (much to Mr Bond's dismay)
… to massage his shoulders now (and get naked later)
… to let him go (he will need the head start)
… to follow, wherever he might lead (you thought you knew; you don't)
… to re-decorate Loki-style (happy coronary, Mr Fury!)
Five Times...
John woke to the sensation of his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his skin and the pressure of the covers aggravating the gunshot wound in his abdomen, though he was cold enough not to mind.
He kept his breathing even, not yet reacting to the play of light and shadows on his closed eyelids, not daring to while he was unsure of his location.
Then he relaxed, reassured by the distinct smells surrounding him: old paper, beeswax polish, sencha tea. All underlined by expensive aftershave and the bitter tang of pain medication.
The library.
Finch.
John remembered lying on the pavement with pain burning in his gut, bleeding sluggishly, stench of gunpowder strong in his nose. The pale smudge of a worried face had hovered over him, then a coppery taste on his tongue. There was only darkness after that, burned open and starched white by fever, flooded with surreal landscapes of memories and past regrets.
No details beyond that, just the feeling of cotton lining all his thoughts; Finch must have used the good stuff to drug him into oblivion.
When John felt composed enough to accept the pain, map it out and set it aside like he had learned during his training, Finch had already seen through his act of sleeping.
"You're awake, Mr. Reese, please stop pretending otherwise. I am sure by now you have ascertained that you are not in a hostile place."
John opened his eyes, blinked the library into focus and turned his head to that dry voice that had become so familiar to his ears. Finch was sitting at his bedside, posture more rigid than usual and -
"Are we..." John stopped and tried to swallow his horrible croak, "... holding hands, Harold?"
It certainly did look like it, their fingers lying intertwined on top of the duvet. With the numbness from the drugs receding, it felt like it, too. Finch had the delicate fingers of a pianist; skin pleasantly cool to the touch. John's own were furnace hot, rough and callused, far less used to typing than handling guns.
"We are, John concluded as no answer was forthcoming, his rough voice sounding quite pleased about the fact, even to his own ears.
"I couldn't say for sure since I lost all feeling in mine," Finch finally said.
John loosened his grip but did not let go, smiling at the wry tone. “How did that happen?”
"Well, Mr. Reese, when the blood flow is restricted due to - "
"Harold."
John's stern look lost much of its efficiency, seeing as it rolled from the bookshelves to the dark window before he managed to focus it on the prickly billionaire at his side. Finch looked pale and drawn, his immaculate three-piece suit rumpled, all signs that spoke of concern.
Confronted with the evidence, John felt something soften and smoothing out within himself and he began to try and massage the feeling back into Finch's fingers; ineffective one-handed, but the answering squeeze told him the effort was appreciated.
"How did that happen?" he repeated his question, tracing a delicate joint.
"I was checking on your bandage when you grabbed my hand and refused to let go."
John thought of the numbers that would never cease, the people that needed their help, HR, the CIA and Root, waiting to strike again and didn't point out that Finch couldn't have tried too hard to get free; he had made his choice in this like in everything else.
"I wouldn't."
Come morning it would be as if this exchange had never happened. Both of them knowing better; that was fine with Reese.
Three Words...
"I refuse."
Q ignored the bunch of female interns huddled together in the opposite corner of the room, half-hidden behind the big LCD screen. They were glaring daggers at him for brushing off 007's attempt to ask him out for lunch; jealousy was such an ugly emotion, even hidden under layers of flaking make-up.
He left Q-branch, hearing Bond catch the door behind him before it could fall shut and then steps hot on his heels, while he buttoned up his coat. Temperatures had taken a nosedive lately.
"Why?"
"You dragged me to Launceston Place." His voice sounded very much like an accusation, turning the head of another intern walking in the opposite direction. "They only let me in because I was your plus one."
"Your cardigans have that sort of effect on people." Bond huffed a quiet laugh. "And you seemed to enjoy your roe deer just fine."
"I congratulate myself on my acting skills. Needing to keep a stiff upper lip while trying to eat without embarrassing myself in that posh restaurant of yours gave me indigestion."
Bond stopped. “I hadn't noticed.”
Q was three steps ahead before he turned around, one eyebrow quirked, although his unruly hair ruined the effect. “Of course not. How do you think I survive board meetings?”
"You were uncomfortable," Bond said. His flat tone implied that was an insult, both to him as a person and as a special agent, who was trained to pick up on such things and had failed to do so.
"I enjoyed your company. Putting up with a waiter more haughty than the Queen on a bad day was hardly a sacrifice." Q scowled at himself for being so soft. After all, James was insufferable. But then again, "You were gone for a whole month."
Bond stepped close enough that Q started to wonder if the man would need a reminder of his own no PDA rule, but he only took the notebook bag from his left hand and started for the elevator. Q followed.
"Nothing fancy, then."
"That would be acceptable."
They wove through the MI6 crowd that had gathered to grab a quick bite during lunch break. Watching how people - mostly women - tried to flirt with James even in passing, while the men gave him a wide berth of respect (with a healthy dose of intimidation) never got old to Q.
But -
"What is it with everyone's need to feed me?" Q muttered darkly to himself, rounding another corner.
He knew for a fact that James liked how his sleek build fit into his arms at night and really, it was not as if he was malnourished. But that didn't deter Bond from wining and dining him at any given opportunity, nor Moneypenny from feeding him the high-stacked sandwiches she brought down daily or even Tanner, who had a secret passion for baking.
They entered the second elevator that led down to MI6's underground garage; no one dared to step in with them, courtesy of James' pointed stare.
"So. Nothing fancy."
Q stared ahead, waiting for the doors to close. “That would be highly appreciated.”
"Pizza Hut?" James suggested, sounding caught between amusement and what Q assumed was mock horror. "McDonald's?"
Q gazed at him sideways, studying that impeccable Tom Ford suit, the polished shoes, the perfectly matching tie... Fond memories of last night rose at that GQ-worthy picture, only Bond had looked far more debauched then and proceeded to make a mess - oh yes, that called for punishment.
"Yes to McDonald's."
"I was joking."
Maybe it had been genuine horror. Q suppressed a grin. “Tough.”
The elevator's doors opened to the gray monotone that was the underground car park. Of course 007's infamous Aston Martin was parked illegally close by, under a spotlight. Bond, ever the gentleman as per mission requirement or when the mood struck him, held Q's door open, before he settled into the driver's seat.
What followed was a ride that would have duly impressed seasoned Hollywood stuntmen, complete with two millimeters of rubber burned into the concrete while ascending the first ramp and a dramatic swerve as they spilled into London's streets. The only thing missing were pedestrians diving out of the way to save their lives.
"Child," Q muttered, watching how the buildings passed by in a blur, defying traffic, as they drove north from Vauxhall to the County Hall. "M will have your hide if you trash another car so soon."
James grinned and shifted gears, beating the red light at the next intersection by a millisecond, “Just relax.”
Q, who had already settled back into the leather upholstery with boneless grace and a calm pulse, shot him an incredulous look, “I am.”
Of course after arriving no more than four minutes later and finding a parking spot that was legal enough that the car wouldn't get towed away (Q had insisted) they got swallowed in a crowd of tourists. With Bond steering Q, a hand on his elbow, they naturally had no problem making a beeline for McDonald's despite the living and breathing obstacle course.
James took in the fast food restaurant: the signs with yellow styled M's on red, the clean floor, the tables and sniffed the air. “At least they are less obnoxious nowadays.”
"Did you expect Ronald McDonald and lots of plastic?" Q questioned, wondering when Bond had last ordered something as plebeian as hamburgers. "Even their coffee is half-way decent. - Speaking of which; what do you want?"
Coming closer, Bond studied the menu. “Will you take a Happy Meal?”
"Ha ha ha," Q said slowly, without inflection. "Careful James, your snarky wit is slipping."
"You decide."
"Don't complain later."
"I won't."
Q decidedly did not roll his eyes when James covered his six as he weaved around customers and got in line to order them their burgers, neither did he laugh at how Her Majesty's finest stuck out like a sore thumb in his crisp suit.
While they slowly moved forward to a harassed-looking trainee, rushing around behind the counter to gather fries and Big Mac's on trays, Bond attracted stares from affection-starved housewives that had mouthy kids and shopping bags dangling from their hands.
James, though, Q was gratified to note, was focused only on him, with the dogged determination of a bodyguard, had been in public ever since that botched kidnapping attempt, in fact. Q was still a little miffed about that, since the event had been completely unrelated to MI6 business and he had kicked arse, all on his own, thank you very much.
Q was next in line and treated to a brilliant fake smile and well-rehearsed line: “Welcome to McDonald's. May I take your order?”
"Two Big Tasty meals..."
XXX
Later, when Q was washing down the last bite of his burger with his strawberry milkshake, Bond delivered his verdict, “I'll live.”
"Don't sound so surprised. It's no caviar, but you get what it says on the tin."
James grimaced. “...tasty.”
"Exactly."
Q wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and offered Bond another one, “You'll need that.”
"Oh? Do I have something on my face?" James leaned closer, smiling suggestively. If the man wasn't careful he would break the giggling schoolgirls that sat at the next table. Their attention was practically laser-guided.
"Think lower. Gutter-level, in fact."
Bond's gaze fell to his lap and the liberal stain of brownish barbecue sauce that had seeped into the material. Another pained grimace, but at least he was savvy enough not to start rubbing at it.
"I liked that suit," Bond stated, his tone just this side of an undignified whine. The man had the gall to glower.
Q stared back, unimpressed and popped the last French fry into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed, taking his time to consider, going through the evidence in his mind; the warm glow of affection rising in his gut was really embarrassing.
"You know, I think it is actually quite flattering that you would ruin a suit on purpose, just to be able to follow it up with guilt-tripping me into 'making it up to you'. But please, you should know it's unnecessary."
Bond settled back into his chair, huffing another laugh, “I have no idea what you're talking about, Q.”
"James."
"Yes?"
"You need to get out of that suit."
"I like how you think."
They left, leaving starry-eyed schoolgirls and housewives behind in their hurry to reach Q's flat. The ruined suit landed on top of a white-stained cardigan, looking quite comfortable in a messily debauched way.
Remained Unspoken...
Aaron's hands stilled on the backpack HQ had provided for that so-called 'training mission' he would head out for in three hours. Nice euphemism for a punishment that meant freezing his ass off in Alaska's wilderness.
He listened, followed the sound of quick footsteps on the stairs, the creak and groan of their advance; two floors left, one. Aaron grabbed the knife from the bed where his equipment lay spread out on the duvet. It was viciously sharp, ideal for field dressing game.
Two steps and he was at the door, pressed into the space between wall and doorjamb, since the white painted yew wouldn't provide much protection against bullets.
Carpet-muffled noise stopped right on the other side; then, “It's me.”
Relaxing at the sound of Eric Byer's voice was a conditioned response, carrying over from Kenneth Kitsom; always eager to please, starving for affection, to be acknowledged, like a puppy. Aaron's skin crawled with the dissonance of his hated past and the present, but he lowered the knife anyway.
He couldn't afford to disobey, not now with a black mark in his records, and the tiny part of himself that had enjoyed a quick fuck to come down from an adrenaline high, his 'handler' slipping past his guard, didn't even want to.
Aaron tossed the weapon on the bed and opened the door. He had to blink twice before he recognized Ric in that careless slouch and cheap black coat that dripped water everywhere. He was unarmed and carried a suitcase, looking like any nondescript guy who could blend in with a crowd.
"Come in. To what do I owe this surprise visit?" Aaron had aimed for sarcasm and missed, it came out more bitter and angry than anything else. Seeing Ric always stung, ever since Somalia and what counted as a break-up in his fucked-up life. "Anyone follow you?"
"No."
"You sure? Intel coming from you leaves much to be desired."
It was a cheap jab, because he had no leverage, no knowledge of Ric's immediate complicity and anyway, his anger had burned to ashes and cooled down weeks ago. But thirty civilians had died. It was a sin Aaron was still chewing on, and yet here he was, doing his goddamned job, because going back to being Kenneth was unthinkable, especially with Ric in the same tiny room, close enough to feel the heat radiating off the man who looked over his shoulder as he packed.
"We talked about that, Aaron."
That voice, smooth, calm, giving nothing away, cadence unchanged, whether here or in bed, breathed on sweaty skin. Aaron struggled to suppress a shiver.
"Yeah, right," he muttered, checking the chems in his dog tag. "Sir," he added, as an afterthought, when he felt the disapproving frown rather than saw it.
"Ration them."
Aaron went rigid, alarm bells ringing. He finally turned, but Ric was staring through the smudged windowpane, hood still up and obscured in shadows.
"What's going on?"
"Marta Shearing. Remember that name."
"Ric - "
He wanted to reach out to Ric, get him to explain, but the suitcase was shoved into his hand with the force of a warning that stopped him short.
He didn't follow as Ric walked out of the room. “Take care of yourself, Aaron.”
When he recovered enough to move, the street down below was drowning in rain and trash, empty as far as he could see.
There was a Glock 19 and ammunition in the suitcase and a piece of paper in Ric's neat handwriting: "Μην πεθάνεις."
But Were Plain To See...
The insistent buzzing got louder even though Ethan had curled around the warm body in his arms and burrowed his ear into the pillow; his annoyed huff stirred fine hairs.
He would later blame his abysmal reaction time on the pain meds or the mild fever or his total exhaustion. He could take his pick after what Benji had dubbed 'the mission from hell'. As it was it took him ages to let go of Will and roll over. His searching fingers felt hardwood, then the half-empty blister pack; the reading lamp toppled over, landing on the carpet with a thump.
"It's mine." Will sounded alert, voice only slightly rough with sleep. His cell snapped open, the sound loud over the rustling of bed sheets as he sat up and scooted back to the headboard. "Brandt."
Ethan fumbled for the light switch, then gave up with a groan. He settled under the blanket, not paying much attention to the one-sided conversation. Instead he stared blankly up at the ceiling, a slightly brighter shade of darkness above him, and regulated his breathing against the throbbing in his busted leg and tender ribs.
"Has the sighting been confirmed?"
The tension in Will's voice preceded the sudden glare of light. Ethan blinked, blinded, then felt the mattress rock with hasty movement.
"I see. Yes, sir. Of course."
He watched in a bemused daze as Will moved around the room with focused intent, putting on fresh clothes after a short visit to the bathroom. There was something to be said about those chosen few who could look neat as a pin at a moment's notice.
Ethan managed to work his tongue loose from where it had been stuck to the roof of his mouth to ask, “Something up at headquarters?”
"They have a possible lead on Romanova," Will said, adjusting the knot of his tie.
Ethan sat up, slowed down by the unyielding mass of the cast that got caught in the sheets and the distracting flood of memories; four terrorist attacks on American embassies in the last three months. Will's look was disapproving but he didn't comment, only grabbed the car keys and shrugged into this suit jacket.
"The Banker? Really?"
"Yes. I need to go in. Johnson's team is on stand-by, ready to take Romanova out as soon as we have the Intel."
"I'll - "
"Here."
Ethan had no time to catch his cell phone before its cool weight hit his chest with perfect aim in the dark center of his largest bruise. He swallowed the rest of his sentence together with a curse.
"Ow! Injured man here!"
"I'm so glad we agree that you are in no condition to leave." Will rolled his eyes. "Stay right where you are. I'll keep you updated."
His protest was silenced with a kiss that disregarded the bitter-tasting fur on his tongue from the meds and left him lightheaded. Contrary to popular IMF opinion Ethan Hunt could recognize defeat, so he settled into the bed.
He hated the thought of lying around doing nothing while Will tracked down an international terrorist but HQ needed their chief analyst's expertise, not an injured field agent who would only get in the way and annoy the support staff.
"I'll see you later."
The door shut behind Will and their apartment fell silent.
XXX
Will kept his promise. Over the course of the next week he sent SMSes with updates on Romanova, the resulting chaos in HQ, and nagging reminders to take it easy on the leg, to use the crutches or Ethan would regret it, et cetera.
He headed downtown to the inconspicuous-looking office building the IMF had been using since last year as soon as he got rid of his cast. He had ditched the cane the doctor had forced on him and bought an extra strong coffee; judging by the deteriorating grammar of Will's messages he would need it.
Ethan breezed through security and down into the basement levels. The main workplace was eerily quiet, screens blank and documents scattered everywhere, while mission control was abuzz with activity - Johnson's team had been deployed.
Ethan slowed his pace, feeling the strain on his leg, which did not bode well for tomorrow's PT session, and passed through until he reached the offices.
Will was sitting astride a simple wooden chair, body slumped over the backrest, his head pillowed on crossed arms. His suit jacket was nowhere to be seen and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up. The man who had set out to tackle the problem had been replaced with one near total exhaustion, but there was an air of triumph around him.
"You're supposed to rest," admonished Will's muffled voice, though he didn't bother to look over his shoulder to see Ethan approach.
"Look who's talking," Ethan shot back mildly and offered the cup of coffee.
Will sniffed the aroma wafting through the air with the appreciation of someone parched before he took it. He nearly managed to drown his wince in the dark brown liquid but Ethan had noticed the stiffness of the movement.
"Sit up straight."
Will complying without any protest spoke for itself; he set the cup aside on the table. Ethan stepped closer and let his hands rest on Will's shoulders, letting their warmth seep into the tightly wound muscles and slowing his breaths to match.
He started his massage with the trapezium muscle, bands of steel under his hands, moving slowly from the back of Will's neck to the top of his shoulders, careful not to exert too much pressure. The tendons stood out hard under his fingertips, easily felt through the slightly damp material of Will's shirt.
"Mhmmngh."
"Alright?" Ethan asked, knuckling down Will's ramrod straight back between the spinal column and the shoulder blades, feeling the tension fading bit by bit; draining away with the initial pain.
"Yeah. You've gotten really good at this."
"I like to think so. I have plenty of practice, thanks to you."
"Hmm."
Will fell silent again, swaying gently with each kneading touch, unwinding as the minutes passed. Ethan gently squeezed his way along his upper shoulders, then let his hands flow upwards in a neck rub that ended with his fingers moving through soft brown hair in tiny circles.
Ethan finally stopped. As Will tilted his head back to look up at him, he dropped a kiss on his brow.
"Let's take this home and get naked?"
Will snorted. “I have to wrap things up first.”
"You've got five minutes."
"Bossy," Will mumbled under his breath, but he got up from his seat with a languid stretch that was notably devoid of the sound of popping vertebra. "Five minutes."
Ethan knew he would make it in three.
And The One Time It Was...
Charlie had never believed in God, neither the merciful nor the wrathful. He had survived at home without a mother, beaten by his father until the day he killed the old man and spit on his corpse, and made it through the war, all on his own.
Yet he had seen hell. Not then, drenched in blood, men dying all around him from wounds and sickness; the war zone made him feel alive. Leaving the service, deed done, no longer needed, soldier turned useless civilian, without the rush of excitement through his veins; that had been the rock bottom of the seventh circle.
It was living on the street, pride ground to dust with charity, starving and being kicked out of the saloon, into the mud. No matter how often Charlie stumbled back up on his feet, refused to give in, looked for honest work; eyes shied away from him, faces going pale in fright or beet-red with anger.
No drunkard would beat him ever again, he had sworn it as a boy, but four banded together on a moonless night tried and succeeded until blood bubbled up his throat.
He had never believed in God, but his Hand had saved him, for no reason Charlie had ever discovered, not even years after, but that was fine. He followed; a quiet voice, sharp wit and quick draw, and all else that was Ben Wade.
He followed, shaping himself to be what the boss needed, and when his thoughts roamed and his eyes followed, his hands wandered down to fist his cock almost angrily. It felt natural; the sweetest sin.
If he hoped for a sign, like a message from an angel's throat brought in a dream of divine clarity, he was less of a fool for knowing that nothing would come of it.
As long as Ben Wade didn't notice, the Hand of God would stay holstered and quiet, Charlie's presence and service welcome. He made himself indispensable as best as he knew how, the scratch of pencil on paper a comfort in the darkness when he stood guard.
And the greatest relief of all: the knowledge that he longed for what he couldn't have because the sketchbooks' pages were devoid of any person he had ever seen and Charlie Prince had long since understood that only things of worth would ever be immortalized by Ben Wade's hand.
XXX
"I'll be back at sunrise."
"We'll be ready by then, boss."
"I know you will, Charlie," the boss said, corners of his mouth rising in that familiar half-smile, its edge softened by the fading evening light.
Charlie watched as Ben Wade mounted his horse and turned it westwards, back to the dirt hole that counted as a city in these parts of the country. He didn't like having to stay here, left behind with the rest of the outfit, camped around a muddy waterhole, the only cover white boned shrubs and boulders, but he complied.
Boss always vanished into town before they attacked a stagecoach. Charlie burned with the knowledge what he would do there, having sweet-talked another woman to refill his glass and share his bed, complimenting her green eyes, most like, but he swallowed the acid in the back of his throat and got to work.
"Move, Jorgensen! You heard the plan!" Charlie watched the younger man scuttle off; imagined he could smell his fear in the dry air. "Campos, you move out now and take your position."
The preparations for the ambush didn't take long, not with Charlie keeping the men in line. Tomorrow the pay-packet would be theirs and the Southern Pacific Railway Company would double the bounty on their heads, send Pinkerton's after them, but no one was worried. Ben Wade's plans had never failed them and the loot was always good.
Of course Charlie would stay even when it all went to hell like it must; sadly, he couldn't say as much 'bout the rest of the outfit. His fingers itched for his Schofields whenever he thought of that day, the day he died for Ben Wade, guns blazing. A fitting end for a man with anger boiling in his guts and blood-red dreams that made him a light sleeper.
It was only later when he settled down at the fire and reached for the bag with dried meat that something white caught his eye, lying half-hidden in the sand.
Charlie felt the fine grains scratch over the expensive paper as he shook the sheet off to get a better look. He froze, felt cold rush through his veins despite the summer heat, shock-tainted violent joy and crazy hope.
It was only an outline. A few, hastily-drawn lines that shaped the idea of a face and some more to hint at a Stetson. But there was no mistaking Charlie's own angry eyes glaring up at him in loving detail.
...So Bloody Damn Obvious!
Clint stood and stared for a minute. Blinked slowly - and stared some more. The image didn't change.
Then he took a fortifying breath, like he had learned during training years back in the circus. Inhaling deep and letting all emotions that might threaten his impulse control rush out with the air from his lungs.
"Loki."
"Yes?" came the reply, in that smoky-honey kind of voice that never failed to send shivers down his spine.
"Is this your doing?"
"Do you like it? I heard grand gestures were very important to humans on this so-called 'Valentine's Day'."
Loki sounded a bit insecure, shooting him nervous glances, and Clint felt his insides turn to gooey happiness despite himself (and a bit of patriotic horror).
"I'm floored."
It came out a bit strangled, but Loki beamed and pulled him in for a kiss.
Mount Rushmore, redecorated with a magically carved L + C circled in a heart-shape and shot through with an arrow made for a beautiful backdrop. Fainting tourists were just an added bonus. Fury having a coronary... now that was extra sweet.
The End