Fic: Six Songs From the Playlist of my Heart
Title: Six Songs on the Playlist of My Heart
Author: Rubygirl29
Fandom: Avengers
Rating: PG13
Genre: Slash
Characters: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Disclaimer: Marvel owns them. I just borrow them once in a while.
Author's Note: I make playlists. This one is for Clint and Phil. I felt like porn and schmoop. No apologies for that, either.
Read on AO3
Fix You
Clint is worn out, run down. Rid hard and put away wet. He tries to look like he's nonchalant instead of completely exhausted as he walks away from the Quinjet he's landed on the hellicarrier. He avoids anybody who will try to talk to him, slinks past medical, because seriously, they will drag him into a hospital bed if they catch a good look at him. Most of the bruises are hidden under his fatigues, but he's limping from a strained knee, and favoring his left side where he probably has a cracked rib that is rubbing on his nerves until he's about ready to pound the walls with every throb.
Once past medical, he makes his way to the gangway he usually "nests" on. His blankets are still there, along with a bottle of ibuprofen and a liter of water. There is a box of protein bars and Snickers, a graphic novel and a tiny book light. Phil. He savors the ache in his chest.
Clint downs the ibuprofen and drinks half of the water before he settles in with a Snickers and the book. In ten minutes, he's asleep.
Coulson finds him an hour later, covers him with a second blanket and lays a hand on his cheek to check for fever. Clint's skin is cool. Phil touches Clint's shoulder and lets him sleep.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Keep The Streets Empty For Me
Clint lies on the rooftop of a building in Kosovo. It's August and the sun is brutal. He can feel sweat scrawling down his throat, soaking the neck of his T-shirt. His tac vest is a hot and heavy weight on his back and he wants to take it off. His body is screaming for him to move, but he can only blink his eyes. The bandanna tied around his forehead has long since stopped absorbing moisture. He doesn't move. Thirst is heavy in the back of his throat.
Barton. They're on the move. Sitwell's voice in his ear is rough.
"Copy that." Sitwell is irritating him. He wants Coulson, but Coulson is the reason he's up on this rooftop. For Phil, he'd withstand the fires of Hell.
The stock of his rifle is cuddled against his cheek. He'd prefer his bow, but the bow requires room, which he doesn't have. What he has is a barely enough space for his shoulders. He's half-lying on his side; it's a nearly impossible position to hold and support a rifle. It's like being stuck in a freaking stone oven.
The Kosovaars arrive in a huge Hummer with black windows, and big chrome guns mounted like trophies on either side of the front doors. Clint thinks that they are overcompensating, but the few townspeople vanish indoors; women in black headscarves herding their children out of harm's way, even though those cannon would blow throw their walls like they were made of pumice.
Unwittingly, they have made his job so much easier. A feral snarl curls his lip as he sets his eyes to his scope. He hardly needs it, but he wants to see Phil. The doors of the Hummer open and big men in desert camouflage uniforms get out. They bristle with bandoliers and pistols but they look like well-fed rats compared to the villagers. Clint could take them out in a heartbeat, but not until he knows that Coulson is all right. His voice on the cell phone sounded tight, breathless, slightly ragged.
The back doors open and two more soldiers get out. They pull Coulson out by a rope tied to a collar. Clint has to blink away the red haze of anger. Phil is wearing his black trousers, but no jacket, and his shirt is hanging in bloody ribbons. Clint has to swallow his nausea. The godammned motherfuckers had whipped him; they put a collar on him like he was nothing more than a dog to shoot down in the streets.
Clint closes his eyes, steadies his pulse, lets his anger flow through him and out of his fingertips. This is what he does; it's ugly and magnificent. It's sex and death and Rock and Roll. It's his damnation, but Phil's salvation, and somehow it will balance out.
A black Mercedes drives slowly down the street and comes to a stop. A tall man in a black Hydra uniform gets out, his hands raised. After the Kosovaars pat him down, he strides over to the man holding the rope. He yanks at the rope and Phil falls to his knees. He's out of the frame of Clint's shooting focus.
This is the moment he has been waiting for. He doesn't even think. Five shots and five men are dead in five seconds. They didn't even have time to react -- that's how quick and sure Clint's aim is, and he never hesitates.
He can hear Sitwell curse in admiration in his earpiece. "Get down there, Sitwell," Clint rasps. It isn't necessary, Sitwell is already in the street, checking the bodies. It's procedure but hardly necessary. A man can't live with his brains blown out. Clint gulps down half of his canteen of water, then swings down to the ground from his second-story perch. He reaches Coulson before Sitwell does.
Phil's eyes are closed and his face is splotched with blood and bone from the dead soldier. Clint wets his bandanna. "Hold still. I'll clean you off. Keep your eyes closed." He wipes the gore from Coulson's face. He removes the collar and flings it aside in disgust. There are bruises on Phil's throat, and skin rubbed raw from the rough edge of the leather.
He turns Phil with gentle hands. The lashes are bloody and leaking pus, but they're not deep. Clint feels the last of his rage slide away. "That'll hurt like a bitch when they clean you off," Clint says, and is rewarded by a whispered, "Fuck you, Barton."
Clint smiles happily. "Yes, sir." He helps Phil stand, and when he wavers, he scoops him up easily even though Phil is nearly as tall as he is and more muscular than he looks. He's saved from humiliation by Sitwell, arriving with medics and a stretcher.
Jasper looks at Coulson. "You're safe now, sir."
Coulson nods at Sitwell's comment, but his eyes remained locked on Clint's.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Cold Desert
Who the fuck knew they had a monsoon season in the desert? The water running down his collar and chilling the back of his neck is annoying, but at least the view is interesting. One of the biggest men Clint has ever seen has been taking down elite S.H.I.E.L.D. agents like they are green recruits. He's supposed to shoot him. Coulson's original orders had been to use a gun, but Clint had gone for the bow. He doesn't trust the sights on his rifle in the rain and he didn't have time to hood it. The bow is always true in his hands and less likely to cause permanent damage if Coulson decides he doesn't want the intruder dead.
"You want me to slow him down, sir? Or are you sending in more guys for him to beat up?"
"I'll let you know." Unflappable, but clipped.
Clint watches the man take on S.H.I.E.L.D's best fighter -- a real heavyweight. In two minutes Dawson is down in the mud. Coulson's silence is either disbelief or admiration. Clint thinks it is the latter. He feels a camaraderie with the man in his sights. "You better call it, Coulson, 'cause I'm starting to root for this guy."
Phil is standing in the rain, watching. The draw of the bow is starting to make Clint's shoulders ache. "Last chance, sir."
"Wait, I want to see this."
It ends with a taint of disappointment as the hammer doesn't budge and the man falls to his knees with a cry of grief and despair. Clint rides the boom down to the ground, puts his bow away and goes in search of Phil. Sitwell just jerks his chin to the tiny plastic cubicle that gives Phil someplace to keep his laptop and an office chair.
Coulson is bent over his laptop, typing. He looks exhausted. His Dolce suit kept off the chill, but it's still soaked. His hair is wet and there are blue shadows beneath his eyes. Clint frowns at him. "Call it a night, Coulson."
"I need to question him."
"You need to sleep. He'll be here in the morning." They are alone for the moment, and Clint takes Phil's shoulders in his hands, guiding him towards the exit. "I need to sleep," he says, "and neither of us has dry clothes here."
Coulson nods. The desert air is cold after the rain. Clint starts to get into the driver's seat, and Coulson shakes his head. "Not on your life, Barton. I'm driving."
"I see better than you do."
"I drive better."
Clint is too tired and cold to argue. "You're the boss, sir."
When they checked into the motel, it had been booked solid with curious onlookers and thrill-seeking idiots who had been trying their luck at the hammer. They had to take a single room. It didn't matter; they had slept in close quarters before. Now that the motel is crowded with S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel, there still isn't any space, so they continue to share the cramped room. They go inside, and Clint starts stripping, sodden clothes falling wetly to the floor. When he's down to his damp black briefs he goes into the bathroom and turns the shower on high. He waits for the water to run hot, then goes back to the bedroom.
"Coulson --" Phil is stripped down to his boxers. He's also curled up on the unmade bed. "Yeah, Mr. I'm Not Tired -- you're out of it." Clint covers him up with the spread and goes into the now steamy bathroom. He showers the desert sand out of his hair, stands under the water and jerks off in slow, leisurely strokes. He comes quietly, the sound of his release drowned out by the hiss of water. He wraps himself in a towel and cautiously slides under the covers. Phil's body is cool and he homes in on Clint like a heat-seeking missile.
Clint stills as Coulson moves against him. He hesitates, then slides his arm around Phil's waist. He's going to Hell anyway, falling in love with his boss hardly rates a blip on his sin-meter.
He's too tired to think about it any more. So, he sleeps and figures they'll face the consequences in the morning.
Collide
Clint wakes up to the soft glow of daylight slanting through the edge of the blackout curtains. The pale shaft steals slowly across his arm where it rests over Phil's waist. His skin is gold, Phil's is ivory. Their legs are tangled and Coulson's hand is curled lightly around Clint's forearm. His breath is quiet, even. Clint hates to move, hates to wake him. He hates to move, period, savoring the warmth and weight of Phil against him. He doesn't know exactly when he fell in love with Phil Coulson, but at some point over their years together, it happened.
He inhales Phil's scent; rain, sweat, citrus. If it didn't make him feel like a real pervert, he would taste him. Instead he closes his eyes and starts filing away the feel of Coulson in his memory because he will never have this chance again.
When he opens his eyes, Phil is watching him. His eyes are calm and clear blue. He smooths his palm across Clint's shoulder and down his arm, his fingers finally tangling with Clint's as he watches for any sign of confusion or panic. Clint nods slightly and their lips touch. Clint's heart stutters in his chest. For the moment, it's perfect, but it's not going anywhere and he wants it go somewhere desperately, afraid that if he loses this, he'll never get it back. He shifts Phil to his back, his hands pinioning Phil's wrists. "Where do we go from here, Phil?" Clint whispers. "Because if it's not happening, I need to know now."
"It's happening."
Clint sighs and releases Phil's wrists. He slowly lays his body over Coulson's. This kiss is nothing like the gentle brush of lips earlier. Their lips mold to each other and Phil gasps into Clint's mouth at the intimate breach of his tongue. Phil's hands slide beneath the elastic of Clint's boxers and cup his ass.
So, not shy, Clint thinks and breaks off the kiss to lick down the side of Coulson't neck. He laps at the dip of his throat where the pulse is shivering. The skin tastes like Clint thought it would. The taste changes as he sucks Coulson's nipples and then again when the deeper musk of his sex rises from his groin. The pearl of come welling from the tip is salty like the sea. As Clint swirls his tongue around Phil's glans, his hips jerk and he curses softly. His fingers tighten around Clint's scalp and he tugs him up, rolling him to his back. He looks fierce, but his mouth, reddened with Clint's kisses, is curving into a smile.
His hands are strong and hard, not the hands of a man who spends his time at a keyboard. They are the hands of a man who knows battle. The contradiction is what fascinates Clint. He lifts his hips as Phil s strips him of his briefs, then proceeds to strip him of any control he thought he had of this situation.
His mouth is hot and slick on Clint's cock as he sucks him nearly to the edge of release, then draws back and blows softly. The cool slide of breath across his heated flesh reduces Clint to a whimper of need.
Then they are kissing each other's taste into their mouths as their cocks rub and press into their groins, until they climax at nearly the same time, Clint's release and guttural cry of pleasure bringing a look of surprise to Phil's face in the last second before he falls through his own climax, collapsing over Clint and shuddering away his release.
Clint strokes down the channel of Phil's back, wondering how they had finally come to this point, like two polar stars circling in ever-decreasing orbits until they collide.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Keep Your Eyes Open
They both end up in medical this time. It starts with the op, with bad guys and bruises and blood.
The duty nurse takes one look at them, at the sodden cloth pressed to Clint's side and the blood welling through his fingers, to Coulson, barely upright and hanging on to Clint for support. She calls for Dr. Wheldon as Clint's knees slowly give way.
"It's just a scratch," he says to the doctor. "Agent Coulson took a hit to the head. He was out for nearly five minutes." He ignores the blood that is now dripping on the floor.
"I'll be the judge of how much of a scratch it is," the doctor says, clearly annoyed at being told what to do by an archer, for God's sake. She shines a light into Phil's eyes, and frowns, ordering a CT scan and calling for a neurologist.
"You're bleeding on my floor, Barton," she sighs.
"And this is news?" His eyes are focused on the gurney where Phil is being stripped out of his black suit and covered with a gown and light blanket before they wheel him out of Clint's view. He wants her to smile, to finish up with him so he can be with Phil. "I'm fine. A few stitches will fix me up."
"Stop micro-managing your treatment, Barton, and let me do my job." She takes the cloth away from the wound. The flow that had alarmed her at first sight has slowed to a sluggish wash down his ribs. She cleans the wound, Clint tensing against her touch and refusing any medication stronger than the lidocaine she uses before she starts stitching.
She insists on an IV. He insists on a wheelchair and a pole. He wins this one. He wheels himself into the cubicle where Phil is wrapped in heated blankets, looking vulnerable with the collar of the hospital gown falling away from his collarbone. The neurologist, a man Clint doesn't recognize, come in with Phil's chart. "You have a concussion. We'll keep you here under observation overnight. A nurse will be in every few minutes to make sure you're awake and alert. It's annoying, but necessary."
"I'll do it," Clint says. "I'll keep an eye on him."
The doctor looks at the IV fluid. "You should be in bed."
"Dr. Wheldon cleared me for discharge when the IV is finished," Clint lies, but he's good at it and the neurologist, not knowing about the blood loss and the stitches just nods.
"If he drifts off and you can't wake him, hit the call button."
"Will do, doc."
The doctor leaves and Phil opens his eyes. "Don't take such perverse pleasure in this situation, Barton."
"You'd do the same for me, sir."
"I would." Phil sighs and his eyes get a little hazy. "So, what's up with the IV?"
Clint shrugs. "Antibiotics and fluids. I'm fine." Phil yawns and his eyes start closing. "Keep your eyes open," Clint says. He takes Phil's hand. "Tell me about the marines," he says.
Phil tells him and Clint learns that Phil was trained as a sniper, but when he took an aptitude test for the intelligence service, they pulled him off the range and put him in front of a computer. It didn't mean he didn't see his share of action -- computers went into battle as much as guns did, and there were times when Phil's shooting skills saved his life and the lives of his fellow marines as surely as his knowledge of flow charts and probabilities.
When his voice starts falling away, Clint leans forward and says, "Phil, stay awake. Talk to me. Eyes on mine."
Phil opens his eyes. "Now what?"
"Tell me why you didn't throw me into jail when we met."
Phil huffs with laughter. "You were barely twenty, half-starved and you were still shooting arrows at the bad guys even though your arms were shaking. You looked scared to death when Fury said you belonged in a jail. He saw a criminal, I saw an asset. I saw a kid so smart that he had found his way into S.H.I.E.L.D., knew how to hide in plain sight, and who fought with the most archaic weapon I'd ever seen in battle and still made it look easy; and who never, ever missed his target. I convinced Fury that the army would be more effective punishment than a prison cell."
"Thank you for saving my life," he says. He's never told Phil that before in so many words.
"It's not like you never returned the favor." Phil's hand closes over Clint's. "Thank you."
Clint blinks away tears. "Shit, what do they give you in hospitals?" He doesn't want to admit that it's the frailty of being human, the sharp awareness of mortality that hones every emotion to an edge.
He looks up and Phil's eyes are closed. Clint shakes his arm. "C'mon, Phil." Nothing. "Phil! Come on, open your eyes," he gives him as sharper shake. He takes Phil's face between his palms and says fiercely. "Keep your eyes open!" He is reaching for the call button when Phil's squeezes his arm.
"I'm awake."
Clint kisses him hard. "Jesus, don't do that to me."
"How much longer do I have to stay awake?"
"Not much longer. Tell me about what you would do if you weren't in S.H.I.E.L.D."
Phil would be a college professor, maybe teach military history with a focus on the Napoleonic Wars. He likes tactics and strategies, and sometimes, he confesses, he feels like the Duke of Wellington who said that he had to be everywhere, because if he wasn't something would go wrong. Clint wonders where he would fit into that equation.
Phil opens his eyes. "What about you?"
"Nobody ever asked me before," Clint says. "I thought I'd always be a carny, you know. Then I thought I would die, and I didn't know what to do, so I ran away, and didn't stop until I was a dumb hick in the big city."
"You were never dumb," Phil says. His eyes are wide open now. "I don't tolerate stupid people. I certainly don't fall in love with them."
"You have a head injury," Clint speaks around the lump in his throat. "You aren't responsible for what you say."
Phil raises a brow. "I'm fine. Can I go to sleep now?"
Clint looks at his watch. It's nearly dawn and Coulson is alert enough now. "Yeah, you can go to sleep." He kisses Phil's hand. "Did you mean it, that love thing?"
Phil smiles. "If anybody asks, I'll tell them I had a head injury. If you ask, I might just have to kiss you."
"Oh, in that case ..." He stands up and slides into bed next to Phil. He crosses his legs, sighs. "I could use some shut-eye, too."
Phil sighs and settles. He turns slightly, his back to Clint. If anybody comes in, at least he won't be drooling on Clint's shoulder. Clint moves closer; his body protecting Coulson's. Nothing has ever felt as much like love as this.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Crazy
Tony Stark looks close to perfection, dressed in the most beautifully tailored tuxedo Clint has ever seen, a cut crystal glass of Scotch in his hand. He is waiting for Pepper -- who is uncharacteristically late. "Jarvis, where is Miss Potts?" Tony asks.
"I believe she is deciding on her choice of jewelry for the evening."
"Tell her I've got it covered."
"Very well, sir."
Clint thinks Jarvis sounds doubtful. He's stretched out on Stark's ridiculously comfortable leather sofa and has no plans -- well, almost no plans -- to move any time soon. "Not a good idea, Tony," he says.
"Oh, you're such an expert on women?"
Clint ignores the underlying snark. "I know Natasha."
"Oh." That sets Stark back. "Okay, points to you, Legolas."
"Tony, what's this about my jewelry?"
Pepper is coming down the stairs and even Clint is on his feet. She is stunning in a dark blue dress with a plunging neckline and a froth of silk ruffles. Tony takes a long velvet box from his pocket. "The salesman said it would go with anything." He takes out a diamond the size of a peach pit strung on a platinum chain. Smaller diamonds sparkle in the links like stars. He fastens the clasp and Pepper is reduced to silence as she looks at her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. "I'd say the salesman was right," she says. Blushing, she kisses him on the cheek. "It's beautiful. Thank you. You could have just given me a raise."
"Numbers are so boring."
Phil comes in from the kitchen and stops. He's the first person to admit he's been smitten with Pepper ever since she asked him his first name. "Miss Potts, you make the stars envious."
"Thank you, Phil." She turns as Tony wraps her in a velvet shawl. "Goodnight, gentleman."
Tony looks like a sleek and satisfied tomcat. "No parties, don't drive my car, and no prank calls to Director Fury."
"But dad ..." Clint fakes a whine and Pepper laughs as she and Tony sweep out of the room.
"As long as Tony doesn't get bored, they should be out for the evening," Phil sighs. He's spent most of the day in Tony's lab and he looks like his head hurts. He pours two glasses of bourbon and adds ice. "You have a sunburn," he says, squinting at Clint.
"I was shooting arrows off the deck. Tony wants to see if he can track them electronically."
"Use sunscreen next time."
Clint stretches out on the sofa and drops one leg, inviting Phil to settle between them. "Sit."
"I need to clean up."
He looks perfect to Clint, not a smudge on him, but the fine lines around his eyes are deeper than they should be. "Headache?" Since the concussion two months ago, Phil's been dogged by migraines when he's tired or stressed. The doctors say they should fade over time and Phil tries to hide them from everybody but Clint.
"Little one. I'll be back." He leans over and kisses Clint. "Alone, at last."
While Phil showers, Clint asks Jarvis to access his playlist and pick out peaceful, non-stressful music. He knows what Phil likes when he's tired; nostalgic stuff like Glenn Miller, Frank Sinatra, Cole Porter. Clint's taste run more to alt rock and heavy metal, but he doesn't think that will work for headaches and stress. He actually likes Phil's music, he just doesn't admit it to anybody.
A breeze comes through the open doors, and Clint has an idea. "Jarvis, pipe the music to the deck and tell Agent Coulson that I'm out there."
"Yes, sir." It still tickles Clint that Jarvis calls him that.
Clint takes the glasses, the bottle of bourbon and an ice bucket outside and sets them on a table. Tony has a double lounge chair with thick, comfortable cushions, bless him. Clint settles there and waits for Phil.
When he comes out to the patio he's barefoot, in jeans and a cotton sweater. The lines in his forehead have smoothed. He retrieves his drink and Clint spreads his legs, allowing Phil to settle against him. He smells like clean laundry and Tony's shower gel. His head drops back on Clint's chest.
"I could live like this," he says.
Clint wraps his arms around Phil. "Cue the music, Jarvis." Patsy Cline's lovely, bittersweet voice sings Crazy, I'm crazy for feeling so lonely. I'm crazy, crazy for feeling so blue ... He rests cheek against Phil's hair. Overhead, the stars are sparkling as brightly as the diamonds Pepper wore that night. The breeze is fragrant with beach roses and salt air. Clint's fingers stroke the soft skin of Phil's belly and slide beneath the gap at the waist of his jeans. Phi's cock is nestled softly in the palm of Clint's hand. He doesn't tease, doesn't seek for arousal. It's the most intimate he's ever been with another human being.
"It's nice," he says softly. "Being like this."
Phil takes a sip of his drink and kisses him with chilly lips that warm quickly. "Our lives are crazy," he says, "Thank God, I'm crazy about you."
Clint is, at that moment, as close to happiness as he has ever been in his life.
I'm crazy for trying and crazy for crying. And I'm crazy for loving you.
The End
Playlist
1. Fix You - Coldplay
2. Keep the Streets Empty For Me - Fever Ray
3. Cold Desert - Kings of Leon
4. Collide - Howie Day
5. Keep Your Eyes Open - NeedtoBreathe
6. Crazy - Patsy Cline
This entry was originally posted at http://rubygirl29.dreamwidth.org/196032.html.Where it has
comments.Please comment there using OpenID. Comment here and I will be happy, too!
Author: Rubygirl29
Fandom: Avengers
Rating: PG13
Genre: Slash
Characters: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Disclaimer: Marvel owns them. I just borrow them once in a while.
Author's Note: I make playlists. This one is for Clint and Phil. I felt like porn and schmoop. No apologies for that, either.
Read on AO3
Fix You
Clint is worn out, run down. Rid hard and put away wet. He tries to look like he's nonchalant instead of completely exhausted as he walks away from the Quinjet he's landed on the hellicarrier. He avoids anybody who will try to talk to him, slinks past medical, because seriously, they will drag him into a hospital bed if they catch a good look at him. Most of the bruises are hidden under his fatigues, but he's limping from a strained knee, and favoring his left side where he probably has a cracked rib that is rubbing on his nerves until he's about ready to pound the walls with every throb.
Once past medical, he makes his way to the gangway he usually "nests" on. His blankets are still there, along with a bottle of ibuprofen and a liter of water. There is a box of protein bars and Snickers, a graphic novel and a tiny book light. Phil. He savors the ache in his chest.
Clint downs the ibuprofen and drinks half of the water before he settles in with a Snickers and the book. In ten minutes, he's asleep.
Coulson finds him an hour later, covers him with a second blanket and lays a hand on his cheek to check for fever. Clint's skin is cool. Phil touches Clint's shoulder and lets him sleep.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Keep The Streets Empty For Me
Clint lies on the rooftop of a building in Kosovo. It's August and the sun is brutal. He can feel sweat scrawling down his throat, soaking the neck of his T-shirt. His tac vest is a hot and heavy weight on his back and he wants to take it off. His body is screaming for him to move, but he can only blink his eyes. The bandanna tied around his forehead has long since stopped absorbing moisture. He doesn't move. Thirst is heavy in the back of his throat.
Barton. They're on the move. Sitwell's voice in his ear is rough.
"Copy that." Sitwell is irritating him. He wants Coulson, but Coulson is the reason he's up on this rooftop. For Phil, he'd withstand the fires of Hell.
The stock of his rifle is cuddled against his cheek. He'd prefer his bow, but the bow requires room, which he doesn't have. What he has is a barely enough space for his shoulders. He's half-lying on his side; it's a nearly impossible position to hold and support a rifle. It's like being stuck in a freaking stone oven.
The Kosovaars arrive in a huge Hummer with black windows, and big chrome guns mounted like trophies on either side of the front doors. Clint thinks that they are overcompensating, but the few townspeople vanish indoors; women in black headscarves herding their children out of harm's way, even though those cannon would blow throw their walls like they were made of pumice.
Unwittingly, they have made his job so much easier. A feral snarl curls his lip as he sets his eyes to his scope. He hardly needs it, but he wants to see Phil. The doors of the Hummer open and big men in desert camouflage uniforms get out. They bristle with bandoliers and pistols but they look like well-fed rats compared to the villagers. Clint could take them out in a heartbeat, but not until he knows that Coulson is all right. His voice on the cell phone sounded tight, breathless, slightly ragged.
The back doors open and two more soldiers get out. They pull Coulson out by a rope tied to a collar. Clint has to blink away the red haze of anger. Phil is wearing his black trousers, but no jacket, and his shirt is hanging in bloody ribbons. Clint has to swallow his nausea. The godammned motherfuckers had whipped him; they put a collar on him like he was nothing more than a dog to shoot down in the streets.
Clint closes his eyes, steadies his pulse, lets his anger flow through him and out of his fingertips. This is what he does; it's ugly and magnificent. It's sex and death and Rock and Roll. It's his damnation, but Phil's salvation, and somehow it will balance out.
A black Mercedes drives slowly down the street and comes to a stop. A tall man in a black Hydra uniform gets out, his hands raised. After the Kosovaars pat him down, he strides over to the man holding the rope. He yanks at the rope and Phil falls to his knees. He's out of the frame of Clint's shooting focus.
This is the moment he has been waiting for. He doesn't even think. Five shots and five men are dead in five seconds. They didn't even have time to react -- that's how quick and sure Clint's aim is, and he never hesitates.
He can hear Sitwell curse in admiration in his earpiece. "Get down there, Sitwell," Clint rasps. It isn't necessary, Sitwell is already in the street, checking the bodies. It's procedure but hardly necessary. A man can't live with his brains blown out. Clint gulps down half of his canteen of water, then swings down to the ground from his second-story perch. He reaches Coulson before Sitwell does.
Phil's eyes are closed and his face is splotched with blood and bone from the dead soldier. Clint wets his bandanna. "Hold still. I'll clean you off. Keep your eyes closed." He wipes the gore from Coulson's face. He removes the collar and flings it aside in disgust. There are bruises on Phil's throat, and skin rubbed raw from the rough edge of the leather.
He turns Phil with gentle hands. The lashes are bloody and leaking pus, but they're not deep. Clint feels the last of his rage slide away. "That'll hurt like a bitch when they clean you off," Clint says, and is rewarded by a whispered, "Fuck you, Barton."
Clint smiles happily. "Yes, sir." He helps Phil stand, and when he wavers, he scoops him up easily even though Phil is nearly as tall as he is and more muscular than he looks. He's saved from humiliation by Sitwell, arriving with medics and a stretcher.
Jasper looks at Coulson. "You're safe now, sir."
Coulson nods at Sitwell's comment, but his eyes remained locked on Clint's.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Cold Desert
Who the fuck knew they had a monsoon season in the desert? The water running down his collar and chilling the back of his neck is annoying, but at least the view is interesting. One of the biggest men Clint has ever seen has been taking down elite S.H.I.E.L.D. agents like they are green recruits. He's supposed to shoot him. Coulson's original orders had been to use a gun, but Clint had gone for the bow. He doesn't trust the sights on his rifle in the rain and he didn't have time to hood it. The bow is always true in his hands and less likely to cause permanent damage if Coulson decides he doesn't want the intruder dead.
"You want me to slow him down, sir? Or are you sending in more guys for him to beat up?"
"I'll let you know." Unflappable, but clipped.
Clint watches the man take on S.H.I.E.L.D's best fighter -- a real heavyweight. In two minutes Dawson is down in the mud. Coulson's silence is either disbelief or admiration. Clint thinks it is the latter. He feels a camaraderie with the man in his sights. "You better call it, Coulson, 'cause I'm starting to root for this guy."
Phil is standing in the rain, watching. The draw of the bow is starting to make Clint's shoulders ache. "Last chance, sir."
"Wait, I want to see this."
It ends with a taint of disappointment as the hammer doesn't budge and the man falls to his knees with a cry of grief and despair. Clint rides the boom down to the ground, puts his bow away and goes in search of Phil. Sitwell just jerks his chin to the tiny plastic cubicle that gives Phil someplace to keep his laptop and an office chair.
Coulson is bent over his laptop, typing. He looks exhausted. His Dolce suit kept off the chill, but it's still soaked. His hair is wet and there are blue shadows beneath his eyes. Clint frowns at him. "Call it a night, Coulson."
"I need to question him."
"You need to sleep. He'll be here in the morning." They are alone for the moment, and Clint takes Phil's shoulders in his hands, guiding him towards the exit. "I need to sleep," he says, "and neither of us has dry clothes here."
Coulson nods. The desert air is cold after the rain. Clint starts to get into the driver's seat, and Coulson shakes his head. "Not on your life, Barton. I'm driving."
"I see better than you do."
"I drive better."
Clint is too tired and cold to argue. "You're the boss, sir."
When they checked into the motel, it had been booked solid with curious onlookers and thrill-seeking idiots who had been trying their luck at the hammer. They had to take a single room. It didn't matter; they had slept in close quarters before. Now that the motel is crowded with S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel, there still isn't any space, so they continue to share the cramped room. They go inside, and Clint starts stripping, sodden clothes falling wetly to the floor. When he's down to his damp black briefs he goes into the bathroom and turns the shower on high. He waits for the water to run hot, then goes back to the bedroom.
"Coulson --" Phil is stripped down to his boxers. He's also curled up on the unmade bed. "Yeah, Mr. I'm Not Tired -- you're out of it." Clint covers him up with the spread and goes into the now steamy bathroom. He showers the desert sand out of his hair, stands under the water and jerks off in slow, leisurely strokes. He comes quietly, the sound of his release drowned out by the hiss of water. He wraps himself in a towel and cautiously slides under the covers. Phil's body is cool and he homes in on Clint like a heat-seeking missile.
Clint stills as Coulson moves against him. He hesitates, then slides his arm around Phil's waist. He's going to Hell anyway, falling in love with his boss hardly rates a blip on his sin-meter.
He's too tired to think about it any more. So, he sleeps and figures they'll face the consequences in the morning.
Collide
Clint wakes up to the soft glow of daylight slanting through the edge of the blackout curtains. The pale shaft steals slowly across his arm where it rests over Phil's waist. His skin is gold, Phil's is ivory. Their legs are tangled and Coulson's hand is curled lightly around Clint's forearm. His breath is quiet, even. Clint hates to move, hates to wake him. He hates to move, period, savoring the warmth and weight of Phil against him. He doesn't know exactly when he fell in love with Phil Coulson, but at some point over their years together, it happened.
He inhales Phil's scent; rain, sweat, citrus. If it didn't make him feel like a real pervert, he would taste him. Instead he closes his eyes and starts filing away the feel of Coulson in his memory because he will never have this chance again.
When he opens his eyes, Phil is watching him. His eyes are calm and clear blue. He smooths his palm across Clint's shoulder and down his arm, his fingers finally tangling with Clint's as he watches for any sign of confusion or panic. Clint nods slightly and their lips touch. Clint's heart stutters in his chest. For the moment, it's perfect, but it's not going anywhere and he wants it go somewhere desperately, afraid that if he loses this, he'll never get it back. He shifts Phil to his back, his hands pinioning Phil's wrists. "Where do we go from here, Phil?" Clint whispers. "Because if it's not happening, I need to know now."
"It's happening."
Clint sighs and releases Phil's wrists. He slowly lays his body over Coulson's. This kiss is nothing like the gentle brush of lips earlier. Their lips mold to each other and Phil gasps into Clint's mouth at the intimate breach of his tongue. Phil's hands slide beneath the elastic of Clint's boxers and cup his ass.
So, not shy, Clint thinks and breaks off the kiss to lick down the side of Coulson't neck. He laps at the dip of his throat where the pulse is shivering. The skin tastes like Clint thought it would. The taste changes as he sucks Coulson's nipples and then again when the deeper musk of his sex rises from his groin. The pearl of come welling from the tip is salty like the sea. As Clint swirls his tongue around Phil's glans, his hips jerk and he curses softly. His fingers tighten around Clint's scalp and he tugs him up, rolling him to his back. He looks fierce, but his mouth, reddened with Clint's kisses, is curving into a smile.
His hands are strong and hard, not the hands of a man who spends his time at a keyboard. They are the hands of a man who knows battle. The contradiction is what fascinates Clint. He lifts his hips as Phil s strips him of his briefs, then proceeds to strip him of any control he thought he had of this situation.
His mouth is hot and slick on Clint's cock as he sucks him nearly to the edge of release, then draws back and blows softly. The cool slide of breath across his heated flesh reduces Clint to a whimper of need.
Then they are kissing each other's taste into their mouths as their cocks rub and press into their groins, until they climax at nearly the same time, Clint's release and guttural cry of pleasure bringing a look of surprise to Phil's face in the last second before he falls through his own climax, collapsing over Clint and shuddering away his release.
Clint strokes down the channel of Phil's back, wondering how they had finally come to this point, like two polar stars circling in ever-decreasing orbits until they collide.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Keep Your Eyes Open
They both end up in medical this time. It starts with the op, with bad guys and bruises and blood.
The duty nurse takes one look at them, at the sodden cloth pressed to Clint's side and the blood welling through his fingers, to Coulson, barely upright and hanging on to Clint for support. She calls for Dr. Wheldon as Clint's knees slowly give way.
"It's just a scratch," he says to the doctor. "Agent Coulson took a hit to the head. He was out for nearly five minutes." He ignores the blood that is now dripping on the floor.
"I'll be the judge of how much of a scratch it is," the doctor says, clearly annoyed at being told what to do by an archer, for God's sake. She shines a light into Phil's eyes, and frowns, ordering a CT scan and calling for a neurologist.
"You're bleeding on my floor, Barton," she sighs.
"And this is news?" His eyes are focused on the gurney where Phil is being stripped out of his black suit and covered with a gown and light blanket before they wheel him out of Clint's view. He wants her to smile, to finish up with him so he can be with Phil. "I'm fine. A few stitches will fix me up."
"Stop micro-managing your treatment, Barton, and let me do my job." She takes the cloth away from the wound. The flow that had alarmed her at first sight has slowed to a sluggish wash down his ribs. She cleans the wound, Clint tensing against her touch and refusing any medication stronger than the lidocaine she uses before she starts stitching.
She insists on an IV. He insists on a wheelchair and a pole. He wins this one. He wheels himself into the cubicle where Phil is wrapped in heated blankets, looking vulnerable with the collar of the hospital gown falling away from his collarbone. The neurologist, a man Clint doesn't recognize, come in with Phil's chart. "You have a concussion. We'll keep you here under observation overnight. A nurse will be in every few minutes to make sure you're awake and alert. It's annoying, but necessary."
"I'll do it," Clint says. "I'll keep an eye on him."
The doctor looks at the IV fluid. "You should be in bed."
"Dr. Wheldon cleared me for discharge when the IV is finished," Clint lies, but he's good at it and the neurologist, not knowing about the blood loss and the stitches just nods.
"If he drifts off and you can't wake him, hit the call button."
"Will do, doc."
The doctor leaves and Phil opens his eyes. "Don't take such perverse pleasure in this situation, Barton."
"You'd do the same for me, sir."
"I would." Phil sighs and his eyes get a little hazy. "So, what's up with the IV?"
Clint shrugs. "Antibiotics and fluids. I'm fine." Phil yawns and his eyes start closing. "Keep your eyes open," Clint says. He takes Phil's hand. "Tell me about the marines," he says.
Phil tells him and Clint learns that Phil was trained as a sniper, but when he took an aptitude test for the intelligence service, they pulled him off the range and put him in front of a computer. It didn't mean he didn't see his share of action -- computers went into battle as much as guns did, and there were times when Phil's shooting skills saved his life and the lives of his fellow marines as surely as his knowledge of flow charts and probabilities.
When his voice starts falling away, Clint leans forward and says, "Phil, stay awake. Talk to me. Eyes on mine."
Phil opens his eyes. "Now what?"
"Tell me why you didn't throw me into jail when we met."
Phil huffs with laughter. "You were barely twenty, half-starved and you were still shooting arrows at the bad guys even though your arms were shaking. You looked scared to death when Fury said you belonged in a jail. He saw a criminal, I saw an asset. I saw a kid so smart that he had found his way into S.H.I.E.L.D., knew how to hide in plain sight, and who fought with the most archaic weapon I'd ever seen in battle and still made it look easy; and who never, ever missed his target. I convinced Fury that the army would be more effective punishment than a prison cell."
"Thank you for saving my life," he says. He's never told Phil that before in so many words.
"It's not like you never returned the favor." Phil's hand closes over Clint's. "Thank you."
Clint blinks away tears. "Shit, what do they give you in hospitals?" He doesn't want to admit that it's the frailty of being human, the sharp awareness of mortality that hones every emotion to an edge.
He looks up and Phil's eyes are closed. Clint shakes his arm. "C'mon, Phil." Nothing. "Phil! Come on, open your eyes," he gives him as sharper shake. He takes Phil's face between his palms and says fiercely. "Keep your eyes open!" He is reaching for the call button when Phil's squeezes his arm.
"I'm awake."
Clint kisses him hard. "Jesus, don't do that to me."
"How much longer do I have to stay awake?"
"Not much longer. Tell me about what you would do if you weren't in S.H.I.E.L.D."
Phil would be a college professor, maybe teach military history with a focus on the Napoleonic Wars. He likes tactics and strategies, and sometimes, he confesses, he feels like the Duke of Wellington who said that he had to be everywhere, because if he wasn't something would go wrong. Clint wonders where he would fit into that equation.
Phil opens his eyes. "What about you?"
"Nobody ever asked me before," Clint says. "I thought I'd always be a carny, you know. Then I thought I would die, and I didn't know what to do, so I ran away, and didn't stop until I was a dumb hick in the big city."
"You were never dumb," Phil says. His eyes are wide open now. "I don't tolerate stupid people. I certainly don't fall in love with them."
"You have a head injury," Clint speaks around the lump in his throat. "You aren't responsible for what you say."
Phil raises a brow. "I'm fine. Can I go to sleep now?"
Clint looks at his watch. It's nearly dawn and Coulson is alert enough now. "Yeah, you can go to sleep." He kisses Phil's hand. "Did you mean it, that love thing?"
Phil smiles. "If anybody asks, I'll tell them I had a head injury. If you ask, I might just have to kiss you."
"Oh, in that case ..." He stands up and slides into bed next to Phil. He crosses his legs, sighs. "I could use some shut-eye, too."
Phil sighs and settles. He turns slightly, his back to Clint. If anybody comes in, at least he won't be drooling on Clint's shoulder. Clint moves closer; his body protecting Coulson's. Nothing has ever felt as much like love as this.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Crazy
Tony Stark looks close to perfection, dressed in the most beautifully tailored tuxedo Clint has ever seen, a cut crystal glass of Scotch in his hand. He is waiting for Pepper -- who is uncharacteristically late. "Jarvis, where is Miss Potts?" Tony asks.
"I believe she is deciding on her choice of jewelry for the evening."
"Tell her I've got it covered."
"Very well, sir."
Clint thinks Jarvis sounds doubtful. He's stretched out on Stark's ridiculously comfortable leather sofa and has no plans -- well, almost no plans -- to move any time soon. "Not a good idea, Tony," he says.
"Oh, you're such an expert on women?"
Clint ignores the underlying snark. "I know Natasha."
"Oh." That sets Stark back. "Okay, points to you, Legolas."
"Tony, what's this about my jewelry?"
Pepper is coming down the stairs and even Clint is on his feet. She is stunning in a dark blue dress with a plunging neckline and a froth of silk ruffles. Tony takes a long velvet box from his pocket. "The salesman said it would go with anything." He takes out a diamond the size of a peach pit strung on a platinum chain. Smaller diamonds sparkle in the links like stars. He fastens the clasp and Pepper is reduced to silence as she looks at her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. "I'd say the salesman was right," she says. Blushing, she kisses him on the cheek. "It's beautiful. Thank you. You could have just given me a raise."
"Numbers are so boring."
Phil comes in from the kitchen and stops. He's the first person to admit he's been smitten with Pepper ever since she asked him his first name. "Miss Potts, you make the stars envious."
"Thank you, Phil." She turns as Tony wraps her in a velvet shawl. "Goodnight, gentleman."
Tony looks like a sleek and satisfied tomcat. "No parties, don't drive my car, and no prank calls to Director Fury."
"But dad ..." Clint fakes a whine and Pepper laughs as she and Tony sweep out of the room.
"As long as Tony doesn't get bored, they should be out for the evening," Phil sighs. He's spent most of the day in Tony's lab and he looks like his head hurts. He pours two glasses of bourbon and adds ice. "You have a sunburn," he says, squinting at Clint.
"I was shooting arrows off the deck. Tony wants to see if he can track them electronically."
"Use sunscreen next time."
Clint stretches out on the sofa and drops one leg, inviting Phil to settle between them. "Sit."
"I need to clean up."
He looks perfect to Clint, not a smudge on him, but the fine lines around his eyes are deeper than they should be. "Headache?" Since the concussion two months ago, Phil's been dogged by migraines when he's tired or stressed. The doctors say they should fade over time and Phil tries to hide them from everybody but Clint.
"Little one. I'll be back." He leans over and kisses Clint. "Alone, at last."
While Phil showers, Clint asks Jarvis to access his playlist and pick out peaceful, non-stressful music. He knows what Phil likes when he's tired; nostalgic stuff like Glenn Miller, Frank Sinatra, Cole Porter. Clint's taste run more to alt rock and heavy metal, but he doesn't think that will work for headaches and stress. He actually likes Phil's music, he just doesn't admit it to anybody.
A breeze comes through the open doors, and Clint has an idea. "Jarvis, pipe the music to the deck and tell Agent Coulson that I'm out there."
"Yes, sir." It still tickles Clint that Jarvis calls him that.
Clint takes the glasses, the bottle of bourbon and an ice bucket outside and sets them on a table. Tony has a double lounge chair with thick, comfortable cushions, bless him. Clint settles there and waits for Phil.
When he comes out to the patio he's barefoot, in jeans and a cotton sweater. The lines in his forehead have smoothed. He retrieves his drink and Clint spreads his legs, allowing Phil to settle against him. He smells like clean laundry and Tony's shower gel. His head drops back on Clint's chest.
"I could live like this," he says.
Clint wraps his arms around Phil. "Cue the music, Jarvis." Patsy Cline's lovely, bittersweet voice sings Crazy, I'm crazy for feeling so lonely. I'm crazy, crazy for feeling so blue ... He rests cheek against Phil's hair. Overhead, the stars are sparkling as brightly as the diamonds Pepper wore that night. The breeze is fragrant with beach roses and salt air. Clint's fingers stroke the soft skin of Phil's belly and slide beneath the gap at the waist of his jeans. Phi's cock is nestled softly in the palm of Clint's hand. He doesn't tease, doesn't seek for arousal. It's the most intimate he's ever been with another human being.
"It's nice," he says softly. "Being like this."
Phil takes a sip of his drink and kisses him with chilly lips that warm quickly. "Our lives are crazy," he says, "Thank God, I'm crazy about you."
Clint is, at that moment, as close to happiness as he has ever been in his life.
I'm crazy for trying and crazy for crying. And I'm crazy for loving you.
The End
Playlist
1. Fix You - Coldplay
2. Keep the Streets Empty For Me - Fever Ray
3. Cold Desert - Kings of Leon
4. Collide - Howie Day
5. Keep Your Eyes Open - NeedtoBreathe
6. Crazy - Patsy Cline
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