Beyond Belief (2/?)
Title: Beyond Belief
Rating:NC-17
Genre and/or Pairing: Avengers movieverse/His Dark Materials fusion; Clint/Coulson, eventually with a side of Steve/Tony
Warnings: implied torture, alcohol, language, sex
Word Count: 5,488
Summary: Clint and his king cobra daemon, Maj, came to SHIELD after a life that took them from the circus to assassins to the clutches of a villain they didn't yet know. It's been a hard road and they've never met anyone they could trust, not until they meet Phil Coulson and Ilsae.
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Before, the longest relationship Clint was ever in lasted 4 months. This thing with Phil isn’t even that old, and already he knows it’s got more substance to it than he’s had anywhere else. He saw that coming in advance though, the possibility hovering before he ever made a move. Being with him is easy in a way that keeps well away from being trivial, something natural in it that dials down the tension he couldn’t help but carry everywhere he went.
They’re taking it slow with this, even slower than they would on their own since he’s out of town so damn much of the time, but it’s working and it’s good and sometimes he can’t help but do things like stop and stare just because he’s allowed.
It’s not long before Phil feels his eyes on him, a sixth sense that tugs the corners of his mouth to twitch into a smile. God, he loves that, that real smile Phil hardly ever gives but that he sometimes gets, so different from the bureaucratic one from work. Even that one usually only comes like pulling teeth, arduous and unpredictable. He’s reading his kindle one handed so he can keep the other arm slung over Clint’s shoulders, and Clint sighs and rolls his neck when those fingers start to trail absently through the hair at the base of his neck.
On his lap Maj nudges his wrist, impatient. In her opinion, he gets several chances now to act like a stroked cat, but the arrows they’re making aren’t going to prepare themselves. Once she has his attention she bites down on the soft lid of the glass jar between his knees, her venom sliding smoothly down the sides. Once she’s done he pulls the top off carefully, dips a brush in it and selects an arrowhead. Hopefully he doesn’t have any paper cuts he doesn’t know about. Forget the poisoning itself, if his own daemon’s venom got to him he’s not sure he could ever recover from the ribs he’d crack laughing his ass off.
“Whose idea was that?” Even Maj doesn’t jump at his voice anymore. She does, however, glare pointedly at Clint in case he has any ideas about giving the wrong answer.
“Doubting my brilliance?” She hisses, and he can’t help but laugh because when it’s directed at him he can never see anything menacing about it, just remembers the way she looked doing it when they were both 5 years old and she had all the ferocity of a grizzly and the size of a large worm. “You absolutely should be. It was her idea, and it’s fantastic. These have gotten us out of some pretty tight spots.”
“I can imagine.” There’s just a hint of gratitude in his voice, the same kind of warmth it’s held lately every time Clint’s come home safe, and it’s enough to make him fight the urge to put the arrowhead down before he’s finished. Phil worries about him now, maybe even more than he realizes. And the truth is, he loves it. He’s not used to having it, someone to worry, but he’s pretty sure this isn’t a novelty that’s ever gonna wear off. He’s got someone to come home to and maybe eventually lights that’ll be left on for him and dinners saved on plates like it matters that he wasn’t there. Thinking about it, there doesn’t seem to be any way that a bit of that is ever gonna sound less amazing and improbable.
That night he’d cooked dinner, pasta shells with cheese and Italian sausage. Phil had leaned up against the counter beside him, made a sly remark about the possibility of finding cooking shows on Clint’s DVR and what everyone at work would say if they knew he actually knew his way around a kitchen. Natasha already knows because he’s cooked for her on a couple missions, but that wasn’t exactly the best time to bring that up, really, not when what he wanted to say was that he cooked for himself sometimes because he got bored with fast food and cold sandwiches, but that cooking for someone else was so much better. What he actually said instead was “Here, try it.”, scooping a shell out onto a wooden spoon. Clint watched the dart of his tongue, the soft sound of pleasure that came from his throat, and he damn near moaned with wondering what it would’ve felt like if he’d fed him from his fingertips instead, if Phil would’ve sucked his fingers into his mouth to make them clean.
A clatter had shaken him out of it before he could get any more lost in those thoughts. Over at the kitchen table a chair finished tipping out of sight, taking an umbrella stand by the back porch door with it. Ilsae only glanced up for a second, something in her eyes utterly unapologetic before she crouched down for a more graceful pounce toward Maj’s teasing progression through the legs of the chairs. They were actually playing, Maj not even caring when Ilsae came down on her with soft paws and carefully sheathed claws. Just a few days before, the two of them had had a talk about still being careful, but seeing her like that was just one more reminder that every warning she gave these days was just a repetition of old fears. They’re happy, both of them, and when she’s with Ilsae even Maj can’t remember to be afraid anymore.
The second Clint finishes applying his poison he lays the arrowhead down to dry on a tray he’d set out on the coffee table. He’s about to move then, about to be done with productivity even though he’s gotten pitifully little done, but after he sets the jar with is narrow strip of venom down on the tray, Phil beats him to it. The hand on his neck tightens against his nape and he reaches over with his right to turn Clint to face him. There’s a kind of firm deliberation to nearly everything Phil does and the slow slide and curl of his tongue is no different. Well, not in that sense, at least. It’s absolutely different in that it’s so much better, so much hotter than a dozen other frantic kisses he’s had in his life and he can’t help but moan low and filthy at the way it makes heat flare inside him. There’s reasons they’re taking this slow, dozens of them, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to drag Phil on top of him on this couch and let the man fuck him senseless. In the back of his mind, he tells himself that good things come to those who wait. Eventually. Or something like that.
They kiss until he’s sure he wouldn’t be able to stop if he didn’t pull away, and he manages to get enough arrowheads done by the time he leaves that he’s out of venom. Leaving itself is far harder than it probably should be, and he pulls Phil up against him at the door and claims his lips until they’re just a little swollen. Swollen and wet and perfect, and God he doesn’t want to go.
Phil’s lips linger at the corner of his mouth, both tender and teasing. “You don’t have to come in so early tomorrow morning.”
His stomach sinks, and he wraps his arms just a little tighter around the other man’s shoulders. “Shipping me off again, boss?”
“Keeping you here. Looks like your schedule’s free of travel for the next two weeks.”
He can’t be positive Coulson did it for them, can’t even be positive Coulson did it at all, but it’s what he wants to think, so he goes with it. A year ago, he’d have said none of this was believable, not for him. Now, he’s tired of logical belief. Sometimes, it was better to just not ask any questions.
‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’
Coulson’s used to being woken up at odd hours. With his job he’s just had to accept that it’s something that happens all the time. Tony blew something up? Hello, 2 AM phone call. Natasha killed someone she wasn’t strictly supposed to again? 4 AM, due to the time difference, of course. His life is a never ending stream of madness, and he considers getting three uninterrupted hours at a time to be an awesome achievement.
Typically, though, it’s calls he gets. Or texts. Or emergency broadcasts. Someone actually there in person knocking on his door, that’s a lot rarer and it narrows the list to Fury(which will mean something of epic proportions is getting underway somewhere around the world) or the only other member of SHIELD who knows where he lives, the one who’s been gone for two weeks in Hong Kong with the Black Widow.
Ilsae beats him to checking, padding quickly down the hall and across the carpet to sniff at the crack below the door.
“It’s them; he’s been drinking.” He knows just how well she can smell it, the scent of whiskey sharp as a rasp to her sensitive nose. Her worry bleeds into his, and for a moment before his hand connects with the door knob, he’s almost sure he can smell it too.
Clint’s right there, leaning heavy on the frame and pressed close enough to the door that he sways the tiniest bit when it opens. From her perch around his thigh, Maj hisses as her nose stops just short of bumping the wood.
“Sorry to wake you.” He almost sounds it, too. His words aren’t slurred with the drink, but that honestly tells him all of nothing. Coulson’s seen him drunk, really drunk, but the man hides it behind being just a little easier with his smiles, just a little quicker with his jokes and if they didn’t know him well there’d be more than a few who’d never even wise up to it at all. Now, though, there’s something heavy on his words, a drag of something more weary than drugged, and Coulson’s reaching out to snag the fraying sleeve of Clint’s jacket.
“It’s fine; you know it’s fine, but what are you-“
“We got back a couple hours ago. I couldn’t stay there. I-“ The almost smile he was at least attempting when the door opened fades entirely, and there’s an unfamiliar uneasiness to the clench and release of his hand against the siding. “I’m sorry, I-“
“No, no, don’t. I’m sorry, come in.” Even if it’s late, it’s enough. Clint’s shoulder’s sag on his way through the door, but he heads down the hallway toward the couch with the ease of someone who’s already started to learn his way around the furniture in the semi dark.
Already, Coulson’s brain is zeroing in on all the information alone, everything from the time between the flight landing and Clint’s arrival(not a couple hours, more like four) to the possible status of the mission(successful with complications; it has to be. He’d have heard news sooner otherwise.), and he almost hates himself for it. He’s used to problem solving just like that, all categories and plans and practiced calm but on this he’s finally divided. Clint splits the line between logic and pure instinctive irrationality, and though he’s always been sure he could handle it just fine for just a moment he realizes why the government did their best to forbid this sort of thing.
His throat burns on warring words, his lips for a moment opening around nothing in his indecision. Whatever he says first will mark his priority, for better or for worse, and once it’s said he won’t be able to take it back. When he rounds the corner Clint’s right there on the edge of the sofa that’s rapidly becoming his, head in his hands, and suddenly, it’s not hard at all. Clint’s hair is soft under his fingers, and he buries them deep as he pulls his head up. He’s careful, oh so careful because there’s dried blood there too, he can feel it under the tips of his fingers, jagged and badly healing and maybe two days old and even those thoughts fade when Clint’s eyes tilt up to his.
“Tell me you’re alright.”
His lips quirk up, eyes almost lighting in that all too practiced way. “Oh, I’m-“ Coulson’s hand was already moving before he started, eager to cover a smile he has no desire to see.
“Don’t do that.” It’s one thing to shoot him something just a little fake when they’re fighting over whose turn it is to drive but not when Clint’s trusted him enough to come to him like this in the middle of the night. For that kind of trust to actually mean something, he can’t back up now. “You’re hurt, have you-“
“I hate doctors.” It’s just stony enough not to brook argument, at least not now, not yet. Maj circles up Clint’s chest, looking for height the way she does when she’s nervous, and for a second Clint lets her bury her face just under the edge of his shirt. Coulson’s had to cultivate his own mix of patience and impatience, and though he’s itching to ask again he holds his breath and waits, finds the outlines of the cut again along Clint’s scalp and traces them. Really jagged, maybe a rock, maybe-
“You need to call Charles." Clint mutters it under his breath, pulling away from Coulson's touch only far enough to give himself room to unwrap the cobra who kept shifting her grip higher and tighter. "Let him know he needs to get the team out to Hong Kong. Arcade's holed up in a jail cell there but I don't think it'll hold him even long enough for our extraction team to bring him back. Tasha tried; they told us we didn't have the authority to take him out of the country, which, by the way, if there's anything you can do about that it'd be awesome, cause I’m pretty sure we should have the authority and he's not the kind of person we want to be leaving with unsuspecting morons."
Arcade. Now that he heard the name, it made sense. SHIELD had sent the two agents out on a case the local government had suspected might be related to slave trafficking but that turned up a whole lot fishier on close investigation. No one was reappearing anywhere else, not even in back alleys or the lowest brothels. There were no bodies, no suspicious characters, no signs of struggle, just people in the same area of town that inexplicably vanished. From what he'd heard about the X-Men's troubles with him in the 90's, Arcade was always on the lookout for new victims for his games. His name had probably even popped on the SHIELD database under the circumstances, but he’d been so long absent from the world of villainy it seemed he'd gone unnoticed by everyone, Coulson included. Either he'd come back from as yet unknown circumstances, or the man just might be more insidiously patient than anyone had ever realized.
Clint pulls his hand away from Maj’s last coil to push her aside and onto the back of the couch where she perches uneasily, half flared and uncertain, a disconcerting companion to Clint’s silence. Phil’s piecing it together, of course he is, but the gaps are still glaring, still pushing him to ask and keep asking.
Sitting down next to Clint, he lets a few of the words go.
“Your reports said nothing about any of this.” From the floor, Ilsae growls as she swats his leg hard enough to make him wince, hard enough that there’ll be blood. He doesn’t even bother to push her back; she’s right. It might be true, and he might even have a good point, but it sounds too much like work, too much like the voice of the boss instead of the voice of a lover and it’s not supposed to be about work right now, dammit, it’s supposed to be about Clint, just Clint.
“Mostly not, no, and Natasha’s won’t either.” There’s a look he gets with his eye on a target, focused and sharp and ready but this looks like almost the opposite, a twisting mess of grim uncertainty. “Had to get a little involved. He was pulling his victims from card games, taking the winners. No one has any memory of it, though, so we’re not sure if he was wiping minds or if he changed up his lure every few days. Anyway, we were there undercover watching the game go down and this kid was working his way up to taking it; he was good, good enough to play them and good enough to have gotten himself into a game over his head. Couldn’t have been 18. I couldn’t watch him do it; I just couldn’t. Tasha, she was cursing me in Russian soon as I stood up, like I didn’t start gettin’ used to that the day I met her.” He might be managing to pull a little bit of his smirk back into place, but it doesn’t really count with his eyes still on the floor. “Anyway, I kinda broke cover, things got a little complicated.”
Complicated he can deal with, God knows. He’s got Stark on the list of cats he’s supposed to be attempting to herd for fuck’s sake. No, there’s “I got pissed and blew up a few buildings” complicated, and that’s Tony all over, but Clint’s the soldier, the near perfect operative. He’s plenty apt to get in over his head, sure, but without all the fireworks.
“Clint, complicated is Tony blowing up a vending machine because it wouldn’t give him coffee. You-“
“I got in on the game. Wasn’t hard, I had guys teaching me how to hustle poker back when I was kid. I thought if we had someone on the inside…” He pulls a flask from his jacket, tips it back enough to catch what must be the last sip. “Jesus, I just couldn’t let him take that kid, you know? I mean it’s one thing, all the jobs I’ve had up until now. I go in, I make my shot, I’m done, and I guess I’ve always thought it matters in this abstract way, and maybe it makes up for a few of those jobs I took when I was too young to think it through, but it’s different, knowing this guy’s already got a body count and we’re supposed to sit at the bar and just keep drinkin’ while he takes in another one? I guess I just can’t do that; I’m sorry.”
“Barton, for a SHIELD agent you’ve always been abnormally easy to handle. If you broke chain of command just long enough to get in position to take him down then it’s not really-“
“We didn’t take him then. I went with him, back to the warehouse, figured I’d try to get a handle on whatever game he was running so we’d know what we were up against. Turns out the thing, it…he knocked everyone out, plugged ‘em into this machine that had you reliving your worst nightmares like levels on a game, starts with something not so bad and gives you time to work up. From what we’ve put together…I’m not sure if he burned the bodies or what the hell he did to them but as far as we can tell everyone that died got themselves killed inside the simulation; I’m not sure how it works, but you need to tell Charles everything. He needs to be prepared. If he’s got time to get back and set up again, they’ll have trouble.”
His attention keeps catching on absolutely all of it, snagging him off in contrasting directions. You’re hurt, let me look at you, let me see you, what the hell did he do to you, why didn’t you tell me, Clint, you could have told me, you could’ve called me and I would’ve come, I would’ve sent you help, you idiot, how could you be so stupid you don’t just walk into the bastard’s hands, Clint, there’s protocol for this, you’re not a superhero you’re just…
Nothing. There’s no ‘just’, only a man who came to him but still won’t look at him, who’s had more fuel for worst nightmares in his life than most people ever come close to yet it’s obvious he’s not anywhere near wishing he could take his choice back. He just walked right into a trap because he couldn’t watch someone else do it, and he says it like it’s a choice anyone would make, like the only reason he’s never done anything like it before is because he’s just never had the right opportunity. He’s twisting the lid on the flask like it might give him a little more if he keeps playing with it and there’s a set his shoulder’s that all but screams ‘don’t, don’t feel sorry for me’, and Phil knows everything has gone flying right out of his hands because right then he’s certain of it, he loves this man.
He might have even been able to say it, but Clint’s not exactly known for giving him much time to talk.
“Look, I don’t really want to talk about it. I’m fine; he just knocked me out when I got there and Tasha pretty much patched that up, but we got back to headquarters and I realize I didn’t really think this through because all I thought was I’d take a cab here but I really, really don’t want to talk about it anymore.” He swallows, maybe against exactly everything he doesn’t want to say, and he mumbles so low the space between almost swallows the sound. “I just didn’t want to stay there alone.”
“Ok.” It’s easier than he expects, not asking. There’s things, yeah, work things and personal things and if I ever get a chance to get my hands on that son of a bitch he’ll be sorry things, but the important thing, really, is the same thing that took his breath a little when Clint came in. He was alone, and he was fucked up, and he came here, like coming home. That’s enough, God, it’s enough.
“Yeah?” Finally, finally, his eyes are almost smiling.
“Yeah. Of course.” He reaches out to let his hand rest on Clint’s neck just for the sake of getting a hand on him, of feeling the way Clint always rises just a little into his touch. “Come back to bed with me. You should sleep.” Even right then when it makes so much sense, his nerves jangle, because technically he’s never had Clint in his bed before, not yet, not that he hasn’t thought about it plenty. He’s woken up in the middle of the night thinking about it, but mostly then it’s been thoughts of heat and bare skin and the way Clint moans, and he never let himself think quite as much about the other things, things like watching a guy that’s made a life out of keeping his eyes open relax enough to sleep, like waking up to his stupid jokes that just might be even more headache inducing before he’s gotten time to really think them through.
Clint nods, and by the time they’ve made it down the hall and he’s tossed Clint a t-shirt and some sweatpants in the bathroom and they’re sliding under now cold sheets it seems so easy that it’s hard to still be nervous. There’s space between them at first, a hesitant gap that lasts until he molds around Clint from behind, arm around his waist and chin against his shoulder. There’s a murmured ‘thanks’ and something about warmth and how his sheets are the cold kind but now that he’s lying down the stress and the alcohol and the bone deep exhaustion are taking their toll, devouring his words. There’s just one kiss, lazy and sleepy and open, and when Coulson realizes he can still taste blood from a slit on Clint’s lip, he just lets it go. It might take him awhile(Ilsae would say far more than that) but sometimes, sometimes he can wait to be told.
At the foot of the bed Ilsae makes a stuttering chatter, sounding almost more than ever like the wildcat she is, calling to kittens she’ll never have. Eventually, it works. Sometime just after Clint’s breath has evened out against the back of his hand Maj slides down from the bed frame, slinking across the comforter to coil tight between Ilsae’s paws.
After they’re both sleeping, after at least an hour’s passed and the moon’s dipped low enough to make its way just right through Coulson’s window, Ilsae fills the silence with the sound of rough pink tongue across not quite smooth scale, licking gently at Maj’s old, ragged scars. Coulson can feel it too, the swelling urge to stroke and protect that’s damn near driving him crazy, and he reaches down without even looking to bury his fingers in her fur.
“Yes. Good girl.”
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Clint can count on one hand the times he’s actually woken up in someone else’s bed. For him it’s almost always either been hotels or he’s crept out in the middle of the night, not the least interested in letting his guard down with someone right behind him. Waking up with Coulson behind him is something else entirely.
He’s so warm, Coulson’s arm still draped over his side, and though his head’s pounding a little in protest of last night’s alcohol nothing can really feel bad just then. Even the memories he just finished reliving at Arcade’s hands seem a distant thing, held at bay by the feel of Coulson against his back. Phil’s hard against him, he can absolutely feel it, a realization that sends a sharp jolt to his own cock. Even so Coulson’s utterly still, asking nothing of him though he knows from the somewhat unsteady fall of his breath on the back of Clint’s neck there’s almost no way he’s still asleep.
He turns in Coulson’s arms without a word, one hand reaching up to cup Phil’s cheek as he pulls him in for a kiss. He is awake, and he kisses Clint with an unchecked fervor Clint’s never felt. Clint willingly shifts closer, letting himself be drawn in until he’s half on top of Coulson, his own rapidly hardening cock rubbing against Coulson’s hip with their movements in a way that’s going to start driving him a little crazy. Coulson’s hands fit tight against his hips, tugging him to grind down a little harder, and Clint breaks the kiss to bury his face against Phil’s neck, panting.
“Fuck, fuck, Phil…”
Quicker than Clint would’ve believed possible Phil flips them, caging Clint in below him with his body. His eyes are so dark with desire that Clint feels like his heart just might run itself to death. He drags his lips across Clint’s jaw with deliberation, punctuated by ragged breath that’s so perfectly hot against Clint’s throat.
“Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted you?”
It’s low and almost dark in a way that makes Clint’s skin chill, and he tips his head back to give Phil access to his neck.
“That’s why you came to recruit us, isn’t it?”
“You’ll never know.” God his tongue is amazing, hot over Clint’s pulse as it flicks between his lips after a kiss. He can’t help but imagine the feel of it on his chest, on his cock, and he groans, his right hand clenching in the sheets as his left grips harder at Phil’s neck.
Phil controls the rhythm, keeps the roll of their hips slow and smooth even when Clint tries to jerk up against him. Clint can practically feel his mind evaporating, everything melting under heat and desire, but Coulson’s focus seems to be everywhere at once, on rhythm and kisses that leave them both gasping and the way his hands are smoothing up under his own t-shirt that Clint’s wearing, bunching up to pull over his head.
For just a minute, Clint’s brought crashing back to reality. With the shirt gone it’s just Phil’s hands on his bare skin, on his back, and even though Clint knows he has to know, this is the first time he’s feeling it firsthand. Maj certainly isn’t the only one of them that came out of Bangkok scarred, and though he’s fairly sure pictures of what he looked like when the government picked him up after his escape are everywhere in his file, it’s just not the same. He’s so very damaged, and even if most of it isn’t external, the lines he’s forever crossed with give him a permanent physical expression.
Clint can feel his fingers tracing them, trapped tight between Clint’s back and the mattress, and he takes a deep breath, eyes almost fully shut as he tries his best to keep his voice light.
“Souvenir from Bangkok. I know, should’ve just gotten a tattoo, maybe one of those tribal designs or-“
“Don’t.” There’s no hand over his mouth this time, but it’s the second time Phil’s read through him and cut him off at the pass, and honestly, he feels more relieved than sorry. He’s never let anyone in like this, not this far, partially because he never met anyone he wanted to trust and partially because no one’s ever tried, ever gave any indication that under his skin was somewhere they honestly cared to be. But here’s Coulson, unwilling to take shit from him even when it’s shit Clint’s half saying to make him feel better, and he’s not even quite sure what the hell he feels, but he’s never, ever wanted to be anywhere more than he does where is right now.
He takes Phil’s shirt in his hands, jerks it up with a muttered ‘off’ that gets him a soft laugh, and then it’s only a matter of shoving loose sweatpants off both of them and it’s done, they’re finally pressed against each other skin on skin. The shift and pull of the muscles usually hidden by Phil’s suit is fascinating, and he tugs Phil’s head in position to put his lips right next to his ear so he can murmur something about how he wants to lick every fucking inch of his chest. The exact words are lost to him even right after he says it, distracted by the way Coulson answers by pushing Clint’s thighs apart to settle just a little closer between them.
There’s no time for anything more than this, and that’s absolutely alright because the slide of them together is perfect, Coulson’s cock grinding slick and so hard against his. Coulson gives in and loses his careful tempo, resting on one arm over Clint, the other hand palming Clint’s ass in a move that’s half handhold half grope and, God, it’s excellent. Clint comes first, legs wrapping around Coulson’s waist as his body molds him around to try to draw him even closer, to take him in. Coulson’s not far behind him, and the cry he makes with his head tucked in against Clint’s shoulder is enough to make Clint’s whole body shiver.
The thought floats through his head that this, just rubbing off against each other it was still the best sex he’s ever had, and he really, really should’ve been doing a hell of a lot of this. Panting, Coulson turns his head just enough to lap lightly at Clint’s collarbone, humming contentedly.
“We need to feed you before I take you to medical.”
He’s not going to medical, not if he can help it, but everything about that moment shoots that solitary thought down easily. If they’d done this when he came to SHIELD, it wouldn’t have been this, it’d have been the kind of fucking Clint’s had his whole life and not that it’s been bad, but this is something different entirely, something he wants to keep.
Clint rubs Phil’s back absently, his eyes already shutting.
“Can’t hear you. Sleeping.”
Phil smiles against his skin, settling in more comfortably against Clint’s chest even as he talks. “You’re going to medical.”
“I’m going back to sleep.”
When he cracks his eyes open a few seconds later in the comfortable silence that follows he can see that around the edges of Coulson’s excellent shades, it’s just growing light. On the footstool at the end of the bed, Maj is wrapped around Ilsae the way she usually wraps around Clint, completely engulfing the bobcat. For once, Ilsae actually looks small. The cat’s purring rumbles out from her chest, a low, soothing background sound he hadn’t even noticed before. It’s comforting in a way he never would’ve imagined it could be, and it’s to that sound that he falls back to sleep.
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Rating:NC-17
Genre and/or Pairing: Avengers movieverse/His Dark Materials fusion; Clint/Coulson, eventually with a side of Steve/Tony
Warnings: implied torture, alcohol, language, sex
Word Count: 5,488
Summary: Clint and his king cobra daemon, Maj, came to SHIELD after a life that took them from the circus to assassins to the clutches of a villain they didn't yet know. It's been a hard road and they've never met anyone they could trust, not until they meet Phil Coulson and Ilsae.
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Before, the longest relationship Clint was ever in lasted 4 months. This thing with Phil isn’t even that old, and already he knows it’s got more substance to it than he’s had anywhere else. He saw that coming in advance though, the possibility hovering before he ever made a move. Being with him is easy in a way that keeps well away from being trivial, something natural in it that dials down the tension he couldn’t help but carry everywhere he went.
They’re taking it slow with this, even slower than they would on their own since he’s out of town so damn much of the time, but it’s working and it’s good and sometimes he can’t help but do things like stop and stare just because he’s allowed.
It’s not long before Phil feels his eyes on him, a sixth sense that tugs the corners of his mouth to twitch into a smile. God, he loves that, that real smile Phil hardly ever gives but that he sometimes gets, so different from the bureaucratic one from work. Even that one usually only comes like pulling teeth, arduous and unpredictable. He’s reading his kindle one handed so he can keep the other arm slung over Clint’s shoulders, and Clint sighs and rolls his neck when those fingers start to trail absently through the hair at the base of his neck.
On his lap Maj nudges his wrist, impatient. In her opinion, he gets several chances now to act like a stroked cat, but the arrows they’re making aren’t going to prepare themselves. Once she has his attention she bites down on the soft lid of the glass jar between his knees, her venom sliding smoothly down the sides. Once she’s done he pulls the top off carefully, dips a brush in it and selects an arrowhead. Hopefully he doesn’t have any paper cuts he doesn’t know about. Forget the poisoning itself, if his own daemon’s venom got to him he’s not sure he could ever recover from the ribs he’d crack laughing his ass off.
“Whose idea was that?” Even Maj doesn’t jump at his voice anymore. She does, however, glare pointedly at Clint in case he has any ideas about giving the wrong answer.
“Doubting my brilliance?” She hisses, and he can’t help but laugh because when it’s directed at him he can never see anything menacing about it, just remembers the way she looked doing it when they were both 5 years old and she had all the ferocity of a grizzly and the size of a large worm. “You absolutely should be. It was her idea, and it’s fantastic. These have gotten us out of some pretty tight spots.”
“I can imagine.” There’s just a hint of gratitude in his voice, the same kind of warmth it’s held lately every time Clint’s come home safe, and it’s enough to make him fight the urge to put the arrowhead down before he’s finished. Phil worries about him now, maybe even more than he realizes. And the truth is, he loves it. He’s not used to having it, someone to worry, but he’s pretty sure this isn’t a novelty that’s ever gonna wear off. He’s got someone to come home to and maybe eventually lights that’ll be left on for him and dinners saved on plates like it matters that he wasn’t there. Thinking about it, there doesn’t seem to be any way that a bit of that is ever gonna sound less amazing and improbable.
That night he’d cooked dinner, pasta shells with cheese and Italian sausage. Phil had leaned up against the counter beside him, made a sly remark about the possibility of finding cooking shows on Clint’s DVR and what everyone at work would say if they knew he actually knew his way around a kitchen. Natasha already knows because he’s cooked for her on a couple missions, but that wasn’t exactly the best time to bring that up, really, not when what he wanted to say was that he cooked for himself sometimes because he got bored with fast food and cold sandwiches, but that cooking for someone else was so much better. What he actually said instead was “Here, try it.”, scooping a shell out onto a wooden spoon. Clint watched the dart of his tongue, the soft sound of pleasure that came from his throat, and he damn near moaned with wondering what it would’ve felt like if he’d fed him from his fingertips instead, if Phil would’ve sucked his fingers into his mouth to make them clean.
A clatter had shaken him out of it before he could get any more lost in those thoughts. Over at the kitchen table a chair finished tipping out of sight, taking an umbrella stand by the back porch door with it. Ilsae only glanced up for a second, something in her eyes utterly unapologetic before she crouched down for a more graceful pounce toward Maj’s teasing progression through the legs of the chairs. They were actually playing, Maj not even caring when Ilsae came down on her with soft paws and carefully sheathed claws. Just a few days before, the two of them had had a talk about still being careful, but seeing her like that was just one more reminder that every warning she gave these days was just a repetition of old fears. They’re happy, both of them, and when she’s with Ilsae even Maj can’t remember to be afraid anymore.
The second Clint finishes applying his poison he lays the arrowhead down to dry on a tray he’d set out on the coffee table. He’s about to move then, about to be done with productivity even though he’s gotten pitifully little done, but after he sets the jar with is narrow strip of venom down on the tray, Phil beats him to it. The hand on his neck tightens against his nape and he reaches over with his right to turn Clint to face him. There’s a kind of firm deliberation to nearly everything Phil does and the slow slide and curl of his tongue is no different. Well, not in that sense, at least. It’s absolutely different in that it’s so much better, so much hotter than a dozen other frantic kisses he’s had in his life and he can’t help but moan low and filthy at the way it makes heat flare inside him. There’s reasons they’re taking this slow, dozens of them, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to drag Phil on top of him on this couch and let the man fuck him senseless. In the back of his mind, he tells himself that good things come to those who wait. Eventually. Or something like that.
They kiss until he’s sure he wouldn’t be able to stop if he didn’t pull away, and he manages to get enough arrowheads done by the time he leaves that he’s out of venom. Leaving itself is far harder than it probably should be, and he pulls Phil up against him at the door and claims his lips until they’re just a little swollen. Swollen and wet and perfect, and God he doesn’t want to go.
Phil’s lips linger at the corner of his mouth, both tender and teasing. “You don’t have to come in so early tomorrow morning.”
His stomach sinks, and he wraps his arms just a little tighter around the other man’s shoulders. “Shipping me off again, boss?”
“Keeping you here. Looks like your schedule’s free of travel for the next two weeks.”
He can’t be positive Coulson did it for them, can’t even be positive Coulson did it at all, but it’s what he wants to think, so he goes with it. A year ago, he’d have said none of this was believable, not for him. Now, he’s tired of logical belief. Sometimes, it was better to just not ask any questions.
‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’
Coulson’s used to being woken up at odd hours. With his job he’s just had to accept that it’s something that happens all the time. Tony blew something up? Hello, 2 AM phone call. Natasha killed someone she wasn’t strictly supposed to again? 4 AM, due to the time difference, of course. His life is a never ending stream of madness, and he considers getting three uninterrupted hours at a time to be an awesome achievement.
Typically, though, it’s calls he gets. Or texts. Or emergency broadcasts. Someone actually there in person knocking on his door, that’s a lot rarer and it narrows the list to Fury(which will mean something of epic proportions is getting underway somewhere around the world) or the only other member of SHIELD who knows where he lives, the one who’s been gone for two weeks in Hong Kong with the Black Widow.
Ilsae beats him to checking, padding quickly down the hall and across the carpet to sniff at the crack below the door.
“It’s them; he’s been drinking.” He knows just how well she can smell it, the scent of whiskey sharp as a rasp to her sensitive nose. Her worry bleeds into his, and for a moment before his hand connects with the door knob, he’s almost sure he can smell it too.
Clint’s right there, leaning heavy on the frame and pressed close enough to the door that he sways the tiniest bit when it opens. From her perch around his thigh, Maj hisses as her nose stops just short of bumping the wood.
“Sorry to wake you.” He almost sounds it, too. His words aren’t slurred with the drink, but that honestly tells him all of nothing. Coulson’s seen him drunk, really drunk, but the man hides it behind being just a little easier with his smiles, just a little quicker with his jokes and if they didn’t know him well there’d be more than a few who’d never even wise up to it at all. Now, though, there’s something heavy on his words, a drag of something more weary than drugged, and Coulson’s reaching out to snag the fraying sleeve of Clint’s jacket.
“It’s fine; you know it’s fine, but what are you-“
“We got back a couple hours ago. I couldn’t stay there. I-“ The almost smile he was at least attempting when the door opened fades entirely, and there’s an unfamiliar uneasiness to the clench and release of his hand against the siding. “I’m sorry, I-“
“No, no, don’t. I’m sorry, come in.” Even if it’s late, it’s enough. Clint’s shoulder’s sag on his way through the door, but he heads down the hallway toward the couch with the ease of someone who’s already started to learn his way around the furniture in the semi dark.
Already, Coulson’s brain is zeroing in on all the information alone, everything from the time between the flight landing and Clint’s arrival(not a couple hours, more like four) to the possible status of the mission(successful with complications; it has to be. He’d have heard news sooner otherwise.), and he almost hates himself for it. He’s used to problem solving just like that, all categories and plans and practiced calm but on this he’s finally divided. Clint splits the line between logic and pure instinctive irrationality, and though he’s always been sure he could handle it just fine for just a moment he realizes why the government did their best to forbid this sort of thing.
His throat burns on warring words, his lips for a moment opening around nothing in his indecision. Whatever he says first will mark his priority, for better or for worse, and once it’s said he won’t be able to take it back. When he rounds the corner Clint’s right there on the edge of the sofa that’s rapidly becoming his, head in his hands, and suddenly, it’s not hard at all. Clint’s hair is soft under his fingers, and he buries them deep as he pulls his head up. He’s careful, oh so careful because there’s dried blood there too, he can feel it under the tips of his fingers, jagged and badly healing and maybe two days old and even those thoughts fade when Clint’s eyes tilt up to his.
“Tell me you’re alright.”
His lips quirk up, eyes almost lighting in that all too practiced way. “Oh, I’m-“ Coulson’s hand was already moving before he started, eager to cover a smile he has no desire to see.
“Don’t do that.” It’s one thing to shoot him something just a little fake when they’re fighting over whose turn it is to drive but not when Clint’s trusted him enough to come to him like this in the middle of the night. For that kind of trust to actually mean something, he can’t back up now. “You’re hurt, have you-“
“I hate doctors.” It’s just stony enough not to brook argument, at least not now, not yet. Maj circles up Clint’s chest, looking for height the way she does when she’s nervous, and for a second Clint lets her bury her face just under the edge of his shirt. Coulson’s had to cultivate his own mix of patience and impatience, and though he’s itching to ask again he holds his breath and waits, finds the outlines of the cut again along Clint’s scalp and traces them. Really jagged, maybe a rock, maybe-
“You need to call Charles." Clint mutters it under his breath, pulling away from Coulson's touch only far enough to give himself room to unwrap the cobra who kept shifting her grip higher and tighter. "Let him know he needs to get the team out to Hong Kong. Arcade's holed up in a jail cell there but I don't think it'll hold him even long enough for our extraction team to bring him back. Tasha tried; they told us we didn't have the authority to take him out of the country, which, by the way, if there's anything you can do about that it'd be awesome, cause I’m pretty sure we should have the authority and he's not the kind of person we want to be leaving with unsuspecting morons."
Arcade. Now that he heard the name, it made sense. SHIELD had sent the two agents out on a case the local government had suspected might be related to slave trafficking but that turned up a whole lot fishier on close investigation. No one was reappearing anywhere else, not even in back alleys or the lowest brothels. There were no bodies, no suspicious characters, no signs of struggle, just people in the same area of town that inexplicably vanished. From what he'd heard about the X-Men's troubles with him in the 90's, Arcade was always on the lookout for new victims for his games. His name had probably even popped on the SHIELD database under the circumstances, but he’d been so long absent from the world of villainy it seemed he'd gone unnoticed by everyone, Coulson included. Either he'd come back from as yet unknown circumstances, or the man just might be more insidiously patient than anyone had ever realized.
Clint pulls his hand away from Maj’s last coil to push her aside and onto the back of the couch where she perches uneasily, half flared and uncertain, a disconcerting companion to Clint’s silence. Phil’s piecing it together, of course he is, but the gaps are still glaring, still pushing him to ask and keep asking.
Sitting down next to Clint, he lets a few of the words go.
“Your reports said nothing about any of this.” From the floor, Ilsae growls as she swats his leg hard enough to make him wince, hard enough that there’ll be blood. He doesn’t even bother to push her back; she’s right. It might be true, and he might even have a good point, but it sounds too much like work, too much like the voice of the boss instead of the voice of a lover and it’s not supposed to be about work right now, dammit, it’s supposed to be about Clint, just Clint.
“Mostly not, no, and Natasha’s won’t either.” There’s a look he gets with his eye on a target, focused and sharp and ready but this looks like almost the opposite, a twisting mess of grim uncertainty. “Had to get a little involved. He was pulling his victims from card games, taking the winners. No one has any memory of it, though, so we’re not sure if he was wiping minds or if he changed up his lure every few days. Anyway, we were there undercover watching the game go down and this kid was working his way up to taking it; he was good, good enough to play them and good enough to have gotten himself into a game over his head. Couldn’t have been 18. I couldn’t watch him do it; I just couldn’t. Tasha, she was cursing me in Russian soon as I stood up, like I didn’t start gettin’ used to that the day I met her.” He might be managing to pull a little bit of his smirk back into place, but it doesn’t really count with his eyes still on the floor. “Anyway, I kinda broke cover, things got a little complicated.”
Complicated he can deal with, God knows. He’s got Stark on the list of cats he’s supposed to be attempting to herd for fuck’s sake. No, there’s “I got pissed and blew up a few buildings” complicated, and that’s Tony all over, but Clint’s the soldier, the near perfect operative. He’s plenty apt to get in over his head, sure, but without all the fireworks.
“Clint, complicated is Tony blowing up a vending machine because it wouldn’t give him coffee. You-“
“I got in on the game. Wasn’t hard, I had guys teaching me how to hustle poker back when I was kid. I thought if we had someone on the inside…” He pulls a flask from his jacket, tips it back enough to catch what must be the last sip. “Jesus, I just couldn’t let him take that kid, you know? I mean it’s one thing, all the jobs I’ve had up until now. I go in, I make my shot, I’m done, and I guess I’ve always thought it matters in this abstract way, and maybe it makes up for a few of those jobs I took when I was too young to think it through, but it’s different, knowing this guy’s already got a body count and we’re supposed to sit at the bar and just keep drinkin’ while he takes in another one? I guess I just can’t do that; I’m sorry.”
“Barton, for a SHIELD agent you’ve always been abnormally easy to handle. If you broke chain of command just long enough to get in position to take him down then it’s not really-“
“We didn’t take him then. I went with him, back to the warehouse, figured I’d try to get a handle on whatever game he was running so we’d know what we were up against. Turns out the thing, it…he knocked everyone out, plugged ‘em into this machine that had you reliving your worst nightmares like levels on a game, starts with something not so bad and gives you time to work up. From what we’ve put together…I’m not sure if he burned the bodies or what the hell he did to them but as far as we can tell everyone that died got themselves killed inside the simulation; I’m not sure how it works, but you need to tell Charles everything. He needs to be prepared. If he’s got time to get back and set up again, they’ll have trouble.”
His attention keeps catching on absolutely all of it, snagging him off in contrasting directions. You’re hurt, let me look at you, let me see you, what the hell did he do to you, why didn’t you tell me, Clint, you could have told me, you could’ve called me and I would’ve come, I would’ve sent you help, you idiot, how could you be so stupid you don’t just walk into the bastard’s hands, Clint, there’s protocol for this, you’re not a superhero you’re just…
Nothing. There’s no ‘just’, only a man who came to him but still won’t look at him, who’s had more fuel for worst nightmares in his life than most people ever come close to yet it’s obvious he’s not anywhere near wishing he could take his choice back. He just walked right into a trap because he couldn’t watch someone else do it, and he says it like it’s a choice anyone would make, like the only reason he’s never done anything like it before is because he’s just never had the right opportunity. He’s twisting the lid on the flask like it might give him a little more if he keeps playing with it and there’s a set his shoulder’s that all but screams ‘don’t, don’t feel sorry for me’, and Phil knows everything has gone flying right out of his hands because right then he’s certain of it, he loves this man.
He might have even been able to say it, but Clint’s not exactly known for giving him much time to talk.
“Look, I don’t really want to talk about it. I’m fine; he just knocked me out when I got there and Tasha pretty much patched that up, but we got back to headquarters and I realize I didn’t really think this through because all I thought was I’d take a cab here but I really, really don’t want to talk about it anymore.” He swallows, maybe against exactly everything he doesn’t want to say, and he mumbles so low the space between almost swallows the sound. “I just didn’t want to stay there alone.”
“Ok.” It’s easier than he expects, not asking. There’s things, yeah, work things and personal things and if I ever get a chance to get my hands on that son of a bitch he’ll be sorry things, but the important thing, really, is the same thing that took his breath a little when Clint came in. He was alone, and he was fucked up, and he came here, like coming home. That’s enough, God, it’s enough.
“Yeah?” Finally, finally, his eyes are almost smiling.
“Yeah. Of course.” He reaches out to let his hand rest on Clint’s neck just for the sake of getting a hand on him, of feeling the way Clint always rises just a little into his touch. “Come back to bed with me. You should sleep.” Even right then when it makes so much sense, his nerves jangle, because technically he’s never had Clint in his bed before, not yet, not that he hasn’t thought about it plenty. He’s woken up in the middle of the night thinking about it, but mostly then it’s been thoughts of heat and bare skin and the way Clint moans, and he never let himself think quite as much about the other things, things like watching a guy that’s made a life out of keeping his eyes open relax enough to sleep, like waking up to his stupid jokes that just might be even more headache inducing before he’s gotten time to really think them through.
Clint nods, and by the time they’ve made it down the hall and he’s tossed Clint a t-shirt and some sweatpants in the bathroom and they’re sliding under now cold sheets it seems so easy that it’s hard to still be nervous. There’s space between them at first, a hesitant gap that lasts until he molds around Clint from behind, arm around his waist and chin against his shoulder. There’s a murmured ‘thanks’ and something about warmth and how his sheets are the cold kind but now that he’s lying down the stress and the alcohol and the bone deep exhaustion are taking their toll, devouring his words. There’s just one kiss, lazy and sleepy and open, and when Coulson realizes he can still taste blood from a slit on Clint’s lip, he just lets it go. It might take him awhile(Ilsae would say far more than that) but sometimes, sometimes he can wait to be told.
At the foot of the bed Ilsae makes a stuttering chatter, sounding almost more than ever like the wildcat she is, calling to kittens she’ll never have. Eventually, it works. Sometime just after Clint’s breath has evened out against the back of his hand Maj slides down from the bed frame, slinking across the comforter to coil tight between Ilsae’s paws.
After they’re both sleeping, after at least an hour’s passed and the moon’s dipped low enough to make its way just right through Coulson’s window, Ilsae fills the silence with the sound of rough pink tongue across not quite smooth scale, licking gently at Maj’s old, ragged scars. Coulson can feel it too, the swelling urge to stroke and protect that’s damn near driving him crazy, and he reaches down without even looking to bury his fingers in her fur.
“Yes. Good girl.”
---------------------------------
Clint can count on one hand the times he’s actually woken up in someone else’s bed. For him it’s almost always either been hotels or he’s crept out in the middle of the night, not the least interested in letting his guard down with someone right behind him. Waking up with Coulson behind him is something else entirely.
He’s so warm, Coulson’s arm still draped over his side, and though his head’s pounding a little in protest of last night’s alcohol nothing can really feel bad just then. Even the memories he just finished reliving at Arcade’s hands seem a distant thing, held at bay by the feel of Coulson against his back. Phil’s hard against him, he can absolutely feel it, a realization that sends a sharp jolt to his own cock. Even so Coulson’s utterly still, asking nothing of him though he knows from the somewhat unsteady fall of his breath on the back of Clint’s neck there’s almost no way he’s still asleep.
He turns in Coulson’s arms without a word, one hand reaching up to cup Phil’s cheek as he pulls him in for a kiss. He is awake, and he kisses Clint with an unchecked fervor Clint’s never felt. Clint willingly shifts closer, letting himself be drawn in until he’s half on top of Coulson, his own rapidly hardening cock rubbing against Coulson’s hip with their movements in a way that’s going to start driving him a little crazy. Coulson’s hands fit tight against his hips, tugging him to grind down a little harder, and Clint breaks the kiss to bury his face against Phil’s neck, panting.
“Fuck, fuck, Phil…”
Quicker than Clint would’ve believed possible Phil flips them, caging Clint in below him with his body. His eyes are so dark with desire that Clint feels like his heart just might run itself to death. He drags his lips across Clint’s jaw with deliberation, punctuated by ragged breath that’s so perfectly hot against Clint’s throat.
“Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted you?”
It’s low and almost dark in a way that makes Clint’s skin chill, and he tips his head back to give Phil access to his neck.
“That’s why you came to recruit us, isn’t it?”
“You’ll never know.” God his tongue is amazing, hot over Clint’s pulse as it flicks between his lips after a kiss. He can’t help but imagine the feel of it on his chest, on his cock, and he groans, his right hand clenching in the sheets as his left grips harder at Phil’s neck.
Phil controls the rhythm, keeps the roll of their hips slow and smooth even when Clint tries to jerk up against him. Clint can practically feel his mind evaporating, everything melting under heat and desire, but Coulson’s focus seems to be everywhere at once, on rhythm and kisses that leave them both gasping and the way his hands are smoothing up under his own t-shirt that Clint’s wearing, bunching up to pull over his head.
For just a minute, Clint’s brought crashing back to reality. With the shirt gone it’s just Phil’s hands on his bare skin, on his back, and even though Clint knows he has to know, this is the first time he’s feeling it firsthand. Maj certainly isn’t the only one of them that came out of Bangkok scarred, and though he’s fairly sure pictures of what he looked like when the government picked him up after his escape are everywhere in his file, it’s just not the same. He’s so very damaged, and even if most of it isn’t external, the lines he’s forever crossed with give him a permanent physical expression.
Clint can feel his fingers tracing them, trapped tight between Clint’s back and the mattress, and he takes a deep breath, eyes almost fully shut as he tries his best to keep his voice light.
“Souvenir from Bangkok. I know, should’ve just gotten a tattoo, maybe one of those tribal designs or-“
“Don’t.” There’s no hand over his mouth this time, but it’s the second time Phil’s read through him and cut him off at the pass, and honestly, he feels more relieved than sorry. He’s never let anyone in like this, not this far, partially because he never met anyone he wanted to trust and partially because no one’s ever tried, ever gave any indication that under his skin was somewhere they honestly cared to be. But here’s Coulson, unwilling to take shit from him even when it’s shit Clint’s half saying to make him feel better, and he’s not even quite sure what the hell he feels, but he’s never, ever wanted to be anywhere more than he does where is right now.
He takes Phil’s shirt in his hands, jerks it up with a muttered ‘off’ that gets him a soft laugh, and then it’s only a matter of shoving loose sweatpants off both of them and it’s done, they’re finally pressed against each other skin on skin. The shift and pull of the muscles usually hidden by Phil’s suit is fascinating, and he tugs Phil’s head in position to put his lips right next to his ear so he can murmur something about how he wants to lick every fucking inch of his chest. The exact words are lost to him even right after he says it, distracted by the way Coulson answers by pushing Clint’s thighs apart to settle just a little closer between them.
There’s no time for anything more than this, and that’s absolutely alright because the slide of them together is perfect, Coulson’s cock grinding slick and so hard against his. Coulson gives in and loses his careful tempo, resting on one arm over Clint, the other hand palming Clint’s ass in a move that’s half handhold half grope and, God, it’s excellent. Clint comes first, legs wrapping around Coulson’s waist as his body molds him around to try to draw him even closer, to take him in. Coulson’s not far behind him, and the cry he makes with his head tucked in against Clint’s shoulder is enough to make Clint’s whole body shiver.
The thought floats through his head that this, just rubbing off against each other it was still the best sex he’s ever had, and he really, really should’ve been doing a hell of a lot of this. Panting, Coulson turns his head just enough to lap lightly at Clint’s collarbone, humming contentedly.
“We need to feed you before I take you to medical.”
He’s not going to medical, not if he can help it, but everything about that moment shoots that solitary thought down easily. If they’d done this when he came to SHIELD, it wouldn’t have been this, it’d have been the kind of fucking Clint’s had his whole life and not that it’s been bad, but this is something different entirely, something he wants to keep.
Clint rubs Phil’s back absently, his eyes already shutting.
“Can’t hear you. Sleeping.”
Phil smiles against his skin, settling in more comfortably against Clint’s chest even as he talks. “You’re going to medical.”
“I’m going back to sleep.”
When he cracks his eyes open a few seconds later in the comfortable silence that follows he can see that around the edges of Coulson’s excellent shades, it’s just growing light. On the footstool at the end of the bed, Maj is wrapped around Ilsae the way she usually wraps around Clint, completely engulfing the bobcat. For once, Ilsae actually looks small. The cat’s purring rumbles out from her chest, a low, soothing background sound he hadn’t even noticed before. It’s comforting in a way he never would’ve imagined it could be, and it’s to that sound that he falls back to sleep.
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