Chapter Text
Phillip J. Coulson could be called a lot of things, many of which he could be called due to his involvement with S.H.I.E.L.D. There was however one thing that Phillip J. Coulson was not; stupid.
He had been the handler to Clint Barton for years now and during such time Phil had become somewhat attached to the younger man. It wasn’t something that was at all common, Phil thought one night when lying in bed, to become so attached. Of course, handlers became fond of their squads and they might get a small case of the sniffles should anything happen to any of them but, in this line of work, people died.
Phil was a little more than surprised that Clint had lasted so long.
From the very beginning, Clint had been problem for S.H.I.E.L.D. He didn’t like rules and he certainly didn’t like restrictions and when Clint tumbled rather precariously into the hands of Director Fury, that’s exactly what he was faced with; restrictions. Because how is one supposed to be reckless and follow the rules? Clint would be damned if he knew. But Phil had Clint sussed out from the very beginning. He learned quickly that Clint, however he careless he came across to somebody, was one of the most careful agents in the entire division. Clint wouldn’t settle comfortably in a room until he had catalogued all of the possible routes of escape, until he had sized up every inhabitant of an area, and even when he had done that he always had his bow within reach in case things fucked up which, more often than not, they did.
Clint was always on defensive mode.
So it was because of this that Phil now lay awake, staring blindly into the dim light engulfing his room. It had been a month since the attack on Manhattan and something besides the obvious had changed. There was a noticeable change in the younger agent, not enough for any of the team to notice but enough for Phil, who had known Clint since he was but a teenager, to notice. Clint, Phil had learned, enjoyed his solitude. He avoided people because he had a very short fuse. But Clint had enjoyed being a part of the Avengers, he felt like he belonged to something like a family, something Clint had never really got the chance to know. Clint would go out with the team for drinks and to boost PR, he’d take part in the games nights and one night he even allowed Pepper and Natasha to give him a pedicure. Since the attack though, he was nothing like that. He avoided everybody, he was skipping meals and most days had Jarvis lock down his floor to keep them all away from him. Not even Natasha had clearance to his floor.
Something wasn’t sitting right with Phil, so he’d taken it upon himself to do something about it. He’d have Jarvis monitor him since he’d noticed the change and he’d learned Clint hadn’t been sleeping. Jarvis had told Phil that he had offered to call Doctor Banner for assistance but every time Clint had refused.
Jarvis had woken Phil again this evening to tell him that Clint had woken up.
Acting against his better judgement, Phil slipped out of bed and pulled on his dressing gown and slippers and began making his way towards the lift.
“Jarvis, I want access to Clint’s floor. I don’t want any arguments and Clint isn’t to know. Got that?” The elevator door opened in reply and made its way to Clint’s floor the moment he was through the doors.
There was an eerie silence on Clint’s floor, the room was flooded with a darkness that washed menacingly over the furniture and there was no sound throughout the apartment apart from the muffled sound of somebody throwing up. Phil hurried onwards towards the bathroom, his slippers padding softly on the carpeted floor. Stopping in the kitchen, Phil filled a glass of water and took it with him. The door to the bathroom was open, light leaking through the open door and spilling out onto the carpet. Curled over the toilet bowl, clad in nothing other than boxers, was Clint who hadn’t heard him enter.
“Clint,” Phil spoke softly in an attempt to try not to startle him. He failed. Clint pushed away from the toilet bowl roughly and moved back towards the wall, his hand grasping for anything he could use as a weapon. He found a tooth brush and a hand towel. How threatening, Clint thought.
With a short and humourless laugh, Clint hissed at the AI under his breath, “So much for deadlock, J.”
Phil ignored it. “Clint,” Phil said again, kneeling in front of him and taking the toothbrush and hand towel from his hands. “It’s just me, it’s okay. What’s wrong? Talk to me.”
An array of emotions passed across Clint’s before eventually his face set into one of the most pained expression Phil had ever witnessed. The younger agent was a master at keeping his emotions in check, never let them slip by the mile high wall he’d built around himself. So, naturally, Phil felt a little out of his depths. He’d never seen a hollow man before but this would be how he would imagine one to look. Up close, Clint looked older, his skin seemed duller and his eyes, sunken, looked as though they were a thousand years old. Clint lurched for the toilet again but this time Phil was there.
Clint wasn’t alone and this time, for the first time in a long time, he was okay that.
Once he had managed Clint to calm down and his stomach settled, Phil helped him back to bed. He slid him under the covers and sat beside him on top of the blankets. Clint hadn’t spoken at all and to the older agent it was more than a little concerning. He had been right to keep an eye out on the younger agent. Phil knew intervention was needed and he knew exactly how to play Barton.
“You’re on medical leave until further notice.” Phil’s tone was final, leaving no room for an argument and Clint simply nodded. “I’m not going to send you to the psych but you’re going to see Doctor Banner in the morning.” More silence. “Talk to me Clint,” Phil pulled him against his shoulder and Clint crumbled. Clint couldn’t remember the last time he was held so tightly, like a lifeline. Like he, Clint Barton, was something to someone. Like he belonged. The revelation was enough to bring down the last crumbling bricks of his mile high defense.
“Stay, Phil,” and he was crying but if Phil ever asked him about it Clint would never admit to it. The last time Phil had seen Clint cry it had been all those years ago after that mission with Constance Muir. Constance was Clint’s childhood demon, the kind you checked in the closet for before you went to sleep, the kind you were afraid were going to attack you from under the bed.
Constance Muir was the only successful person to break Clint Barton.
But Constance was dead. So what on earth was doing this to Clint.
Yes, Constance Muir was the only successful person to break Clint Barton until now. Phil was a bastard and Clint would be damned if he’d ever admit it but he needed Phil
then. Phil was his lifeline, now.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Phil promised, rubbing circles into his shoulder subconsciously. “Try and get some sleep-”
Clint went rigid, “I won’t, I can’t. He’s there. He won’t let me sleep.” Clint’s voice was wavering slightly and there was a hint of hysteria.
“Who won’t, Clint?”
“Constance.” For a moment Phil squeezed Clint that little bit harder, just for that fraction of a second. There was fear even in Phil’s mind; fear for Clint. He knew about demons and he knew they were what the mind portrayed them as. It was what Clint’s mind made them that scared him the most. The silence from Phil apparently encouraged Clint to continue speaking and once he started there were few ways to shut him up. “I’ve dreamt about him every night since you brought me back. Every night now for a month. He’s always there, every time I close my eyes. And the dreams, they get worse every night. Every night it’s an even more horrific memory than the last. It’s in my head all the time, he’s under my skin. He’s gone though so I don’t understand why I’m worrying. I’ll never forget though, how can I? It’s just never been this bad, Phil-”
“Clint, calm down.”
“How can I? I-” Clint lifted his head from its spot against Phil’s chest to look at him, there was a wet spot on his dressing gown from where his face had been. Their faces were mere inches apart.
“Clint-”
“No, Coulson. How can I-”
And Phil shut him up. Clint’s argument stopped immediately.
Phil had kissed him.
He hadn’t known what else to do. Clint just wouldn’t shut up. And Phil had thought that he had made a huge mistake, because how could he be so stupid? But after a few moments, Clint kissed him back. There were no fireworks, and no spark at the contact. It wasn’t special. But it was nice and homey and comforting and it just felt like something so familiar to Clint that he held on to Phil like a lifeline because if he lost Phil, what did he have? The kiss was slow, careful, delicate almost but there was an edge of desperation, of fear of falling. Phil’s hand moved to cradle the back of Clint’s head to deepen the kiss momentarily before pulling back and for a long moment they both stared at one another in silence, waiting, pushing the other to make the first move. Clint spoke, to Phil’s relief, and the hysteria was gone. His eyes were still pained and his skin still looked taught and uncomfortable like he didn’t quite belong but his eyes, it was his eyes that spoke volumes; they held a world of truths behind them. It was plain to anyone as long as you knew what to look for in those misty grey eyes.
“Stay.”
And Phil did. He toed off his slippers and his dressing gown and slipped under the covers besides Clint. He held Clint in a tight embrace, listening to his soft breaths even out and he watched as dawn began to wash into the room. He thought it would be about time to be getting up and ready for work soon but Phil wouldn’t go. Not today.
For the first time in Clint’s entire life, he slept soundly. He didn’t dream once and it was bliss.