Too Late To Apologize
Title: Too Late to Apologize
Rating: PG-13
Genre and/or Pairing: Avengers movieverse/supernatural verse crossover; Clint/Coulson
Warnings: some language, probably. SPOILERS. Depressing.
Word Count: 1,446
Summary: part 5 in a post movie drabble series. Clint makes a choice that he's not sure he beileves, only to find he really is going to have to live with the consequences.
Relatively speaking, ten years is a long time. It’s the length of time spent before a first high school reunion, and it’s longer than Clint’s ever lived in one place. It’s a decade, a signpost for measuring time, and it’s longer than the typical lifespan of some breeds of dog. When you look at it like that, ten years starts to sound like a really long time.
Clint didn’t really take the time to look at it all; he didn’t need to. He needed only to know that no, the guy wasn’t just pulling this out of his ass. (Not that he fully believed that the night of, but he certainly wanted to) He was a demon, an honest to God demon working the crossroads outside the bar, and he was ready and willing to give Clint exactly what he wanted. When he agreed, he was more than a little startled there wasn’t any blood involved. He’d held his arm out, ready to feel the bite of steel against his skin as part of some voodoo mumbo jumbo, and he’d almost balked when Greg(“Gregory Erkin, best ride I’ve ever had”) had used the arm only to yank him in close.
“Oh c’mon, Barton. It’s not your blood I want.”
The kiss was messy and rough, and he threw himself into it with an unsettling fervor. It took him back, a warped mirror of childhood memories, of screwing his eyes so tight as he flipped a dingy penny into a fountain. With wishes so desperately desired, they somehow seemed just a little more possible if he physically wished so hard it hurt. It had never worked before and he’s sure it won’t work then; he’d long grown out of superstition and even if this guy seemed real it’s so much more likely he’s a device of Loki’s but still, still. He was too defeated not to try, to hope, even as a tiny part of him almost hoped it was all a trick and the guy was just going to take him out once his guard was down. It’s not quite suicide if it’s not his own hand, after all.
So he took Greg’s face in his hands and kissed him like his life depended on it just in case Phil’s actually might, and he ignored everything inside of him that twisted up in pain at the way he tasted like ash and blood, the way something so simple as his lip between Clint’s teeth felt so horribly wrong.
He’d never been sure if he believed in God, though he always deep down leaned toward the possibility that he must. Over the course of his life he’d spent too much internal thought yelling at the guy to actually say convincingly that he didn’t believe. After the kiss, panting and a little lightheaded with drink and adrenaline, the fervent hope that God didn’t exist after all snaked its way up through his thoughts. Without any kind of god there’d be no potential of a heaven for Phil to possibly be watching him from, no chance that he’d just seen Clint kiss the hell out of a man in a dark alley that may or may not have just taken on ownership of Clint’s soul.
Still feeling a little unsteady but too sick to hold on anymore, Clint pushed Greg away to stand on his own. There in the aftermath he felt weak and hopeless, a pathetic creature, and he wiped his lips off on the back of his hand in the desperate hope not to ever taste Greg again.
“So that’s it then.” He said it, some crazy part of him even still hoped for it, but the grasping belief he’d felt when they first talked about lost years seemed to have thoroughly faded.
Greg laughed clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You do go above and beyond, don’t you hero boy?” The hand on his shoulder reminded him of Loki in his mind, heavy, unwanted pressure. He shrugged away, stumbled back toward the mouth of the alley and society and a road that could lead him to a nearby hotel. “Might want to start heading home now, Barton. He’ll be waiting for you, and I don’t think I’d want to waste those awfully expensive minutes you just bought.”
He left behind the sound of laughter, and by the time he got to a motel and was ready to fall in bed he’d realized two things. First, the whole thing was probably nothing, probably drink and grief even though he didn’t feel all that drunk. Second, if it wasn’t? If it wasn’t, he had to hope to that possibly existent God that Phil hadn’t seen a thing, because the more he thought about it the more he was pretty sure that all promises aside, Phil would’ve rather he took a gun to his head than bargained away his soul.
In the dark, he shuffled the sheets around on the bed until it felt thoroughly mussed and a little less empty.
“If you’re listenin’…look, don’t worry, sweetheart. It won’t work anyway.”
When the call comes in the next morning, he at least has the empathy to be sorry that he’s not sorry, if that even counts. The whole drive back, he turns the same words over in his head.
“You need to get your ass back here, Barton. He’s…we can’t explain it.” Even so, they’d tried. In the time he’d been sleeping off his trip down the rabbit hole, Phil Coulson had showed up in Tony’s lab. After the panic and initial widespread assumption that he was Loki(or an animated corpse under his control), tests were run and an emergency request was sent back to Providence to exhume the coffin. It was empty, completely empty and without a mark on it, and the test results were all solid. For whatever reason(as they said, though Loki and some sort of as yet unknown nefarious agenda remained the prime suspect), Phil Coulson was alive and confused and standing in Stark’s lab complaining about its increased propensity as a fire hazard.
Being sorry he’s not sorry may not quite count, but in the face of that it’s all he’s got.
He’s had months of dreams and desperate nightmares where he imagined almost every way he’d react if he ever saw Phil again, but the moment itself overshadows them all. He doesn’t pick him up, doesn’t tackle him, doesn’t kiss him until they both bleed, doesn’t break down in tears. Phil’s dress shirt is actually rolled up to his elbows and he’s leaned up against the wall reading a brief that Clint yanks from his hand and he’s never, ever looked so beautiful. Clint just wraps him up in his arms without a word because he’s scared that even if he tried he couldn’t speak, and he holds on. Phil’s arms come up to hold him fiercely tight, and he’s reminded that last time Phil saw him he wasn’t himself, was locked away behind Loki’s tricks. Phil might not have lived long with his worries, but the way he can still feel them in this reminds Clint he’s not the only one that’s been through hell. When he whispers Clint’s name against his chest there’s something both awed and broken about his voice, something all too raw.
Fuck no, he’s not sorry. It’s not like his soul was doing him all that much good while he was trying to survive this damn mess anyway.
He physically can’t let go, he can’t, and when Phil realizes he’s got no intentions of letting go he murmurs first something low and unintelligible, his head turning to press his lips to Clint’s temple.
“You’re alright” he starts a little shaky, comforting himself more than Clint until his voice evens. ” It’s alright, Clint. It’s alright.”
“I lost you.” He means to apologize, to talk about how he should’ve been there and he should’ve held him and a thousand other mistakes but now that he has a chance, none of it will come just yet. He pulls back just enough to see those beautifully familiar eyes, Phil’s face cradled in his hands. “What do you remember?”
“I remember…I know what happened to me when Loki escaped, but after that there’s nothing.”
Finally, finally Clint kisses him. It’s deep and searching, wet and intimate even though half the damn teams watching, and he breaks only to mutter “Phil, I’m sorry.” once against his damp lips. He can let him think it’s about not being there, maybe even about the mind control mess, nothing else.
I’m sorry, Phil, I’m so sorry, but I wouldn’t take it back. I wouldn’t. You’re worth it.
Rating: PG-13
Genre and/or Pairing: Avengers movieverse/supernatural verse crossover; Clint/Coulson
Warnings: some language, probably. SPOILERS. Depressing.
Word Count: 1,446
Summary: part 5 in a post movie drabble series. Clint makes a choice that he's not sure he beileves, only to find he really is going to have to live with the consequences.
Relatively speaking, ten years is a long time. It’s the length of time spent before a first high school reunion, and it’s longer than Clint’s ever lived in one place. It’s a decade, a signpost for measuring time, and it’s longer than the typical lifespan of some breeds of dog. When you look at it like that, ten years starts to sound like a really long time.
Clint didn’t really take the time to look at it all; he didn’t need to. He needed only to know that no, the guy wasn’t just pulling this out of his ass. (Not that he fully believed that the night of, but he certainly wanted to) He was a demon, an honest to God demon working the crossroads outside the bar, and he was ready and willing to give Clint exactly what he wanted. When he agreed, he was more than a little startled there wasn’t any blood involved. He’d held his arm out, ready to feel the bite of steel against his skin as part of some voodoo mumbo jumbo, and he’d almost balked when Greg(“Gregory Erkin, best ride I’ve ever had”) had used the arm only to yank him in close.
“Oh c’mon, Barton. It’s not your blood I want.”
The kiss was messy and rough, and he threw himself into it with an unsettling fervor. It took him back, a warped mirror of childhood memories, of screwing his eyes so tight as he flipped a dingy penny into a fountain. With wishes so desperately desired, they somehow seemed just a little more possible if he physically wished so hard it hurt. It had never worked before and he’s sure it won’t work then; he’d long grown out of superstition and even if this guy seemed real it’s so much more likely he’s a device of Loki’s but still, still. He was too defeated not to try, to hope, even as a tiny part of him almost hoped it was all a trick and the guy was just going to take him out once his guard was down. It’s not quite suicide if it’s not his own hand, after all.
So he took Greg’s face in his hands and kissed him like his life depended on it just in case Phil’s actually might, and he ignored everything inside of him that twisted up in pain at the way he tasted like ash and blood, the way something so simple as his lip between Clint’s teeth felt so horribly wrong.
He’d never been sure if he believed in God, though he always deep down leaned toward the possibility that he must. Over the course of his life he’d spent too much internal thought yelling at the guy to actually say convincingly that he didn’t believe. After the kiss, panting and a little lightheaded with drink and adrenaline, the fervent hope that God didn’t exist after all snaked its way up through his thoughts. Without any kind of god there’d be no potential of a heaven for Phil to possibly be watching him from, no chance that he’d just seen Clint kiss the hell out of a man in a dark alley that may or may not have just taken on ownership of Clint’s soul.
Still feeling a little unsteady but too sick to hold on anymore, Clint pushed Greg away to stand on his own. There in the aftermath he felt weak and hopeless, a pathetic creature, and he wiped his lips off on the back of his hand in the desperate hope not to ever taste Greg again.
“So that’s it then.” He said it, some crazy part of him even still hoped for it, but the grasping belief he’d felt when they first talked about lost years seemed to have thoroughly faded.
Greg laughed clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You do go above and beyond, don’t you hero boy?” The hand on his shoulder reminded him of Loki in his mind, heavy, unwanted pressure. He shrugged away, stumbled back toward the mouth of the alley and society and a road that could lead him to a nearby hotel. “Might want to start heading home now, Barton. He’ll be waiting for you, and I don’t think I’d want to waste those awfully expensive minutes you just bought.”
He left behind the sound of laughter, and by the time he got to a motel and was ready to fall in bed he’d realized two things. First, the whole thing was probably nothing, probably drink and grief even though he didn’t feel all that drunk. Second, if it wasn’t? If it wasn’t, he had to hope to that possibly existent God that Phil hadn’t seen a thing, because the more he thought about it the more he was pretty sure that all promises aside, Phil would’ve rather he took a gun to his head than bargained away his soul.
In the dark, he shuffled the sheets around on the bed until it felt thoroughly mussed and a little less empty.
“If you’re listenin’…look, don’t worry, sweetheart. It won’t work anyway.”
When the call comes in the next morning, he at least has the empathy to be sorry that he’s not sorry, if that even counts. The whole drive back, he turns the same words over in his head.
“You need to get your ass back here, Barton. He’s…we can’t explain it.” Even so, they’d tried. In the time he’d been sleeping off his trip down the rabbit hole, Phil Coulson had showed up in Tony’s lab. After the panic and initial widespread assumption that he was Loki(or an animated corpse under his control), tests were run and an emergency request was sent back to Providence to exhume the coffin. It was empty, completely empty and without a mark on it, and the test results were all solid. For whatever reason(as they said, though Loki and some sort of as yet unknown nefarious agenda remained the prime suspect), Phil Coulson was alive and confused and standing in Stark’s lab complaining about its increased propensity as a fire hazard.
Being sorry he’s not sorry may not quite count, but in the face of that it’s all he’s got.
He’s had months of dreams and desperate nightmares where he imagined almost every way he’d react if he ever saw Phil again, but the moment itself overshadows them all. He doesn’t pick him up, doesn’t tackle him, doesn’t kiss him until they both bleed, doesn’t break down in tears. Phil’s dress shirt is actually rolled up to his elbows and he’s leaned up against the wall reading a brief that Clint yanks from his hand and he’s never, ever looked so beautiful. Clint just wraps him up in his arms without a word because he’s scared that even if he tried he couldn’t speak, and he holds on. Phil’s arms come up to hold him fiercely tight, and he’s reminded that last time Phil saw him he wasn’t himself, was locked away behind Loki’s tricks. Phil might not have lived long with his worries, but the way he can still feel them in this reminds Clint he’s not the only one that’s been through hell. When he whispers Clint’s name against his chest there’s something both awed and broken about his voice, something all too raw.
Fuck no, he’s not sorry. It’s not like his soul was doing him all that much good while he was trying to survive this damn mess anyway.
He physically can’t let go, he can’t, and when Phil realizes he’s got no intentions of letting go he murmurs first something low and unintelligible, his head turning to press his lips to Clint’s temple.
“You’re alright” he starts a little shaky, comforting himself more than Clint until his voice evens. ” It’s alright, Clint. It’s alright.”
“I lost you.” He means to apologize, to talk about how he should’ve been there and he should’ve held him and a thousand other mistakes but now that he has a chance, none of it will come just yet. He pulls back just enough to see those beautifully familiar eyes, Phil’s face cradled in his hands. “What do you remember?”
“I remember…I know what happened to me when Loki escaped, but after that there’s nothing.”
Finally, finally Clint kisses him. It’s deep and searching, wet and intimate even though half the damn teams watching, and he breaks only to mutter “Phil, I’m sorry.” once against his damp lips. He can let him think it’s about not being there, maybe even about the mind control mess, nothing else.
I’m sorry, Phil, I’m so sorry, but I wouldn’t take it back. I wouldn’t. You’re worth it.