moonlettuce: (Avengers: Clint)
[personal profile] moonlettuce
Fic Title: Break Your Fall
Author: Claire
Rating: PG
Pairing(s): Phil Coulson / Clint Barton / Nick Fury
Word Count: 1,654
Warnings: Schmoop
Summary: Part of Clint can't get used to having people ready to catch him when he jumped
Additional Notes: Awesome thanks to my [ profile] corpsereviver2 beta'ed like a grammar-wielding ninja of the night. The only thing she didn't wrangle me into was non-British spelling, so the extra U's are still entirely my fault.

This is the hurt-comfort version of Phil and Nick take care of Clint.


Clint couldn't help the small smile that came to his lips as he watched Phil and Nick fuss around him. "You know I'm fine, right," he said, the smile crossing into a smirk as Phil adjusted the cushions on the couch yet again. "Barely even marked up. In fact," he added, "I could probably go a round or two with Steve. Betcha I'd win, too." (So long as Steve was blindfolded, handcuffed, tied to a bench and Clint had Natasha with him, as well. Although, if Natasha ever did get Steve Rogers blindfolded, handcuffed and tied to a bench Clint had the feeling that sparring with him would be pretty far down on her list of things to do.)

Phil dropped the cushion he was holding and looked at Clint. "You've got three cracked ribs, extensive bruising and a probable concussion," he commented dryly. "Believe me when I say that your view of barely even marked up differs rather heavily from ours."

Nick just snorted his agreement as he held out a glass of water and two pills. "Swallow these and keep your barely marked up ass on that couch until we say so." Nick waited until Clint had swallowed the pills before he sat, carefully tugging Clint closer and carding his fingers gently through Clint's hair as he rested his cheek against the soft cotton of Nick's t-shirt. (And this had been the bit it had taken Clint the longest to accept; the utter difference between Director Fury and Senior Agent Coulson, and Nick and Phil. The way Fury and Coulson will trust him to do what they need him to do in the most expedient way possible, because he's Hawkeye, because he's the best there fucking is, and the way Nick and Phil will be waiting for him when he gets back. They way they're there when he goes from Hawkeye to Clint, the way they'll hold him as the blood on his hands washes down the drain, before they put him back together again. And after all those months, he still didn't know which he preferred, them pinning him down and taking him apart until he was a shivering, begging mess, or the way they just held him, fingers running through dirty blond hair and across skin in a way that wasn't sexual but comforting.)

Clint felt the couch dip, as Phil settled on the other end, and he couldn't stop from shifting to a position where he could slide his toes under Phil's thigh, wiggling them until Phil gave a small huff of exasperation and wrapped his fingers around Clint's ankles, lifting Clint's feet into his lap.

"S'nice," Clint said, the tips of Phil's fingers drawing random patterns over his skin. "Should do this more often."

"We should," Phil agreed. "Just without the entire jumping off building parts, if you don't mind."

Even as Phil said it, Clint heard the words underneath, heard the words neither Phil nor Nick would ever say. Because they're SHIELD, because they're Fury and Coulson. Because, even though they may never admit it when it was just the three of them, when Clint was between them and their hands were running over his body, cataloguing the bruises and marks and scars, they both knew that getting the shot sometimes means jumping off the building.

And, to give Clint his due, it wasn't as though it was the first time he had jumped off an exploding building. It wasn't even as though it was the first time his landing hadn't gone exactly to plan. It was, however, the first time it had happened since Nick and Phil had decided their lives would be a lot more interesting with a slightly used, slightly battered and more than slightly sarcastic archer between them. That said, it wasn't like Clint had just jumped off the building with no plan, that would have just been stupid. And reckless. And insane. And all of the other words Nick and Phil had ground out at him as Medical had taped his ribs up and told them to wake him up every hour to make sure he could still see straight. No, as he'd pointed out to them when they'd finally stopped coming up with new ways to describe Clint's actions, when he'd jumped he'd absolutely had a plan. His plan just hadn't taken into account the fact that Tony had already started to head back towards Thor to help him wrangle the remaining Doombots, and that meant it took Iron Man an extra 4.6 seconds than Clint had factored to reach Clint's position. Which meant he'd already had to jump off the roof in order to avoid being caught in the blast when his last exploding arrowhead had taken out the four 'Bots closing in on him. So, if you followed the logic through, it was really Tony's fault for not being exactly where Clint had thought he was. Of course, from the look Nick had given him when Clint had said that, he was pretty sure Fury hadn't exactly agreed with his assessment.

Shifting again, Clint curled further into Nick, burying his face in Nick's stomach as he was surrounded by the scent of leather and gun oil and Nick. (Because even when he wasn't in the coat, even when he didn't have a gun in his hands, it was still the smell Clint associated with Nick. Leather and guns and Nick mixing with the jasmine and bergamot that Clint always picked out of the ridiculously expensive cologne Phil kept in the back of the bathroom cabinet. Leather and jasmine and guns and bergamot and more guns all mixing into a scent that Clint thought of as home. There were still days he stopped, overwhelmed with the thought of it. The way that home stopped being straw and cotton candy and the smell of too many people and too many animals in not enough space, and started being twin voices murmured low into his ear and the trust that he always, always, had the shot. Stopped being shitty motel rooms and greasy diners and back alleys where the shadows cast long, and started being Welcome to SHIELD, and Talk to me, Barton, and the knowledge that he would have two people ready to catch him if, when, he jumped.)

A pleased rumble rose up in Clint's throat as Nick's fingers swept slowly through his hair and Phil continued to write words across Clint's ankles with his fingertips. (Clint couldn't make out the words much beyond the occasional letter, but he was pretty sure they were French. Phil always seemed to default to French when his hands moved across Clint's skin, fingers leaving unseen words behind them. Phil claimed it was because his maternal grandmother was French, so they were words, soft and familiar, that he always went back to. Nick claimed it was because if anyone's body was made for having the language of romance written across it, it was Clint's. Phil hadn't yet contradicted him.)

"Don't wanna go in tomorrow," Clint murmured, half into the air and half into Nick's t- shirt. "Let's just stay here."

"You're on medical leave until your ribs heal up, Clint," Phil answered, his fingers having moved from Clint's ankle and now steadily making their way up Clint's calf. "Staying here is definitely on the agenda."

"Good." Because all Clint wanted to do was bury himself in the couch in one of the three positions that didn't seem to send fire shooting through his body and indulge in the car-wreck reality TV that was sitting on the TiVo. (Said car-wreck reality TV was, of course, on the TiVo because of Phil, and Clint had no intention of ever admitting to Phil that he actually quite enjoyed watching some of it. Nick insisted he had no idea why Phil was so enamoured of the shows, and Phil just responded by telling him he used them for tips in wrangling the Avengers. Clint hoped he meant the tips he got from Supernanny and the possibility of sending Tony Stark to the naughty step, as opposed to the tips from, say, Toddlers and Tiaras. He'd never actually asked the question, but since Coulson hadn't yet tried to get Steve into a pink sparkly ball gown - at least, not that he was admitting to either Clint or Nick - he was happy to go with the assumption that he was right.)

Pulling back slightly to look at Phil before turning his attention to Nick, Clint paused before, "Since I'm injured, you should both stay here, as well. You know, to look after me." He was tempted to add with lots of sex on the end, but considering it really did feel like he was being stabbed in the chest every time he moved wrong, Clint was pretty sure the kinky sex times were out of the equation for the time being. Not that he couldn't watch, mind, and Nick and Phil together was never going to be something he'd ever get tired of watching.

Nick glanced at Phil before looking down at Clint. "Well, it just so happens that Director Fury and Agent Coulson won't be needed for the next few days."

Clint narrowed his eyes slightly. "Really?" Because Director Fury and Agent Coulson were always needed. Except for the times Hill threatened to tase them both unless they took a vacation, and promised that SHIELD could actually cope without them for a short while and, yes, she would contact them if the world was actually going to end.

"Yes, really," Phil responded, his fingers almost at Clint's thighs.

Yeah, Maria had definitely threatened to tase them. Clint knew there was a reason he liked her. "Awesome," he grinned, twisting carefully around and curling back into Nick's hold, letting the smooth motion of Nick's fingers through his hair and Phil's hands on his skin lull him to sleep.


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May 2017

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