Title: Lost and Found
Series: How The Mighty Fall
Author: Proclaim Thy Warrior Soul
Rating: K
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Literally, nothing. Except my cat...
Summary: As far as Phil was aware, the archer was on strict bed rest while his broken ankle had time to heal. To most agents, strict bed rest meant precisely that: rest, preferably in a bed of some sorts. The words, however, got a little lost in translation when it came to the World's Greatest Marksman. Clint/Phil fluff and friendship.
Lost and Found (How The Mighty Fall)
Shutting the door on Fury and Hill, Agent Coulson exited the conference room and was marching down the hallway at a steady pace before he allowed a soft sigh to escape.
What had promised to be a deceptively quiet day of catching up on overdue paperwork and scheduling reviews for the latest intake of juniors had swiftly turned into quite the opposite; with emergency conference call after debrief after ass-kicking in the dark, incredibly stuffy conference room.
Apparently shooting the stepson of the Chief of Police was frowned upon, even when said stepson was buckets-of-crazy. Clint's words, not his own, but they were surprisingly apt, considering the circumstances.
Coulson had literally spent the last four and a half hours defending his and his team's actions to the World Security Council and now he was tired, frustrated and fighting off the start of what was sure to be one hell of a migraine.
Making a beeline for the cafeteria at the opposite end of the building, the senior agent pulled out his cell phone and scowled at the large number of missed calls and emails awaiting his attention. All Phil wanted right now was a large, sugar-loaded coffee and a handful of Tylenol. Also, five minutes peace and quiet, if that wasn't too much to ask... The phone calls and emails would have to wait.
Tossing his phone back into his suit pocket, already forgotten about, Coulson offered a bland smile to two gossiping juniors as he passed them in the narrow hallway and refocused his attention on his hunt for caffeine.
~"Isn't he supposed to be on sick leave, though?"
~"Yeah, but the nurses all say he's allergic to sick leave. I guess they're just happy he isn't causing havoc in the medical bay."
Phil faltered his next step, refusing to turn around to see if the juniors had noticed. Taking the next left, only increasing his pace once certain he was out of sight, Phil switched his intended destination from the cafeteria to the medical wing.
Because there was only one person the juniors could be talking about.
Barton.
As far as Phil was aware, the archer was on strict bed rest while his broken ankle had time to heal. To most agents, strict bed rest meant precisely that: rest, preferably in a bed of some sorts. The words, however, got a little lost in translation when it came to the World's Greatest Marksman.
Phil was going to handcuff him to the bed until every single cut, scrape, bruise and broken bone had healed completely. And then he was going to keep him there for another three weeks.
Just because he could.
It didn't take long for Coulson to discover that, as he'd anticipated, Clint wasn't in medical. For one thing, it was too quiet. For another, Marissa Klein was smiling too brightly for someone that had the unfortunate luck of being Barton's doctor.
Her smile only grew when she glimpsed the unhappy scowl on his face. "Sorry, Phil. You know Barton..."
Yes, he did. Which meant there was only one logical place he'd need to look to find his wayward archer.
Accepting the proffered cup of water and Tylenol, Phil downed the blue, white and red pills in one swallow and handed the empty plastic cup back to Marissa before turning around and walking back out of the door.
The large crowd gathered outside the viewing window confirmed Coulson's suspicions. That despite the broken ankle and still-healing arm from a one-hundred foot fall and several attempts at being blown up, Barton was, in fact, at the range. And from the wide-eyed stares and whispered conversations between the juniors and even a few seasoned agents, he guessed that Clint was using his bow.
Biting back a fond smile, Phil stole a moment to put his bland agent face back in place before clearing his throat and walking towards the crowd.
"If so many of you have this much spare time on your hands, I'm sure I could persuade Deputy Director Hill to add some extra cleaning duties to your agendas. The toilets on the second and third floors still require sanitising after the salmonella outbreak on Saturday..."
The crowd quickly scattered in every direction, leaving behind one man who was clearly braver than the rest.
"Jasper."
"Phil. Your boy's causing a scene again."
Phil sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes. "You just can't find the staff, these days."
Jasper laughed and patted Phil on the shoulder as he walked past, heading towards his office. "You'll tame him one of these days, Coulson. Either that or you'll have to let me have him. I'll make Barton into a good little soldier."
Phil smiled and watched Sitwell disappear around the corner before straightening the lapels of his suit jacket and returning his attention to the range.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, Barton, but aren't you supposed to be resting?"
Clint looked up and grinned sheepishly at Phil. "I think you're mistaken, boss. I am resting. See? I'm not even on my feet."
It was true. Clint was, in fact, sprawled quite gracefully on the cold, hard floor of the range, his back to the wall as he fiddled with the string of his recurve where it sat balanced across both knees.
One arm, the one still recovering from its painful road rash - the result of Clint's epic fall from a building a few days ago - was bandaged and strapped securely to his side to restrict mobility whilst it healed. The wrinkle of Clint's brow every time he shifted, however, showed the younger man's obvious discomfort. Phil had to bite his tongue against the urge to order Barton back to medical where he belonged.
At least his broken ankle was protected by the sturdy cast, even if it wasn't being kept elevated like Doctor Klein had ordered. It was a constant battle with the archer to get him to follow any advice given by medical professionals, even those thoroughly vetted by S.H.I.E.L.D. Coulson was still working on deducing the reasons behind that one.
"You scared my fan club away, sir."
Phil sighed, loosening his tie as he dropped down next to his asset. "Hill's going to do more than scare you away when she sees that you've destroyed all the prep for her class tonight, agent."
At the far end of the range, someone had set up twelve targets over varying distances. They currently sported several arrows each, all nestled quite comfortably within the bullseye.
Barton chuckled. "Nah. Hill's a pussycat really." That earned him a pointed look but Clint just shrugged one shoulder, wriggling the toes of his injured foot and grimacing at the discomfort.
"Care to explain how you've managed to shoot that with only one working arm?" Phil gestured at the bow with a twitch of his head. He knew he shouldn't be encouraging the archer but his curiosity was getting the better of him, especially when Clint's eyes lit up like an over-excited child.
"I can do one better than that, sir. I can show you."
Phil remained silent as he watched Clint grab the closest arrow from the dwindling pile at his hip. The archer had it nocked in the blink of an eye, hooking the recurve over his booted foot before lining up the shot and firing in one smooth motion. He repeated the action again and again until he'd fired his last arrow.
While not as aesthetically pleasing as Clint's usual type of shooting, it was fast. And accurate. Phil didn't need to look at the target to know it was a perfect bullseye each and every time. No wonder he'd attracted such a large crowd of onlookers.
Clint grinned as he dropped the bow back into his lap. "Nailed it."
Coulson laughed for the first time that day, running a hand over his face as he closed his eyes and let his head fall back heavily against the wall. "I wouldn't expect any different, Clint."
Barton watched his handler for a quiet moment, sharp eyes taking in the grey tinge to the older man's skin and the tired lines around his eyes and mouth. The deep frown line between his brow told Clint that Phil was suffering the beginnings of a migraine and that he probably hadn't eaten or had much to drink in a while. He was also pretty certain that, if he didn't make the man move in the next few minutes, he was going to fall asleep where he sat.
"C'mon, boss. Help me up."
Phil slowly cracked open one eyelid and glared at his asset, but made no move to offer any assistance.
"Hey, I'm injured here. You're, like, morally obligated to help. Right?"
Phil still didn't move so Barton huffed an amused sigh and started to struggle to his feet. He didn't make it very far before Phil stirred, one arm pinning Clint firmly in place. "Sit still, for goodness sake. Where's your crutch?"
Clint smirked, settling back in place. "No clue. I think someone stole it."
Phil took a deep breath and convinced his aching body to move, climbing slowly to his feet. "Doctor Klein will be incredibly disappointed to hear that. Have fun explaining it to her, won't you." He stole a second to brush the dust from his suit and straighten his tie before holding out an arm for Clint to take.
Clint pouted at Coulson's teasing tone, stifling a groan as he was pulled upright. "I think it was Marissa that stole it. She hates me."
Phil rolled his eyes at that one but remained silent on the matter, moving away from Clint once he was sure the younger man had his balance. Bending down to collect the recurve from the floor, he slung the prized bow over one shoulder, earning a pleased smile from Clint, and then moved back to the archer's side to offer his support. "Where am I taking you, your Highness?"
Barton chuckled. "Back to Medical, sir, but on one condition."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. I promise I'll stay there until Doctor Klein releases me, but only if you go home, sir. You look exhausted."
Coulson snorted indelicately as they started walking, catching Clint's disapproving look. "I have too much work here, I'm afraid," he placated gently. "The Director had me pleading our case to the WSC for shooting the Williams kid, so I'm going to be spending my evening with reviews and overdue paperwork. Like I should have been doing this morning."
"Look," Clint warned, pulling out his most dazzling smile and aiming it full-force at his handler. "This is a once in a lifetime offer, boss. Don't go throwing it away without thought."
Phil actually looked like he was warming to the idea so Clint pushed harder. "How likely is it that you'll get me to stay in medical otherwise? I might accidentally find myself in the vents above Hill's office, or something. No telling what mischief I could get myself into then..."
Phil laughed, drawing to a stop as they arrived outside the medical bay. "Okay, okay, you win. If you stay in medical until Doctor Klein signs you off, I will spend the rest of the evening at home."
"Resting. No paperwork, Coulson. Lots of reality TV and junk food, but nothing even remotely resembling work."
"No paperwork," Phil promised. "No work at all. Unless, of course, there's an emergency and I get called back in."
"Yeah, yeah, that's fine. So, do we have a deal?" Clint held out his good hand and waited for the handshake that would complete the barter; Doctor Klein poking her head outside the door just as Phil accepted.
"Should I even ask?" she questioned with a raised eyebrow. Clint simply bared his teeth in a poor imitation of a smile so Phil pushed him gently into the woman's waiting arms.
"You can thank me later," he deadpanned, ignoring Clint's scowl of annoyance at finding himself back under the doctor's authority. "He's all yours until you see fit to let him go."
Marissa eyed Clint with a look of glee and Phil couldn't help but add, "Or you put him out of his misery," with an innocently sweet smile.
Marissa chuckled, grabbing Clint's arm and directing him towards the beds before he could even think to renege on his deal. "Come along, Agent Barton."
Phil watched until the pair were out of sight before pulling out his cell phone, opening up a new message to Nick.
*Migraine. Bailing for the evening. Don't call me.*
Pressing 'send' before he could change his mind, Coulson walked to his office and collected his suitcase, leaving Clint's recurve on his desk. It would be safe there until tomorrow, he decided. Locking the door, Phil headed straight down to the garage.
Chinese food, Dog Cops, bed. They were suddenly his only plans for the evening, thanks to Clint. Phil wasn't completely certain the archer would be able to stick to his side of the deal - a restless Barton was a destructive Barton, after all - but even if it only kept his wayward asset in medical for an extra evening, it was more than worth it.
Climbing into Lola and firing up her engine, the senior agent felt the weight he'd been carrying around all day ease almost immediately. Whether it was down to Clint's mother-henning, or simply because of the beauty that was his red Corvette, he didn't actually care.
Phil was just glad that he had the pair of them in his second life.
Clint would never admit it out loud, but the thin, lumpy mattress of his hospital bed felt like heaven after an hour of sitting on the floor at the range. Doctor Klein had hooked him up with a dose of the good meds, changing the dressing on his arm and checking the stitches in his shoulder, so now he had nothing worthwhile left to do except rest.
Boring.
Better get used to it, Barton. It's going to be a looong few weeks.
The sound of his cell phone vibrating distracted Clint from his morose thoughts.
It was a message from Coulson.
*Thank you, Clint.*
Clint grinned, shoving the phone back in his pocket as he made himself comfortable and closed his eyes.
Mission accomplished.
He'd do this for Phil. It wasn't going to be fun, but he was going to stick to his promise. Phil needed to know that Clint still had his back, even after everything - Loki, the sceptre, that damn Alpha...
Clint couldn't help the shiver that ran through him as the sickening memories tried to resurface. Pushing them away, locking them up tight with the rest of his past that he wouldn't - couldn't - think about, Clint forced his brain to think of something useful.
Like how he was going to annoy Doctor Klein enough to get her to release him from medical early...