Week three - Monday 5.15am.
Phil rubs his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He has a feeling that catching this early train might just kill him in the long run. He had got up at a ridiculous time, it was still dark for heavens sake and not that that twilight morning is breaking dark, the deep what the hell are you doing up dark. The necessity is there though, no way is he catching the 6.15, in case he meets Clint, man of his dreams, bringer of his nightmares. Not that it should be him hiding of course, but it is, it's easier in the long run.
This morning he had shaved off the stubble from his binge fest of self pity and depression. His idea of a lost weekend involved a bottle of scotch (no glass required), two days worth of Chinese take out brought on the way home on Saturday and finished off on the Sunday, sticky and thick and barely warmed through, reality TV ( it made his life seem so simple in comparison) and the highpoint of making paper planes and pirate hats of the Sunday paper, without even reading it for extra dissent. Said paper items still littered his floor and Phil had decided to rebel by simply kicking them across the floor in the dark this morning!
Perhaps Saturday's disappointment might be the kick in the head he needed to live a little, not that making paper planes and the one origami flower is letting you hair down, but for Phil sitting around in a pair of sweat pants and a tee shirt really was. He hadn't even cleaned his teeth on Sunday, so sit on a stick and swivel, because he was fucked beyond fucked to give a rats arse what people thought of him anymore, they could all go and fuck themselves!
Maybe some of that alcohol was still circulating through his blood. Probably quite a lot, no chance of him taking over the train controls when the driver came down with food poisoning then. He'd just have to be the drunk idiot that screamed and got slapped in the face as the train hurtled towards certain doom, some handsome stranger would step up to the plate and save them all, if he looked a bit like Clint Barton, Phil wasn't going to acknowledge it.
No, he is going to wipe Clint fucking Barton from his brain for ever and ever. His revolt is going well because he hasn't used the work fuck that much in his entire life even in his own head!
He isn't going to dwell on Saturday, he isn't, he really isn't, which is why he is sitting a hour earlier than usual on a near empty train trying to avoid the man that had stood him up.
He had sat on the train on Saturday genuinely excited, nervous of course, he was going out on a date! A breakfast and lunch date maybe, not an evening one, but actually that kind of suited him, he felt a little safer with that idea not so pressured. He had stood for way too long in front of his wardrobe the night before and still not come up with any better ideas than his blue suit, he did at least know that Clint liked it, he was a modern man though and was going with the only light blue shirt he possessed. Breaking out of his mould by going ties less was as casual at it goes for him, and he thought he could push the boat out and take the jacket off if it was warm enough tomorrow, sling it over his shoulder like a photo shoot and probably take someone's eye out on the cuff! Horror of horror he could even roll up a sleeve or two, he actually rather liked his forearms, they where a better part of his anatomy.
As the train had pulled into Clint's station, Phil couldn't resist twisted round to watch the man get on, but he didn't see him, he stood up and looked along the platform, no Clint. His eyes searched out amongst the few strangers that stood uninterested on the platform, back tracking to those that had got on perhaps he had missed him but no matter how much he looked his eyes couldn't conjure up the younger man. There was no Clint at the next station or the next or the next, no Clint waiting for him when he got off at the final stop. No Clint, when he sat waiting for the next train in case he'd missed the first, or the next or the next. No Clint. He'd sat there all morning hoping it was a simple mistake, but no, Clint Barton was a no show, Phil Coulson had been rejected, the picture of a loser sitting in a train station all alone. He had gone home, not even bothering with work, stopped for take out and vegetated the weekend away with his finest blend. He may or may not have tried to find Barton in the phone book, what he would have done with the number if he had found it he wasn't sure but he it was a good way through the bottle until he remembered the man had only just moved. So when he safely knew that there was no chance of finding his number, he let rip with a vast amount of obscene profanity that he would have said to the man given the chance.
...
"When are you leaving for work?"
"I'm taking the day off," Clint replies, while he hunts for his door keys in his bedroom.
"You don't need to do that, I'm fine."
"Sure I'm still taking the day off I case your head falls off."
"Don't be a drama queen."
He huffed out a grunt, "I'm going out to get some milk, is there anything you need?" He asked the woman propped up in his bed.
"To go home and for you to go to work!"
"You heard what the doctor said you need to be supervised for a few days."
"I'm not fucking four, next you'll be making sure my mittens are on a piece of elastic threaded through my coat!"
"Mittens?" He stopped his search to look at her in question, "Do you even have a pair of mittens? And stop being so cranky, it not my fault."
"Fuck you, Barton. And I'm fine."
"You have a concussion and broken ankle Nat, that's not fine."
"You should go to work, the nurses outfit doesn't suit you, beside don't you have to go and sit beside Ph..i..l? She elongates the word to irritate him, he's sure. She is fast enough to catch the wince. "I'm sorry about your date," she sounds contrite.
Clint shrugs his shoulders, he's epically sorry too.
"You did phone him, right?"
"Of course," he says a little too quickly and ducks his head.
"Clint?"
"I haven't got his number." He tells her honestly.
"You're an idiot"
"I'm not the one that got hit by a car."
Clint thinks back to the terrifying phone call that had started it all from the hospital, some efficient sounding woman had asked if he was Mr. Clint Barton, when he'd said yes with a building apprehension she gone onto tell him that one Natasha Romanoff had been involved in a road traffic accident. Dumbass that he was and pretty much in shock with worry the only thing he thought of saying was that she doesn't own a car and that's when a patient voice down the line had gently said, 'no Mr Barton, you friend has been hit by a car.'
At that moment all thoughts of what he should wear, breakfast dates and kind blue eyes flew out the window and he had grabbed his house keys, and he muttered into the phone that he would be there as soon as he could. It's a phone call that will leave him with nightmares for some time to come that's for sure.
Nat snaps her fingers to draw his attention back and remove the haunted look on his face, "No you didn't, you're the one that held my hand in the hospital when you should have been holding someone else's hand. I'm actually quite fond of you Clint Barton, you know that right?"
"Yes, I know that Natasha, now is there anything you need?"He asked once again.
"To go home now!"
"Yeah, yeah, milk and cookies for the baby girl then." He walks away and out the door before she can grab something to throw.