I have not abandoned my NCIS fic, dont worry! i just got blocked and need to get some avengers stuff out of my system! this was written for a prompt at the kink meme on lj.
He watched the video over and over. From the time Coulson entered the room with Loki until the feed cut out. He listened to the rough breathing as Phil told Loki it was in his nature to lose, watched those eyes, those beautiful eyes, close. One last breath and the feed cuts out. Then rewind and play it again.
Fury said he was dead.
Clint wanted to be positive that Phil was dead. watching the last feed repeatedly was one of his many punishments for being weak enough to allow Loki onboard. he had to look for the proof that it was over, to look for any signs of regret or love or fear. Anything. But Phil had faced death and been brave about it. Braver than he would have been. Braver than he was being now. Braver than he had ever been. Clint wanted to be brave. He wanted to be brave and he wanted to cry at the loss of someone so important to him.
But he couldn't be brave and the tears weren't coming.
He was hiding in a ventilation shaft in the Tower, only coming out of hiding at night or when Natasha found him and told him to come eat with the group. Or watch a movie with the group. Or just be part of the group. Because they were a team now, no matter how unworthy he felt.
He put up a fight every time.
He lost the fight every time.
"It's what he would have wanted." She would say, and that's all it took to get him dropping out of the vent gracefully and padding along silently behind her until they reached everyone else. He would obediently go through the motions of being part of the group, following the letter of the order, but not the spirit. Just like he always had, just like he had always gotten in trouble for. Only now there was no pinched sigh in his ear, the sign of frustration on a mission. Now there was no 'for once will you just do things the easy way, instead of making everyone's life difficult?' With just the barest hint of fondness that anyone else, save for Nat, would have missed. It wasn't that he didn't like the rest of the Avengers, to be honest they were pretty amazing. He just didn't know how to handle them without a mission.
To be fair they didn't seem to know how to handle him either, and not because he had nearly killed them.
Because it was obvious to everyone now that he had felt more than was strictly professional for their handler. The way he'd blank out, caught in a memory whenever something too close to home was mentioned. The way he nearly broke down when Steve presented him with a mint condition set of cards, saying that the people running the funeral wouldn't put them in the casket with Phil and that Clint seemed to be the closest person to him. Nobody really had any idea just how close they had been.
He had wanted to cry then too.
But no tears had come.
He hardly slept anymore. Some nights were spent in the vents, some nights were spent at he range, shooting until his arms felt like pasta that had been cooked far too long. That feeling always made his throat clench tightly. Phil had been a great cook as far as most things went. But pasta had been his Achilles Heel. No matter the method that was used to keep track of the noodles, they were always inedible unless Clint cooked them. Then there were nights when he climbed to the highest point of the Tower, and sat as close to the edge as he could get, looking out over the city and thinking.
Thinking about what it would be like to jump.
He didn't have any immediate plans to do so. He still had too much to try to atone for. It still didn't stop him from thinking about the fall, wind whipping him until he was trapped in free fall, not speeding up but not slowing down either. Wondering if the sickening splat at the bottom would kill him instantly or if he'd have to lay there in pain for a minute or two before the blackness overtook him. He hated any kind of pain, but he hoped that it would hurt, he deserved it.
He wondered if they'd give him a decent funeral and bury him near Phil or just toss him in an unmarked grave somewhere and go about their day.
He hadn't gone to the funeral, or been to the gravesite, there was a mandatory psych eval and medical hold. Fury wanted to be sure that Loki hadn't left anything crazy in his head. He had, but nothing that hadn't already been there. All assassins were a little crazy after all. Nothing had been said, on his part anyways, for the first five days of his hold, and by the time he was cleared to go home, it had been at least a week since the funeral.
He hated killing just as much as he hated pain, but ironically enough, it kept him out of jail.
The first time he went to the gravesite, it looked like it was about to pour. The sky was filled with dark, thick clouds, and the low rumble of thunder echoed from the distance. Clint didn't care. With hands stuffed in his pockets he shuffled along to the gravesite, before sitting down in front of the mound of dirt. It had been long enough that a fine layer of grass had sprouted over the plot, but it was still a mound of dirt.
He had half a mind to start digging.
He wanted proof that Phil was really in there.
Instead he sat, jaw working like it had to construct the words he wanted to say, while he tried to find the right way to say them. It wasn't until the first fat raindrop hit him that his eyes started to well up with tears. By the time the rain started in earnest there were steady lines running down his face from everything that he had kept pent up for the last few months. As he realized he was soaked through he was full out sobbing, hands balled into fists on his knees, bitten and jagged nails pushing through the meat of his palms to bring up little crescents of blood. And his words coming out broken and stuttered from the force of his emotion.
He kept explaining how sorry he was. Sorry for not listening to protocol, sorry for being a pain in the ass all the time, sorry for not resisting Loki and sorry for leading Loki onto the helicarrier. By the end of his little speech, he was sure he was unintelligible through how tight his throat was and how heavily he was sobbing. An anguished scream tore from his lips as he lurched from sitting onto his hands and knees, fingers tangling in the soft grass and getting covered in mud.
He didn't care if anyone heard him.
He had a right to grieve.
He stopped sobbing so hard long before the rain ceased its acknowledgement of his pain. He was now sprawled across the grave, soaked through and shivering, clothes covered in mud and a bit of uprooted grass. His eyes were sore and swollen from crying, sclera red, eyelids heavy and aching no matter whether they were open or closed. His throat was sore and his lips were chapped and cracked. He had no idea how much time had passed, but he didn't care.
Although he knew he would probably get sick later on, he wasn't moving until someone came to kick him out.
He wasn't sure how long it was before the gloomy day faded into cold night, the shivers becoming more prominent even though the clouds broke up here and there to reveal a mostly full moon. He heard footsteps on the path behind him and for a second he stopped mouthing 'I'm sorry. I love you.' into the grass, his voice long since given out. He couldn't help but wonder if it was a gang, coming to harass the poor souls caught in their grief. Idly his mind flashed to whether or not one had a gun and would shoot him if he resisted them. He was only human. He would very easily succumb to a gunshot wound out here. Alone.
He wasn't expecting the hand on his shoulder, gentle but firm.
It was searing heat against his chilled skin, even through his shirt. He almost forced himself to croak a 'go away' when an all too familiar voice said his name. He pushed one hand into the mud, to prop himself up on an elbow and get a good look at the person next to him. He blinked once, then twice, trying to make sure that what he saw was reality and not just a figment of his imagination.
What he saw was Phil Coulson, alive and well, crouching beside him, worry clouding his face. What he saw was shined leather shoes and a three piece suit, not the faintest spec of dirt on him. What he saw was the man he loved more than anything else in the world, alive and in front of him.
He had never been so happy in his life.
With less grace than he would have liked, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, then to a similar crouched position. Without thinking of the damage to the other man's suit, he launched himself at Phil's chest, knocking him over, and cradling him in his arms. He pressed their lips together, once, twice, then a third time, before finally letting it deepen. His tongue swept against Phil's, with all of the urgency of a teenager, but without the rush or hormones that accompanied feverish gropes in a closet.
Phil tasted of coffee and mint and something undeniably Phil. Something that you couldn't replicate. Not that he'd ever want to. His hands traced up the man's cheeks and into his hair, and he could feel the amusement and disapproval through the kiss. They had plenty of time to get all of the mud out later, and Clint knew he was even more of a mess. So it was okay. Eventually they had to break for air and he pressed his forehead to Phil's without hesitation.
"I thought you were... Fury said you were..." He couldn't finish the sentence and closed us eyes tightly. The hand that was rubbing some of the tension and chill from the back of his neck shifted to cup his cheek, stroking his thumb over the curve of bone. Phil looked guilty, and just a little bit sad.
"I was. Fury didn't lie. That's...my actual grave with my actual body in it." To his credit, Phil sounded more or less like he was killed and buried every other month. "But we have some loyal friends." But Clint wasn't paying attention past the admission that Phil was, is, dead. Was dead long enough to be buried. Had died at Loki's hand, because he was too weak to stop from being controlled.
His chest got tight and he felt vaguely sick.
"I've...I've cracked then? Psych was right and that I was heading towards a break if I didn't start dealing with this better..." He was mumbling, breath shortening as the constriction grew. Then warm hands were cradling his face and lips were on his, kissing him just enough to control his breathing and slow the panic.
"You're fine. I'm fine. We're fine." Phil kept insisting, repeating those six words, a pair between each kiss. Again Clint lost track of time, lost track of place, lost track of everything but Phil.
"How?" He asked eventually, the tightness in his chest loosened enough for him to speak.
"That would be our doing." A voice from behind them said, also familiar, but nowhere near dead. Cocky but kind, and Clint was honestly surprised. He turned and his shock only grew, seeing the rest of the Avengers standing a few feet behind them looking varying degrees of awkward. Steve looked by far the most sheepish, followed closely by Bruce. Tony looked like he could go either way by the display because it seemed so private, so personal. Them laying there in the mud, both shivering but neither willing to move. Thor and Natasha were the least stunned. Thor looked pleased as punch, and Natasha looked content.
"Yes. We went on a quest to visit Hel and bring the Son of Coul back from beyond his final rest. Loki assisted us." Thor said, voice somber even through his joy at watching the two lovers returned to each other. "He says that hopefully this will start his atonement with you."
He couldn't start to forgive Loki, not yet. But he couldn't hide the fact that he was thankful to him for this, thankful to all of them. He couldn't begin to express how much. He just buried his face back into Phil's neck, stifling a happy sob. He covered it well, pressing a kiss to the pulse he found, uncaring that now Asgard and the Avengers know about their best kept secret.
"Let's go home Clint. You're going to catch pneumonia if you're out here much longer." Phil's gentle voice instructed. Clint sighed because he didn't want to move even though he was suddenly aware of how cold and sticky with drying mud and rainwater. He sighed and nodded, but didn't make much of an effort to move.
Without hesitating, Thor and Steve stepped forward each one grabbing them and hauling them to their feet. He opened his eyes and gave an appreciative nod to Steve who was standing behind Phil, certain that his boyfriend did the same with Thor. The two men were so skilled at lifting them that they hadn't even been separated on the trip to their feet. Almost immediately Clint tucked himself against Phil's side, an arm wrapping around his shoulders as they started to walk out of the cemetery, surrounded by their friends.
For the first time in months, Clint had stopped feeling like any moment the world would end.