NOTES: Bad news first-this story is going to switch to biweekly updates. Sorry to have to do that, but I'm not writing as much as I thought I would be a month ago, and my buffer is running extremely low. I don't want to rush words with this story, so I instead need to spread out updates.
Phil stepped off the elevator and on to the common floor. As usual, he was the first one in the conference room that was used for team debriefs when they were all meeting in Stark Tower. He walked around the table, depositing five folders in each team member's usual spot as he repeated the meeting's agenda in his head. The comfort associated with the normalcy of this pre-morning ritual calmed him, and he felt a light amount of tension seep out of his shoulders as he let routine take over and focused entirely on his day's schedule.
Bruce was the first one in the door, coffee and donut in hand. He gave Phil a small smile before taking his usual seat, wiping the excess powdered sugar off his fingers with his napkin, and flipping through the pages within his personal file folder. Thor followed a moment later. He nodded to Phil and joyously informed him and Bruce that Jane was to return later today. Steve and Natasha walked in a moment later; she apologized for not arriving sooner and Steve explained that he had to change his shirt since Nadia tried her best to get half her breakfast of some pureed baby food all down the front of him. Tony, per usual, was the last to enter. The billionaire quickly ended his phone conversation and told everyone that Pepper—away on business in London—said hello.
Phil gave one more headcount, because old habits were hard to let go of and even though it wasn't a mission, they were still his people. As was the normal routine, once he got everyone's attention, he reviewed step by step what happened in the battle. He walked through each minute, retelling the event and adding in background information and context that wasn't available in the moment when the fight took place.
He made it to the end, explaining how the sonic waves caused everyone to go into an angered rage and turn on one another, and paused. The break in his analysis wasn't one of any substantial length, but just enough that Phil knew if he looked up from the comm transcript in his hands, he'd find Natasha staring him down. He cleared his throat and talked through the orders that were given to Hawkeye—not Clint, that wasn't the name he could use right now—and how the archer successfully stopped the effects of the sonic waves so their enemy could be taken down.
It never sat well in Phil's stomach when a mission was called a success when it came at the cost of an asset.
Steve was the first to ask about Clint's condition. Phil knew the question was coming, and he wasn't the least bit surprised about who it came from. Even though the man was married to Natasha and had undoubtedly heard nearly every update she had, he was still the team's leader. And like Coulson, Cap had a habit of counting heads and making sure all of his ducks were in a row. Even if said ducks were Asgardian royalty and irradiated rage monsters.
"He's on medical leave for the time being," Phil answered. "He suffered a nasty concussion, which for him is a normal Tuesday, and it'll be a few days before the medical staff retests his hearing to see if it's improved any."
"What were the original readings?" Bruce asked.
"Eighty percent loss," Natasha answered.
Bruce turned to Tony, and Phil watched the silent conversation shared solely between their eyebrows that ensued. He was grateful that the men were already devising plans to help with the matter. Phil would've asked, but it looked like he wasn't going to have to put in that position.
A small voice tried to remind him that they were a family—a screwed up, dysfunctional, brood no doubt, but still family. And because of that he wouldn't have to be alone in helping Clint, even if he felt he needed to bear that burden on his own.
Phil asked if there were any more questions, which there weren't, and he dismissed them all to go about their day. As he gathered his things, he received an alert that Clint had clocked in on the range four floors down in Stark Tower. Phil had the system put in place that let him know whenever the archer began practice time so Phil could measure how long Clint pushed himself. Rarely did the other man follow the regulated limit of how much time could be spent on the range in a week.
Doctor Panetta hadn't restricted Clint from practicing his archery, and Phil was sure Clint needed the physical release of losing himself in shot after shot. He debated on how long to give him on the range and settled on three hours, setting up an alarm on his phone that was most likely unnecessary as a reminder.
Phil brushed off a lunch invitation from Steve and ignored more of Natasha's stares as he retreated to the office in his quarters. No one would think twice about him working from home. Even though he and Clint never made a show of their relationship—at least nothing beyond shoulder bumps and snarky chats on the comm, but that'd happened for years before they were together—everyone knew they were a couple. That was what happened when one worked for an intelligence agency: your life was no longer private. Your co-workers were the best intelligence assets the world had to offer and rarely saw the problem on spying on those around them.
Even though he had the excuse of wanting to keep an eye on Clint, it was apparently obvious to his co-workers and friends that Phil was hiding. He ignored texts from Jasper, Maria, and Pepper before silencing his phone and pushing away from his desk with a huff of frustrated air. He'd typed the same paragraph for twenty minutes now and he was more than likely going to have rewrite the entire report at this point.
Disgruntled, he checked the time and realized Clint had forty-five minutes remaining on the range before Phil was going to pull him off. In need of clearing his head, he left his work behind in his office and decided on a walk. His feet unsurprisingly led him to wander through the floor that served as a giant gym. He meandered around weight machines and boxing rings to make it to the back corner and the private elevator that was the main access route to the firing range one floor down.
He ambled down the hallway, remembering how this was where he first encountered Natasha and Clint upon his return from the dead. Guarding the door at the end of the corridor that led out to the range, it had been Natasha who greeted him with a pair of knives hurled at either side of his head. Clint, on another of his self-flagellation binges, had fired arrow after arrow until he nearly collapsed at Phil's feet, begging forgiveness. And this morning, Phil's knees fought the urge not to return the favor when he caught sight of Clint.
Phil slipped through the door and stood in the shadows as he kept his eyes on Clint. The other man wore a t-shirt, ratty pair of jeans, and boots. A quiver was slung low on his hip and in his hands was his favorite bow. There wasn't anything fancy about it, no scopes or sensors; just wood and string, as simple and pure as that type of weapon could be. Phil's brain fought not to make a metaphor between the bow and its owner because he knew Clint wasn't necessarily pure, and the word "simple" had a connotation to it that didn't feel right. Like the bow, Clint didn't possess anything that a stranger would attribute as special. He was, however, reliable, efficient, and well-worn.
Phil watched arrow after arrow fire downrange. Clint's accuracy hadn't suffered because of his injury, but it was obvious—to eyes that had watched the man for a decade, anyway—that more effort than necessary was required to keep up with the strain of moving targets and maintaining perfect aim. After a couple of hours, it wasn't surprising that Clint was sweating, but his breathing shouldn't have been as rapid as it was now. Phil watched the pulse point on the archer's neck beat out a quickened pace, something that was also out of sorts.
Phil waited until the quiver was empty. Stark had set up an automatic arrow retrieval system when he first built the range shortly after the Battle of New York two years ago. Clint, as was the case some days when he had a lot on his mind, had the system turned off this morning. Phil waited for him to start moving down range to collect his projectiles, but instead, he turned around. Despite not hearing him come in and Phil standing in the shadows, Clint's eyes knew exactly where to look. Phil stepped out of his dark corner and walked up to Clint, his eyes taking in the sight of him. He looked more like the lost young man who'd been passed off from agent to agent when Phil'd first joined SHIELD than the carefree person he shared his life with.
Clint's face was expectant as he waited for his next set of instructions. It was a display of trust that Phil wasn't sure he deserved anymore. Phil's mind once more battled with the choice of giving into physical contact, even if it ran the risk of being reciprocated with a flinch, but in this moment that was a danger he was willing to take. He walked over to Clint with measured steps until they were standing face to face; then, he wrapped a hand around the back of Clint's neck and pulled him in for a hug. The other man melted into the contact for just a moment before taking a step back.
"I'll get sweat on your suit," he explained.
Phil gave a small nod before jerking his head towards the door and leading them out of the practice range. His mind tried to wonder about anything other than when Clint would allow him to touch him again.
The next two days served as a major adjustment time for both of them. There was a lot of fumbling when it came to communication, something that neither of them were great at in the first place. They relied on writing notes and hand signals they'd used in the field. Phil tried not to ask too many questions, but Clint did admit he could hear slightly better than before, even if the ringing in his ears was still going strong.
Phil was scheduled for a series of meetings at Headquarters when Clint's hearing test was to take place. He danced around asking the other man if he wanted him there, but Clint always told him no. "I'll see you tonight," Phil said with an attempt at a small smile as he waved goodbye. Normally, he'd steal a quick kiss, too, but touching was apparently still off the table.
"What do you want to eat?" Clint asked.
Phil shook his head and pointed at the drawer brimming with takeout menus. "We can just order something." It was apparently the wrong thing to say since Clint's face fell. Not wanting to make anything else worse, Phil gave a small finger wave and made a break for the elevator. On the ride down to the parking garage of Stark Tower, he tried to figure out where this particular misstep had taken place. It wasn't like he was trying to keep Clint out of the kitchen; Phil just didn't want to add to the list of things Clint had to do today since his doctor's appointment could be fairly overwhelming.
He shoved down and compartmentalized his thoughts as he drove down to SHIELD headquarters. He absorbed himself in meeting after meeting just so the endless questions and what-if scenarios didn't drown his mind. Phil didn't bother trying to hide the fact that he was checking the time constantly, counting down the hours and then minutes until Clint was scheduled to go down to the medical floor of Stark Tower for his test.
He thumbed open the calendar on his phone and swiped until it brought up Natasha's schedule. She had the afternoon off, and Phil was willing to bet his life savings that even if Clint hadn't consented for her to be present, she'd be lurking nearby. He was half-tempted to text her for a status report when Fury called on him to answer a question during the meeintg. Phil was a good enough agent to be able to spout off the needed information without thinking too much about it, and then, he tried to ignore the one-eyed stare that lingered in his direction for the remainder of the afternoon.
It did, however, influence Phil to leave his phone alone. So it wasn't until after the meeting was over, an hour after Clint's scheduled appointment, that Phil saw two new emails in his inbox. He opened the one from Doctor Panetta first and tried to wrap his mind around the words within. While Clint's assumption that his hearing had improved was true, the hearing tests showed that he was incapable of hearing anything softer than around fifty to sixty decibels. According to Panetta's conclusion, the sound of conversation was roughly the lower end of Clint's hearing range now.
The second email Phil didn't even bother opening. He knew what its contents were simply by the subject line of the message:
Barton, Clinton F.: Field Eligibility Status—REVOKED
The tiny paperclip icon symbolized the forms Phil would have to fill out to prevent Clint from going on missions which had been the man's life for the last twelve years and the one place Clint felt truly comfortable and capable.
Phil locked his phone and slipped it into his pocket. He walked out of the conference room, ignored Sitwell calling his name, and kept moving until he was back in his and Clint's quarters. On the way there, his brain kept switching back and forth between two lines of thought. The first was wondering where Clint could work within SHIELD that would make him still feel valued and not let him grow bored; Phil wasn't really sure such a place existed. The second topic was making a list of all the sounds softer than regular conversation: the twang of a bow string, rustling of sheets, panting and gasps in the dark, soft chuckles, the sigh with a faint humming noise Nadia always gave as a sign that she was fully asleep—all things that, unless Tony and Bruce could work a miracle, Clint would never hear again.
Phil loudly called Clint's name when he entered their home, but didn't get a response. It took a minute of ducking in out of rooms until he spotted the other man on the balcony that overlooked the city. Clint had his forearms propped up on the railing, an unlabeled bottle containing a deep amber liquid dangling from his fingertips. Phil recognized the liquor; it was some homemade brew that Jasper had given them as prize for winning some bet Phil couldn't remember. What Phil could recall with agonizing detail was splitting a couple of shots two months back with Clint, the heady heat that flooded his body, and the way he could taste the drink on Clint's tongue.
He walked over to stand next to Clint and copied his posture. Phil stared at him until Clint looked over. "I'm sorry," he apologized loud enough that he hoped Clint could hear.
Clint shrugged in response. "It's fine."
"No, it's not. I—"
Clint sighed and shook his head. "I've stopped counting how many bones I've broken. I spend more days with a concussion than without. There are spots on my body that are completely numb from getting shot or falling out of buildings or who knows what. I'm thirty-seven and it hurts to get out of bed in the morning. My body's ruined. Might as well quit while I can still walk."
Phil wanted to argue, but he knew there was truth in Clint's words. He knew the story behind almost every injury and scar catalogued on the younger man's body, and as much as he didn't want to admit it right now, the last few days had shown him that maybe it was better for Clint to quit when most of him still existed then waiting until the day when Phil came back from a mission without Clint altogether.
It was a lesson they should have already learned when Phil had died on the Helicarrier right before the Battle of New York. And maybe Clint had, perhaps that was why he was able to reason with all of this, but Phil wasn't there mentally. Not yet, anyway. Unsure of what to do but positive the last thing Clint wanted was false words of reassurance, Phil reached over and snagged the bottle from Clint's fingers and downed two healthy gulps.