Fic: Round 2 Hell's Door PG13
Title: Hell's Door
Author: rubygirl29
Fandom: Avengers
Spoilers: None, pre-movie
Rating: PG13
Characters: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Disclaimer: Marvel owns them. I just borrow them once in a while.
Author's Note: For ccbingo prompt Pyrophobia (fear of fire)
Also on AO3
Hell's Door
It was like you had opened Hell's doors, and you had all you could do to put your hands over your face and run the other way.*
It was part of circus lore. Everybody knew it, everybody talked about it. Clint's brother, Barney, used to use it to terrify him as a child. The great Hartford Circus fire. He used to whisper in Clint's ear that if he wasn't a good boy, he'd be caught in a fire and die screaming like the children trapped in the big top. "The doors of Hell, Clint. Remember that. You know how it hurts when hot wax drips on your arm? Imagine if it was all over your body and you couldn't stop it from burning, " he would breathe, his breath smelling like the cigarettes he'd stolen from one of the roustabouts. He'd call Clint a coward when he whimpered. " Let's practice," he'd laugh and dare Clint to hold his hand over a candle until he wanted to scream. He never screamed, but he still has a dime-sized scar on his left palm.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Night time. A firefight in Afghanistan. Clint is prone, his sniper rifle braced on a tripod. He's turned off his night-scope because the flares of the AA fire are blinding him. He can see better without it. He starts picking off the Taliban guards; quick, silent, deadly. He's waiting for the Black Hawk chopper to come and take out the emplacement. He hears the blades cutting through the night and the chopper swoops down. It fires a rocket at the emplacement and there is a huge gush of fire as nearby fuel tanks explode. Clint buries his face in the crook of his elbow. He can feel the rush of heat, and his hand throbs. He hears screaming. A man, his hair, beard and clothing aflame is running towards him. Clint throws him to the ground, rolls him in the sand to extinguish the flames. He's too late. The man's skin is coming off in ribbons and Clint vomits at the smell of burning meat.
"Sir! Sir, are you all right?" An airman is standing at his side, and Clint realizes that the chopper has landed and the fight is over.
"Yeah." Clint takes a mouthful of water and spits it out. "Give me a lift back to Bagram?" he asks. He doesn't meet the airman's eyes. He thinks his secret fear will be too raw, too easily seen. That night, in his bunk at Bagram, he wakes suddenly, his breath drawing in on a scream. Every soldier has his nightmares. Clint's go back to the circus, to Barney and the high wire, and a cigarette lighter. He grabs a bottle of water with shaking hands and drinks it down, then falls back to sleep, this time without dreams.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
It is supposedly a meth lab. That's what the media is told, and nobody is arguing because if they knew the truth they'd be scared shitless. It is a Hydra lab and the facility is three stories of chemicals, electronics and files that could be a gold mine for S.H.I.E.L.D. and other law enforcement agencies.
S.H.I.E.L.D. agents are swarming the site. Clint has a bad feeling about it -- Hydra isn't above setting traps that even bomb squads can't disarm. Clint is watching from the third floor window of the building across the street. His supply of arrows has been nearly depleted, but he still has bullets in his gun. His earwig is tuned to the same frequency as Coulson's. He can see the agent directing the actions of his team. He puts his laser sight to his eye, not to take aim, but to keep watch over Phil. He doesn't trust anybody else to do that as well as he can. That is always his mission.
The sun is beginning to set and as he slowly scans the building, watching the progress of the agents, the beam of light catches on something ... a filament as fine as a spider web ... but no spider web had ever been so straight. "Coulson! It's a booby-trap. Get out of there!"
Even as he says it, it's too late. An agent trips the wire. Clint watches in horror as an explosion blasts out the glass and gouts of flame spew from the windows. "Coulson!" Nothing. Just static through the ringing in his ears. He takes out one of his arrows rigged with a line and shoots it into the bricks. Every nerve in his body is screaming at him to run, that this is his enemy, his fear, his door to Hell.
He can't do this. He has to do this. He clips his belt to the line and zips through a window on a floor below the level of the fire. Agents are on their phones and radios. Clint grabs one of them by the shoulder. "Agent Coulson?"
The agent looks stunned. "He was on his way up the stair when it blew. You can't go up there!" He grabs at Clint's arm. "It's like hell."
Clint looks at the stairwell. The door is warm beneath his palm, not hot, and the air looks hazy but breathable. He opens the door, shaking off the agent's hand on his arm. "It's not Hell. I've been there. Trust me." But his mouth is dry and he's starting to shake.
"Barton?" It's Coulson's voice, weak and trembling. "Don't even think about coming up here."
"No, sir. Not thinking about it." He's already up the first flight of stairs. The air is thicker now and the heat is palpable on his skin. Sweat streaks down his face and he swipes at his forehead. He reaches the third floor exit. The metal door is hot, and the window is crazed and showing the flicker of fire through the smoke. It isn't an inferno, not yet. Clint places his palm on the knob and feels the heat throb through the old scars. He shoves and steps into a hall littered with debris.
The ceiling is spitting flames and heat is roiling in waves along his skin like a burning tide. He can't breathe the foul air indefinitely, and Coulson has been in this place for too long. Clint wipes the tears from his eyes and moves on, the light on his pistol playing along the floor. He sees a black sleeve and his heart jolts, but it's one of the junior agents, not Coulson. He has no pulse. There is a jagged piece of glass in his jugular vein and a pool of blood spreading around him. There is nothing Clint can do for him, so he moves on.
He reaches a bend in the hallway. Daylight is leaking through a blown out window. The fire is lapping along the floor like a hungry beast. He is in the heart of the explosion. Beams lie across the hallway; he shoves them aside with his boots and sees another arm, another black suit, and Phil's prized gold Piaget watch that his father left him. The beam pinning him is on fire. Clint can't use his boot; it would be like using a sledgehammer when he needs forceps. He pulls on his archer's gloves. His heart is racing in his chest, his scarred hand is burning. He can't breathe. He swears he can hear Barney's laugh taunting him in the guttering flames.
He is stronger now. His heart is strong, his body is strong. His will is steel and he can do this. He closes his eyes and wonders if love is enough. He grabs the beam and lifts it, even as the flames scorch his leather gloves. He heaves the beam aside, grabs Phil's wrist and pulls him free. He throws him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and prays he can find the way out.
He doesn't remember staggering out into the street, dropping to his knees, laying Coulson's body down, and falling ... falling ...
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
He comes to in medical with an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. His hands are bandaged, and he doesn't know why for a moment, and then he does ... He pulls the oxygen off, coughs up a gout of black phlegm and spits into the emesis basin on his bedside table.
A hand pushes him back down. "I told you not to think about coming in after me."
He turns slowly. Phil is looking pretty wobbly. He has a nasal cannula and an oxygen tank on the floor next to him, and a white bandage on his forehead. "I wasn't thinking. I was doing."
"You disobeyed a direct order."
"So shoot me." He coughs hard and Phil's hand is cool on the back of his neck as he steadies him.
"I think I'd better thank you, instead," Phil says quietly. He takes Clint's bandaged hands in his. "Thank you. Though that's not a carte blanche to do it on a regular basis."
"How about I do it only when you're involved?"
"You can't be there all the time. You can't risk the lives of others at the price of mine."
Clint doesn't answer, but he nods, knowing that if it came to that, Phil would always come first. He is getting a little woozy from lack of oxygen or from the way Coulson is rubbing slow circles on his back, soothing him. He lies down and Phil places the oxygen mask over his face again. He fumbles for the morphine pump. Phil pushes the button for him.
"Come see me when you're out of here. I owe you dinner."
"Let's skip the barbecue," Clint mutters from beneath the mask and he is rewarded with Phil's warm, rare smile; the one that reaches his kind eyes and crinkles the corners and makes Clint's stomach do flip-flops.
That smile is the last thing he sees before he drifts off in the bliss of good drugs and conquered fears.
The End
*This is a quote from a survivor of the great Hartford circus fire. If you're interested read The Circus Fire by Stewart O'Nan, for a brilliant reconstruction of the events.
Author: rubygirl29
Fandom: Avengers
Spoilers: None, pre-movie
Rating: PG13
Characters: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Disclaimer: Marvel owns them. I just borrow them once in a while.
Author's Note: For ccbingo prompt Pyrophobia (fear of fire)
Also on AO3
Hell's Door
It was like you had opened Hell's doors, and you had all you could do to put your hands over your face and run the other way.*
It was part of circus lore. Everybody knew it, everybody talked about it. Clint's brother, Barney, used to use it to terrify him as a child. The great Hartford Circus fire. He used to whisper in Clint's ear that if he wasn't a good boy, he'd be caught in a fire and die screaming like the children trapped in the big top. "The doors of Hell, Clint. Remember that. You know how it hurts when hot wax drips on your arm? Imagine if it was all over your body and you couldn't stop it from burning, " he would breathe, his breath smelling like the cigarettes he'd stolen from one of the roustabouts. He'd call Clint a coward when he whimpered. " Let's practice," he'd laugh and dare Clint to hold his hand over a candle until he wanted to scream. He never screamed, but he still has a dime-sized scar on his left palm.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Night time. A firefight in Afghanistan. Clint is prone, his sniper rifle braced on a tripod. He's turned off his night-scope because the flares of the AA fire are blinding him. He can see better without it. He starts picking off the Taliban guards; quick, silent, deadly. He's waiting for the Black Hawk chopper to come and take out the emplacement. He hears the blades cutting through the night and the chopper swoops down. It fires a rocket at the emplacement and there is a huge gush of fire as nearby fuel tanks explode. Clint buries his face in the crook of his elbow. He can feel the rush of heat, and his hand throbs. He hears screaming. A man, his hair, beard and clothing aflame is running towards him. Clint throws him to the ground, rolls him in the sand to extinguish the flames. He's too late. The man's skin is coming off in ribbons and Clint vomits at the smell of burning meat.
"Sir! Sir, are you all right?" An airman is standing at his side, and Clint realizes that the chopper has landed and the fight is over.
"Yeah." Clint takes a mouthful of water and spits it out. "Give me a lift back to Bagram?" he asks. He doesn't meet the airman's eyes. He thinks his secret fear will be too raw, too easily seen. That night, in his bunk at Bagram, he wakes suddenly, his breath drawing in on a scream. Every soldier has his nightmares. Clint's go back to the circus, to Barney and the high wire, and a cigarette lighter. He grabs a bottle of water with shaking hands and drinks it down, then falls back to sleep, this time without dreams.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
It is supposedly a meth lab. That's what the media is told, and nobody is arguing because if they knew the truth they'd be scared shitless. It is a Hydra lab and the facility is three stories of chemicals, electronics and files that could be a gold mine for S.H.I.E.L.D. and other law enforcement agencies.
S.H.I.E.L.D. agents are swarming the site. Clint has a bad feeling about it -- Hydra isn't above setting traps that even bomb squads can't disarm. Clint is watching from the third floor window of the building across the street. His supply of arrows has been nearly depleted, but he still has bullets in his gun. His earwig is tuned to the same frequency as Coulson's. He can see the agent directing the actions of his team. He puts his laser sight to his eye, not to take aim, but to keep watch over Phil. He doesn't trust anybody else to do that as well as he can. That is always his mission.
The sun is beginning to set and as he slowly scans the building, watching the progress of the agents, the beam of light catches on something ... a filament as fine as a spider web ... but no spider web had ever been so straight. "Coulson! It's a booby-trap. Get out of there!"
Even as he says it, it's too late. An agent trips the wire. Clint watches in horror as an explosion blasts out the glass and gouts of flame spew from the windows. "Coulson!" Nothing. Just static through the ringing in his ears. He takes out one of his arrows rigged with a line and shoots it into the bricks. Every nerve in his body is screaming at him to run, that this is his enemy, his fear, his door to Hell.
He can't do this. He has to do this. He clips his belt to the line and zips through a window on a floor below the level of the fire. Agents are on their phones and radios. Clint grabs one of them by the shoulder. "Agent Coulson?"
The agent looks stunned. "He was on his way up the stair when it blew. You can't go up there!" He grabs at Clint's arm. "It's like hell."
Clint looks at the stairwell. The door is warm beneath his palm, not hot, and the air looks hazy but breathable. He opens the door, shaking off the agent's hand on his arm. "It's not Hell. I've been there. Trust me." But his mouth is dry and he's starting to shake.
"Barton?" It's Coulson's voice, weak and trembling. "Don't even think about coming up here."
"No, sir. Not thinking about it." He's already up the first flight of stairs. The air is thicker now and the heat is palpable on his skin. Sweat streaks down his face and he swipes at his forehead. He reaches the third floor exit. The metal door is hot, and the window is crazed and showing the flicker of fire through the smoke. It isn't an inferno, not yet. Clint places his palm on the knob and feels the heat throb through the old scars. He shoves and steps into a hall littered with debris.
The ceiling is spitting flames and heat is roiling in waves along his skin like a burning tide. He can't breathe the foul air indefinitely, and Coulson has been in this place for too long. Clint wipes the tears from his eyes and moves on, the light on his pistol playing along the floor. He sees a black sleeve and his heart jolts, but it's one of the junior agents, not Coulson. He has no pulse. There is a jagged piece of glass in his jugular vein and a pool of blood spreading around him. There is nothing Clint can do for him, so he moves on.
He reaches a bend in the hallway. Daylight is leaking through a blown out window. The fire is lapping along the floor like a hungry beast. He is in the heart of the explosion. Beams lie across the hallway; he shoves them aside with his boots and sees another arm, another black suit, and Phil's prized gold Piaget watch that his father left him. The beam pinning him is on fire. Clint can't use his boot; it would be like using a sledgehammer when he needs forceps. He pulls on his archer's gloves. His heart is racing in his chest, his scarred hand is burning. He can't breathe. He swears he can hear Barney's laugh taunting him in the guttering flames.
He is stronger now. His heart is strong, his body is strong. His will is steel and he can do this. He closes his eyes and wonders if love is enough. He grabs the beam and lifts it, even as the flames scorch his leather gloves. He heaves the beam aside, grabs Phil's wrist and pulls him free. He throws him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and prays he can find the way out.
He doesn't remember staggering out into the street, dropping to his knees, laying Coulson's body down, and falling ... falling ...
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
He comes to in medical with an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. His hands are bandaged, and he doesn't know why for a moment, and then he does ... He pulls the oxygen off, coughs up a gout of black phlegm and spits into the emesis basin on his bedside table.
A hand pushes him back down. "I told you not to think about coming in after me."
He turns slowly. Phil is looking pretty wobbly. He has a nasal cannula and an oxygen tank on the floor next to him, and a white bandage on his forehead. "I wasn't thinking. I was doing."
"You disobeyed a direct order."
"So shoot me." He coughs hard and Phil's hand is cool on the back of his neck as he steadies him.
"I think I'd better thank you, instead," Phil says quietly. He takes Clint's bandaged hands in his. "Thank you. Though that's not a carte blanche to do it on a regular basis."
"How about I do it only when you're involved?"
"You can't be there all the time. You can't risk the lives of others at the price of mine."
Clint doesn't answer, but he nods, knowing that if it came to that, Phil would always come first. He is getting a little woozy from lack of oxygen or from the way Coulson is rubbing slow circles on his back, soothing him. He lies down and Phil places the oxygen mask over his face again. He fumbles for the morphine pump. Phil pushes the button for him.
"Come see me when you're out of here. I owe you dinner."
"Let's skip the barbecue," Clint mutters from beneath the mask and he is rewarded with Phil's warm, rare smile; the one that reaches his kind eyes and crinkles the corners and makes Clint's stomach do flip-flops.
That smile is the last thing he sees before he drifts off in the bliss of good drugs and conquered fears.
The End
*This is a quote from a survivor of the great Hartford circus fire. If you're interested read The Circus Fire by Stewart O'Nan, for a brilliant reconstruction of the events.