HC_ Bingo 2012: My mind's aflame
My mind's aflame
Clint Barton/Phil Coulson | ~1000 words | hc-bingo prompt: blood loss | Title from Wolf Like Me by TV on the Radio (as covered by The XX)
Clint should have been safe. He’s always up high, he’s always out of sight. He should have been safe, but when Phil find him lying in a pool of blood, clutching his side, he nearly loses control.
Clint should have been safe. He’s always up high, he’s always out of sight. He should have been safe, but when Phil find him lying in a pool of blood, clutching his side, he nearly loses control.
He stays calm. He gets down on his knees, takes his jacket off, folds it in four before pressing it to where the wound must be. Clint’s suit is sticky and dark where it isn’t dusty, and Phil hopes that it looks worse than it is. He couldn't see an entry point which could be very good or very very bad.
Clint groans as Phil presses a little too hard. “Careful there, sir,” he says, trying to smirk but only managing a grimace.
“Sorry, sorry,” he replies, “medics are on the way.”
“Don’t think they’re gonna make it, boss,” Clint says, and Phil can see him struggling to breathe, even though he was trying to hide it.
Phil doesn't ask how. Questions can be answered later. His only priority was to make sure there is a later.
“Just- just stay calm,” Phil finds himself saying.
“I don't think I can get worked up even if I tried,” Clint says, and Phil lets out a soft laugh, “maybe you should take a second sir.”
“I’m fine,” Phil insists.
“So I guess your hands are shaking from the adrenalin, and your eyes are just watering from the dust.”
“That’s exactly it, agent,” Phil says, and tries to still his hands.
Clint swallows and shifts, his eyes fluttering closed.
“Don’t- don’t you dare,” he says, pressing harder into the wound, “don’t you dare die on me.”
Clint lets out a pained sound, and tries to move away from Phil’s hands. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, “I’m just feeling a little light headed, and so tired.”
“It’s probably the blood loss,” Phil says, “the medics will be here soon.”
Clint is now too pale, his eyes unfocused. “I don’t think they’re going to make it,” he repeats, his voice faint, “you should just-” his breath hitches, “just take me home, I’m so tired.”
His eyes close again, and they don’t reopen. “Clint?” Phil asks, his hands tightening on the jacket again, his fingers digging into the material. When there is no reaction, he shakes the still form. “Clint!”
It feels like the whole world is holding its breath, time slowing down till nothing else exists. He checks for a pulse, or any signs of breathing and finds nothing. He instantly starts CPR, thirty compressions before he tilts Clint’s head back and breathes into it twice, watching his chest rise and fall with each one.
The next set of compressions are harder to do, his arms are shaking too much, the breaths even more so because he couldn't breathe himself.
“Clint?” he tries again, but there are people pushing him out of the way, and everything is speeding up, going too fast. They pull him away from Clint and they’re putting a blanket around him and someone is yelling clear and there's a stretcher and they’re trying to take Clint away.
“Wait,” he says, gets up to follow.
The hands are on his shoulders, pushing him down. “He’ll be okay, you need to take it easy.”
Phil pulls himself together, putting his sunglasses on as he did so. “If you tell me to take it easy again I will personally make sure you never work again,” he says without turning around, “and if you lie to me again it won’t just be your job you have to worry about.”
“Agent-”
“Unhand me now,” Phil says standing up,“Agent Barton will not leave my sight, understood?”
“Yes, sir,” the medic replies, and this time when Phil stands up and follows, no one tries to stop him.
***
When Clint wakes up, he’s surprised to see the cream walls and dark curtains of his house. He feels like shit, there are machines hooked into him, and the last thing he remembers is Phil’s hands on him, trying to keep him alive.
Everything points to him waking up in medical. He’s done it enough times by now to know what to expect. He relaxes into his bed. The house is quiet, no doctors, no sick people, no strange hum. There’s a slow and steady beat that reflects his heart beat but otherwise, it’s almost peaceful.
“Why am I here?” he asks the ceiling.
“You asked me to take you home,” Phil says, from the chair he’s dragged besides Clint’s bed, “so that’s what I did.”
“Did I have you worried? This time?”
Phil’s hesitation speaks louder than his words. “A little.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, turning to finally look at Phil, “I’m not sure what happened.”
Phil shakes his head imperceptibly, not taking his eyes off the paperwork in his hands. “It doesn't matter, you’re here now, you just focus on getting better.”
“Why am I here?” he asks again, “why am I not in medical? Where are the doctors?”
“You asked me to take you home so that’s what I did,” Phil repeats.
“Just like that?” Clint asks, disbelief colouring his words.
“Just like that.” Phil replies.
“Fury didn't-”
“Just like that,” Phil repeats.
Clint doesn't miss the slight upturn of Phil’s lips, and grins at the ceiling. “You’re a sap.”
“And you’re an idiot,” Phil says, “if you die on me again, I’ll make sure that time machine in sector 9 is functional so I can go back and kill you myself.”
“Yes, sir,” Clint says, “won’t happen again, sir, now when will you be joining me?”
“I’m sleeping on the couch,” Phil says, matter-of-fact, “don’t want to risk straining the wound.”
“Bullshit,” Clint says, “your sleeping in this bed is paramount to my getting better.”
“I’m not sure that’s been medically proven,” Phil says, but puts his paperwork down, “do you have any documentation for this phenomenon?”
“No, but if you get in here I’m sure we can sort something out,” Clint says, shifting to make room as Phil stands and takes his suit jacket off, “you’re the master of paperwork after all.”
“Careful, agent,” Phil says, sliding in next to him, “keep talking like that and we might be forced to strain that wound.”
Clint grins. “I look forward to it.”
Clint Barton/Phil Coulson | ~1000 words | hc-bingo prompt: blood loss | Title from Wolf Like Me by TV on the Radio (as covered by The XX)
Clint should have been safe. He’s always up high, he’s always out of sight. He should have been safe, but when Phil find him lying in a pool of blood, clutching his side, he nearly loses control.
Clint should have been safe. He’s always up high, he’s always out of sight. He should have been safe, but when Phil find him lying in a pool of blood, clutching his side, he nearly loses control.
He stays calm. He gets down on his knees, takes his jacket off, folds it in four before pressing it to where the wound must be. Clint’s suit is sticky and dark where it isn’t dusty, and Phil hopes that it looks worse than it is. He couldn't see an entry point which could be very good or very very bad.
Clint groans as Phil presses a little too hard. “Careful there, sir,” he says, trying to smirk but only managing a grimace.
“Sorry, sorry,” he replies, “medics are on the way.”
“Don’t think they’re gonna make it, boss,” Clint says, and Phil can see him struggling to breathe, even though he was trying to hide it.
Phil doesn't ask how. Questions can be answered later. His only priority was to make sure there is a later.
“Just- just stay calm,” Phil finds himself saying.
“I don't think I can get worked up even if I tried,” Clint says, and Phil lets out a soft laugh, “maybe you should take a second sir.”
“I’m fine,” Phil insists.
“So I guess your hands are shaking from the adrenalin, and your eyes are just watering from the dust.”
“That’s exactly it, agent,” Phil says, and tries to still his hands.
Clint swallows and shifts, his eyes fluttering closed.
“Don’t- don’t you dare,” he says, pressing harder into the wound, “don’t you dare die on me.”
Clint lets out a pained sound, and tries to move away from Phil’s hands. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, “I’m just feeling a little light headed, and so tired.”
“It’s probably the blood loss,” Phil says, “the medics will be here soon.”
Clint is now too pale, his eyes unfocused. “I don’t think they’re going to make it,” he repeats, his voice faint, “you should just-” his breath hitches, “just take me home, I’m so tired.”
His eyes close again, and they don’t reopen. “Clint?” Phil asks, his hands tightening on the jacket again, his fingers digging into the material. When there is no reaction, he shakes the still form. “Clint!”
It feels like the whole world is holding its breath, time slowing down till nothing else exists. He checks for a pulse, or any signs of breathing and finds nothing. He instantly starts CPR, thirty compressions before he tilts Clint’s head back and breathes into it twice, watching his chest rise and fall with each one.
The next set of compressions are harder to do, his arms are shaking too much, the breaths even more so because he couldn't breathe himself.
“Clint?” he tries again, but there are people pushing him out of the way, and everything is speeding up, going too fast. They pull him away from Clint and they’re putting a blanket around him and someone is yelling clear and there's a stretcher and they’re trying to take Clint away.
“Wait,” he says, gets up to follow.
The hands are on his shoulders, pushing him down. “He’ll be okay, you need to take it easy.”
Phil pulls himself together, putting his sunglasses on as he did so. “If you tell me to take it easy again I will personally make sure you never work again,” he says without turning around, “and if you lie to me again it won’t just be your job you have to worry about.”
“Agent-”
“Unhand me now,” Phil says standing up,“Agent Barton will not leave my sight, understood?”
“Yes, sir,” the medic replies, and this time when Phil stands up and follows, no one tries to stop him.
***
When Clint wakes up, he’s surprised to see the cream walls and dark curtains of his house. He feels like shit, there are machines hooked into him, and the last thing he remembers is Phil’s hands on him, trying to keep him alive.
Everything points to him waking up in medical. He’s done it enough times by now to know what to expect. He relaxes into his bed. The house is quiet, no doctors, no sick people, no strange hum. There’s a slow and steady beat that reflects his heart beat but otherwise, it’s almost peaceful.
“Why am I here?” he asks the ceiling.
“You asked me to take you home,” Phil says, from the chair he’s dragged besides Clint’s bed, “so that’s what I did.”
“Did I have you worried? This time?”
Phil’s hesitation speaks louder than his words. “A little.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, turning to finally look at Phil, “I’m not sure what happened.”
Phil shakes his head imperceptibly, not taking his eyes off the paperwork in his hands. “It doesn't matter, you’re here now, you just focus on getting better.”
“Why am I here?” he asks again, “why am I not in medical? Where are the doctors?”
“You asked me to take you home so that’s what I did,” Phil repeats.
“Just like that?” Clint asks, disbelief colouring his words.
“Just like that.” Phil replies.
“Fury didn't-”
“Just like that,” Phil repeats.
Clint doesn't miss the slight upturn of Phil’s lips, and grins at the ceiling. “You’re a sap.”
“And you’re an idiot,” Phil says, “if you die on me again, I’ll make sure that time machine in sector 9 is functional so I can go back and kill you myself.”
“Yes, sir,” Clint says, “won’t happen again, sir, now when will you be joining me?”
“I’m sleeping on the couch,” Phil says, matter-of-fact, “don’t want to risk straining the wound.”
“Bullshit,” Clint says, “your sleeping in this bed is paramount to my getting better.”
“I’m not sure that’s been medically proven,” Phil says, but puts his paperwork down, “do you have any documentation for this phenomenon?”
“No, but if you get in here I’m sure we can sort something out,” Clint says, shifting to make room as Phil stands and takes his suit jacket off, “you’re the master of paperwork after all.”
“Careful, agent,” Phil says, sliding in next to him, “keep talking like that and we might be forced to strain that wound.”
Clint grins. “I look forward to it.”