It took Natasha, Hill and Sitwell and his two agents a month before they returned to New York. Natasha was right, of course, about the assassins being from the Red Room. Clint was only sorry he wasn't there to see her blow the whole bunker up –she literally blew it up. None of them took any of the paperwork or computer files they found strewn about; from overheard conversations, Clint understood that whatever had been going on at that bunker was better left blown to smithereens than being seen by anyone else. The month gave Clint plenty of time to adjust to his hearing aids as eccentrically as he could. His favorite was when he hid in the ductwork and shoot padded darts at unsuspecting agents. Clint kept a count on how many agents he'd shot and he was up to sixteen before Coulson came and retrieved him. The man was practically psychic, he had to be, how else would he know where Clint was?
"Do you have a GPS tracker on me or something, sir?" Clint demanded as Coulson led him back to his office.
"No," Coulson answered amusedly. "Agents Morse and Hale both reported being shot while in the coffee break room. After them, it was Agent Martin who stated she had been shot on her way out of the administrations room. It wasn't hard to realize you'd been circling the cafeteria."
"How'd you know which vent?" Clint asked, fascinated.
"Lucky guess," Coulson replied, pushing his office door open. "Seems you've recovered from your injury quite well, though."
"I was testing out my reflexes," Clint protested, flopping down onto the office chair.
"That's what the gym is for," Coulson said, sitting down behind his desk. "In fact, I think it will do you some good to spend some time down in accounting." He smiled blandly. "They are located on the second floor. Report to me when you've figured out how much installing the gym cost, the costs of its upkeep and the price of every dart you wasted."
Clint pouted. "It was for the good of S.H.I.E.L.D. I was just testing my abilities."
"Go," Coulson said the minute twitch of the corner of his mouth the only sign that he was amused by Clint's antics.
Clint sighed heavily and left to go find the financial office and get the required information. Undoubtedly, if Clint tried to cheat his way out of it, Coulson would know. So Clint bypassed speaking to any of the workers and instead headed to their archival desk and started looking up the cost of the gymnasium S.H.I.E.L.D. had installed. It was nothing new. In the last month, Clint had been set a series of trivial tasks as punishments for all of his minor infractions. Most of the other senior agents wouldn't have bothered assigning him an out-of-the-way task like this. They tended to be more militaristic or simply academic; they preferred to assign him physical labor or apology letters. Not Coulson though. Coulson made every last punishment relevant to the infraction he'd committed. He used S.H.I.E.L.D. resources improperly and outside of their intended use and so he had to learn just what kind of money S.H.I.E.L.D. put into making the darts and maintaining the gym that he was supposed to access instead. And Clint reluctantly had to wince at the cost figures. Darts should not cost that much –it was outrageous.
It wasn't like Clint was causing Phil more paperwork at any rate. Honestly, these days Coulson didn't have as much paperwork to do. After Natasha and the others returned from India, Coulson seemed to take a step back from his excessive paperwork. Clint wasn't sure why entirely. But there were still weeks where Coulson would just disappear on some secretive mission of Fury's. Usually on those days, Clint was assigned to work with Hill or Sitwell. More often than not, he was working together with Natasha. And once Steve returned from Malibu, hideously suntanned and sporting a beard, Clint spent most of his time with them. And when Coulson got back from wherever he had been, he took over as their handler.
"Welcome to Level Five," Coulson had told them when he walked into the room. "Fury's requested a specialized team, one that can function without extraction and works seamlessly together. He thinks we're the answer to his need." He paused, his face a blank mask as he turned to meet Clint's gaze, then Natasha's and finally Steve's. "Starting today, we are Strike Team Delta."
Steve couldn't always join them but if he was available, he would. Their missions took a turn for the murkier, darker jobs. Jobs that were similar to what they had done in Myanmar focused on rescuing oppressed Omegas and sticking their noses into international politics. The work they did was often bloody and too often they couldn't save their intended target, but it was good work. They couldn't always win. Serbia was one of those times. They'd been called in to escort an Omega prostitute out of the country. An up-and-coming politician had kept Andjela chained up in his basement for his convenience and with the help of the politician's son, she had escaped. They were going to get her into Croatia to a reporter who would take Andjela's story down to reveal to the world who the politician really was. But Hydra got in their way. They were leaving the hotel, heading to the cab with the Omega in the middle of their formation when there was the echo of a gunshot. They didn't find the shooter. But it was a clean shot and the shooter left no evidence behind. Andjela was dead before she hit the pavement.
Clint and Natasha shared a look and knew that whenever Bucky got back to himself, Andjela's death would weigh heavily on him. But there was nothing they could do. They gave their reports to the police and returned to New York. Andjela's death wasn't their first mission failure, but it affected them all a little differently. Natasha started going with Coulson on free time, down to a woman's shelter where they taught the women self-defence. Clint had nightmares, off and on for about a month, where he was in Andjela's position. Steve started publically spending more time at charity events for abused Omegas and Clint wondered, not for the first time, how much he should tell Steve about his own past. He was sure it wouldn't end well.
They had just finished dismantling a small time trafficking ring in Iceland of all places. Strike Team Delta had been up and running for nearly a year when Natasha let the last shred of Natalia Romanova disappear entirely. She stopped dying her hair different colors and let the natural red stand out. Between it and her black uniform, she truly did look like the Black Widow she used to be. But she laughed easier these days. In fact, just a few months ago she'd convinced Clint to ask Bobbi Morse out on a date. It was a disaster of course, but Bobbi still invited him into her bedroom. The sex had been mind-blowing but something had been missing –which was something Clint kept to himself. Bobbi hadn't minded and aside from a few teases about his athleticism, she was content to leave their friendship intact. And when she'd caught Clint checking out a man, she'd started to insist he hit up one of the attractive S.H.I.E.L.D. agents that were always around. Sometimes she even recommended the lab analysts. (Granted, Leo was adorable but totally not Clint's type). Despite her lowering her guard incrementally and easing into her new self, she had not shared all of her secrets. They were in Iceland when it came to a head.
"Natalie Rushman," Steve said, as they stepped into the safe house.
It was hard to say who reacted faster; Natasha or Coulson as they both practically tripped over themselves to address him. It was Natasha who got the first word out, though, and she ordered them to sit before she talked about Project Rebirth. And once she got started, Steve picked up her story to share his own tale. No wonder sparring with them was so hard. They were both super soldiers. Clint started to work harder at his martial arts abilities when he was on downtime. Steve and Natasha were both more than welcoming about teaching him new moves. After leaving the program, Steve was shuffled around from military to military camp –sometimes around the world –and he soaked up all the fighting skills he could learn. Either from the countries' military soldiers or the locals he encountered. Apparently he wasn't quite as uptight about the rules as Clint had expected, considering from the way Steve talked about those times, the military was at risk of conflict with the locals. Natasha on the other hand had been taught for years on being lethal and she had absorbed everything. Steve knew things she didn't though and she knew moves Steve hadn't even heard of.
Watching the two of them spar was a work of art. Enough so that all Clint had to do was drop by Coulson's office and announce that Natasha and Steve were sparring to get Coulson down to the gym. Maybe Clint didn't have their stamina or endurance, but he still had his bow and arrows. He still had his swordplay. He might never be on equal footing with Natasha or Steve –both of them had enhanced strength and speed and while they never went easy on Clint, Clint rarely won against them. Their enhancements were their strength however, much like Clint's archery and swordsmanship were his strengths. Coulson too couldn't exactly compare with the super soldiers, but he rarely lost when he participated in sparring with his team. Coulson could manage to draw the match instead of outright lose it. Strategy was Coulson's strength. Honestly, when Clint sparred with him the first time, he was a little scared but mostly exhilarated. He lost spectacularly the first time.
But as they spent more time together, as they got to know each other, their sparring matches changed. Steve brought his shield into the sparring ring; Natasha brought her Widow's Bites and, at Coulson's prodding, brought a sword. He hesitated at the last minute to end the match, to have Steve tapping out, and for his hesitation he took Steve's shield directly to his face. But using the sword felt wrong. Every bodily instinct he had rejected using it. He only used a katana when he was killing, when he was maiming, when he was a tool. When he was nothing but Hydra's puppet. The shield to his face was nothing less than he deserved, even though he ended up with a black eye and a concussion for his trouble, Steve's caution was grating. Between his overcautious-ness in matches and Natasha's barbed words, the next time Clint brought a sword he walked out victorious and without having shed blood. The next match, he came with his bow and quiver and then nobody was going easy on each other. Clint started drawing matches more often than losing them and he started to learn Coulson's way of strategizing.
As their friendship grew and their teamwork improved, so did Strike Team Delta's reputation. When they were engaged in missions, that was their sole focus. Nothing else existed for them but the mission. They were relentless and for all the danger zones they entered and walked out of, none of them ever required an extraction. Clint had ninety-six hours he could withstand at the most of torture and his teammates had that time to find him. But for the rare time someone grabbed him from his perch, they never managed to restrain him properly or break him. They weren't Hydra. Clint left, sometimes on his own, sometimes escorted by his team, bleeding and beaten up but never broken. The first time someone grabbed Natasha, Clint nearly panicked and he wondered if this was how it felt for her and Coulson and Steve when he was abducted. But in less than six hours, Natasha arrived at their agreed meeting point, only a little worse for wear. She wasn't unscathed but she wasn't an emotional wreck either. It wasn't her first time either.
And then, nearly two years into Strike Team Delta, everything changed.
It was their first mission in Russia as a team and both Clint and Natasha were uneasy about it. S.H.I.E.L.D. had uncovered a Hydra base location but there were limited details. It was nothing Strike Team Delta hadn't dealt with before. Limited information and only a handful of people. They trusted their analysts and they went over what information they did have before they went into the Hydra base. Except it was a trap. The information the analysts had was a trap, left for them to discover after some digging around. As they approached the derelict building, Clint could see Hydra agents bustling around in the darkness. But with a shared look between the three of them –Steve had been requested by the military and as such he had dutifully answered their call –they agreed on their plan and approached the building.
Clint started firing as Natasha broke cover and crept over in the darkness. Coulson went next. And once Clint could see Natasha arrive at the terrace and Coulson at the front door, Clint followed after them. Coulson slammed the front door open and Clint fired inside, taking out the three guards that came running for them. They raced in, meeting up with Natasha. Despite the fact that Hydra had the advantage of knowing they were coming and having falsified their information, the three of them had nearly cleaned out the base when a gunshot rang out. Clint reacted without thinking, turning and firing, his arrow. A metal hand closed around the shaft, tossing it aside carelessly before the Winter Soldier slipped away. It was then that Clint registered the echoing scream of pain, the labored breaths and the fact that Coulson wasn't ordering them to pursue or retreat from the Winter Soldier. Clint turned, his heart lodging itself somewhere in his throat as he dropped to his knees next to Coulson.
Natasha met Clint's gaze, her eyes damp and her hands covered in Coulson's blood as she pressed on the wound. The fact that Coulson wasn't dead –that the Winter Soldier hadn't killed him –meant that there was something more going on. Documents Hydra wanted to keep safe, secrets they wanted kept secret. The Winter Soldier wanted to stop them and he had. He had.
"Call the med evac," Clint said hoarsely, reaching to set his hands over Natasha's. He wouldn't have been able to make it through the report.
Natasha, bless her, gave a deciding nod and pulled away. Within seconds she had vanished and Clint was alone with Coulson.
Coulson inhaled shakily, whimpering under his breath on the exhale. "I'd always h-heard shots to the stomach were the worst," he panted. "True. Definitely true."
"Shut up," Clint hissed, but there was no heat in his words. Just panic. Fuck. Was he supposed to be bleeding this much? Was that normal? "Conserve your energy or something. You might need it."
Coulson smiled tightly. Each breath he took clearly pained him, as the lines around his eyes tightened in pain every inhalation. But he appeared alert, as his eyes tracked Clint's movements, darted from his face to Clint's hands on his stomach. He wasn't concussed or something, Natasha had probably saved him from a bad fall. It was impossible to process what had just happened. Clint could feel his hands shaking and for the first time since he had met Coulson, since he had met the agent who hid his amusements and humor with bland masks, Clint was terrified he would lose him. Barely twenty, Coulson was older, wiser and stronger. Coulson was… Coulson.
"You're not going to die," Clint said harshly, glaring at the hole in Coulson's tactical suit.
"Not with you holding me together," Coulson joked, grimacing in pain.
"You could hold yourself together," Clint argued, feeling hot tears burning his eyes. He blinked them back stubbornly. It wasn't the first time he'd seen Coulson get hurt. But it was the most serious wound. If they didn't get him medical attention soon, he would die. He was losing a lot of blood.
"Too much work," Coulson murmured.
"Says the guy who eats paperwork for breakfast and practically lives out of his office. Nothing's too much work for you, sir."
"This might be."
Clint bit his lip roughly, watching as Coulson's eyes fluttered shut for a pause before blinking them open again. His skin was white, so white. "Promise me you won't die," Clint said desperately, hearing his voice crack. "Promise me."
But Coulson didn't answer. His eyes slipped shut again as he lost consciousness. Maybe it was the pain, maybe it was the blood loss. For the first time since he was maybe a child, since he had been sold to Hydra, Clint felt utterly powerless.
"Coulson," he begged quietly, distantly aware of a team of medics racing down to them. "Don't do this to me."
Clint moved aside when the medics arrived. But his heart, which had been lodged in his throat, felt like it had been ripped out of his body and thrown far away. He wasn't sure when it had happened exactly, but he had somehow let these people into his life. Natasha helped him to his feet and they trailed after the medics, getting into a company car. S.H.I.E.L.D. had apparently pulled a lot of strings for Coulson. Natasha and Steve were his family. He wasn't sure when that had happened either, but he knew it. Coulson was something else entirely and it terrified Clint. It terrified him as much as losing Coulson forever terrified him. He wrapped his arms around himself as he settled into the back seat, fingers drumming against his knee anxiously. He'd never had anyone like Coulson in his life. Barney, on a good day, but those days was shadowed by his betrayal.
Natasha lightly set her hand on his back and Clint leaned into her touch. They rode to the hospital in silence, the flashing red-and-white lights of the ambulance guiding them. Coulson went into surgery. Clint sat down in the waiting room, hunched over, fingers twitching anxiously. Natasha stayed by his side, leaving only to return with food and water. Before she gave him either, she gently prodded him towards a bathroom and it wasn't until Clint was standing in front of the sinks that he realized he still had Coulson's blood over his hands. He was a little ashamed of the noise he made as he turned the hot water on and doused his hands in soap and burning hot water. He scrubbed until he wasn't sure whether his hands were pink from Coulson's blood or the too hot water. Clint slipped out of the bathroom, sitting down beside Natasha and chewing mechanically on the sandwich she had gotten him. It tasted like nothing, but every bite seemed to fall apart and coat his mouth. He set the sandwich down and shook his head at Natasha's questioning gaze. She handed him the water bottle instead and Clint drank anxiously.
Clint wasn't sure how much time had passed but it was hours and hours. Natasha had bought him three water bottles and another sandwich before a doctor walked over to them. Clint nearly broke the waiting room in his haste to get up, almost knocking the magazine table over. The rack was a lost cause, even as he focused on the doctor and heard the magazines sliding onto the floor. His water bottles rocked on the table from where his knees had collided and the empty two fell over, tumbling, the loud crunch of plastic seeming to echo in the waiting room as the doctor approached.
"Clint Barton, Natasha Romanov?" the doctor inquired. They both nodded. "Agent Coulson has stabilized now, but it was rocky for a while. We almost lost him. We had to induce a coma in order to –"
Clint tuned out after coma. "How long?" he asked, hating the way his voice cracked on the word. He swallowed, his throat suddenly too dry. "The coma. How long will it last?"
"Hard to say," the doctor said gently. "It varies with every patient. I know your people want him back in America. He's stabilized now. From my understanding your organization will be here shortly to return him to your medical facility."
Clint nodded numbly, sinking back down onto his chair. Natasha spoke with the doctor for a while longer before returning to Clint. True to his word, a team of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and medical professionals arrived. Clint and Natasha returned with them. Clint made to follow them down to medical to watch over Coulson but Natasha set her hand on his chest and shook her head.
"You need to sleep, Clint."
"No, I don't. I'm fine. I need to see him."
"He is fine. I will watch him tonight. You must sleep."
There was no arguing with Natasha once she had decided something. Clint reluctantly gave up arguing with her and headed to his room. He could hardly see Coulson during the flight as the man was surrounded by doctors. But he was alive. He hadn't died. Sleep was not easy that night. The fifth time Clint woke up from a nightmare, he climbed into the vent in his room and made his way down to medical. Natasha was seated on a chair beside his bed and looked up; as though she sensed him arrive. She probably had. Natasha sighed and moved aside.
"If you will not sleep, then I will," she declared, walking from the room. She wasn't angry though. She was sad.
Clint dropped down from the vent silently and settled in to sit beside Coulson. No one was around and in the safety of Coulson's curtained bed, Clint reached over and tentatively set his hand over Coulson's. Clint swallowed back his tears and his relief. He could see the steady rise and fall of Coulson's chest; he could feel the warmth of his hand. Clint bowed his head. Please don't leave me.
Phil
Phil woke up in bits and pieces. There were just flashes of awareness, of people speaking to him. Fury's tired voice, Maria's stern tones and Jasper's broken humor. Stretched between them he could remember doctors and nurses speaking to him. The moment when he opened his eyes and was assaulted with too much information to process so he slipped back into unconsciousness. It was simpler there. But he became aware of a dull ache and slid back into reality day by day as the ache solidified into the pain of a healing wound. Memory came back much slower of the events leading up to him getting shot, but he could answer the present questions the doctors wanted to know until they were satisfied he knew what year it was and who the president was. Natasha dropped by with a small vase of flowers and an apologetic smile and he could remember the laboratory disguised as a derelict building they had been investigating. Steve was next and his gentle blue eyes reminded him of the gleam of metal he had seen from the corner of his eye and turned towards. Clint came by with a Starkpad which he awkwardly handed to Phil and he could recognize Stark's work all over the gift. He glanced at Clint, suddenly unsure as he was flooded with the memory of Clint's broken, pleading voice.
He slept on and off for the rest of the week. Unexpectedly his most frequent visitor was Clint. No doubt he would wake up at odd times, but it seemed like Clint was always there. When he was released from medical, he let Clint guide him to one of the spare rooms used by agents when they couldn't make it home. S.H.I.E.L.D. had many of them. The next morning, Clint brought breakfast and they ate together in companionable silence. Natasha and Steve joined them not long after, sharing smiles.
"I'd like to go home," Phil admitted tiredly and soon he found himself being bundled up and fussed over by two super soldiers in their own ways.
Steve helped him to Natasha's car and Clint climbed into the backseat next to Steve as Natasha drove them to Phil's apartment. It was a relief to be home, even though it didn't really feel like it. He was still spending more hours in his office than he was at home but he rarely slept in his office these days. Steve made them all a lovely lunch but Phil could feel that he was already drifting off.
"Someone should really stay with you," Steve said, ever concerned.
"The doctors said I was fine," Phil argued, stubborn as he picked at his lunch. It was a lovely soup but Phil was thoroughly bored of eating soups. "I can look after myself. If I need help I can call someone."
His three agents exchanged a long look.
"I'll stay," Clint said, surprising Phil once again. "I can make sure he follows the doctors' wishes and I'll call if I need back up."
"You sure?" Natasha asked, narrowing her eyes at him.
"That sounds good, Clint," Steve said, smiling politely.
Having made their decision for him, Natasha and Steve both said their farewells to Phil before leaving. Phil stared at Clint incredulously, feeling a little betrayed. Of all his agents Clint was the one who would understand how the doctors' orders sucked. And he was the one most likely to relate. Natasha and Steve both healed quickly. They weren't the ones who were going to have to spend a month and a half or more with limited physical activity and a liquid diet.
"You make me obey their orders," Clint said defensively, his face heating up as though he could tell what Phil was thinking.
Phil sighed deeply. "So this is karma, is that what you're telling me?"
"Yes sir," Clint said, far too cheerfully.
"I lived like you wanted me to promise and you're going to make me eat liquid foods for another month?" Phil asked teasingly.
Clint flushed and stuttered rather inarticulately for a minute before shrugging too casually and walking away. Well. That was certainly interesting. Phil followed him into the kitchen. "Sorry that was… cruel, of me," he said carefully, watching Clint.
Clint shrugged. "I like your place," he said, instead.
"Really?" Phil asked, surprised as he looked around his apartment. "I thought it would have reminded you of a hospital."
Clint chuckled and he seemed surprised by himself. "Your walls aren't quite white enough for that, sir." He paused. "The blue living room is a relief, at least."
Phil smiled softly. "Yes, I suppose it is." The living room was his favorite room of the apartment; maybe that was why?
"It just…" Clint started to say, cutting himself off as he turned around, snooping around the apartment. "It feels like you sir, if that makes sense. You've got all this modern furniture but then there's this worn feeling to everything."
Phil knew what he meant. But it was both interesting and mildly concerning to watch Clint pull each descriptor out. "Thank you, I think." Phil turned towards the living room. "Do you want to watch some T.V. with me?"
Clint turned back to him, eyes wide. "Yeah, that'd –yeah."
Clint hovered around all afternoon. Even though he was seated on Phil's couch, watching bad reality programming, he was hovering. It was like he was waiting for Phil to kick him out or for Phil to keel over so he could spring into action. If he wasn't quite so adorable at it, it would have been infuriating. As it was, Phil just wanted him to relax. So Phil sat more at ease in his chair and if he needed something he made sure to ask Clint. Around the fifth or sixth time he requested a glass of water, Clint started to relax. He settled back and watched as Nanny Jo sent the toddler back to time out for the sixth time in a row. Some of the parents' reactions got a few chuckles out of Clint, but mostly he sat at sniper's attention. Knowing that he had several episodes still on his PVR, Phil flipped the channel, keeping an eye on Clint's reactions.
This wasn't the first time Phil had come close to death before. He'd seen agents pass away. But for Clint, he seemed to be struggling. Phil wasn't sure with what, he doubted Clint even knew for certain, but he wanted to help his agent. Clint seemed to be the most interested in the Animal Planet documentary so Phil let that play. Honestly, Phil wasn't that interested in the survival instincts of snakes and other reptilian animals but it was relaxing to listen to the smooth British voice of the narrator. So relaxing, in fact, that he might have dozed off for a few minutes as when he opened his eyes next it was significantly darker outside and the documentary was about endangered species. Clint wasn't sitting on the end of the couch and as Phil moved to sit up, he noticed the blanket that had been carefully draped across him and the smell of garlic.
"Clint?" Phil called, suddenly worried that his kitchen might be burning down.
"Yeah?" Clint asked, poking his head around the corner. The fact that he didn't look nervous was immensely relieving to Phil.
"What –what are you cooking?"
"Uh, spaghetti. And meatballs. I figured they couldn't be too hard to make, right?" Clint went to run a hand through his hair and stopped himself. "Yeah, and they're on the approved menu list Steve got from the doctor. Soft food, you know."
"Oh," Phil said, a little taken aback. "Thank you." You didn't have to, he resisted adding. He watched as Clint disappeared back into his kitchen.
Phil levered himself up carefully, slowly making his way into the kitchen. Surprisingly, it wasn't a disaster zone. Clint seemed at ease as he turned the heat down on one of the burners and lifted the pot off it. When exactly had Clint learned how to cook? He still lived in headquarters and ate in the cafeteria. But the food smelled good and looked just as good.
"Sir, you can't be on your feet for too long," Clint pointed out, glancing over his shoulder. "Sit down. I'll bring dinner to you."
"I can manage," Phil said stubbornly, ignoring the mild ache in his stomach. "You're doing all the cooking. I can serve myself."
Clint rolled his eyes. "You wouldn't let me get away with saying that, sir. Come on, sit down. Relax. It's not going to kill me to do this but it might if you keep standing."
Phil reluctantly sat down at the table, leaning back carefully. Everything kind of had a dull ache to it. He felt old. "Where did you learn how to cook?" Phil asked, watching Clint appreciatively.
"Watching people, mostly," Clint answered as he spooned out the spaghetti. "I follow recipes to the letter, which I guess helps? I mean they don't turn out bad or anything."
"Who've you been watching cook?" Phil asked, mystified. As far as he knew, Clint never left headquarters.
"Steve, mostly. Couple of the other agents." Clint shrugged, carrying the bowl over. "Steve said the doctor's orders are pretty tight. You just have to eat food that'll be easy on your stomach –not necessarily a liquid diet, sir."
The spaghetti smelled fantastic. And it looked pretty good too. "We're off base," Phil pointed out, cautiously. "You don't have to keep calling me that."
He meant it too, but as he watched Clint's eyes widen in surprise, he wondered if he was letting his heart get the better of him. As much as he enjoyed hearing Clint refer to him as 'sir' when Clint referred to no other handler or agent, excluding Fury, by that sign of respect, if they were going to be engaging each other personally he would prefer it be as equals. Even first names would be an improvement.
"You're here to help me. You don't have to. It doesn't have to do with our jobs. At least I hope it doesn't –"
"I'm here because I want to be," Clint said, his lips twitching into a smile.
"You could even call me Phil, if you wanted," he continued.
"Only if you call me Clint," he replied, chuckling as he turned back to the kitchen. "I made garlic bread too, but that's just for me. Since garlic is a big no-no or whatever."
"How cruel," Phil commented. "Garlic bread is my favorite and you're just gonna eat it in front of me?"
"Shit, really?" Clint asked, turning back to face him guiltily.
Phil smiled amusedly. "No, Clint. It's fine."
Clint made a face. "I don't think I've ever heard you call me by my first name before. It's weird." He sat down across from Phil, garlic bread resting across his bowl. "Phil," he said, like he was testing out his name on his tongue.
"That is my name, yes," Phil replied, taking a bite of spaghetti.
"I don't know if I've ever heard anyone call you by it before."
"Typically because I'm at work whenever we're in the same room," Phil pointed out wryly.
"Oh forgive me," Clint teased. "I didn't know you had a life outside your office."
"Just because I didn't invite you out doesn't mean I didn't go out."
"Like your date with Dr. Taylors?" Clint asked, grinning at him.
Phil did choke then. "You-you knew about that?"
"Yeah, I figured it out," Clint said, laughing. "I mean she used to talk about you all the time. And then she suddenly didn't. And now she's dating one of the lab techs or whatever. I asked her about it and she just said things hadn't worked out between you guys." Clint paused, as though realizing he might have put his foot in his mouth.
"Yes, we went on a date and yes, it was a bad date. For both of us." Phil took a drink of his water, wondering if Clint had been interested because of Dr. Taylors or because of him. No. No, Clint wasn't interested in someone like Phil. "What about you and Agent Morse?" Did Clint think he hadn't noticed, or heard about, how much time he spent together with Agent Morse? She was a good match for him.
Clint flushed at that and Phil resisted the urge to smile at having caught him out. "Oh, Bobbi, yeah," he said, laughing nervously as he twirled pasta around his fork. "We had a thing for a bit."
"Had?"
"Yeah. We, uh, ended it."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Phil said, observing Clint. He didn't appear distressed.
Clint smiled lightly. "Ah, we weren't that into each other. You know? Sometimes things with people are just better off casual."
"Did she want more, then?"
Clint shook his head. "Neither of us did. The casual thing was working but the dating didn't."
"That's too bad," Phil said.
Maybe he would never have a chance at being together with Clint. And that would be okay. Because it was more than enough just to have Clint here, like this, sharing pieces of his life willingly. For all that they had spent years working together; Clint never openly shared information about himself. Honestly Phil wasn't sure if he should ever try and let Clint know that he would gladly take more from their friendship. He was someone Clint trusted –and Clint didn't have a lot of people like that in his life. Additionally, he was Clint's handler and he never wanted to betray the trust Clint had extended to him. If Phil could only have this friendship with Clint, he would take it and he would bask in every moment of it. After everything Clint had been through, it was a small miracle he trusted Phil at all. That he trusted anyone. So he would take what Clint was offering and he would ask for no more. All too soon their conversation trickled away as they finished eating and Clint set about cleaning up.
"I can help," Phil insisted from his seat.
"I know," Clint said, taking his plate from him. "You've done plenty for me before, sir, and you'll probably do more for me in the future. So just let me help you now."
Phil sighed, relinquishing his grip on the plate. It was the 'sir' that had undone him. It would probably always be his use of sir that left Phil reeling. Maybe it was Phil's wishful thinking but when Clint said it, it seemed to embody Clint's very trust in Phil. After all, there was no one else at S.H.I.E.L.D. used it with. Phil smiled to himself, watching as Clint washed the dishes and put the leftovers into Tupperware containers to cool down. It might have been the first time his kitchen had ever seen any actual cooking take place. As Clint finished up with the dishes, he handed Phil the two painkillers he was supposed to take and a glass of water.
"Dinner was great, Clint," he said, smiling. "Thank you." Phil swallowed the pills down with the water.
Clint blushed and ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah? I'm glad you liked it."
"You can stay as long as you like. Watch more National Geographic or Animal Planet with me."
"I didn't take you for a documentary type, Coulson –Phil. What with the way you were snoring earlier."
"That was a sign of my appreciation," Phil said. "That narrator is a gift to insomniacs all over the world."
"You have trouble sleeping?" Clint asked, almost surprised before edging closer. He leaned against the entryway wall.
"Sometimes." Most S.H.I.E.L.D. agents did. Handlers especially, when they'd been in the field long enough to lose an agent or two.
"Yeah, me too," Clint said softly, gazing at the television screen.
Phil carefully eased himself down onto the armchair. He wondered if it was nightmares that kept Clint awake, or if it was a kind of restless energy that only exertion could burn out. Phil was all too used to the insomnias he had experienced. Mostly, he just had a hard time falling asleep. Nothing so extreme as to limit his performance in the field, but enough that he was tired more often than not. And it was always worse when he was in the field or on foreign land. Home wasn't much better considering he spent restless nights staring at his ceiling, counting whatever he could find to count.
"You're welcome to stay and watch," Phil said. "If you fall asleep on my couch I won't blame you."
"I can stay for a while," Clint agreed, sinking down onto the couch cushions. "Is this why you're always after me to get my own apartment?"
"Because you need more space that a six by ten glorified bedroom?"
"Well yeah but I mean… your place feels lived in."
That was surprising. Phil wasn't here very often. "How so?"
"You've got art on your walls and pictures on your mantle. Hell, you have a mantle to begin with. Your cupboards are full of chinaware, you own silverware. You have a kitchen."
"I have an apartment, yes, which can come with those things."
"Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to have one," Clint said contemplatively.
Phil smiled and nodded at him in agreement. Clint turned the volume up slowly and the room was filled with the soothing tones of a British narrator. Just as Phil was relaxing enough to doze off, his back got a twinge and he ended up sitting on the couch next to Clint. He didn't have enough room to stretch out in any way on his armchair but there was just enough room on the couch that he could feel his muscles starting to relax. If it were a date, Phil thought it might have been the nicest one he'd ever been on. But it wasn't. And as nice as Clint's presence was to have, he couldn't help sneaking glances at the other man. The want wasn't a new feeling, exactly, but it was more intense than what he was used to. It wasn't something that was going to go away soon, either.
"You okay, sir? Phil," Clint corrected himself, turning to face him.
They were so close their shoulders were touching. It wasn't intimate, it wasn't special; it just simply was. Phil wasn't sure if he should be wishing for more or less drugs. More and he might have the courage to simply move a breath or two closer, ending the distance between them. Less drugs and he might have been rational enough to not get this close in the first place. But Phil was somewhere in between, instead, struggling with whether or not he should let his desires get the better of him.
"You want me to go?" Clint asked, pulling back.
"Sorry," Phil said, cracking a yawn that wasn't entirely faked. "I'm just distracted." The sleepy smile he offered his friend was genuine too.
"Yeah, it's late," Clint agreed, getting up. "Another time, maybe?"
"You're welcome to stop by," Phil found himself adding, forcing himself to get onto his feet. He couldn't feel any of the aches from earlier. The drugs were definitely kicking in. He watched Clint leave before locking the door, already regretting that tomorrow he would have nothing to regret.
The next day, he was incredibly grateful that he had not kissed Clint. If he could have withstood the pain, he would have stopped taking the painkillers at that moment. But as it was, when lunch rolled around, the pain was too much to handle and he reluctantly took the two pills. Clint dropped by again in time to make dinner, despite Phil's protests. They ended the evening watching television together and Phil remained sitting in his armchair. The next day Clint turned up in time to make lunch, Natasha and Steve trailing along with him. Steve took over the kitchen duties as he usually did. And it might have been the most relaxed, fun day Phil had had in a long time. The rest of the week was interspersed with visitors; Maria and Jasper dropped by, as did Fury. Clint was definitely his one constant visitor though, as he dropped by to make dinner nearly every day. When he didn't come over, it was Steve who dropped by to take over the cooking duties and informed Phil that Clint had been sent out on a mission with Sitwell.
By the end of his second week at home, Phil was officially going stir crazy. Natasha, Steve and Clint were all off on missions and there was no one around to prevent him from going into work. So he dressed methodically and went in, writing up his mission report of what had happened in the Hydra bunker. Then he headed up to Fury's office. His secretary waved him through and Phil entered the office area, report in hand.
"Coulson you're supposed to be in bed, resting," Fury pointed out. "It's why it's called bed rest."
"I got bored," Phil said, sitting down across from his friend. "And anyways I'm not going to bleed out from sitting at my desk and typing." He held the report towards Fury, knowing the recommended actions section would not go amiss.
Fury frowned, taking the paper from him. "Are you sure about this Coulson?"
"Absolutely," Phil said. "Really, it's the only thing that makes sense."
"Barton's as human as you," Fury countered. "You don't have to leave the team because of one injury."
"I do. Agent Barton may be a regular human like me but even you've seen him spar with Captain Rogers and Agent Romanov. He's their equal, sir."
"They won't like this," Fury pointed out, leaning back in his seat. "They really won't like this."
"You need them functioning as a team. But we haven't known who to put in charge of them. Agents Barton and Romanov respond to him. It might be harder to fit Stark and Banner in with them but they're our wild cards anyways. Three is better than none."
"None of their loyalties are to S.H.I.E.L.D. first. Barton's loyal to you; Romanov is loyal to him and by default to you and Rogers' is loyal to his ideals." Fury drummed his fingers against his desk. "I wanted you on the field with them, keep them grounded to us."
"I'm getting too old for this," Phil said, grateful that his voice didn't shake. "For Strike Team Delta –I can't keep up with them. I would never be able to keep up with them from the ground."
"Then do it from the air, do it from your office. Be the voice in their ear. I'll get Sitwell out of there –you can be the one to organize their missions." Fury paused. "But Phil, you've done amazing work with them. Are you sure this is what you want?"
"They need to get used to Captain Rogers' being in charge," Phil explained patiently. "We need them to function like a team. Stark signed on as a consultant, we'll get them in the same room a few times. Start building them up as a team. Banner's hiding out in India still, we know this. We can bring him in when we need him."
Fury nodded once. "Done. I'll collect them when they're back. You can break the news to them since this is your decision. I don't have time to coddle them."
"Yes sir."
