Disclaimer: I do not own Clint Barton, Phil Coulson, or any of the Marvel Universe/its affiliations.
I'm back with another one shot, this time about our favorite archer's birthday. This is a little mini series I plan on writing just so I can have some more domestic Clint, because it's not all about the angst and drama.
WARNING: If you haven't read my multi chapter fic, Honor Among Thieves, this story will spoil some of the ending. It can be read on its own, but it will have a bigger impact if you've read my other story.
Shout out to my beta, RadarWithCheeze, for editing as usual. He does loads for me.
Enough rambling, on with the story!
"Age is a case of mind over matter. If you don't mind, it don't matter." - Satchel Paige
July 11th, 2004, 3:20am
SHIELD Treatment Facility, Cologne, Germany
Clint couldn't breathe.
He hadn't been counting how long he had been held under the water, but he knew it was too long. His lungs were on fire and he knew, whether he wanted to or not, he was going to have to breathe soon.
Even if what he was breathing was water.
Clint fought against the hands that held him, desperately trying to pull himself away. But he had no strength left. They had ripped that away from him. Clint had been torn apart and his pieces had been thrown out like garbage.
He had nothing left.
Clint couldn't fight the urge to breathe anymore and tried to suck in a breath. All he got was water in his lungs. He thrashed against the hands holding him down didn't let up. If anything, they pushed him deeper under. And now Clint was drowning.
Just as he thought he couldn't take it anymore, he was being lifted from the water and thrown to the ground. Clint desperately tried to draw into his lungs but his body wasn't having it. Instead he was coughing up water, his body forcing the foreign substance onto the ground. His vision blurred as he flailed, trying to grab onto anything to steady himself. But his hands came up empty.
He was alone and had nothing to grab on to.
Clint's body was still throwing up the water, trying to clear his lungs. His brain told him he needed air but he couldn't stop coughing long enough to draw a breath. He scrambled onto his side, his lungs burning. The coughing didn't stop.
That was when Clint tasted the blood.
He opened his eyes - had his eyes been closed? He had no memory of closing them in the first place - and looked down at the puddles of water around him.
They were stained red.
Clint was no doctor, but he knew it was no good when you started coughing up blood. That meant something on the inside of him was broken. There was no field treatment for internal bleeding. Clint had never been one to panic but something about not being able to breathe combined with the knowledge that something was very wrong with him brought it on him.
Then he was hyperventilating.
It was like his body couldn't get the air in fast enough. Clint desperately tried to get his breathing under control but no matter how hard he fought his body's instincts, they wouldn't stop.
Another wave of panic was about to sweep over him when Clint looked up into the barrel of a gun.
There was nothing that sobered you quicker than a gun in your face.
Clint stared at the gun, fighting to focus on it. He knew that gun. The custom stainless HK P30 was one of a kind after all. Hermes had given him that gun the last time he had seen him. That was the gun he had never fired because he hadn't wanted it to be used to kill the innocent.
He shifted his eyes past the gun and to the man who was holding it. He met eyes with a Russian whose name he didn't know and everything came flooding back to him.
The hit in Belgium.
They had cornered him in an alley and knocked him out. They had stripped him of his shirt and shoes and hung him from the ceiling. They had used him as a punching bag and tried to drown him. They had shot him with his own gun. They had taken his lifeline from him.
His lifeline.
Phil.
Before his comm had been cut out of him, Phil had promised Clint that he was coming for him. He was just an hour out, he had said. But Clint knew he didn't have an hour.
He didn't even have five minutes.
"Do you know pain, Hawkeye?"
Clint forced himself to focus on the words of the angry Russian holding his gun. If he was going to die, he would do it staring his killer in the eye. He wouldn't show fear.
Because Clint wasn't afraid to die.
The only thought that caused him pain was the knowledge that it would be Phil who would find his body. Phil, who had fought tooth and nail to pull Clint off the edge. Phil, who had done everything for Clint when he had given him nothing in return.
Phil who had promised him he would never be alone again.
Clint wished he had told Phil just how grateful he really was. Phil had shown Clint the light when he had believed all he had left was darkness.
Phil was the reason Clint wouldn't die forgotten.
And for that, he owed him everything.
"I fucking invented pain, you bastard."
The Russian flashed a wicked smile but Clint's gaze held true. He wasn't afraid.
He would never be afraid again.
Markov stepped forward, pressing the gun to Clint's forehead. Then he pulled the trigger.
Clint snapped awake, grabbing frantically at the bed below him.
For a moment, he didn't remember where he was. In that moment, he was still trapped in that cold room in Belgium. Then he was back to reality, his memories coming back to him.
A SHIELD hospital in Germany.
The same hospital that had saved his life three weeks ago. Clint had been rushed to this hospital after Phil had stormed into that warehouse in Belgium and pulled him out of the fire. Phil who, with no regard to his life or his job, had thrown away the rule book and saved his life.
Phil.
Clint looked to the right of his bed where Phil had passed out on a chair. His head was propped up on his elbow and his breathing was slow and even. At least, it had been before Clint had snapped awake from his nightmare.
Slowly, Phil blinked his eyes open, lazily looking over at him. When he saw that Clint was not as he had left him, he was quickly sitting up straight himself. All the sleep drained from his face and was replaced with worry.
"Clint?" he asked, even as he was studying his features, trying to identify the problem that had woken Clint. It took another moment before realization hit him. His expression softened slightly as he sat forward. "What was it?"
Clint exhaled, looking down at his hands. They were still shaking and wouldn't stop no matter how hard he willed them to. For a moment, he didn't want to answer. He didn't want to admit to his fear, knowing that it would become all to real if he did.
But this was Phil. If anyone deserved to know, it was him.
"Belgium," he said, his voice just above a whisper. Phil nodded in understanding, not asking him to explain.
"What do you need?"
Clint looked into the eyes of the man who had saved his life just two weeks ago. The same man who was now prepared to drop everything and help Clint deal with the demons he fought with every day.
He still couldn't believe how committed Phil was to making sure Clint wasn't fighting alone.
"Roof," Clint finally said, his voice still shaking. Phil hesitated for a moment, looking over at all the equipment Clint was hooked up to. Heart monitor, an IV line, and a bunch of other things Clint had no idea what were for.
Eventually, Phil nodded.
"Just for a little while. And you're bringing your IV with you," he said, standing from his chair. The same chair that Phil had hardly left for the past two weeks and would likely remain until Clint was released. He had been glued to the archer's side for as long as he had been conscious - and he assumed long before that. As if Clint would suddenly collapse if Phil took his eyes off him. Not that he minded. Clint had never wanted company more in his entire life.
He slowly nodded, not having the energy to roll his eyes at Phil's demands. He was on heavy pain killers, and everything still felt fuzzy, taking away his energy to be sarcastic.
He watched as Phil turned off his heart monitor, unhooking him from it, before turning around, grabbing a pair of sweatpants from the open duffle sitting on the floor behind him. Clint slowly forced himself into a sitting position, biting back the groan of pain his body demanded to let out. Phil was at his side in the next instant regardless, putting a hand on his shoulder to keep him steady. Clint took the pants from him, pulling them on, fighting back the urge to wince. He put a hand out to stop Phil from helping him.
"Got it," he muttered, slowly standing to his feet. Everything was still in pain, but he had too much pride to let it show. He just wanted - needed - to get out of this hospital room. He was starting to feel claustrophobic.
"Here," Phil said. Clint looked up to see him holding out his favorite hoodie - an NYU sweater he had acquired during his training at SHIELD. Clint took it gratefully, slowly pulling it on. When he looked back at Phil, his handler was shooting him a worried look. Clint must have looked as pathetic as he felt - everything was slow, thanks to the medication they had him on. He hated pain killers. They took away everything that made him who he was - his reflexes, his awareness, his speed. They turned him slow and lethargic.
He hated it.
Phil unhooked the IV bag from its hook and held it out to Clint, who took it without question. Neither one of them spoke as they moved to the door and towards the stairwell. Clint felt himself swaying before Phil put his hand on his shoulder. He had half a mind to shrug it off, but Clint wasn't so sure he could stand on his own. So, he let Phil lead him up the stairs to the roof. It wasn't a long walk - Phil had made sure Clint had a room on the top floor of the hospital - but it still made Clint feel tired.
That was another thing about pain killers. They made him exhausted.
And it didn't help that his nightmares wouldn't let him sleep more than a few hours a night.
Clint shrugged off the exhaustion, moving to the far corner of the roof. He slowly sat down on the ledge and Phil joined him a second later. He let his bare feet hang in open air as he looked down at the ground far below. For the first time in two weeks, Clint could breathe again.
He hadn't been allowed on the roof so soon after his surgery, no matter how much he had protested to Phil. Something about the risk of internal bleeding and irritating his already infected bullet wound. He hadn't had the energy to argue back then either.
Clint pushed all that from his mind, desperately trying to think about nothing but if never was that simple with him. The horrors of Belgium still haunted him in the back of his mind and he had a feeling they wouldn't go away any time soon. He had almost died.
More than that, he had put Phil in danger.
If something had happened to his handler because of him - Clint didn't even want to think about it. He didn't want Phil to put himself in any kind of danger on his account. He didn't think he was worth it.
Of course, he didn't voice any of this to the man sitting next to him because he couldn't deal with the conversation that would follow. "You're more than worth it, Clint," he would say. "I would never let you fight this alone." It was far to emotional and heavy for him to deal with right now. So he promptly swallowed that too.
Clint glanced down at his watch, noting the time. He knew Phil would only let him be out here for more than an hour due to his injuries, and Clint planned to absorb every second of it. He was about to start counting minutes when his eyes drifted down to the date.
July 11th.
Shit.
His birthday.
It wasn't the first time Clint had forgotten his birthday, but it still felt like a funny thing to let slip out of his mind. Still, he hadn't really cared about his birthday since his fifteenth back at Carson's. Hermes and the twins had always insisted on celebrating even if Swordsman or Barney had never cared. His sixteenth had landed right after Barney had betrayed him and Clint downright refused to celebrate. The wound on his shoulder hadn't even healed and he wasn't about to pretend everything was okay after his brother had just stabbed him. His seventeenth had landed right in the middle of his thieving career and Clint hadn't had the time to celebrate. Then his eighteenth had come and gone without him even noticing. It had been during a contract.
Now he was nineteen and his life wasn't so terrible anymore but something in Clint still didn't feel like celebrating. Maybe it was the morphine.
He glanced sideways at Phil wondering if the other man even knew what today was. He didn't see why he would. But, then again, Phil always seemed to know more than he should.
Clint pulled his eyes away just as Phil looked over at him. He slouched down, burying the bottom half of his face inside his hoodie, breathing in the familiar scent of gunpowder and lavender-scented laundry detergent. The gunpowder was his and the laundry detergent was Phil's - Clint still teased him about the floral scent Phil was so attached to, but even he could admit it was better than his clothes smelling like dirt and blood.
"Tell me about it," Phil said softly, looking over at Clint. He didn't turn his head but replied without hesitating.
"I was drowning. Then I was on the ground with my own gun pointed at my face," he said, hesitating before he continued. "I thought about you. And how you would be the one to find me. But I couldn't bring myself to be afraid, even though I knew what was going to happen. He pulled the trigger and then I woke up."
It had been more than that, but Clint didn't feel like getting into all of the gory details. Phil probably could figure it out from what he had said anyway. He was good at that.
His handler reached over, putting a hand on the back of his neck, squeezing softly through the fabric of his hoodie. Such a simple touch that conveyed more than words ever could.
"You're not alone," it said. And Clint knew he wasn't and Phil would always be right there next to him. No matter how messy it got.
"You survived, Clint. Just like you always do," Phil reassured, keeping his voice soft. "I didn't find your body. You survived."
Clint shrugged, balling his fists into the fabric of his sleeves. He may have survived, but he hadn't walked out of Belgium the same man either. Some part of him had died in that warehouse.
"I know," he said anyway, not wanting Phil to worry more than he already was. "Just can't get over it."
"You will," Phil promised. "Just give yourself time to heal."
But Clint didn't want time to heal. He wanted to go home and fire his bow and train until he was too exhausted to think. But they wouldn't let him leave until they were sure he was stable. Then there were rumors of him being transferred to another facility for 'observation'. Clint was sick of observation.
"We'll be home before you know it," Phil said, reading his mind as usual. He had gotten all too good at reading Clint over these past eight months. It was as much endearing as it was irritating.
"Not soon enough," Clint said before falling into a thoughtful silence. Phil took the hint well, ending the conversation there. Though, his hand didn't leave the back of Clint's neck and he didn't want it to. He didn't need to talk about what had happened. All he needed was the reminder that Phil would never leave him alone.
He wouldn't be alone again.
Clint didn't know how long the two of them sat there before Phil was standing up. "We should head back inside before anyone notices we're gone. They'll kill me if they know I let you come up here."
Clint nodded, forcing himself to his feet. He took one last breath of the clean night air before turning around and heading back inside. Phil shadowed him at his shoulder as Clint made his way back to his hospital room. He made it there with little effort but was grateful when he was able to drop back down on his bed. Phil took the IV bag from him, hanging it back in place. It took no more than a moment before Clint was laying back down with all the miscellaneous wires and tubes attached to him.
"Think you can sleep?" Phil asked as he turned his heart monitor back on. Clint shrugged.
"Maybe."
Phil nodded, taking a step back towards the door. "I'm thirsty. Want anything?"
Clint shook his head, relaxing back into the pillows.
"Alright. I'll be back in a minute," Phil said before disappearing into the hall.
Clint was asleep before he came back.
Clint spent the next two hours in uninterrupted sleep.
He woke just as the sun was starting to peek through the heavy curtains blocking his view of the city below. It took Clint a minute to realize he was alone in his room. His eyes immediately drifted over to Phil's chair that was currently empty. He wondered briefly where his handler had gone, deciding it couldn't have been far. He stretched his arms as far above his head as he could without causing pain, letting out a soft sigh.
That was when he saw it.
A small package wrapped in bright purple wrapping paper and a red ribbon. The wrapping was messy and the bow was crooked as if it had been quickly thrown together and left for him. There was only one person in the world it could have come from.
Damn you, Phil.
The devil himself walked into the room a moment later, two bags of food in his hands. Clint sat up a little at the scent of fresh pastry that filled the room.
"Is that-?"
"Every kind of pastry and bread from that bakery a few blocks over you were telling me about," Phil interrupted, moving over to his bedside. He set the bags down, pulling out a thermos of coffee and two Styrofoam cups. "Figured you could use a break from hospital food."
Clint looked up at him, knowing there was more to it than that. Still, he didn't say no when Phil held out a cup of coffee - made just the way he liked it - and didn't hesitate to drink it. The warmth that filled him made him feel a little less drowsy from the morphine and a little more awake. He shot Phil a grateful look as he sat up all the way.
"You didn't have to do this," he said, holding the cup between both his hands, trying to warm himself up.
"Of course I did," Phil said without missing a beat. "You didn't honestly think I'd forget what today was, did you?"
Clint shrugged, staring down into his coffee. "I sort of did," he admitted in a low voice. It was strange to admit aloud, but felt good to get off his chest. He hadn't cared about his own birthday. Who does that?
"Good thing I'm not you," Phil said, pulling boxes of pastries out of the bag. Desperate to change the subject, Clint looked over what he had brought.
"Did you get any spritzkuchen?" he asked when he didn't immediately see his favorite German pastry.
"Which one is that?" Phil asked, not bothering to look up at him.
"Fried pastry. Looks like a glazed donut," Clint clarified. Phil nodded, understanding lighting up his face. He held out one of the plastic boxes to Clint.
"Yeah, half a dozen."
Clint gratefully accepted the box, tearing into it and picking up one of the pastries. He practically inhaled it, already reaching for another. He had been getting sick of the hospital food. It all tasted the same and not very good. Birthday or not, he was happy Phil had sprung for some good food.
Phil dropped down into his chair, his own coffee in one hand and a cherry filled berliner in the other. And he was smiling.
"What's with you?" Clint asked, halfway through his third pastry.
"I just can't believe you," Phil said, shaking his head. Clint raised an eyebrow, silently telling him to explain. "Only you could forget your nineteenth birthday."
Clint saw the conversation Phil was trying to start, but didn't bite. He was good at avoiding things like that. He substituted an answer for shoving another pastry in his mouth. Phil sat and stared at him, trying to figure out if he was going to answer or not. When he decided he wasn't, Phil spoke again.
"What is your deal? Can't I do anything nice for you?"
Clint shrugged. It wasn't that he hated what Phil was trying to do but more the fact that he didn't think he was worth celebrating anymore. In the past three years he'd forgotten his birthday, Clint had done a lot of bad shit.
Hell, that was an understatement.
"I'm nineteen, Phil," Clint said, pulling his eyes away from his coffee long enough to shoot him a very empty glare. "In nineteen years, I've killed hundreds and destroyed more than that. Not something I think calls for a celebration."
"Bullshit," Phil deadpanned, shaking his head. Clint frowned, not sure whether to argue or to laugh at the other man's apathy. So he said nothing, waiting for him to continue.
"Dammit, Clint. You're only nineteen, for God's sake. And, yeah, you might not be like every other nineteen year old-"
Clint shot him an 'are you shitting me?' look.
"-but you still have your whole life ahead of you. You're not who you were nine months ago, either. You're fighting every single day to make yourself something good again. You were on the edge of losing yourself and you fought tooth and nail to walk away from that. To do the right thing. And if that isn't worth celebrating, I don't know what is."
Clint blinked at Phil, who had spoken as if it was the most obviously thing in the world. Clint almost felt stupid for missing it. Phil, as usual, was right. He didn't have to waste away living in the shame of the man he had been because he was here, alive and fighting to be something greater. To make everything right again.
And if that wasn't enough, Clint could at least pretend for the man who had fought just as hard to get him here.
"This means you're buying me a cake."
Phil smirked, reaching into the bag and pulling out a small cake with nineteen blue and white candles already stuck in the top.
"Who do you think I am?" Phil asked, setting the cake on the table next to the messily wrapped gift.
Clint inclined his head towards it, speaking around a half eaten pastry. "What's in the box?"
"Let me explain the concept of presents to you, Clint," Phil said, leaning forward in his chair. "You wrap them up so the person you're giving it to doesn't know what it is until they open it."
Clint rolled his eyes, finishing his pastry and chasing it with the rest of his coffee. "Tell me."
"Open it and find out."
Clint let out an exaggerated sigh, making a show of him reaching over and grabbing the box off the table. It was small and wasn't too heavy. Clint probably could have guessed what it is if he had spent the time but his curiosity got the best of him. He pulled off the ribbon and ripped off the paper, throwing them aside. He opened the box only to be met with tissue paper and a small note card. He picked it up, looking down at Phil's neat handwriting.
'You made it another year, kid.
I'm so proud of how much you've grown over the short nine months I've known you. You've gone a long way since that rooftop in Rome.
Something tells me you're going to be weird about your birthday, but just know there isn't anyone on this planet that is more glad you were born than me.
Happy birthday, Clint. Here's to another great year.
- Phil'
Clint read the note twice before pulling his eyes away from the little paper and looking up at Phil. The man was looking over with anxious hope, a look so foreign on his face Clint would have laughed if he hadn't been so taken aback.
In all his nineteen years, he had never met someone who cared about him in the way Phil Coulson did. Not even his own parents had ever made a gesture as powerful as this one.
"Oh for fuck's sake, just open it," Phil said, getting impatient. Clint forced a dry laugh, setting the card on the table next to him, tearing open the tissue paper. Inside was a brand new black iPod staring up at him. Clint couldn't have stopped the smile if he tried.
"Phil," he said, taken aback for the second time in the past five minutes. His last iPod had been destroyed and forgotten in that warehouse in Belgium. He hadn't admitted it out loud, but he missed having the small comfort that had been his music. He had found solace in music back in his circus days when Barney had started treating him like a burden. It was one of the only ways he had been able to drown out his endless stream of thoughts.
"You like it?" Phil asked, the anxiety clear in his voice. It obviously meant a lot to him that Clint did like it.
He nodded, looking up at him. "I love it. Thank you."
Phil grinned wide, the tension leaving his shoulders. "It already has a bunch of your favorite songs on it and some others I thought you might like. And there's plenty room for any more you want to add."
"Phil, this is awesome. Like, really awesome," Clint said, pulling the device from the box, and turning it over in his hand. It was more than just an iPod. It was a gift from Phil. Something Clint knew wasn't to be taken lightly. It was such a strong gesture in such a little object. And Clint couldn't stop smiling.
"I'm glad you like it," Phil said, dropping his voice to a soft whisper. "Happy birthday, kid."
Clint looked over at him, already plugging the headphones into the device. He wanted to say just how thankful he was that Phil was here with him and that he had gone through all the trouble he had. He wanted to thank him for everything he'd done in the past nine months - for saving his life and pulling him back from the abyss he had nearly lost himself in. He wanted to thank him for everything, but the words got stuck in his throat.
Phil gave him a look of understanding, somehow hearing everything Clint didn't have the strength to say. For a moment, that was enough.
Then the moment was over and Clint was putting one of the headphones in his ear and hitting play. The opening notes of Mr. Blue Sky filled his ears and Clint's smile widened. It was one of his favorites.
Phil straightened, setting his empty cup aside. "Cake time," he said, opening the cake box and pulling out a lighter Clint knew he must have smuggled in. Birthday parties weren't exactly SHIELD protocol, especially in a hospital.
"Promise me you aren't going to sing," Clint said and Phil shot him a look, but didn't protest. They both knew Phil had a horrible voice.
He lit the candles, holding the cake out to Clint. The archer moved to blow them out and Phil pulled the cake back.
"You have to make a wish," he demanded and Clint rolled his eyes. But he closed them nonetheless, waiting a moment before blowing out the candles.
"Happy?"
Phil nodded, pulling out the candles and setting them on the table. "What did you wish for?"
Clint shook his head with a smirk. "No way, Phil. You know I'm not allowed to tell."
"You're so difficult," Phil said as he pulled out a plastic knife to cut the cake with.
The truth was, Clint hadn't wished for anything. He had tried to think of something, for Phil's sake, but had come up empty.
Because, the truth was, Clint had nothing left to wish for.
He already had everything he needed.
Whew! Another one down. As you can see, these little one shots will be longer than my others, because I want to show a little more of Clint's personal life. Especially with Phil. In my mind, Phil is the kind of person who loves celebrating everything from birthdays to Christmas to anniversaries and I plan on showing that through one shots like this.
Drop me a review below! They're like air to me.
Thanks for reading.