Chapter 1
Clint
He's crying within minutes of Coulson finding him.
He's trying not to, he really is, but the more he tries to stifle his hiccups and gasps, the louder and more desperate he seems to become. Coulson's bewildered - he doesn't look it, but Clint's knows him. To his credit he doesn't say anything though. He simply runs a soothing hand along the length of his back while his other hand gently strokes through the bristles of his hair. Coulson slides his hand from his nape to the top of his head, and back down again. Over and over and over again. It's mostly quiet in the space except for his sobbing breathes and Coulson's soft reassurances that "it's alright" and "you're fine and you're safe" and "take your time, Clint." He takes Coulson's last piece of advice to heart and it's long minutes before he's calm enough to settle down.
Coulson waits until his last hiccup has dissipated before stroking his head one finally time and handing him a box of tissues from the coffee table. Clint blows his nose with a few and wipes his face with the rest, then shoves the crumpled mess into his hospital pajama bottoms. Hands clenched in trepidation, he looks up.
Phil's mouth is soft and his eyes sad. Gently he asks, "Wanna tell me what's going on?"
Hanging his head, Clint opens his mouth to tell him.
Hours Earlier
Clint's laying in a ceiling air vent, curled into the smallest ball the space will allow. Under normal conditions, that usually means his knees are pressed to his forehead with his arms wrapped tightly around. Now however…that's easier said than done. His last mission has left him with an arm casted and pinned to his chest by a sling, and his ribs taped up so tightly he wonders if Dr. Jones had been more pissed than she’d let on that he had attacked the nurse who’d tried to take his blood pressure.
Logically, he knows that hadn’t been his fault, not really, but he still feels guilty all the same. A while back, Coulson had made it a requirement that either he or Natasha or Steve or Bruce or Tony or Thor or Hill be there whenever Clint needed immediate medical attention within SHIELD headquarters. Most times he's fine on his own, but during especially rough missions he sometimes forgets that hospital staff are not an enemy that need defeating.
Even Clint knows that such a request borders on the slightly insane, but after he'd dropkicked an orderly who’d tried to massage his lymph nodes for the third time the entire medical team had quickly come to an agreement and the accommodation had been made. He thinks Dr. Jones might be new to staff though, so maybe that explains why she hadn’t tried to find any of the others.
Also, to be quite honest, Clint barely remembers being gurneyed into Medical. He’d been in and out of consciousness for most of the 11-hour plane ride and he supposed they’d underestimated how strong a man with four broken bones, concussion and bruises over most of his body could be.
He hadn’t been completely unaware though.
He remembered brief touches here and there – hands transferring him from the hoverboard onto the stretcher, the cool metal of scissors cutting open his uniform – but the moment he’d felt a hand gripping his arm and the rough velcro of the cuff he’d sprung to his feet on top of the table and leaped at the frightened man with the stethoscope in his ears. It wasn’t until someone shoved a sedative into his neck that he’d gone down for good.
Down below, the frantic shouts of people running this way and that echoed throughout the hallway.
“Eagle, check corridor B and C and radio me if you find him. Barton. Barton!” Dr. Jones' voice sounded even more harried than usual and curious, he peeked through one of the vent slits to peer down below. The doctor’s bun had been pulled back tight when he’d last seen her. Now, however, several strands had been pulled loose to fall carelessly down her face and back.
“You three – check every crawlspace and supply closet on this floor and the next. Even the ones that no one has keys for. Everyone else, recheck all the patient rooms and anywhere else you think a sleep-deprived invalid could end up in. Ella and Mark, did either of you go up to check the range or roof? Well, what are you waiting for?! The cameras didn’t pick up on him leaving the floor, but I want someone up there just to be sure.”
The hand she sweeps through her hair has half her locks cascading from her hair tie though she hardly seems to notice. Her next statement is desperate.
“And will everyone for the love of God, keep this from Coulson, Romanov and anyone else associated with the Avengers. The longer they remain in the dark about this the better. I want Agent Barton found and want him found now. Move out!”
As they scurry off like ants into different directions, he can't help the few chuckles that manage to escape his lips. It isn't long though until his ribs make their protest known and instead of choking on peals of laughter he's bitting back gasps of pain. Breathing hard through his nose, he gets on his knees and elbows (one-elbow really) and army crawls down east of the narrow vent. They haven’t found him yet, but it’s only a matter of time until they think to look in the ceiling vents. He isn't taking any chances.
By the time he makes it to his destination fifteen minutes later, he's covered in dust and sweat and breathing nosily through his mouth. These parts of the vents are cleaner than the ones above the hospital wing, but he still feels himself choking on the accumulated grime from the last several hours. Thankfully, the vent opening doesn't take much jimmying to pry loose and as he peers down the opening, eyes scanning left and right, he's reassured that no one's hiding down below.
After a minute of praying to a dozen different Gods in four languages, he holds his breath and drops down onto the carpet below. The fall isn't far, but he is in no condition to be dropping ten feet in the air. It had damn well taken him five fucking tries just to get himself into the vent above the bathroom sink in his hospital room. He sticks the landing, but ends up slamming his knees, shoulder and head into the floor a second later. He lets out a scream before he manages to cut it off, and rolling from side to side, he squeezes his eyes shut to keep from passing out.
After a few minutes, he nods to himself. Well, someone had listened at least. He isn't hurt. Or rather he isn't any more hurt than he had been before. Shakily, he gets to his feet and staggers over to the couch. He spends less than a minute dusting himself off before falling face-first onto the cushions below.
He takes a deep breath in and relaxes for the first time in days.
He's exhausted. And sore. Can’t forget sore.
He isn't sure how long he lays there with his face buried into the back of the couch before he becomes aware of a presence standing in the doorway. With the last of his strength he rolls over and musters up a grin.
“It’s good to see you, sir. How was your mission?”
“We completed our objective with no casualties to civilians or combat units so it was a ringing success. I heard yours wasn’t so easy. And not to change subjects, but did you really get in here using the vents Agent Barton? In that shape?”
“Had to sir. With you gone so long, I wanted to make sure intruders thought twice about trying to break into your office.”
“Intruders, eh? I appreciate the thought, but I have to say I’m not sure how’d you’d fight them with the condition you’re in.”
“You and me both, sir. I sure am lucky you came by first though, huh?”
Agent Coulson flickes on the light and Clint can't help but blink up at the sudden brightness. When his eyes adjust, he looks across the room. Coulson looks as impeccable as ever.
Slung over a shoulder is a small travel bag that Clint knows contains a personal toiletries and few changes of clothes. His garment bag isn't with him so it must already be hanging up in Lola. Sleek swatches of navy blue fabric encase his body at all the right angles and he’s loosened his tie just enough for Clint to see a button popped open and a hint of collarbone. The front of his jacket is unbuttoned all the way and he has both hands in his pocket, his stance relaxed and in charge. Clint can feel his mouth watering as he stares.
“Pray telling me what you’re doing here Agent Barton and why Medical reports that you’ve been missing for the last five hours and…” Coulson flickes a wrist up to glance casually at his Rolex before sliding his hand back into his pocket again, “23 minutes?”
Clint shivers. Coulson's such a badass. Had it really been that long? He must’ve been in the vents for longer than he thought.
He opens his mouth to respond, but hesitates at the last second. It's hard to tell from his voice just what kind of mood Phil is in. There were no intonations or shortness for Clint to gauge how much trouble he's in and Clint is more than a little afraid at what he’ll see if he looks up at his face. Clint reckon's a number of possible scenarios will play out though:
1) Coulson being upset that he hadn’t completed his mission within the set time frame (there had been no civilian casualties and he’d finished his mission only 18 hours past the anticipated end time which for him was pretty damn good. Coulson had never ever been upset with any of these facts in the past, but still.)
2) Coulson being pissed that Clint had broken into his office (for the umpteenth time, really) and gotten his very expensive couch dirty with sweat, blood and grime.
3) Coulson being pissed that Clint had escaped from the Medlab after being critical not 5 days prior, and for forcing dozens of SHIELD employees to shirk their duties and look for a wayward agent who easily could have ended up passed out in some dingy alcove.
4) Coulson being SUPER pissed (the only reasonable reaction was that Agent Coulson was angry in some way, shape or form) that Clint hadn’t waited for at least Natasha to come back from her mission before he went AWOL.
He pushes himself up until he's sitting with his back pressed against the couch then counts slowly in his head, 1...2...3. Gathering his courage, he looks up and searches the entirety of Coulson’s face.
Coulson looks good. Tired, but good. Despite, coming back from a 10-day long mission the bags underneath his eyes aren't as pronounced as they could be and when they finally make eye contact, all he sees is worry and barely-contained relief.
Coulson’s lips tilt up an inch and his eyes soften a fraction more. Softly he says, “I’m not angry, Clint. Just worried. No one knew where you were. If you’re worried about Nurse Jacob, his prognosis couldn’t be better. You broke his arm in the best way an arm could be broken, and he should be completely healed in a month or so."
His next statement is purposeful. "Make no mistake though - this was medical’s fault and no one else's. As Dr. Jones put it, she just didn’t have the time to read your entire medical file and the nurses admitted to not calling Stark Tower so they wouldn't have to go through the stress of dealing withTony. They will not make any of these mistakes again.” His eyes glittered meaningfully. “I can promise you that.”
Clint nods and softly says, "Thanks Coulson." He looks down into his lap. He hears a faint sigh, then the soft click of the door sliding shut. He swallows past the lump in his throat and squeezes his eyes shut against the tiny pinpricks of moisture gathering in the corners. Seconds later, he sucks in a breath as he feels a hand settle onto the top of his head, heavy. He looks up again.
Coulson's perched on the edge of the coffee table, his face a mountain of concern. “Clint, what’s wrong? Are you still feeling sick? Tell me.” He smoothes his hand down past the staples in his scalp to cup the back of his head and neck, massaging deep.
Resigned, he bites his lip as he comes to a decision.
Eyes wet with moisture, he mumbles his confession into the quiet room.
“I can’t sleep.”