Some Navigating, Clint/Phil, PG
May. 8th, 2012 11:38 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
delicataleSo I coda-ed post Avengers. It's 600 words of me having FEELS, okay. I have so many many feels about so many things from this movie and these characters, but this one has been building inside since my first viewing and it finally worked its way out yesterday.
This is about Phil and Clint. I have so many feels about Steve that I'll probably have to write that later (I have a fairly defined idea of a coda I want with Steve, and I'm also working on a Steve/Bucky longer story, because imo Bucky is the only one that could really save Steve from himself, BUT THIS IS FOR ANOTHER TIME), but these 600 words are about Clint and Phil, in the aftermath of the movie.
So, of course, MAJOR SPOILERS for the movie. My thanks go to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aliassmith and sirona_gs for the hand holding.
Clint sits there for a moment, just looking at Phil lying on the bed, chest moving steadily with his rhythmic breaths, and Clint is enthralled. Because Phil is still breathing, and that, right now, is good enough for Clint. Phil could be an illusion, another dream Clint will wake from with sweat running down his temples and his teeth gritted so hard it hurts; a ghost that could break apart at the seams and leave Clint alone all over again.
Of course he's angry. He's been angry for days, angry at Phil, Fury, Natasha, mostly at himself; but right now he's got Phil in his apartment, looking at him through hooded eyes while lying on Clint's bed, and Clint is tired of being angry. He's tired of not sleeping next to Phil, of not talking to Phil, of not touching Phil. He’s tired of not being sure if Phil is real and well and on the mend, tired of assuming it’s yet another lie.
"Are we okay?" Phil asks, soft and wondering. It makes Clint angry all over again, because this should never have happened, and it’s all his – he forces the thought away, frowning down at his hands. There is too much to say, and right now is not the right time for all of it. He looks at Phil again.
"Not really, but we'll forget about it for tonight,” Clint replies, shuffling just that inch closer, not close enough. “You look tired."
Phil wraps his hand around Clint's wrist, pulling him closer, and he’s solid, strong, breathing a second of relief through Clint, even if it’s still not enough. Clint lets himself move, ending up lying on his side next to Phil, still in his SHIELD issued tracksuit, his quiver abandoned by the bed. He’s got a million reasons not to be comfortable, but he is anyway, broken in ways nobody could understand. He folds next to Phil, ear against the cold pillow, his hand tucked between his thighs, still afraid to reach out, to feel Phil disappear right under his fingertips. The other Phil is still holding between their bodies, and Clint doesn’t dare move away.
"Turns out getting stabbed takes quite a lot out of someone."
Clint sighs, looking away, reality hitting him in the chest all over again. At some point he'll want to see the scar, but right now he just wants to forget Phil is any different than he was a month ago, strong unflappable invincible dry wit Phil. Alive Phil, with no scars right above his heart and right inside his head.
"Can we not? Let's not, Phil."
Phil's smile fades, and Clint feels almost sorry, almost. Then he remembers that Phil lied to him for weeks, and he plants his hand on Phil's chest, feeling the edges of the bandage under his pinkie. He’s not scared of Phil disappearing anymore, of his hand ending up on the sheets with no Phil in between. No, Phil is here, not going anywhere, and Clint will shake the world apart if he ever pulls another stunt like this again.
"Sorry. Clint, I'm sorry," Phil lets out, sounding genuine enough that Clint gives in, leaning close, his head on the good side of Phil's chest. He turns his head into Phil's shirt, smelling clean and worn, one of these threadbare ones Phil wears out of work hours. Phil's hand reaches up to curl around the back of Clint's neck, fingers pressing in, making Clint groan appreciatively. It’s almost too much like being back to before, like coming back home, and Clint closes his eyes against the way they burn, his arm wrapping around Phil’s waist, fingers squeezing his hip.
He’s not certain he’ll manage to let go anytime soon, but right now it doesn’t matter, because Phil is no ghost, no bad dream, and Clint missed him.
This is about Phil and Clint. I have so many feels about Steve that I'll probably have to write that later (I have a fairly defined idea of a coda I want with Steve, and I'm also working on a Steve/Bucky longer story, because imo Bucky is the only one that could really save Steve from himself, BUT THIS IS FOR ANOTHER TIME), but these 600 words are about Clint and Phil, in the aftermath of the movie.
So, of course, MAJOR SPOILERS for the movie. My thanks go to
aliassmith and sirona_gs for the hand holding. Clint sits there for a moment, just looking at Phil lying on the bed, chest moving steadily with his rhythmic breaths, and Clint is enthralled. Because Phil is still breathing, and that, right now, is good enough for Clint. Phil could be an illusion, another dream Clint will wake from with sweat running down his temples and his teeth gritted so hard it hurts; a ghost that could break apart at the seams and leave Clint alone all over again.
Of course he's angry. He's been angry for days, angry at Phil, Fury, Natasha, mostly at himself; but right now he's got Phil in his apartment, looking at him through hooded eyes while lying on Clint's bed, and Clint is tired of being angry. He's tired of not sleeping next to Phil, of not talking to Phil, of not touching Phil. He’s tired of not being sure if Phil is real and well and on the mend, tired of assuming it’s yet another lie.
"Are we okay?" Phil asks, soft and wondering. It makes Clint angry all over again, because this should never have happened, and it’s all his – he forces the thought away, frowning down at his hands. There is too much to say, and right now is not the right time for all of it. He looks at Phil again.
"Not really, but we'll forget about it for tonight,” Clint replies, shuffling just that inch closer, not close enough. “You look tired."
Phil wraps his hand around Clint's wrist, pulling him closer, and he’s solid, strong, breathing a second of relief through Clint, even if it’s still not enough. Clint lets himself move, ending up lying on his side next to Phil, still in his SHIELD issued tracksuit, his quiver abandoned by the bed. He’s got a million reasons not to be comfortable, but he is anyway, broken in ways nobody could understand. He folds next to Phil, ear against the cold pillow, his hand tucked between his thighs, still afraid to reach out, to feel Phil disappear right under his fingertips. The other Phil is still holding between their bodies, and Clint doesn’t dare move away.
"Turns out getting stabbed takes quite a lot out of someone."
Clint sighs, looking away, reality hitting him in the chest all over again. At some point he'll want to see the scar, but right now he just wants to forget Phil is any different than he was a month ago, strong unflappable invincible dry wit Phil. Alive Phil, with no scars right above his heart and right inside his head.
"Can we not? Let's not, Phil."
Phil's smile fades, and Clint feels almost sorry, almost. Then he remembers that Phil lied to him for weeks, and he plants his hand on Phil's chest, feeling the edges of the bandage under his pinkie. He’s not scared of Phil disappearing anymore, of his hand ending up on the sheets with no Phil in between. No, Phil is here, not going anywhere, and Clint will shake the world apart if he ever pulls another stunt like this again.
"Sorry. Clint, I'm sorry," Phil lets out, sounding genuine enough that Clint gives in, leaning close, his head on the good side of Phil's chest. He turns his head into Phil's shirt, smelling clean and worn, one of these threadbare ones Phil wears out of work hours. Phil's hand reaches up to curl around the back of Clint's neck, fingers pressing in, making Clint groan appreciatively. It’s almost too much like being back to before, like coming back home, and Clint closes his eyes against the way they burn, his arm wrapping around Phil’s waist, fingers squeezing his hip.
He’s not certain he’ll manage to let go anytime soon, but right now it doesn’t matter, because Phil is no ghost, no bad dream, and Clint missed him.
