Middle of nowhere

[agent_coulson]

Phil settled down into his armchair with a cup of tea. Technically it wasn't his armchair, actually, furnishings were just included in the rental, but this place was already beginning to feel like home. Or at least that's what he was telling himself. If he closed his eyes and imagined the sound of honking horns and people laughing and vendors shouting, he could almost feel like he was back in New York again.

The trouble usually started when he opened his eyes and remembered he was in Nebraska, living next to corn fields, with five channels on the television, and under strict orders not to use the phone, the internet, or let his picture be taken by anyone. That was about the time he started silently cursing at Nick Fury, although recently he'd started just cursing out loud, because no one was around to hear it anyway.

Still, he had to admit there was a certain serenity to living in the middle of farmland, miles from anyone or anything who knew the significance of the fact that he still lived and breathed, albeit sometimes painfully. Out here he was just back to being regular old Phil Coulson, the kid who'd grown up in a small Wyoming town, graduated with a class of a couple hundred, and had a dog named Soldier.

He stretched out a little and winced, setting his tea aside. The major healing was finished at this point, but he was still sore and stiff most of the time, so he tried to run through a basic physical therapy regimen every day, to get his flexibility back. The staff had just missed his heart, according to the doctors, which made him incredibly lucky, but it had ripped right through some fairly important muscles. His injuries had been nothing to laugh at, especially after finding out Fury had rubbed his trading cards in them so he could lie to the entire Avengers team.

The Avengers team. That was something else that pained him. He understood why Fury had done it, even felt like it had probably been a smart call, ruining of mint-condition trading cards aside, but the fact that they all still thought he was dead... he didn't like that. He didn't like the fact that just by continuing to sit here, in this armchair, and keep himself out of sight, he was lying to all of them.

When he'd gotten his shoulder warmed up enough to be able to lift his arm over his head, he took a break and picked up his tea, which had cooled to a good temperature. He'd picked up the morning paper from the doorstep earlier--his only link with the outside world, other than the pointless local newscasts on the television--and now he spread it open, sipping and reading, trying to pretend he wasn't more than a little homesick and restless, and if he was honest... maybe a little lonely, too.

Comments

[aimtrue]

It had been months. Months since he'd been taken by Loki, and used to assist in the Chitauri's invasion of Earth. Months since New York had been devastated by the battle. Months since Fury's plan of having a team of superhuman fighters had come to fruition. But at the steepest cost that Clint could ever imagine paying.

In the days that had followed the end of the invasion, Clint had been more subdued than usual. Most of the agents didn't notice - not that they maintained eye contact with him for longer than a brief moment at a time - but certainly Natasha had. He brushed it off as best he could, giving her empty reassurances, as he helped with the clean up of New York.

It was difficult to keep up that pretense, after she'd caught him in the S.H.I.E.L.D morgue, opening the cold chambers and whispering 'sorry' to the faces of all the agents he'd had a hand in ending the lives of. She hadn't said anything, just sat and waited. Natasha knew him well enough to know that this was something he just had to do.

There had been one body missing. That had been his first clue. He'd called Fury out on it, asked when they'd be able to put Agent Coulson to rest - it was no surprise to anyone, the closure that Clint wanted. Coulson had been his handler from the day that he'd joined S.H.I.E.L.D. Fury had brushed him off, saying that there was no body to bury. The memorial service with an empty coffin had followed a week later.

They assigned Sitwell to be his handler from that point on. Clint threw himself back into his missions, never stopping long enough to think, and on the surface remained steadfastly the same as he'd always been. Coulson had known how to handle him, had known between the jokes and barbs and gentle ribbing, that Clint was nothing if not dedicated to the mission at hand. Sitwell kept writing him up for insubordination. Sitwell was an asshole.

Something still hadn't sat right with Clint, about Coulson's death, about everything. It had been so convenient, so perfect, so- and Clint knew. He knew that Coulson never kept his cards on him - 'it could bend the corners' he'd said - so how they'd been covered in his blood, he didn't know. Didn't even want to think about what sick and twisted thing Fury might have done. And so, he might have liberated Agent Hill's clearance codes and card, to take a closer look at Coulson's file.

When it'd come back without the 'deceased' stamp all over it, and a triple encrypted address somewhere in Nebraska, he went off the grid. He didn't bring attention to himself, didn't do anything out of the ordinary. Just returned Hill's card, and went home for the night. Except home turned into a hire car and long stretches of open road, listening to that stupid CD that Coulson had insisted on on the car ride to New Mexico.

He pulled up outside a house that looked so... so damn domestic. It was a far cry from the hustle and bustle that surrounded their places back in New York. It was nice, it just wasn't where Coulson should be. It didn't feel right. He didn't care that the car wasn't parked properly, or that he hadn't slept in days. He didn't care that his pace was brisk, as he took the steps up the porch in one, and knocked unforgivingly at the door. He needed to know he was right. He needed to know.

[agent_coulson]

Phil looked up sharply when he heard the knocks, then regretted it instantly when a muscle somewhere on his left side twinged in protest. He had his paper, there was no grocery delivery scheduled for today, and there were definitely no neighbors nearby to come asking for a cup of sugar.

He stood and plucked his M9 off the coffee table, walking over to the door as he checked to make sure a round was in the chamber and flicked the safety off. He debated calling out to see who it was, but he didn't want to give his location away. They might be waiting for him to walk in front of the door, whoever it was. He wanted to retain at least a moment's worth of surprise advantage. Steeling himself, he reached out to touch the door knob--there was no peephole in this door, which seemed like an oversight on whoever had rented the house for him, but he wasn't in a position to complain right now--and threw the door open, tense and ready to shoot.

When he saw who it was, for a moment he was too surprised to move. He lowered the gun, staring at him. "...Clint. You look like hell." He tried not to dwell on the irony of him saying that when he himself was dressed in pajamas, a bathrobe, and had at least a week's worth of stubble occupying his face.

[aimtrue]

There was a bundle of nerves coiling tight in the pit of his stomach. He wasn't even certain that Coulson was actually here, it could have just been another lie from S.H.I.E.L.D. He just needed to know he was alive, that he was okay. If Coulson wasn't here, if it was some unassuming family, he could feign car trouble and ask to use the phone.

His hearing was impeccable, and the sound of the safety being taken off a gun was clear. His heart started racing, and he clenched his fist at his side. There was a gun strapped to his leg - you could never be too sure about what situation you were walking in to - but he didn't want to pull it yet. If it was Coulson, he knew that he wouldn't shoot first and ask questions later. That wasn't Coulson's style.

When Coulson came into view, gun trained on him, Clint was certain that he'd forgotten how to breathe. He was stood right in front of him, alive. He was fucking alive. He wasn't sure if the overwhelming feeling was relief, or the urge to punch him for lying, making the entire team grieve. "You... are looking pretty spry," Clint managed, voice rough and trembling. "For a dead guy."

[agent_coulson]

Phil was quiet for a moment. He didn't even dare to try and decide what emotion he was feeling right now. There was a lot of shock in there, but there was also some kind of feeling that it was right Clint had been the one to find him, that he'd been expecting this without realizing it. "Yeah. I guess you deserve an explanation. Come on in."

He stepped back from the door, then surveyed the countryside around the house. "You weren't followed by anyone, were you?" He didn't think anyone was coming for him, but there was always a possibility Loki had sent somebody to finish the job. Already he was trying to decide how much of a security risk this was, and if Fury needed to be notified, and whether he was going to be ordered to move.

[aimtrue]

Clint spared a glance behind him, pushing down the irrational fear spiking at the back of his mind that told him to never take his eyes off Coulson again. He'd lost him once already. Had grieved for some time before he'd even considered the possibility that it had been some kind of sick lie on S.H.I.E.L.D's part. He didn't even know how many people were in on it.

"No. I'm off the grid," he said, crossing the threshold. He wasn't sure how easily Coulson would read into that, he knew him better than anyone. Maybe even Natasha. When he said off the grid, he meant exactly what he said. When he didn't show up for work - and fuck, that would've been days ago, and he'd left his phone in the first hire car that he'd abandoned - they would've declared him A.W.O.L.

[agent_coulson]

Phil suppressed the urge to groan. Fury was definitely not going to be pleased about this. Then, as he closed the door behind Clint, stepping nearer to another human being than he'd been in months, a surge of something like anger appeared in his belly. So Fury wouldn't be pleased. He was almost glad about that. It was insanity, really, for him to be expected to just live in seclusion, like a monk, for an undefined amount of time, just as it was ridiculous to expect that none of the Avengers would figure out Fury's lie. It felt like he was being punished for something he hadn't done, and he hadn't clearly realized that until being a few inches away from Clint made him want to embrace the other man with a disturbing intensity. There was a brief moment of longing for human contact that he had to tamp down forcefully and step away from.

"Do you want iced tea?" he asked, walking into the adjoining kitchen, because he needed to collect himself and frankly, his mouth was going drier every second. "It's flavored with mint from the garden." His daily routine now included a little weeding and watering--slow, easy movements that worked the muscles but didn't overexert him.

[aimtrue]

Clint didn't want to think about what kind of trouble he'd get into, when he got back to headquarters. He'd been staying with the rest of the Avengers (minus Thor, who was still on Asgard) at Tony's mansion, but disappeared back to his S.H.I.E.L.D funded apartment when he needed time to himself. They were used to it, his disappearing act, so it wouldn't have raised any suspicion. He was angry, a bone-deep feeling, and he didn't trust himself to not sock Fury in the face for this one.

"Go on then," he said, following Coulson into the kitchen. He didn't want to leave much distance between them. He hated the thought that this could turn out to not be real. It was probably that fear, lurking, that had his responses a little shorter than he'd like. "Show off what your green fingers have been up to for near on half a fucking year."

[agent_coulson]

Phil winced, just slightly, but carried on taking the pitcher out of the fridge. He hesitated before reaching up to get glasses out of the cupboard. He knew they were up there, but he tended to just use the same mug all the time, and it was easier just to keep it on the counter after washing it. Bracing himself, he lifted his arms and ignored the twinge of pain that came as he pulled out two glasses. Carefully he filled both of them with ice tea and handed one to Clint, with his right hand.

"You have every right to be angry," he began, after taking a sip. "But it was necessary. To ensure the success of the Avengers Initiative." He regarded Clint thoughtfully. "They told me what happened after I checked out for a while. You, all of you... saved the world. My death is nothing compared to that."

[aimtrue]

Clint would probably regret it later. The way he quietly put the tea Coulson had made him down on the counter top, condensation gathering on the side of the glass, and trickling down. The way he took a breath, turned... and reeled his arm back and let loose. It wasn't a particularly forgiving punch, and it connected with the side of Coulson's jaw with a dull sound. He hadn't missed the slower movements, the strain. He should've felt guilty for hitting a man that for all intents and purposes should have been dead. But that was the most ridiculous and infuriating sentence that Clint had ever heard.

"You asshole," he hissed, shaking out his hand, which was throbbing painfully. "Do you not realise how fucking devastated we all were? Fuck, Steve was- he was so- Tony too. He tried to find your stupid cellist in Portland. And fine, say that I buy that line. Say I do, just for one damn second. The hell have you been holed up here for all this time? They couldn't have put us out of our misery. You were fucking dead. Fuck you."

[agent_coulson]

Phil stumbled back against the counter, barely managing to hang on to the glass in his hand. It hit the side of a drawer with a loud clink and iced tea sloshed out over his hand. He clutched at the side of his face, his expression simultaneously angry and apologetic. "I'm sorry," he managed, putting the glass behind him. "I wasn't... I've been under strict orders to stay away. Director Fury thought it would be better this way. If I come back now, I might be a target. And I'm not exactly in fighting shape, you may have noticed." He rubbed his jaw pointedly.

He straightened up. The fact that Clint had just lost control and hit him made him more worried about Clint than himself. The other man's control was usually better than that--he could be infuriating and often had a terrifying definition of "fun", but when it counted, he could summon the patience of ten nuns, waiting up there in his perches, stalking his prey.

"Are you okay?" He took a closer look at Clint, his brows knitting together in concern. "When did you last eat? Or sleep?" Suddenly something Clint had said registered in his brain. "Wait, he tried to find my cellist?"

[aimtrue]

"Director Fury is a sick bastard," Clint said, barely managing to keep any disgust out of his tone. He was feeling slightly less sorry for hitting Coulson right now, because it hadn't managed to knock any sense into him. He didn't know how to get him to see that he was about as dispensable as the other Avengers. Which was to say that he wasn't. At all. "He could have fucking told us. That you were alive. And on medical leave. He held a memorial service for you, after I got suspicious. And then he assigned Sitwell to be my handler. Sitwell. Sitwell is an asshole."

There was so much more that he wanted to say to Coulson, but his emotions were shot. He wanted to tell him how he'd missed him in his ear on missions, telling him to maintain radio silence, as Clint sang songs down it. How he'd missed the terrible coffee that he'd brought to his nest, when a mission started to run a little long. That he'd missed the look on his face when he read his mission reports - especially the one about the sandwich. That had been a good one. He wanted to tell Coulson that he'd just missed him.

"Maybe four days. But you're not making this about me." Clint picked his tea back up, ignoring the way his hand protested, and the way that - now that Coulson had brought attention to it - he was tired. He took a swig of it, before putting the glass back on the counter. "And of course he tried to find your cellist. The hell, sir? You thought we'd just leave her wondering where the fuck you'd gone? I mean, we wouldn't have. If we'd found her."

lol this is kind of teal deer, oh well

[agent_coulson]

Phil tried hard not to laugh. It was really a concerted effort, but with all this serious discussion and both of them feeling hurt and Clint being apparently starving and sleep-deprived, the mental image he was having now of Stark looking for a random cellist in Portland... god, how had he even gone about looking for her, there had to be multiple female cellists in the city... he just couldn't stop himself and he started chuckling, which turned into full-on laughter as he pictured Tony bursting into the rooms of various cello players, demanding to know if they'd slept with a man named Phil Coulson, maybe even waving a photo in their faces. God, he could never go to Portland now, or at least not the district where the musicians lived.

He tried to collect himself enough to speak. "There... there never was a cellist. That was a misheard rumor that somehow grew into something much larger than I'd anticipated and then..." He shrugged, still laughing a little. "I just let it go on." Then he sobered a little, shaking his head. "I never imagined anyone would go looking for her. I'm going to have to apologize to Stark when I get back."

He sighed heavily, that bringing an end to his amusement completely. "I'm going to have to apologize to everyone. I know that. I am sorry, Clint. If it counts for anything, I didn't really have any part in the decision to do it. I wasn't planning to get stabbed, or be out for a few days, or become part of some... secret Fury was keeping." He wanted to reach out, to put his hand on Clint's arm or squeeze his shoulder or do something, because that urge for human contact was returning and he hated the look of betrayal that had been lurking on Clint's face this whole time... but he couldn't do it. It didn't seem right.

"But then he told me what you'd done together, the six of you, and how thinking I was dead had brought you together..." Coulson shrugged, then grimaced in annoyance because that hurt, damn his body. "The Avengers Initiative is going to work, but he said the team still needed more time with a common purpose, a common anger before there was good cohesion, and if I stayed dead longer, it would provide that, at least through Phase Two." And now he was parroting back Fury's words and he couldn't even be sure if there was something beyond Clint's clearance level, because suddenly he felt about as tired as Clint looked. "I... I think my pain medication just started kicking in."

[aimtrue]

Clint didn't know how to react to the laughter, or the admission that Coulson's cellist had never been real in the first place. He was caught between the twist in his gut that it was just another lie to add to the pile of growing ones he'd been fed by someone he'd trusted, and something else. Something that felt a little bit like relief. He didn't dwell on the second feeling for long, choosing instead to remain silent, and listen to Coulson speak.

He was tired. Not just from the obvious reasons, though four days of determinedly not sleeping would do that to you. He was emotionally drained too. Six months of not know, of having no closure, though Fury had tried to force it. Of being caught between grieving and stubbornly trying to find out what had happened to Coulson, beyond Loki running him through.

He wasn't sure he could quite forgive him for staying hidden this long. Especially not for the complete bullshit he was spewing, that sounded like it was exactly what Fury had told him to say, should he be asked. "For the record, no one told me you were… dead. Until after. In that stupid Shawarma place, when I suggested we bring some back for you. Just- it's a load of shit. All we needed was time. Not… this." He sighed, leaning back against the counter, all the fight draining away. "You should go lie down."

[agent_coulson]

Phil felt sick suddenly. Fury told him the announcement had been made right away, as soon as they got him discretely down to medical, and that the grief and anger over his death had brought them together, made them fight that much harder. His death had been the key to their success, according to Fury.

But if Clint hadn't known until after... Phil had no doubts about the importance of the archer's place on the team, they would have needed him at 100%, so if not telling him had produced that... now the question of whether him being dead had really done the good Fury had said it did began to surface. He'd tried never to wonder about it before, because it was done, and the idea that he wouldn't just die and be forgotten someday was nice. Everyone wanted their own memory to live on, to have a higher purpose.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, softer this time. "I..." He tried to think of what he could say to make this better, but suddenly all those reasons why Fury was right and this was a necessary thing just seemed to pale in comparison to what he'd put people through. "I should have fought him on this one. You're right. It was selfish."

He looked over at Clint, something he'd said suddenly clicking in his head. His medication really was affecting him if it had taken him this long to process the most vital part of Clint's words. "...you haven't slept or eaten in four days?" He straightened up. "I'm not the one who needs to lie down. Jesus. Sit." He pointed at the kitchen table, a tiny island of Formica with two plastic chairs. "I'll make you something and then you're going to bed. It would be a really terrible kind of irony if you killed yourself trying to find out if I was still alive."

[aimtrue]

Clint hadn't exactly blamed the others, for not having told him about Coulson's death. Waking up with Natasha by his side, his head pulsing, and feeling slightly sick as the realisation of what he'd done washing over him, he couldn't blame her for not saying anything. She'd had to snap him back to himself quickly, efficiently, so he'd pushed any guilt away, and then they'd been charging head long into the battle for New York.

There was no doubt that Coulson's 'death' had pulled the rest of the team together, giving them a common focus, a common grief. As far as he'd heard in the aftermath, as he'd sat numb, listening, they'd been at odds with each other. Arguing about anything and everything. They'd been a team. Watching each other's backs, saving the world. They'd only grown from there. After they'd had a little time to themselves, though for Clint it'd mostly been a trip to medical and then working himself to exhaustion, sinking arrow after arrow into targets on the range. Not that Coulson needed to know that particular detail.

He didn't protest much, as he took the seat, dragging it out from the table a little. He shrugged. "It's not a big deal," he said. "I've sat up in my nest for longer. I passed a motel about eight miles back, I can go there to sleep or something."

[agent_coulson]

Phil pulled some turkey and cheese out of the fridge. "No, you can use my bed here. The sheets are clean. No discussion." He plucked a loaf of bread from where it sat beside the toaster. "Turkey sandwich okay? Mayo, extra mustard, right?"

He started making it without really waiting for an answer. It was easier to focus on a task for the moment, to give himself a reprieve from all these emotions. This was essentially what he'd been doing for the past few months, once he was able to get up and walk around: concrete tasks, every day, set out ahead of him in a fixed mental schedule. It helped him feel less lost and untethered, a real temptation when you were living in Nebraska farm country.

[aimtrue]

Clint steadfastly did not want to think about sleeping in Coulson's bed. He pushed it neatly into the 'does not mean what you think it means' part of his brain, and concentrated on watching Coulson move around the kitchen.

Now that he was looking, really looking, he could see the way he was favoring one side as he walked. His movements were slower, more considered. It'd been six months, and he was still in pain. He didn't need to ask how bad it'd been, he could tell. "Well remembered."

[agent_coulson]

"I was one sending junior agents out with lunch orders most of the time." Coulson smiled and pressed a slice of bread on top of the sandwich, then cut it down the middle and put it on a plate. He sat it in front of Clint and sat down in the other chair, putting his weight on his right hand as he lowered himself down.

"Fury's probably going to call at some point and ask if you're here." He ran his fingers back through his hair with a sigh. "This kind of blows my cover."

[aimtrue]

"Without you around, there was no one to stop me from terrorizing the junior agents," Clint said, watching as Coulson finished up making the sandwich. He rested his chin on his palm, frowning a little when he noticed how much weight he was putting on his right hand. He flicked his gaze back up, and there was a bruise darkening along Coulson's jaw too.

He shrugged, reaching for half of the sandwich and taking a bite. "Yeah, not sure I really care. You need to come home."

[agent_coulson]

"I do miss it. Nebraska is a little too peaceful." Phil shook his head. "Speaking of agents... Fury really gave you to Sitwell?" He tried to look more sympathetic than amused, but it still looked about half-and-half on his face. "Seems like Woo would have been a better choice."

[aimtrue]

Clint shot him an unimpressed look from over his sandwich. He'd been wondering if Coulson had noticed that particular detail. Apparently he had, but had been sufficiently distracted by something else to have glossed over it. But of course he'd swing the conversation back around.

He took another bite from the sandwich, which was more tearing than anything else. "I think he was trying to piss me off. According to Sitwell I'm insubordinate, reckless, and though I 'can hold a decent tune, I should not break radio silence because I want to share my musical talents with the rest of the team.'"

[agent_coulson]

"Well. He's not wrong on any of those counts. You've just gotten lucky so far with me." Phil smiled. Being exasperated by Clint on a near-daily basis had actually been one of the things he missed most, which had some implications he wasn't quite ready to explore yet. "I cut you a lot of slack. Do you actually write reports for him, or have you just moved on to writing... sonnets to cupcakes or something like that?"

[aimtrue]

"Huh. A sonnet to a cupcake? That's actually not a bad idea," Clint said, an easy smile slipping onto his face. It was as simple as that. Some of the tension that had been there had fallen away, as they settled back into an old routine. Coulson passing him food, and talking about Clint's nonsense.

"I haven't actually turned a report in for him." Fury hadn't pushed him for them, either. He'd tried once. Clint had come straight off a mission, and went to the target range, and spent hour after hour sinking arrows into the bullseye. One particularly aggressive shot, that had gone through the target had stopped Fury from asking again. He picked at the edge of his sandwich, not meeting Coulson's eye. "Didn't feel like it."

[agent_coulson]

Phil groaned and rolled his eyes, but he was grinning. "Great. Just make sure to include some real information before or after the sonnet, okay?"

He sighed. "You really should cut him some slack. Agents can't close their files on an incident until every asset turns in their report. Sitwell's probably not used to having that many open files." Phil, of course, had become accustomed to having fifteen or more open at a time. He usually existed in a kind of carefully regulated chaos that seemed to stress the junior agents out when they tried to figure out and emulate his system. "And he's a good man, at heart. Just... wrapped in a particularly difficult package."

[aimtrue]

Clint slipped into silence, not certain what to say. It wasn't that Sitwell was a bad man, that wasn't it at all. For an Agent, he was pretty all right. He certainly wasn't the worst, in any case. Clint just didn't want him as his handler. At least on his solo missions. The Avengers were currently under the guidance of Maria Hill. And damn, she was going to kick his ass half way across the country for him stealing her access, he just knew it.

He pushed the sandwich away. He'd eaten half, which was more than he'd managed in four days. It would do for now. He'd get his appetite back when his emotions didn't feel like they were jumbling around inside him, like it was a spin cycle. "He's not you."

[agent_coulson]

Now Phil went quiet. There was more in that than just a subtle compliment for his prowess with paperwork. He was pretty sure, actually, that Clint didn't care about paperwork in the slightest. Their history was long and more interesting in places than he was officially allowed to admit, but there'd always been something more than just a particularly symbiotic working relationship.

If pressed, Phil might have to admit their working relationship wasn't even that functional, really. They got the job done, but there were fewer bureaucratic headaches involved with nearly every other asset he handled. Still, it was his favorite. Had been his favorite.

There was nothing he could say back to that, nothing safe enough, that didn't take them both to a place he wasn't ready to admit existed, so he nodded at the sandwich. "How was it?"

[aimtrue]

Clint welcomed the opportunity to retreat back into himself. He couldn't honestly believe he'd said that so easily, so freely. He wasn't exactly a guy prone to opening up about anything - whatever people knew about him, they learned from his SHIELD file. With Coulson choosing not to acknowledge what he'd said, and to gloss over it, told him that this wasn't the right time.

"Fine, good." He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly feeling weary and drained. "Just. No appetite."

[agent_coulson]

Phil nodded, standing up. He felt slightly irritated at himself, but he couldn't pinpoint why. There was just a nagging feeling that he'd missed something. "You need to get some sleep. I'll wrap the rest up for you. Bedroom's this way." He started walking down the hall, toward the large master bedroom, glancing back to make sure Clint was following him.

Inside the room, he waved his hand at the bed. "Like I said, clean sheets. Bathroom's attached through there, if you want to take a shower." He pointed at the door in the corner. "And there's clothing in the closet, mostly jeans and t-shirts, help yourself." The majority of his wardrobe here was bought at Wal-Mart, his suits all still hanging up neatly in his apartment back home. He'd gotten used to the feel of cheap fabric, but that didn't mean he was bringing any of it back with him when he finally left.

"Do you need anything else?" He hesitated in the doorway, watching Clint. It still felt like there was something he was supposed to say, some opportunity he was missing here, but he didn't trust himself to just start talking. Not when he was trying to pretend it wasn't an enormous relief just to not be alone out here any more, and the Vicodin was making him feel kind of loose and stupid.

[aimtrue]

Clint followed behind him, his movements sluggish. It was strange how, when you'd reached your goal, all the adrenaline that had kept you going washed away. He was quiet, quieter than Coulson had ever seen him. Clint was usually full of chatter, filling up the silence with stories, or jokes, or song. But not this time. He was far to exhausted to even try, and he'd used up all of his energy on the fighting when Coulson had answered the door.

Had he been more awake, he'd've probably passed a comment on Coulson forgoing his clean, crisp suits, for faded t-shirts and jeans. He wouldn't wear something of Coulson's, not yet. As much as he knew it'd comfort him - being surrounded by something he'd worn, knowing that they were his, and he was alive - it was too soon.

He shook his head, crossing over to the bed, and running his fingers over the sheets. "Wake me up when you want to sleep. I'll move to the couch."

[agent_coulson]

Phil shrugged, giving him a little smile. "Sleep as long as you want. I end up passing out on the couch half the time anyway. Another night won't make a difference." He hesitated, then gestured awkwardly. "Well. Have a good rest."

He turned to head down the hall and give Clint his privacy, settling back onto the armchair in the living room and picking up the paper again. It was hard to concentrate on reading, though, knowing that Clint was in his bedroom, just forty-odd feet away. After a half hour of not absorbing anything he was reading, he headed outside to do his daily gardening.

By the time evening fell, he'd gotten some weeding done and taken a shower--he'd tried very hard to stay quiet and not look when he snuck through the bedroom to the bathroom, but he hadn't been able to completely keep his eyes averted and seeing Clint sprawled out in his underwear had made his shower a little uncomfortable. He didn't know if it was just the drugs or the time alone that was bringing up a lot of thoughts he managed to not think most of the time, but whatever it was, they kept creeping in and making him feel somewhat ashamed and somewhat aroused.

He made himself a bowl of cereal for dinner and watched Cake Wars while he ate, then when it turned out to be a marathon, he just kept the TV on, watching episode after episode of people building enormous, intricate cakes and then dropping half of them with shrieks of horror. He chuckled to himself every time it happened.

[aimtrue]

As soon as Coulson left him to himself, Clint went on automatic. Much as he didn't want to have Coulson out of his sight, he knew that he needed to sleep. It was an irrational thought that plagued him, as he stripped down to his underwear, that Coulson wouldn't be there when he woke. He'd found him, alive and well, and Coulson wasn't going anywhere.

He folded his clothes over once, draping them over a chair in the corner of the room, before slipping under the sheets. The pillow was cool against his skin, and his eyelids drooped heavily. The scent clinging to the fabric wasn't familiar, it was different, and he wondered it Coulson just couldn't get his usual bodywash out here. Or his usual cologne. It left him feeling a little off balance. It wasn't the biggest change, but it was different enough to make Clint take notice of it.

His sleep was dreamless and deep, both of those unusual. As an agent, he typically slept light, the chance that someone could ambush you at your most vulnerable was always hanging over your head. He couldn't dare to sleep to deeply. He thought he heard someone moving around the room, but it didn't make him stir. He just curled into the sheets some more, though he'd managed to tangle around them in his sleep, and kept on resting.

He woke barely a few hours later, certainly not after enough sleep for how long he'd been awake. He rubbed blearily at his eyes, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, and getting to his feet. He grabbed the first t-shirt his hands landed on from the drawer, tugging it over his head, as he padded out into the main room. Coulson was sat, watching- huh. He'd've put money on SuperNanny. "I prefer Ace of Cakes," he said, moving over to the couch, and sinking down onto it.

[agent_coulson]

Phil jerked a little when he heard Clint's voice. He'd almost forgotten he wasn't alone in the house anymore. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the fact that he'd let his guard down that much concerned him--he was losing his edge, out here in the middle of nowhere--but then the more important fact that Clint was a) wearing one of Phil's shirts and b) still in his underwear, eclipsed any worry he was feeling about his situational awareness. Suddenly he was all too aware of the situation.

He cleared his throat, averting his eyes just like he had in the bedroom. "I can't get Ace of Cakes out here. There's five channels, and two of them are news, one's a religious station, and the other two don't seem to be any identifiable network. Just... whatever shows they've bought rights to." Feeling Clint so close to him on the couch was making it hard to concentrate on the show, or even what he was saying. Had he meant to sit this close to Phil? They were nearly touching, his bare thigh just inches away from Phil's pajama-covered leg.

For a second time, he cleared his throat--desperately, as if doing it again might also clear away the need he was feeling. "Did you sleep well? You weren't in there very long." He turned to look at Clint, then regretted it, because again he was too close, and it would be so easy just to... lean forward. The hand on the opposite side of his body clenched into a tight fist, bunching up some of the couch cushion inside it.

[aimtrue]

Clint hadn't meant to startle Coulson. He hadn't even realised that he'd been treading so lightly, though it was force of habit now, more than anything. Having to be silent was kind of paramour to keeping yourself alive in his field. If he made too much noise, he'd probably end up six feet under before his mission had even begun. It was almost telling, how long Coulson had been out here, that he couldn't even tell when Clint was hovering around any more. He used to be one of the few, bar Natasha, that was always just aware of his presence.

"That sucks," he said, sparing Coulson a side long glance. He wasn't about to get used to him being in civvies any time soon. He'd never really been around Coulson with him wearing anything other than his crisp and pristine suits. It was… novel. He kinda liked it. "That Duff guy is the best. I can get on board with his bacon-everything idea."

He grinned, briefly, but it slipped as Coulson cleared his throat a second time. There was a spike of worry at that, and he nudged his knee against Coulson's, brow furrowing. "I got enough. Don't worry about me. Need me to grab you something?"

[agent_coulson]

Phil felt a little shiver when Clint's knee touched his, and it was more terrifying than anything else. He glanced over at him again. Why wasn't he wearing a pair of jeans, slacks, anything? It wasn't cold here, but it wasn't tropical weather, either. There was no reason for it, unless Clint just made it a habit not to wear them when he was at home.

"No," he managed, after a moment. "No, I'm fine. Unless you want to grab the rest of your sandwich. It's in the fridge." He'd started to feel quite legitimately warm now, and he doubted all of that was from Clint's body heat alone. More likely his own body's reaction to it was the force behind the slight flush he felt in his cheeks.

"Clint?" He cleared his throat for a third time. "Is there a reason you don't have pants on?" He said it delicately, in a tone that made it clear he was willing to accept that their might be, and was simply curious.

[aimtrue]

"Nah, I'm good," Clint said, yawning a little, and stretching his arms out over his head. He arched his back as he did it, working out any kinks from sleeping. "I'm not really hungry. Maybe in the morning, or something."

He dropped his arms then, giving Coulson a glance. Fuck. He hadn't even really been thinking when he'd walked out in his underwear. It was just something he did. But he wasn't going to drop the opportunity for a little teasing. He hadn't been able to tease Coulson for a long time. Thought he wouldn't be able to ever again. "Hm? Should I be wearing them, sir?"

[agent_coulson]

Phil took a deep breath, trying hard to ignore the curve of Clint's back as he stretched. Now Clint was just playing with him. He gave him a Look. "It's commonly accepted practice, yes." Despite his every wish to the contrary, he was starting to get a bit hard. He'd spent hours with Clint, knew his face and his body as well as anybody could, but there was still a line that they'd never crossed. He knew what those arms and that back looked like, but he didn't know what they felt like under his fingers. And God help him, he wanted to.

The last point of conscious thought before his body apparently made the decision for him was that Clint could, at least, push him off with impressive force if he wanted to. Phil actually braced a little for the impact as he shifted and turned toward Clint, putting a hand on his shoulder and kissing him, roughly. A split-second later, his mind caught up with what his body was doing, and he jerked his lips back, gasping, "I'm sorry--damn it."

[aimtrue]

Clint had tipped his head back and laughed at the comment, a little pleased that he'd risen to the bait. It was always fun when that happened, and Clint enjoyed pushing at him, inch by inch. Trying to see how far he could go, and where it would take him.

Coulson grabbing his shoulder and pressing a rough kiss to his lips was not where he thought it would go.

It gave him a rush of adrenaline akin to the way he'd felt when he'd first learned that Coulson was still alive. He'd always felt an attraction to him, something that'd settled just beneath his skin and lingered, but he'd figured it would never go anywhere. He teased, and flirted, and pushed. Apparently Coulson could push back.

He thought he understood it. Six months out here alone, with no one and nothing, and it was bound to manifest somehow. That loneliness. Clint could give him this, at least. If Coulson wanted it. If he needed it. He liked the guy, more than he should, so he kind of wanted it too. "I'm not," he said. "Sorry, that is."

[agent_coulson]

Phil watched him closely, trying to make his own heart stop pounding. "Are you sure? I didn't mean to just... attack you." He sighed. "I think it's the medication, it's kind of... lowering my inhibitions." He laughed, with a hint of self-deprecation. This went beyond just having lessened inhibitions, into sexual harassment territory, but the fact that Clint hadn't pushed him away already, had in fact basically said he didn't mind... it was just stoking the warmth he could feel building in his stomach.

He reached up to stroke his fingers through a bit of Clint's hair, just above his temple, a quiet look on his face. "This probably isn't how you imagined the first 24 hours would go if you found me alive."

[aimtrue]

"If that was you 'attacking' me..." Clint said, letting the implication linger. There was a grin, teasing at the corner of his lips. Now he was a little curious too, about what would happen if Coulson let go of those inhibitions entirely.

He shrugged. "Not exactly complaining about it here, sir. So what are you waiting for?"

[agent_coulson]

Phil sucked in a little breath and let the last thing stopping him--doubt, fear, embarrassment--fall away. Sliding an arm around Clint's waist, he grabbed him and pushed him down against the couch, moving his own body on top of him. There was a twinge of pain from the left side of his chest, but he ignored it. He was doing more important things now.

The kiss this time was deep, firm, and he coaxed Clint's mouth open without hesitation. Now that he'd been given permission, it was like he was moving through an entire library of muscle memory that he'd been slowly building in the back of his mind: Things I Want To Do To Clint, Pt. 1. His knees settled on either side of Clint's hips, and he ground down as he kissed him, making himself gasp against Clint's lips. His fingers tangled in Clint's hair: half-caressing, half-pulling. There was something achingly intimate about doing thing on a couch, in a farmhouse, while he was in his pajamas and Clint was in his underwear.

His other hand moved down to explore Clint's chest, his arms--Phil spent a while touching his arms, stroking them, feeling the ripple of muscles he knew so well on sight. Then finally he moved back to his chest again, sliding his hand under the t-shirt to touch the lines of muscle and ribs, and carefully thumbing the two hardening nubs that sat a bit higher. He felt like he could stay like this all night, just devouring Clint with his hands and his mouth.

[aimtrue]

Clint's breath left him in a rush, as Coulson pushed him back on the couch. He was still surprisingly strong, despite labored movements from an injury that had everyone thinking him dead. He didn't want to jerk him too much, allowing Coulson move at a pace that would keep him comfortable.

This would be incredibly cruel if he woke up and was alone in bed - and it definitely wouldn't have been the first time - because fuck. It hit him suddenly and intensely how much he wanted and had wanted Coulson. He opened his mouth to him easily, kissing back just as firmly. He moved up into Coulson's touches and caresses, smirking when he gasped against his lips. That was a good sound. He could get used to hearing that sound.

Fuck, but then he was moving his hands under his shirt, and it was Clint's turn to make a sound. Low, in the back of his throat. He broke the kiss briefly, murmuring against his lips. "Y'know. I think I've seen this episode."

[agent_coulson]

Phil laughed, weakly, too aroused to really devote much oxygen to it. That sound that Clint had made went straight through him, curling in his groin. He wanted to make Clint produce all kinds of other sounds. "Yeah, me too. They drop the Finding Nemo cake." He pulled back a little, looking at Clint with slightly blown pupils. "Bed?"

[aimtrue]

Clint stretched out underneath him, his back arching, as he fumbled to reach the remote. His fingers curled around it, tugging it into view, and he clicked the power button. He dropped the remote to the floor, not really caring where it landed, before pulling Coulson back in for another kiss. It was slow and deliberate, with all the patience that Clint usually reserved for his missions. "Would it be more comfortable for you?"

[agent_coulson]

"It--" Phil wanted to say it didn't matter, but it kind of did, right now. He hated that it was a consideration. "Probably, yes." Part of him wondered if getting up and going back to the bedroom would break whatever spell they were under out here. "Or we could just stay out here and keep doing this," he offered, kissing Clint back and settling more of his weight onto him.