Fic: Not Looking For A Miracle (Just A Reason To Believe)
Title: Not Looking For A Miracle (Just A Reason To Believe)
Word Count: 1,181 words
Fandom: Avengers (Clint/Natasha/Coulson)
Rating: PG
Warnings: Not that I know of, aside from 3-person pairing
Summary:
Some days, he thinks that his Specialists believe him to be useless, truly buy into the bland paper-pushing persona that he cultivates for the civilians he has to deal with. They fret and mollycoddle him, Natasha’s gaze shrewd as she watches him move, watches for any hitches or guarding in his posture, Clint’s hands confirming what his eyes tell him. They seem to forget that he’s an elite warrior, third in command of a massive militaristic organization, and he didn’t get there by filing forms and stapling papers. He has blood on his hands, his own and others, and they don’t get that.
It’s after yet another mission, this one smooth and flawless, but the Specialists are still fussing over him, and he’s just kicked them out to Medical to get themselves checked out, when he catches the humor in Nick’s eye. “What?”
The Director just smiles, shaking his head as he kicks back, relaxing into the leather. “Your Assets are like little guard dogs, it’s amusing to watch.”
“They’re not guard dogs,” he mutters, trying to let the rest of the adrenaline fade out. One reason he likes to seek out Nick when he’s done with a mission gone smoothly… His friend will let him work out the little digs and release the anxiety that has nowhere else to go, and the Director helps to patch up the cracks in his armor. “They’re mother-hens. They forget that I’m more than capable of handling these missions.” Fury raises a brow, clearly arguing without saying a word, and Coulson very carefully does not pout.
Then he remembers a slew of times, little things that add up in big ways. Natasha swiping a papercut on his finger with an alcohol wipe before wrapping an adhesive bandage around it tightly, settling into a chair to flip idly through reports until it’s precisely five minutes later, neatly unwrapping the bandage to ensure it has stopped bleeding. He raises a brow at her, because, seriously? It’s a paper cut, not a life-threatening gash, and she just coolly meets his gaze and says “Do you have any idea how unsanitary the probationary agents are?” as she wraps an antibacterial adhesive bandage around the ‘wound’.
He supposes he’s lucky she doesn’t fill out forms or drag him to Medical for them.
****
There’s the fact that when the paperwork on his desk gets to be a little too much, a little too deep, a few too many demands on his time, the steady stream of visitors to his door abruptly stops. It takes him almost an hour to notice, to realize that it’s been perfectly quiet in his office, the soft approach of footsteps outside his frosted door enough to keep him aware of noise, but not enough to make him realize how long it’s been.
About another two hours later, Jasper emails him a form, and when he quickly responds back with an inquiry of “why didn’t you just bring this down to my office”, he is informed that anyone that touches his doorknob has been assaulted with Nerf arrows, all tipped in an as-of-yet unidentified but impressively sticky substance. He sighs, and contemplates scolding Barton for the guarding, but… he has gotten a fair bit done, and is feeling much less homicidal.
He supposes he can ignore the transgression for now.
*******
It’s Natasha that sometimes catches him the most off guard, with the small things that she observes. She has never once brought him coffee, something even Fury has done before, but instead always one of his favorite teas. And what’s more impressive… it’s the right ones. Okay, so he’s a bit obsessive about his tea. All of his favorites he has in three varieties: The teabags for the office, where it hurts him a little less to discover the tea he just brewed is stone cold several hours later, and he never got a taste of it. The silk sachets that hold the slightly broken leaves are divided between the office and his home, for the moments where he has an hour or so to catch his breath before diving back into S.H.I.E.L.D., and the whole leaves are nestled among his teapots at the house, for when he can shrug into an old worn Ranger sweatshirt and broken jeans, and relax into the soothing art of brewing.
She’s always picked the right tea, in the right format, at just the right time. He’s a little awed of it, but keeps it carefully buried. It doesn’t do to let the Specialists know you’re still amazed by their talents, after all.
*******
He’s not sure what little tick gives it away, but at least twice a week, usually on the days he’s utterly swamped and resigned himself to the protein bars stashed in the drawer as a lunch, Barton will clomp into the room, fragrant bag in tow. He’s still not sure how the agile archer can be as quiet as a shadow, yet still clomp around like a drunken horse at times. He’s even more confused how Barton always seems to know exactly what he’s in the mood for, be it the Thai place on the corner, or the tiny diner tucked clear across the city. Even more impressive is when they’re in a foreign city, and he still manages to drag back what Phil is craving. He has a hard time keeping himself impassive about it, especially when Clint throws himself back into the corner of the couch, boots thunking on the coffee table, looking like the cat who drank the cream and dragged the canary back to its master.
***
He starts to put the clues together when he wakes up in Medical after a skirmish, sore and a little breathless, foggy memories of ducking debris and getting right into the path of yet more, and having the split second to think ‘That’s going to hurt’. It takes a few moments for the world to settle after he opens his eyes, and the first thought he has is that Barton is going to tip right off the back of the chair he’s perched on, back against the corner of the room, a clear view of both Phil and the door. His chin is on his chest like a rooster dozing, but Phil has no doubt he’d be awake and on alert at the softest whisper outside the door.
Natasha is curled in the chair beside the bed, eyes watching him coolly. Behind the ice though, there’s flashes of alarm and fear and worry, and the realization that they were afraid for him was a bit stunning as it whacked him. He blinked, and she nodded, apparently satisfied with whatever she saw.
Clint squawks when Natasha nails him on the cheek with her hair elastic, almost flipping the chair before he gets it back under control. The laugh hurts, but it’s worth it to see the relief in their eyes. He likes to think that maybe, he can let them mollycoddle him. After all, it helps them as much, if not more than him.
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