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FIC: All Elbows (Avengers)
Wow, two stories posted in just over a week. That's a record.
All Elbows
[AO3]
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neery's trope meme response, for the prompt 'Clint/Coulson, forced to share a bed'. Thanks as always to inmyriadbits for the beta.
2004
When they came into the safehouse, Clint tossed his bag on the right side of the bed, and Coulson...twitched. There was really no other word for it.
Clint eyed him warily, then slowly picked up the bag again. "Did you want the side near the door?"
"Yes, thank you," Coulson said, a little too fast.
"Okay," Clint agreed easily, moving around to the other side of the bed. He could sleep anywhere as long as he wasn't cold, and Brunei was pretty fucking balmy. And although he hadn’t worked with Coulson before, the guy had been remarkably non-assholish during the op; Clint might as well avoid pissing off yet another fellow agent. They were going to be stuck in this one-bed shithole safehouse for another three days until the monsoon subsided, and it'd be nice to have someone to cheat at cards with. Coulson had a good poker face pretty much all the time, so Clint was looking forward to the challenge.
Kicking off his boots, Clint stretched sleepily and wandered into the bathroom. It immediately became obvious why the place was such a shithole: they'd blown their whole budget on a miniature water purifier/rain collector/shower system, and it was beautiful. Clint instantly forgave everything else, because that was clearly the correct goddamn decision.
He decided on a quick rinse-off, not wanting to use all the water -- he could totally be considerate, unlike some people, Natasha. If the rain kept coming down like it was, he’d be able to take another in the morning, anyway, when he’d be more awake to appreciate it.
Once he was blissfully free of the fourteen layers of mud and sweat he’d accumulated, and redressed in clean clothes, he sauntered back into the main room.
Coulson was remaking the bed.
With hospital corners.
"Um," Clint said, stumbling to a halt. Coulson smiled up at him, bland and inquiring, like that was a totally normal thing to do after three days on the run evading HYDRA goons and sleeping in the rough.
In the face of such unswerving nonchalance, Clint settled for, "Shower's free."
Coulson raised an eyebrow, clearly dubious about the water quality and, by extension, Clint's decision to indulge. Clint grinned at him. "Stark Cyclone system in the bathroom," he said, waggling his eyebrows. "There's even water pressure."
"If I ever meet Tony Stark I might kiss him," Coulson said, his smile deepening in real pleasure. His whole face relaxed into the smile, and Clint noticed the left side of his mouth pulled up a little more than the right, creasing an intriguing angular dent into the stubble on his cheeks.
"Me and R&D are already having his babies for that new composite they're putting out," Clint said lightly, making himself look away. Staring at a dude's lips was always a bad idea, especially with ex-military guys like Coulson. Don't ask, don't tell, and don't fucking look. "Dibs."
Coulson shrugged, conceding the point as he made a beeline for the shower. “I’ll settle for trophy wife,” he said dryly, and closed the door firmly behind him. Clint laughed and flopped back on the freshly-made bed, wriggling until the sheets loosened out of their rigid tucks and wrinkled comfortably beneath him.
By the time Coulson made it out of the bathroom, Clint was up again and digging through the stack of storage boxes near the hot plate. The whole corner was masquerading as a kitchen, but in lieu of a sink, there was a giant case of bottled water, and Clint couldn’t find any food other than MREs. Fancy. The unknown agent who stocked this place was lucky that shower had been so amazing.
“Toss me one of the waters?” Coulson asked, crossing the room and kneeling by the bed, where he started smoothing the sheets flat again -- which was stupid, in Clint’s opinion, since they were just going to sleep on them. But Clint felt vaguely guilty for making Coulson go through the effort again when he looked so tired, so he flipped a bottle in a long arc towards the bed. Coulson caught it neatly in mid-air without looking up, then set it precisely on the floor below his pillow. The way Coulson did it was a little odd -- weirdly formal, even for a guy who wore suits to the tropics -- but hydration was important, Clint supposed.
Shoving the last piece of an MRE pound cake in his mouth, Clint snagged a second bottle of water for himself and walked around the bed. As he pulled back the sheets, he saw Coulson pull a Glock out of his holster and move to place it under his pillow, and Clint reflexively said, “Oh, hell no.”
Coulson pursed his lips. “The safety’s on,” he said, with just enough condescension to make Clint grit his teeth.
“Yeah, thanks, I did get handgun training,” Clint snapped. He could use guns; he didn’t have to like them. “And that’s exactly what Natasha said, right before she nearly shot me for kicking her in my sleep.”
“My reflexes aren’t quite as hair-trigger as the Black Widow’s,” Coulson said, lifting a sardonic eyebrow.
“Not gonna risk it,” Clint said firmly. “Floor’s good enough.” He held his breath, hoping Coulson wasn’t going to pull any ‘senior agent’ crap on him.
Coulson clenched his jaw, his mouth pulling down -- no sign of that smile now, Clint thought regretfully -- but bent to place the gun next to his water.
Covertly, Clint breathed a sigh of relief. Then, victorious, he flopped down on the bed and let his weight sink into the mattress. The sheets were a little scratchy, but the pillow was cool and soft; Clint rubbed his cheek over it in satisfaction. On the other side of the bed, Coulson climbed in, his movements so neat and restrained that the sheets didn’t even twitch on Clint’s side. He grinned in appreciation -- Coulson was pretty fucking ninja in all things, apparently.
He drifted, the sheets warming to his skin and the soft mattress pulling him down into sleep, nothing but the sound of rain washing down, washing away....
Then Coulson sat up abruptly. Clint jerked his eyes open, adrenaline dragging against his exhaustion-- but Coulson was just looking over the side of the bed at his gun. Clint rolled his eyes in irritation, and firmly shut them again. He didn’t get why a guy with Coulson’s hand-to-hand skills would be like that, but lots of agents were stupidly attached to their guns. Clint had lost, broken, or had to abandon enough bows in his lifetime that he didn’t see the point.
The rain on the tin roof reminded him of the old trailer he’d slept in at the circus, comforting and familiar, and sleep crept up on him -- and then Coulson did it again. Clint rolled away onto his side and blew out a mostly-silent sigh. The guy had fallen asleep next to a crate of Durian fruit two nights ago; maybe he needed to readjust to not being in the field. Or something.
Clint really just wanted to sleep.
Five minutes later, Coulson sat up again, and Clint’s control snapped.
“What the hell, sir? Is the gun that important? You’re acting like a four-year-old who’s missing his teddy bear.” Belatedly, he realized that was maybe a little ruder than he’d intended - but for fuck’s sake, he was exhausted, and this was ridiculous.
Coulson tensed. “And I suppose you would be the expert on childish behavior,” he said icily, and Clint flushed.
“Fuck you,” he snarled, sitting up and ripping the sheets away. He knew it, he fucking knew it. Coulson had looked him up, and found that fucking memo.
Officially, Clint had been cited for “unprofessional conduct on comms during a covert operation,” but he’d maybe chanced to see the original report from Agent Sanders, a year ago when it happened. The phrases “childish behavior,” “unwarranted disrespect” and “insufficient preparation” had featured prominently. The way Clint remembered it, Clint had been fresh out of training and nervous and Sanders had been near-silent and reluctant to pass along details, so Clint had filled the silence with questions and commentary. Sanders never said anything to Clint about shutting up. Clint even thought it had gone well, until he got slapped with that citation. The memory still burned, but he’d corrected the problem; now he got lots of “silent but creepy” jokes instead.
He’d talked to Coulson, though. It was hard to resist all those sly cracks - noticing them was half the challenge, but coming up with a good rejoinder was the real fun. Coulson had played along, even seemed to enjoy it, too - but maybe his poker face was just better than Clint realized.
A hand closed on his wrist, and Clint jolted and swung around, one fist half-raised. Coulson backed off instantly, his hands spread.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “That was pretty hypocritical of me.”
After a moment, Clint shrugged. He was too fucking tired to fight, sick of the same bullshit over and over again. “We’re both tired,” he said gruffly. “Forget it.” He turned away, slouching on the edge of the bed.
“No,” Coulson said unexpectedly. “No, you’ve been nothing but professional and competent on this op; Sanders was a moron. And in the interests of working with you again, I think I owe you an explanation.”
“If you think it’s necessary, sir,” Clint said, not turning around.
Coulson took a deep breath, then sighed it out again without saying anything. The sheets rustled, and Clint tilted his head a little to see Coulson shuffle up to lean against the wall. His eyes were steady on Clint’s face, and Clint wondered if he’d moved up for a better angle to see his expression; stubbornly, Clint turned away again, hiding his face.
“I have trouble sleeping, when I’m not in the field,” Coulson began abruptly. “Or I sleep like I’m still there - very lightly. It’s not healthy, so I...trained myself to respond to certain environmental signals.”
“You mind elaborating for the more childish among us?” Clint drawled. It was petty, but satisfying, and he looked back for Coulson’s reaction.
“Of course,” was all Coulson said, though his mouth twisted a little. “I set up the room in a specific way, so when I wake up, I see the bottle of water, or feel the gun under my head, and the sheets are the way I like them. My brain recognizes that I’m safe, and I can fall asleep again without waking up every time my neighbor takes out her garbage.” He shrugged, his eyes flickering away. “I don’t like talking about it, but that’s my problem. I shouldn’t have made it yours.”
For a long moment, Clint studied Coulson. His hands were folded calmly in his lap, but his shoulders were tight, braced against...whatever Clint’s reaction was going to be. Like it mattered to him.
Coulson didn’t have to explain, but he had. And Clint didn’t have to understand - but he thought about the way he looked for exits every time he entered a room, the way he felt when he had to report to Medical, and he got it. He wasn’t the only one carrying shit around.
“Okay, you can put the gun back,” Clint said finally. “But does it have to be loaded?”
Coulson laughed, clearly a little surprised, his shoulders loosening. “No, I guess not. But you have to defend us if anyone unfriendly shows up.”
“Hell no,” Clint said, grinning back. “You owe me one, you take them. I’m going back to sleep.”
“That’s appropriate,” Coulson said gravely. “You do sleep like the dead.”
Clint groaned, flopping back down and burying his face in the pillow. “Oh, god, sleep already. Bad puns are not your forte, sir.”
“I’ll leave them to you, Barton.”
“Damn straight,” Clint mumbled, and slept.
2012
Phil woke up in an unfamiliar room. The light on the ceiling was all wrong, and his chest hurt, very distantly. He turned his head automatically to check - but no, there was a cannula pulling across his face, machines beeping, he was in a hospital -
There was a bottle of water on the bedside table. It was sealed, and the label was turned neatly to face him. Something hard pressed through the pillow as he moved: the familiar shape of a Glock under his head.
He rolled his head back in the other direction, and found Clint sprawled in a chair by the side of the bed, his fingers tucked loosely into the palm of Phil’s hand. Phil squeezed gently, and Clint shot upright, blinking away sleep. His eyes were blue-green-gold, and kind.
“We won,” Phil said hoarsely, and it wasn’t a question.
“Yeah,” Clint replied softly, cupping Phil’s cheek, his thumb tracing the corner of Phil’s mouth. “We did. Noticed the stuff, huh?”
Phil felt his smile deepen under Clint’s fingers. “Hospital corners,” he murmured. “That’s funny.”
Clint huffed a little laugh. “Thought you’d appreciate that.”
“I appreciate you,” Phil said, and it came out embarrassingly sincere. Stupid opiates.
But Clint didn’t tease for once, just said, “I appreciate you, too.” He looked sad for a moment, and added awkwardly, “Thanks for not dying.”
“You, too,” Phil said, and Clint made a soft, helpless noise, and kissed him.
Phil closed his eyes, and kissed back. This was the only thing he’d really needed to wake up to.
All Elbows
[AO3]
Written as
neery's trope meme response, for the prompt 'Clint/Coulson, forced to share a bed'. Thanks as always to inmyriadbits for the beta.2004
When they came into the safehouse, Clint tossed his bag on the right side of the bed, and Coulson...twitched. There was really no other word for it.
Clint eyed him warily, then slowly picked up the bag again. "Did you want the side near the door?"
"Yes, thank you," Coulson said, a little too fast.
"Okay," Clint agreed easily, moving around to the other side of the bed. He could sleep anywhere as long as he wasn't cold, and Brunei was pretty fucking balmy. And although he hadn’t worked with Coulson before, the guy had been remarkably non-assholish during the op; Clint might as well avoid pissing off yet another fellow agent. They were going to be stuck in this one-bed shithole safehouse for another three days until the monsoon subsided, and it'd be nice to have someone to cheat at cards with. Coulson had a good poker face pretty much all the time, so Clint was looking forward to the challenge.
Kicking off his boots, Clint stretched sleepily and wandered into the bathroom. It immediately became obvious why the place was such a shithole: they'd blown their whole budget on a miniature water purifier/rain collector/shower system, and it was beautiful. Clint instantly forgave everything else, because that was clearly the correct goddamn decision.
He decided on a quick rinse-off, not wanting to use all the water -- he could totally be considerate, unlike some people, Natasha. If the rain kept coming down like it was, he’d be able to take another in the morning, anyway, when he’d be more awake to appreciate it.
Once he was blissfully free of the fourteen layers of mud and sweat he’d accumulated, and redressed in clean clothes, he sauntered back into the main room.
Coulson was remaking the bed.
With hospital corners.
"Um," Clint said, stumbling to a halt. Coulson smiled up at him, bland and inquiring, like that was a totally normal thing to do after three days on the run evading HYDRA goons and sleeping in the rough.
In the face of such unswerving nonchalance, Clint settled for, "Shower's free."
Coulson raised an eyebrow, clearly dubious about the water quality and, by extension, Clint's decision to indulge. Clint grinned at him. "Stark Cyclone system in the bathroom," he said, waggling his eyebrows. "There's even water pressure."
"If I ever meet Tony Stark I might kiss him," Coulson said, his smile deepening in real pleasure. His whole face relaxed into the smile, and Clint noticed the left side of his mouth pulled up a little more than the right, creasing an intriguing angular dent into the stubble on his cheeks.
"Me and R&D are already having his babies for that new composite they're putting out," Clint said lightly, making himself look away. Staring at a dude's lips was always a bad idea, especially with ex-military guys like Coulson. Don't ask, don't tell, and don't fucking look. "Dibs."
Coulson shrugged, conceding the point as he made a beeline for the shower. “I’ll settle for trophy wife,” he said dryly, and closed the door firmly behind him. Clint laughed and flopped back on the freshly-made bed, wriggling until the sheets loosened out of their rigid tucks and wrinkled comfortably beneath him.
By the time Coulson made it out of the bathroom, Clint was up again and digging through the stack of storage boxes near the hot plate. The whole corner was masquerading as a kitchen, but in lieu of a sink, there was a giant case of bottled water, and Clint couldn’t find any food other than MREs. Fancy. The unknown agent who stocked this place was lucky that shower had been so amazing.
“Toss me one of the waters?” Coulson asked, crossing the room and kneeling by the bed, where he started smoothing the sheets flat again -- which was stupid, in Clint’s opinion, since they were just going to sleep on them. But Clint felt vaguely guilty for making Coulson go through the effort again when he looked so tired, so he flipped a bottle in a long arc towards the bed. Coulson caught it neatly in mid-air without looking up, then set it precisely on the floor below his pillow. The way Coulson did it was a little odd -- weirdly formal, even for a guy who wore suits to the tropics -- but hydration was important, Clint supposed.
Shoving the last piece of an MRE pound cake in his mouth, Clint snagged a second bottle of water for himself and walked around the bed. As he pulled back the sheets, he saw Coulson pull a Glock out of his holster and move to place it under his pillow, and Clint reflexively said, “Oh, hell no.”
Coulson pursed his lips. “The safety’s on,” he said, with just enough condescension to make Clint grit his teeth.
“Yeah, thanks, I did get handgun training,” Clint snapped. He could use guns; he didn’t have to like them. “And that’s exactly what Natasha said, right before she nearly shot me for kicking her in my sleep.”
“My reflexes aren’t quite as hair-trigger as the Black Widow’s,” Coulson said, lifting a sardonic eyebrow.
“Not gonna risk it,” Clint said firmly. “Floor’s good enough.” He held his breath, hoping Coulson wasn’t going to pull any ‘senior agent’ crap on him.
Coulson clenched his jaw, his mouth pulling down -- no sign of that smile now, Clint thought regretfully -- but bent to place the gun next to his water.
Covertly, Clint breathed a sigh of relief. Then, victorious, he flopped down on the bed and let his weight sink into the mattress. The sheets were a little scratchy, but the pillow was cool and soft; Clint rubbed his cheek over it in satisfaction. On the other side of the bed, Coulson climbed in, his movements so neat and restrained that the sheets didn’t even twitch on Clint’s side. He grinned in appreciation -- Coulson was pretty fucking ninja in all things, apparently.
He drifted, the sheets warming to his skin and the soft mattress pulling him down into sleep, nothing but the sound of rain washing down, washing away....
Then Coulson sat up abruptly. Clint jerked his eyes open, adrenaline dragging against his exhaustion-- but Coulson was just looking over the side of the bed at his gun. Clint rolled his eyes in irritation, and firmly shut them again. He didn’t get why a guy with Coulson’s hand-to-hand skills would be like that, but lots of agents were stupidly attached to their guns. Clint had lost, broken, or had to abandon enough bows in his lifetime that he didn’t see the point.
The rain on the tin roof reminded him of the old trailer he’d slept in at the circus, comforting and familiar, and sleep crept up on him -- and then Coulson did it again. Clint rolled away onto his side and blew out a mostly-silent sigh. The guy had fallen asleep next to a crate of Durian fruit two nights ago; maybe he needed to readjust to not being in the field. Or something.
Clint really just wanted to sleep.
Five minutes later, Coulson sat up again, and Clint’s control snapped.
“What the hell, sir? Is the gun that important? You’re acting like a four-year-old who’s missing his teddy bear.” Belatedly, he realized that was maybe a little ruder than he’d intended - but for fuck’s sake, he was exhausted, and this was ridiculous.
Coulson tensed. “And I suppose you would be the expert on childish behavior,” he said icily, and Clint flushed.
“Fuck you,” he snarled, sitting up and ripping the sheets away. He knew it, he fucking knew it. Coulson had looked him up, and found that fucking memo.
Officially, Clint had been cited for “unprofessional conduct on comms during a covert operation,” but he’d maybe chanced to see the original report from Agent Sanders, a year ago when it happened. The phrases “childish behavior,” “unwarranted disrespect” and “insufficient preparation” had featured prominently. The way Clint remembered it, Clint had been fresh out of training and nervous and Sanders had been near-silent and reluctant to pass along details, so Clint had filled the silence with questions and commentary. Sanders never said anything to Clint about shutting up. Clint even thought it had gone well, until he got slapped with that citation. The memory still burned, but he’d corrected the problem; now he got lots of “silent but creepy” jokes instead.
He’d talked to Coulson, though. It was hard to resist all those sly cracks - noticing them was half the challenge, but coming up with a good rejoinder was the real fun. Coulson had played along, even seemed to enjoy it, too - but maybe his poker face was just better than Clint realized.
A hand closed on his wrist, and Clint jolted and swung around, one fist half-raised. Coulson backed off instantly, his hands spread.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “That was pretty hypocritical of me.”
After a moment, Clint shrugged. He was too fucking tired to fight, sick of the same bullshit over and over again. “We’re both tired,” he said gruffly. “Forget it.” He turned away, slouching on the edge of the bed.
“No,” Coulson said unexpectedly. “No, you’ve been nothing but professional and competent on this op; Sanders was a moron. And in the interests of working with you again, I think I owe you an explanation.”
“If you think it’s necessary, sir,” Clint said, not turning around.
Coulson took a deep breath, then sighed it out again without saying anything. The sheets rustled, and Clint tilted his head a little to see Coulson shuffle up to lean against the wall. His eyes were steady on Clint’s face, and Clint wondered if he’d moved up for a better angle to see his expression; stubbornly, Clint turned away again, hiding his face.
“I have trouble sleeping, when I’m not in the field,” Coulson began abruptly. “Or I sleep like I’m still there - very lightly. It’s not healthy, so I...trained myself to respond to certain environmental signals.”
“You mind elaborating for the more childish among us?” Clint drawled. It was petty, but satisfying, and he looked back for Coulson’s reaction.
“Of course,” was all Coulson said, though his mouth twisted a little. “I set up the room in a specific way, so when I wake up, I see the bottle of water, or feel the gun under my head, and the sheets are the way I like them. My brain recognizes that I’m safe, and I can fall asleep again without waking up every time my neighbor takes out her garbage.” He shrugged, his eyes flickering away. “I don’t like talking about it, but that’s my problem. I shouldn’t have made it yours.”
For a long moment, Clint studied Coulson. His hands were folded calmly in his lap, but his shoulders were tight, braced against...whatever Clint’s reaction was going to be. Like it mattered to him.
Coulson didn’t have to explain, but he had. And Clint didn’t have to understand - but he thought about the way he looked for exits every time he entered a room, the way he felt when he had to report to Medical, and he got it. He wasn’t the only one carrying shit around.
“Okay, you can put the gun back,” Clint said finally. “But does it have to be loaded?”
Coulson laughed, clearly a little surprised, his shoulders loosening. “No, I guess not. But you have to defend us if anyone unfriendly shows up.”
“Hell no,” Clint said, grinning back. “You owe me one, you take them. I’m going back to sleep.”
“That’s appropriate,” Coulson said gravely. “You do sleep like the dead.”
Clint groaned, flopping back down and burying his face in the pillow. “Oh, god, sleep already. Bad puns are not your forte, sir.”
“I’ll leave them to you, Barton.”
“Damn straight,” Clint mumbled, and slept.
2012
Phil woke up in an unfamiliar room. The light on the ceiling was all wrong, and his chest hurt, very distantly. He turned his head automatically to check - but no, there was a cannula pulling across his face, machines beeping, he was in a hospital -
There was a bottle of water on the bedside table. It was sealed, and the label was turned neatly to face him. Something hard pressed through the pillow as he moved: the familiar shape of a Glock under his head.
He rolled his head back in the other direction, and found Clint sprawled in a chair by the side of the bed, his fingers tucked loosely into the palm of Phil’s hand. Phil squeezed gently, and Clint shot upright, blinking away sleep. His eyes were blue-green-gold, and kind.
“We won,” Phil said hoarsely, and it wasn’t a question.
“Yeah,” Clint replied softly, cupping Phil’s cheek, his thumb tracing the corner of Phil’s mouth. “We did. Noticed the stuff, huh?”
Phil felt his smile deepen under Clint’s fingers. “Hospital corners,” he murmured. “That’s funny.”
Clint huffed a little laugh. “Thought you’d appreciate that.”
“I appreciate you,” Phil said, and it came out embarrassingly sincere. Stupid opiates.
But Clint didn’t tease for once, just said, “I appreciate you, too.” He looked sad for a moment, and added awkwardly, “Thanks for not dying.”
“You, too,” Phil said, and Clint made a soft, helpless noise, and kissed him.
Phil closed his eyes, and kissed back. This was the only thing he’d really needed to wake up to.