I don't own Agents Of SHIELD.
Set during 3.09 Closure.
Written for TYRider. This chapter is dedicated to Samantha.
Nature abhors a vacuum; idiom; empty spaces are unnatural as they go against the laws of nature; any empty space must be filled with something.
4. Observation
Phil's had a bad night. But oddly enough, it's Clint whose eyes go flat when Phil strips his undershirt off.
"What's wrong?" Phil asks, shirt dangling awkwardly from his prosthetic hand. They haven't had to do a full damage check in a few years — since months before New York, if he recalls correctly. If it bothers Clint that much, he can get Natasha to do it.
In their twenty years' knowing each other, he's never once known Clint to be bothered by nudity.
There's a first time for everything, apparently.
And then he realises where Clint is looking.
Oh.
Chest. Dead centre.
Pun fully intended.
"Hey," he says softly, and lets the blood-splattered undershirt drop to the floor. "It's okay. It was years ago."
Clint doesn't move. "Time doesn't change what happened."
"No."
"You died."
"Yes."
You left us, Phil hears in the echoing stillness. Whether it's truly what Clint feels or simply speculation on his part, he's not sure. He snuffs the words out.
Silence pools in the hollows.
"Are you — " he starts.
Clint holds up a hand, eyes still fixed on the scar.
Phil stops.
Clint steps forward on bare feet until he's almost chest-to-chest to Phil. If Clint was anyone else — okay, anyone but Natasha — Phil would be feeling a mite uncomfortable about now. As it is, he keeps his breathing level and watches Clint's face.
Nothing. Just that intent, shuttered look that speaks of carefully constrained emotion.
One brawny archer's hand splays over the scar. It's surprisingly warm.
Clint glides sideways to stand at Phil's three o'clock, at right angles to him. The hand on his chest keeps him firmly in place.
And now the other hand covers his back, where a matching scar lies. It's the entry wound, not that many people have asked. They all, doctors included, seem more fascinated by the exit wound on his chest.
He'd had years to think about how he was going to go. GSW was statistically most likely — either to the chest, centre mass, or a headshot. Possibly by a sniper, possibly not. Hand-to-hand was another option: a neck snap wouldn't be bad. Quick and clean. Other options had cropped up a few times. Bombs, car crash, falling from insane heights, drowning, suffocating… starvation, dehydration, being tortured to death… simple blood loss from any number of causes.
But no. He'd been stabbed in the back, literally, by an alien demigod with delusions of grandeur and an inferiority complex.
Clint exhales a shuddering breath and drops his forehead to Phil's bare shoulder. He's still got one hand on Phil's front and one on his back: the effect is rather like being sandwiched between two Bartons. Or rolled in a Barton burrito.
It's not unpleasant.
Clint's fingers twitch on his chest and settle again. The movement is too controlled to be random; what is he…?
Of course.
Heartbeat.
Mere survival shouldn't be so comforting. But in their line of work, nothing is guaranteed. Not even breathing. Somehow, over the course of Delta's ten years together, it became their go-to comfort measure: feeling a pulse, listening to someone breathe, watching the rise and fall of a chest.
Clint, contrary to the codename, has always favoured touch over other methods. It's Natasha who prefers a visual sweep. She'll sit and stare for minutes at a time without blinking. And Phil… he can close his eyes and hear the difference between Clint's breathing and Nat's. Long hours on comms taught him a lot. Without them having to say a word, he can tell whether they're scared or angry, winded from exertion or from pain, the difference between genuinely relaxed and drugged.
Which is not to say that they don't use any method at their disposal. Just that they have their favourites.
Phil darts an assessing look down Clint's body and back up. Breathing level. Hands steady. Feet planted, stance square. Eyes… closed.
Interesting.
As important as his sight is to Clint, there are moments when other senses are more deemed more important. It seems now is one of those moments. The need for visual confirmation has been superseded by hearing and, more importantly, touch.
Phil doesn't need to ask. Clint's ears are good, but even he can't hear a heartbeat with his forehead on Phil's shoulder and both ears free. He'll be listening to the whistle of air as Phil breathes. And he's obviously memorising the feel of the scar tissue under his hand. From the way his hands are spread wide, he's using the thinner skin on his palms rather than his fingertips, where years of callouses have all but deadened the nerves.
Phil had almost forgotten that Clint and Nat haven't seen the scar yet. As Director he tends to keep himself pretty covered up, but between gym sessions and post-mission locker room changes, his team have seen the scar often enough that they're used to it. It's been four years since New York, after all. He sees it every day in the mirror. It stopped evoking such a visceral reaction in him a long time ago.
If he's honest, sometimes he forgets what he looked like without it.
He forgets that the scar still has the power to shock. To horrify. Maybe he should call Natasha in. Let her look her fill, get it over with.
Clint's hands, front and back, are gloriously warm in the cool of the room.
No. Clint needs this, just him and the scars.
Natasha can have her turn later. Maybe when Phil's asleep, so he doesn't have to squirm under her piercing stare for long minutes — or hours.
Breathing even and slow, Phil lifts his gaze from Clint to scan the room. Clear. He expected as much. There are no windows here, and the only door is a) three metres directly in front of him, and b) closed. But all the same, the visual confirmation helps ease the itching at the back of his mind.
He knows how this goes.
The average person gets twenty minutes of adrenaline before shock sets in. His adrenaline ran out before he even got back to the office. Shock is always a complicated beast. Tonight, it seems, he can blame it for the creeping detachment and emotional paralysis.
But it's well on its way to wearing off now.
The symptoms of the next stage, as much as there ever are stages, are growing stronger. Certain instincts become ingrained in anyone belonging to their type of organisation. SHIELD, the military, police, FBI, CIA, it doesn't matter, they're all the same: they keep their backs to walls, they maintain clear lines of sight, they always know where the nearest weapon is and where the exits are.
No, this is more than that. The restless hands, the rapid heartbeat, the prickling at the back of his neck, every instinct screaming, the need to have a weapon in his hand, the need to constantly scan for any danger, real or imagined…
Clint's not the only one to develop hyper-vigilance after the death of a loved one.
He's abruptly glad that May called Clint and Natasha in. Oh, his team would have dealt with it fine — they've certainly dealt with worse — but all the same… he knows Simmons and Skye and Fitz aren't kids anymore, they haven't been for a long time, but they're still junior agents, and they still feel like his kids. Maria Hill was right when she warned him, strictly off the record, to be careful of playing Dad with his team. Chain of command is one thing; family dynamics and inherent boundaries are another thing entirely.
And with May out of the picture as Acting Director and Mack backing her up as Acting Commander, that leaves him a little thin on the ground for support. Bobbi and Hunter are great, but he doesn't know that he'd feel comfortable crying on their shoulders. Besides, they've been a little too wrapped up in each other lately.
He's been meaning to have words with them about that, actually. Tell them to keep it professional. Or at least keep it to their room.
Next time it happens, he's going to march them down to the vehicle bays and make them clean the backseat of their chosen SUV by hand. Without gloves. See how they like that.
Beside him, Clint's head lifts from Phil's shoulder. His grip, front and back, tightens for a moment and then releases. He steps around face Phil squarely, eyes clear.
"Alright?" Phil asks.
A curt nod is Clint's initial reply. Four seconds pass before he says out loud, "Yeah. Alright. Just…"
"Processing?"
"Yeah."
"You can't kill him."
"Wasn't planning to."
"No?"
"He's Thor's brother — even if he is adopted. I wouldn't do that to Thunderboy."
Phil eyes him, weighing up the darkness in his stormy gaze. "You know, you once told Natasha that if you put an arrow in Loki's eye socket, you'd sleep better at night."
Clint's eyes drop a fraction and flicker sideways before lifting again. His jaw flexes. But he says nothing.
"You're not the only one with access to the recordings from the helicarrier," Phil says in answer to the unspoken question.
"Obviously."
"So you didn't mean it?"
"I meant it. At the time."
It's like pulling teeth. Phil hasn't seen him this reticent in a long time. "But?" he prompts.
"Times change."
Phil clasps a hand to his shoulder. The words rise almost unconsciously to his lips. They're maybe a plea, maybe an order. Maybe just a simple request. "Talk to me."
"I am talking to you." Clint rubs a hand over his jaw. Scratches idly at the stubble there. "It's like I said, Overwatch. I'm processing. It's one thing knowing it in here." He taps his temple with two fingers. "Got used to the thought years ago. Of what he did. But seeing it…" The fingers change to a v sign and sweep forward in a silent echo. "My eyes are different, you know that. It'll just take some time, that's all."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Okay," Phil says. He squeezes Clint's shoulder and drops his hand.
Neither of them say I'm sorry.
Neither of them say It's not your fault.
But the words linger in the silence anyway. Some things they don't need to verbalise.
Clint steps back. He turns to the side — which, Phil can't help noticing, leaves both of them with a clear line of sight to the door — and retrieves the first aid kit. "Coulson. Trousers."
Phil grins. "All you had to do was ask, Barton," he says, and reaches for his belt.
The checkup goes as well as can be expected. Better than expected, if Phil's honest: it seems his trousers and shirt provided enough coverage to minimise the damage. Sure, there are the expected scrapes and bruises in weird places, but he's known since his first year out of the Academy that nobody, no matter how experienced, can keep accurate tabs on where they were hit during a brawl.
Win the fight and survey the damage afterward, that's all they can do.
The bruise down his left butt-cheek is a new one, though. Might have been from when Thug One shoved him into the wall. Might have been from the scuffle with Thug Three. Or from later, after he jumped out the window. Who knows.
Clint snaps a few photos for the record, gives Phil a helping hand to patch up the handful of wounds that need it, and then slouches against the wall and starts filling out paperwork. The grumbling under his breath is no doubt from habit more than anything. It doesn't sound at all convincing.
The bandages are waterproof, of course. Phil, scrubbing himself down in the shower stall, can't help noticing that Clint's eyes flicker up from the clipboard slightly more often than is strictly necessary for medical observation. Normally being under scrutiny while buck-naked would make him a) nervous, b) irritated, c) properly angry, or d) all of the above. But there are a handful of people in Phil's world — literally, five people — who don't count as normal.
(Clint, Natasha, Nick, Melinda, Maria.)
Under the circumstances, Clint's checks are nothing short of reassuring.
All the same, Phil keeps his back to the wall, leaves the curtain half-open so he can see both Clint and the door, and notes which way the temperature gauge slides. He could have a spray of scalding water in an assailant's eyes in two moves.
The hot water works wonders to ease the aching in his sore muscles. He'd stay in here all night if he could. But he can't justify it: their hot water supply is far from unlimited, and the others are expecting him outside for the debrief any minute now.
He hates being on the receiving end of a debrief. It reminds him too much of his years as a junior agent. He'd far rather be the one running the thing.
That's not an option this time.
At least he's got May. She knows how to make them as painless as possible. The right questions to ask to get the intel in the quickest way possible. She appreciates efficiency even more than he does, which is saying something. And they've been on enough missions together, sat through enough debriefs together, that she knows what will make him clam up — like the least hint of condescension or questioning his ability to do his job — and what will help smooth the way — like simple, matter-of-fact acknowledgement of mistakes.
Phil's never been one for ignoring mistakes. Not other people's, and not his own. It's something he's always stood by: you can't fix the problem if you don't know that it is a problem.
And boy, was tonight a problem.
A knock at the door heralds Natasha's arrival with a stack of clean clothes. She murmurs something in Clint's ear that Phil can't hear over the rush of water, flashes three fingers in Phil's direction, and retreats, closing the door behind her.
Three minutes. Phil rinses the last of the shampoo out of his hair and shuts the water off. He can do this.
The clothes, as it turns out, are a curious mix of Phil's own from upstairs, bog-standard SHIELD issue from the supply room/lockers/gym/lab/everywhere, and Clint's from his kit bag. They're also a mix of practical and leisurely. Whoever picked them — and if he had to guess, he'd say May and Natasha put their heads together — had evaluated his headspace with almost scary accuracy.
From Phil's wardrobe: black underwear, black tactical trousers, black socks, and black combat boots with a knife already in place in the ankle sheath. A suit and tie might be his preferred armour for day-to-day business, but tac gear is another type of armour entirely. And, thank you Melinda and Natasha, it's exactly what he needs.
He nearly shudders at the thought of putting on dress trousers and a silk shirt. His blood-splattered blue shirt from earlier is probably still lying on the floor in his office amid the glass.
No. No suits. They're the wrong sort of armour; useless at stopping bullets.
From the clothing supplies here at base: a dark grey hoodie, soft and warm and comfortably anonymous, with a matte-black SHIELD logo over the breast and another on the back.
And from Clint's kit: a t-shirt. But not just any t-shirt. It's one of his special Avengers-approved t-shirts, the UnderArmour sweat-wicking ones with actual lightweight body armour built in to them.
It's also purple.
On Clint, Phil knows, the shirt would be so skin-tight as to be uncomfortable. It's meant to be a base layer for his Hawkeye armour, after all. But it might not fit too badly on Phil; Clint is broader through the chest and shoulders than he is, not mention more muscled in the arms. It's not like Phil spends large parts of every day holding the draw weight of a hundred-plus-pound bow. The heaviest weapon he uses with any regularity is a grenade launcher.
The shirt, when he pulls it on in response to Clint's impatient look, is what he'd call neatly fitted. Not tight enough to restrict his breathing. Not loose enough to hamper his movements. Just comfortable.
He leaves the hoodie unzipped.
When they step into the common room, two bowls of steaming chili con carne are waiting for them at the kitchen table. The rest of the team are gathered at the couches, carrying on fifteen conversations at once. They barely glance over at Phil and Clint.
Good. The focus won't be on him for a few minutes yet.
May brings over a beer for Clint — dark brew, glass bottle, sealed — and lifts an enquiring eyebrow at Phil.
He shakes his head. The last thing he needs in his system right now is alcohol.
"Coffee?"
"Decaf? Thanks."
She nods and turns away to the gleaming silver beast of an espresso machine that lurks on the far corner of the bench. May might not like coffee, but a barista from New Zealand taught her how to make them when she was undercover years ago. Her flat whites are to die for.
Figuratively speaking, of course.
Natasha appears out of nowhere, slinking towards them with a nearly-empty beer in one hand, a bowl of chili in the other, and her phone jammed between her shoulder and her ear.
"Hang on," she says as she gets closer, "he's here. You want to talk to him? Yeah, thought so. Clint, it's for you."
Clint points to his food, to his occupied mouth, and makes general I'm busy eating here, can't it wait, I'm starving noises.
Nat eyeballs him, sets her bowl down, and holds out the phone. "Barton."
Ah. That voice. The wording is purposely ambiguous. To anyone who doesn't know, she's ordering Clint to take the call. To those of them who do know, she's telling him it's a Barton on the line.
There's only one Barton Nat would be talking to at this time of night after getting back from a mission. Which means Clint will very much want somewhere private to —
Clint takes the phone and throws a look at Phil.
Phil jerks a thumb to the stairs up to his office. "Watch out for glass."
When he's gone, Natasha slides onto his vacated stool and nudges Phil's shoulder with her own.
They eat in silence.