Clint watches the videos. Obsessively. Compulsively. Hiding in his nest, high in the rafters of the newly established SHIELD headquarters he hides, waits. Comm in his ear, waiting for news, something good-anything good. Anything to bring his spirits up as the video images flicker in front of him time and time again, repeated, sound on so he can hear all the beautifully painful words seeping from the small speakers. It keeps his brain occupied, keeps the nightmares at bay, even as the screams echo through his bones and bring tears to his eyes. No matter how many times he's seen the knife cut, how much blood he's seen spilled, how many secrets come tumbling out after that.
Because no matter what anyone else says, seeing Phil in pain is a million times better than seeing him dead.
Phil is reminded, as the knife sinks into his shoulder, that he shouldn't have thought himself a good enough agent to have done this stupid mission on his own. He got what was coming to him, he knows this as the skin separates, the serrated edge of the knife making love to the wounds now littering his body, plunging in and out of the flesh as a husband does a wife. They've been at it for hours-well, it feels like hours, though if Phil is honest with himself he's not sure it's taken more than half an hour. Half an hour they've been at it and all he's been able to think of is Clint. His captors demand to know who he works for and he bites his tongue as they sink their fists into his jaw, fracturing the bones and separating ligaments so he's not sure he'd be able to talk if he wants to. His suit has been discarded, leaving him exposed and vulnerable, but it's nothing in comparison to the way he feels beneath Clint's stare, the Hawk's eyes painfully, acutely aware of Phil's truths and lies. If these men had half an ounce of the archer's talent they'll realize he's lying as he tells them he works for AIM.
They catch on soon enough and it's a whipping this time, tearing the once smooth skin of his back into ribbons, the frayed nerves still able to send shockwaves of pain to Phil's brain as he screams and shouts and bites his cheek hard enough he's sure there's a hole his secrets will pour through. They tell him to think of someone to come home to. Isn't there anyone that he wants to live for?
There's an archer, a pair of hands, a smart mouth and a smarter brain feeding it snarky lines and enemy patterns and habits. There's a pair of strong arms that have only ever wrapped around Phil once after the handler had yelled at the man for pretending to be dead, the soft, firm lips having pressed against Phil's temple in the quickest of brushes. The memory makes the next twenty lashes worth it. Be strong for Clint.
He's reminded that there are far worse things than simply being beaten as they tie him down to a bed and rub salt into his wounds and choke him with a tasteless, clear liquid.
"You'll tell us one way or another," they say with smiles on their mouths as he feels himself warm up beneath their touches, feels his inhibitions-.
"His name's Clint." The name comes out a reverent prayer, a wisp of a deity that deigns to walk among men. A bird with broken wings who still has learned to fly, walk, crawl, slither-whatever he has to to survive. "And I love him-I've loved him since Montenegro."
"Don't you want to make it home to Clint?" The voice asks, face out of range.
"Yes."
"Then tell us what we want to know." The salt burns but it's nothing in comparison to the heat Phil feels when he's alone with Clint, and he babbles on about it.
"He doesn't even know I existed-if I didn't come home then there's nothing that's going to happen to him it's not like he loves me though God I wished he did and I just want him to notice I'm there and not just his friend I want him to see me as more please God let me get back to him so I can tell him I love him even if he doesn't feel the same about me I don't even know if he likes people like me-."
"What, male?" They sound almost amused. Bastards
"Old, you fuck. God he's so much younger than I am." On and on the secrets come seeping out, and though they embarrass Phil to think on them later it's better that they know all about his pining, his desire, than they do about the company he really works for (because he's Phil fucking Coulson and he doesn't give up company secrets, even at the expense of his dignity and the secret about the love of his life-or lack thereof.)
He can't help but feel dirty, however, afterwards when they leave him alone, still babbling on about the way Clint's hands cover his bow, pull the arrows back with precision enough to make Robin Hood jealous. He feels dirty for telling them. He hasn't ever told anyone, much more of a strong and silent type. Well, he likes to think of himself as that, though the reality likely borders simply on silent.
The next day brings open wounds, hot oil and needles. Phil's lucky he's never been afraid of needles, or of dying, but they're just pressing the third pin underneath his middle finger on the left hand, the right still steadily bleeding, when the warehouse door bursts open. An arrow sticks in the eye of his tormentor, and Phil can't help the wave of relief that the truth serum wore off hours ago.
Clint doesn't need to hear another admirer wax poetic about how nimble his fingers are, no matter how true it is.
Phil doesn't know but the archer hears it anyway, finding the tapes and confiscating them. Says they burn in the fire that the agents set once they clear out the suspects and haul them away into SHIELD possession and Phil is safe aboard the quinjet. Clint pockets the tapes, keeps them to himself.
It's these tapes that he watches over and over, watching Phil bleed-because at least he's alive enough to bleed and scream and say all the wonderful things about Clint that the archer never thought possible because God dammit he loved him too why the fuck were they so stupid and emotionally incompetent? The tears blur his vision as he wraps a blue tie around his fist, presses it to his lips, lets his tears stain the soft silk and breathes in the last hints of Phil's cologne. He stole it from the man's wardrobe before Fury could decide what else was to be done with the Agent's belongings. If the worst happened-. Well, he can't lose him forever, couldn't bare it.
Clint doesn't return it even once the Agent is resurrected, brought back from the dead like some holy saint (a saint he is, though thanks to the brilliant doctors-really he could kiss them he's so damn happy if he didn't promise himself that the first person he'd kiss would be Phil- he's no longer holey.)
It takes three days but eventually Clint does press his lips to Phils, finds them soft and pliant beneath him, finds that when the man wraps his arms around him he doesn't want to be anywhere else. Neither of them make plans to separate any time soon.
A/N: Written for a best friend's birthday, which explains why it's dark as all get out because Kim and I are terrible at writing happy things, and she loves whump and truth serum. I did my best, and hope you liked it! Thanks for reading!
Also, please forgive the poorly disguised Harry Potter reference-that's for Kim, too, because she loves her Fred and George