Clint fumbles with the buckle on his seatbelt, trying ineffectually to release himself from its hold until another, steadier set of hands brush his own aside and take care of the problem. The belt releases from the buckle with a soft click before it draws away from his body. From there, he just has to swing his legs out of the car and put his weight on them; a task easier said than done as his stiff, aching body refuses to cooperate. When his feet touch concrete, it becomes readily apparent that standing up under his own power isn't something that's going to be happening any time soon. He looks up, squinting against the dying sunlight as Phil grasps his elbow.
"Take your time," the older agent tells him.
Clint snorts at that and scrubs a hand across his eyes. "We should have just kept driving. I'd have slept through it."
"You need a bed, not a car seat," Phil says, helping him to his feet once he's ready.
Being fully upright does not agree with him in the slightest. He clenches his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut when a wave of nausea rolls over him. There's a ringing in his ears that's so loud he can only hear his hammering heartbeat coupled with unsteady breathing. But he's being shifted, maneuvered into a position where some of his weight is being supported by his companion. He feels hot, suddenly far too hot, and his head feels fit to burst.
Through it all, the one thing he hears is Phil's voice; mild as always, but with that ever so slightly softer tone that Clint has trained himself to listen for.
"Easy, Barton," Phil instructs, an arm around his waist, taking most of his weight as they amble away from the car like last place contestants in a three-legged race. "On me, now."
"Don't have much choice," Clint grunts.
He hisses as they reach the door and Phil has to shift their position in order to dig the key out of his pocket. The other man doesn't say anything, but he offers a brief glance to denote his unspoken apology before swiping his keycard through the reader and reaching to shove the door open. Clint's just about had it, even from the short distance between the car and their hotel room, but he stubbornly pushes forward the last few feet to the bed.
He tries to extract himself from Phil's grip as quickly as possible; something that surely doesn't escape the older agent's notice but isn't commented on, regardless. The archer watches his handler warily as he gathers all the visible pillows and props them up behind him. The man even goes as far as the pull the extra pillows from the linen closet.
"What are you doing?" Clint asks, wincing as he shifts position.
"I would have thought that was fairly obvious," Phil answers.
"Why are you doing it?" Clint asks, amending his previous question into something more fitting.
"I'm your handler, Barton," Phil answers simply.
Clint groans in frustration. He's tired, he feels like he's been hit by a truck and his handler of a number of months few enough to count on one hand is giving him the verbal run around. Not that it's anything but the usual fare with this guy; even a few months into having sold his soul to S.H.I.E.L.D. he knows what to expect from this paper pusher-looking pain in the ass. Mostly.
"I could have made the drive," Clint complains again, even as he begins to settle back against the pillows.
"I don't doubt that," Phil answers with a slight shrug of his shoulders. "It's not about whether or not you could have made it, it's about the fact that I made the decision to spend the night in a hotel rather than continue to drive and that's what we'll be doing."
Clint sizes the other man up before speaking. "Listen, I don't need your pity, alright? I can manage fine enough on my own. And if you're just worried about the state of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s newest asset then stop worrying. You'll still be able to use me."
Phil doesn't answer immediately, just stares as he tilts his head a fraction to the right in a manner highly reminiscent of an inquisitive dog before smiling at him.
"Did you think we were stopping because of you?" Phil asks him, his tone easy and conversational. "Maybe we're stopping because the old man needs a break."
Clint narrows his eyes. "Th'fuck do you mean 'old man'? You're not even forty yet. And I saw you take out three armed guards with your bare hands two days ago, so don't even think you're fooling me."
"Okay, we'll wait until you're my age and see how you feel after taking out three armed guards with your bare hands," Phil says, stretching until Clint hears his shoulders pop.
"The 'old and tired' routine isn't going to work on me."
"No? I thought I was pretty convincing."
Clint watches as the man moves away and spends several seconds rooting through a duffel bag on a nearby chair. Phil retrieves whatever he's looking for and promptly returns to Clint's bedside, setting his findings down on the nightstand. Clint frowns at the bottle of water accompanied by a few small pill bottles. Phil taps his watch.
"Time for another round of medication," the agent declares.
Clint glowers briefly before giving way under Phil's stern gaze. It's better to do what he wants if it means getting him to lay off. And at the very least, he hadn't handed the medication to Clint and is instead allowing him to retrieve it for himself. That doesn't mean that Phil doesn't hover over him, arms folded across his chest as he makes sure that Clint shakes the proper dose out of each prescription bottle.
The pain medication acts quickly, enough so that Phil's words about getting something for dinner and what time they'll leave in the morning and any number of other things goes in one ear and out the other. It's hard for him to focus on anything; the pain in his ribs and shoulder and leg are still there, but he just doesn't care quite as much.
With a sort of vague interest, he watches his handler sit at the desk a few feet away from the bed. Phil reaches for the laptop in the case beside him, sets it on the desk and boots it up. He goes about that curiously methodical process of stripping out of his suit coat, rolling up his shirt sleeves, setting his wristwatch on the desk beside the laptop and donning a pair of thick-rimmed reading glasses before he begins typing.
The soft, rhythmic noise of his handler's fingertips against the keys coupled with the fog of the pain medication over his mind do well to carry him off to sleep.
It's dark when he wakes again, his ribs throbbing and his need to piss just this side of unbearable. The light on the desk is out, replaced by the comforting glow of the television. He rubs at his sleep-blurred eyes and notes that Phil has migrated from the desk to the room's other double bed. The man is propped up against the headboard, having moved the pillows on his bed to Clint's, with his legs crossed, his arms crossed loosely over his midsection and his head tipped forward so that his chin touches his chest.
For a moment Clint just sits where he is, watching. What he's learned in the past several months is that his handler is a consummate professional. Having established that kind of image, however, means that it's hard to picture Phil as anything but. Clint supposes that Phil must have a home that he returns to and a bed he sleeps in, but actually seeing him asleep is something like seeing a teacher outside of school; it ruins the illusion that they're not powered down at the end of the school day and plugged into charging docks in the basement until the next morning.
He'd planned on slipping out of bed quietly, but movement just isn't agreeing with him. As careful as he'd been, the sudden lance of pain along his left side tears a startled gasp out of him, which dissolved into an annoyed hiss. It takes everything he has not to scream when he hears Phil stir and that mild voice asks,
"Alright Barton?"
"Fine," Clint grunts.
He hopes the man will leave it at that, but then, Clint's not usually one to get what he wishes for.
"Do you need something?" Phil asks.
Clint bites on his lower lip, trying to pull himself into a sitting position. "No."
For a moment there's silence and he thinks that maybe Phil will leave it at that. But he hears shuffling not a moment later and huffs an annoyed sigh when his barely sleep-rumpled handler appears in his line of sight.
"If you'll just tell me where you're trying to go, I can help you get there," Phil offers.
"I don't need your help," Clint answers, his tone biting.
Phil doesn't make so much as a peep, just does that curious head tilt again. Clint knows the older agent is waiting him out and if it were any other time, he'd let Phil sweat. But given his predicament, he's the only one doing any sweating. He realizes that if he doesn't get out of bed soon, he's not going to make it to the toilet and weighs his options, wondering if it's more embarrassing to ask for help to the bathroom or to soak his sheets.
"Gotta piss," he grumbles low.
Face burning, jaw clenched, he'd all but growled the words out. He's surprised when there isn't a smile or a joke or that patronizingly patient attitude he'd been expecting.
"Okay," Phil says simply.
He frowns when the agent ducks low and tenses, preparing for the other man to reach for him. But Phil never does. The other man makes no move to touch him, just waits, crouched, for Clint's next move. After a few moments of hesitation, Clint lays a hand on Phil's shoulder and uses it to lever himself up. Even in helping Clint stand and hobble to the bathroom, Phil doesn't touch him any more than is strictly necessary and Clint makes it there primarily under his own power.
When they make it to the bathroom, Clint has half a mind to turn back, but Phil just turns his head to the side and waits patiently. Clint's gaze flickers uncertainly to the other man several times before he's sure that Phil isn't going to look. It's stupid to be embarrassed over, it's not like he hasn't taken a leak in front of other guys before, it's just the fact that most of those people were circus workers and runaways and societal rejects and Phil is none of those. Phil in his neatly pressed suits with his mild smiles and near-compulsive neatness makes him feel out of place, uncomfortable in his own skin, ashamed; and with those feelings comes anger for feeling them.
But Phil just stands there with his head turned, seemingly unhurried, uninterested and maybe just a bit sleepy as he shifts his grip on the arm Clint has around his shoulders. Clint's face feels hot as he hurriedly unzips his fly one-handed before proceeding to relieve himself with a great, heaving sigh. He finishes, gives himself a little shake and tucks himself away before zipping himself back up and shifting toward the sink to wash his hands. Phil breaks away momentarily while he has the sink to lean on in order to flush the toilet and lower the lid, but returns to hover in the doorway until Clint has finished washing and drying. The archer douses the lights and keeps his distance as they walk back towards the bed, only clutching his handler's forearm for support.
Clint eases himself back onto the bed, waiting for some kind of lecture but he never gets one.
"I ordered pizza while you were out," Phil declares, moving away from him. "It's cold now and only half-decent when it was fresh, so I don't have much hope for it reheated but you need to put something in your stomach. You haven't eaten since yesterday."
As if in agreement with Phil, Clint's stomach gurgles at the mention of food. It isn't two minutes later that he's got two slices of reheated pizza in his lap and a cold soda on the nightstand beside him. The pizza isn't going to win any awards, but on an empty stomach that hardly matters. He polishes it off quickly, downing half the soda with it and shifts his attention to his handler, who is watching the television with vague interest and looking more like he'd rather go back to sleep.
"You're not the first to try this, you know," Clint says suddenly.
Phil makes a soft, curious hum and turns his head to look at him.
"Trying to gain my trust. Buttering me up so I'll be a good boy," Clint informs him.
"I know," Phil says. "I am trying to gain your trust. I am not, however, trying to butter you up. That's not how this works."
"And you expect me to believe that?" Clint asks.
"I expect you to believe whatever you think is worth believing. You know what you're doing, Barton; you don't typically do as you're told not just because you don't like following orders, but because you're too smart to," Phil says easily. "I know that every order I issue to you is going to be thoroughly analyzed before you decide whether it's worth following or not and that's something important in this business. You have a mind of your own and you're not afraid to use it. If I wanted someone to shoot at whatever I pointed to, I could have picked any number of our specialists. But I wanted the best and being the best means being able to decide for yourself if my call is the right one."
Clint isn't sure what to say to that, so Phil fills in the empty space for him.
"This isn't about trying to get on your good side so you'll behave or so you'll like me and it's certainly not about molding you into an obedient little soldier," Phil continues. "This is about showing you that you're more than marksmanship and getting you to believe it for yourself. I took a gamble with you and I'm going to see how it plays out. I would like to earn your trust but I know I'm going to have to do just that: earn it."
"And if you can't?" Clint asks.
Phil shrugs. "We'll just have to see if we get there."
Clint lets the conversation drop there and leans back against the pillows. He can't say he's had many people call him smart and he wonders just what this guy thinks he's getting at. 'More than his marksmanship?' What's that about? Something had given Phil a reason to make a different call with him and something had given Clint a reason to follow him. It wasn't trust—if anything it felt more like instinct—but something about that night has stuck with him. He doesn't trust Phil and he doesn't know if he ever will, but after tonight he figures there's nothing wrong with sticking around until he finds out.