Agent Phil Coulson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
agent_coulson) wrote2012-05-09 09:42 pm
agent_coulson) wrote2012-05-09 09:42 pm
Middle of nowhere
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.
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.
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"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.
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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?"
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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."
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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."
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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."
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He shrugged. "Not exactly complaining about it here, sir. So what are you waiting for?"
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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.
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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."
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