"The next thing I know I'm on a plane, wondering the whole time, do I tell him? How do I tell him? That I'm responsible. I could have warned him, I should have warned him. But I didn't."
"Fury told us you were dead," Hawkeye says, his entire body numb. Maybe, truthfully, he hasn't felt anything but numb since the day Loki crawled up inside his skull and started fucking with his brain. Reaching into his jacket, he pulls out two trading cards. Stained in blood - is it even blood? "Fury told us Loki killed you when the helicarrier was attacked."
He doesn't say, by me, but he wants to. It's his fault, all of this. If it weren't for him, Coulson wouldn't have come so close to dead that for a second there, he might just have been. Selvig had saved the whole fucking world by fighting Loki's influence, and Clint couldn't wrangle enough strength to save just one ship.
"Fury did what I would have done. What needed to be done."
A rush of anger spreads through Clint like fire over gasoline. He throws the cards at Phil, and despite himself, sneers, "I figured you'd want them back."
Why do they have to be on a fucking plane right now? He paces at the far end, as much distance between them as he can get without throwing himself out of the jet. Eyeing the emergency release for the exit, he briefly considers that as his alternative.
"Barton," Phil calls, but no response is forthcoming. Sighing, he says, more gently this time, "Clint."
Against his better judgement, but unable to ignore that voice, Hawkeye looks up. Coulson fixes him with a stare, and says, "This was for the good of the entire world. It was bigger than just the Avengers. They needed the push that my death gave them."
"I needed you!" he shouts. "When Loki finally fell out of my brain, I wanted to see you. If you were there waiting, it meant maybe I hadn't fucked it all up! But no, you were dead, and without me releasing Loki from the cage, you'd be fine. It's my fault you were hurt, and for a while there I had to believe it was my fault you were dead. If I had've fought Loki's influence...just for a second, this wouldn't have happened. But I didn't. And you died."
"I'm not dead," Coulson says. "And even if I was dead, you weren't the one at fault. I chose to go up against Loki. I chose not to wait for the others."
Exhausted, Clint slides back into his seat opposite Phil and exhales a long breath. The pressure in his head slowly abates. "Damnit, Phil."
Coulson opens his mouth to reply. Clint stands up, stalks across to him and kisses him. Tension rises in the muscles under Clint's hands, where he's let them rest on Phil's shoulders. Immediately, he pulls away. They look at each other, both balancing on the wire, frozen for fear the smallest movement will send them falling. Coulson lets out a breath, then whispers, "Oh."
It's at that precise moment the plane lands. The door slides open, and Clint slips seamlessly back into Hawkeye's guise. He takes controlled, even steps out of the plane as the war rages in his mind. Anger battles fear and there's this underlying sense of why the fuck did I just do that? but in the end he knows he had to. Coulson had died not knowing it once before, Clint wasn't going to let that happen again.
"Barton, how kind of you to join us," Fury says, dryly, from the head of the table. The other Avengers don't know, but they're sure as hell about to find out.
"Fuck you," Clint says. Tugging out another card, he throws it on the desk in front of Fury. There's no mistaking the message, and no mistaking the look of understanding on Nick's face. "Just..fuck you."
"You're out of line, Barton," Fury says, and the other Avengers sure seem to agree with that notion. Cap rises to his feet, ready to intervene.
"No, you are," the archer says, lowly, and his fingers itch for the bow they do not hold. "And it's about time someone called you on it."
"What is this about, Barton?" Steve asks, trying to draw the tension from the room.
Clint shakes his head and laughs in a low, threatening manner when he looks at the others. "Coulson's alive."
"Is this some kind of joke?" Cap says, even though they all know it isn't. He looks at Fury. "You lied to us?"
Tony steeples his hands, and in that tone they all know means he's pissed, says, "Why am I not surprised?"
"Are you about done here, Agent?" Fury says.
Clint looks at him evenly and just shrugs. "Yeah, I'm done here."
The others crowd around him as he leaves, and Fury is swiftly left behind. Natasha keeps stride with him, but it's Thor who asks, "How does the Son of Coul fare? I was there when Loki...how does he fare?"
"He's fine. Med team patched him up like new," Clint replies.
"That's great!" Tony says brightly. "Let's celebrate. Avengers assemble at Stark Tower tonight. C'mon guys! Phil can bring his cellist!"
Clint stops in his tracks, the others abruptly halting around him. He frowns. "Cellist?"
Tony frowns, but nods, "He...did mention a cellist, right?"
"Right," Barton says, all of a sudden feeling ill. "I guess he'd love to take her to a party."
"Great! Tonight. All of you, be there!" With that, Tony hurries away, presumably for important party organisation. Or, Clint imagines, barking at Pepper for twenty minutes until she agrees to organise a party.
The others quickly follow, until it's just him and Tasha standing in an empty SHIELD corridor with those looks like they can read each other's minds.
"Don't," he says before she's even opened her mouth. "Just don't. You can tell him about the party. I'm really not in the mood to celebrate."
He waits until he's out of sight to let the fabricated smile fall away. "A cellist? Fucking musicians."
Back in his SHIELD quarters, he throws a ball against the wall. Catches it, throws it again. It's a trick he's more than practised in, but today he doesn't allow his mind to wander from the effort. He focuses on every move the ball makes, every noise it creates as it thuds against the wall.
So completely focused on the task, he doesn't hear Coulson enter. Doesn't even notice he has company until Coulson catches the ball midair and it disappears from Clint's vision.
"What the fuck d'you want?" he asks, not budging form where he lies. "Thought you'd be wooing some cellist into a party."
"It wasn't a cellist," Phil says in a matter-of-fact voice. Clint huffs. "Not really. I just told Stark that so he would stop digging."
"A violinist then? Size doesn't matter until you're comparing with Tony Stark, or some shit?" The ball is handed back to him, and Clint immediately resumes throwing it.
"Not a cellist. Just someone good with a bow."
The ball evades his hand and smacks him square in the face. He doesn't feel it. Not when his brain is glitching back and forth over the information now provided to it. Well, there's one way to fuck him up.
This time, it's Phil who kisses him. And not just some half-assed peck on the lips. Phil is all tongue and teeth and kissing like the world might end - and they're Avengers, so hell, it just might. Best to make the most of whatever time they have left.
He goes for Phil's shirt at the same time Phil goes for Clint's belt. Progressive, he thinks to himself, and there's probably more in that thought pattern but it all just kind of falls away when their hips roll together and Coulson makes this ragged, cut off gasp into the kiss.
This, Clint might just be able to get used to.
So this started off being inspired by that quote from Ghost Protocol that Jeremy Renner delivers with such heartbreaking skill, and all I could think was this has to be applied to Coulson. It's too perfect not to be.
These two are like a disease, a flesh eating bacteria that just keeps spreading and the more I try to keep them out the more they fight their way in. I cannot stop the inspiration, it just keeps coming, and I swear if the next fic isn't complete and utter fluff, I quit. I am done, finito, out. I'm not equipped to handle all these feelings.
I hope you all enjoyed it, I really do, because it was torture to write.