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Avengers - Of a Feather
I had like six competing ideas for this prompt, but this one won out and was written first.
Title: Of a Feather
Genre: Slash/Pre-Slash, Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, Hurt/Comfort
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~2,200 words
Synopsis: He'd love to do more than flock together, if the thought of the whole thing wasn't possibly sacrilegious.
Author's Notes: I received "wings" as a prompt again this year for![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
hc_bingo. This is where my mind ran with it.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no profit from this.
Also available on AO3.
Phil Coulson was Clint Barton’s guardian angel – not that anyone believed in such things anymore. He'd be so much more than that if the sheer thought of it all didn't seem sacrilegious and totally against the whole angel thing, but that was another matter all together. In a world where giant space whales wreaked havoc over metropolitan cities and carnie tricksters could be seen as heroes, Clint Barton decided that was the least of his concerns. As it stood, Coulson, his handler and friend, had pulled his ass out of the fire more times than anyone would believe, managed to get him to safety where no one should have even been able to find him let alone stop the oncoming attack, and had simply been there for him when he needed it most enough times for him to call it as he saw it.
He saw it as such: Coulson was his angel. Perhaps a little dented around the halo, but no one was perfect, least of all him.
So it came as almost no surprise that, when he found himself pinned down, a bullet in his shoulder and another in his leg, trying to restring a broken bow in time to shoot something a little more damaging than a stick at the men surrounding him, that he heard a very familiar voice via the comms announce, “Hold on, I’m on my way.”
Of course it would be Coulson. It had to be him. Natasha was stuck on the other side of the block with a handful of goons all of her own, Cap was six stories below him taking out a separate regiment, Stark was airborne and providing cover for them all, and Thor and Hulk were in the midst of lowering the property values of the surrounding real estate. Coulson it was; Coulson it would be. How the hell he would get up there in time was beyond Clint’s higher reasoning process at this point, but he knew he would either be there or there would be hell to pay for all involved, possibly of the literal sense.
He had the bow almost ready when a shot whizzed by his head and he really needed to ask Stark to either come up with a better restringing process for his fancy new compound bow – maybe something automatic if possible – or maybe just a string that could withstand an armor piercing round because he had just wasted some valuable shooting time messing with the pulleys. He keyed the quiver to give him an explosive arrowhead and did a quick test of the tension while he waited. Not perfect, but it would have to do for now, so he grabbed the arrow and took aim for where at least three men approached from the North side.
Apparently they had decided to split their losses or some such thing as a shot came from the South and, yeah, that one was going to hurt. His muscles already burned from a combination of holding his earlier position and his wounds and he really did not appreciate the added agony nor the distraction it caused. He breathed through it and tightened his grip on the string for a moment before he readied the release. There was the sound of another shot and then there was a blur, black and quick and possibly deadly. He attempted to prop himself back up again to shoot, but found he was knocked to the rough gravel of the rooftop, a weight pinning him into place.
He thought of struggling, but there was something that held him back, something familiar like a smell or the weight itself or maybe the fact that, when he pried his eyes open, he was looking up into an all too familiar face. “Hi, sir,” he managed, voice a little harsh and maybe a little liquidy to his own ears.
“Stay down,” Coulson ordered.
He’d like to, really he would, but there were still shots and they were still coming and he still had one arrow prepped and ready and it would be a quick enough to grab a second one if the quiver wasn’t now off to his side, possibly out of reach. “They are still firing, sir, and you aren’t exactly made of Kevlar,” he quipped.
Coulson responded by holding a hand to his ear, the universal sign of keying his comm, and demanded, “Iron Man, please tell me you have them.”
There was a whoosing noise, and then a slight burst of static before Stark’s voice responded, “Negative, I’ve got like eighteen of them surging on Cap and Natasha’s positions.”
“Understood, go to them” Coulson replied resignedly, even as the shots began, even as something large and looming surged up and over them both.
Clint had a moment of confusion, not just of the newfound shadows, but of where a sound reminiscent of tearing fabric was coming from and just where the bullets were going as not a one hit him despite the fact he knew they had a bead on him just moments before. The shadows were more than shadows though, they were dark and supple and almost caressing and oddly… feathery. A thousand little shafts brushed against his injured shoulder, his cheek, almost tickling as they flinched with each resounding shot.
He was losing blood fast though, and running out of time even faster. The men were approaching, obviously armed, and he had a payload loaded and ready that would take care of them nicely, and possibly himself and Coulson as well if they got much closer. “I need an opening,” he said, voice no more than a whisper.
Phil heard him though and then the whatever it was around him lifted ever so slightly, the world no longer bathed in black but a bright blue with hints of fluffy white dotted with streaks of gray and dust. He took his shot, fletching harsh and artificial when compared to what he had just felt, and he indulged, just for a moment, and let the backs of his fingers trail over the softness before he grabbed a second arrow from his side and let that loose as well.
The darkness descended as the roof shook and the blue turned to red and the screams turned to muffled silence and yeah, it might have taken them out but the action had definitely taken its toll. There was a hint of light, just enough to make out questioning, almost frightened eyes framed by a dome of feathers. He smiled up, or at least hoped it was a smile instead of a grimace, reached forward with his hand to touch the softness again, just for a moment, before he realized it was slick and stained as red as the sky had been, maybe darker. He didn’t want to destroy that prize, that gift that surrounded him, dirty it or mar it with something so low as blood. He let his hand drift back and his consciousness drift away and his last passing thought, possibly whispered and possibly prayed, was, “I thought they would be white.”
He awoke to the tight wind of bandages around his arm and thigh, another taped across his shoulder. Those were nothing, ignored as easily as the scratch of the sheets beneath him, the flat pillow that did nothing to cradle his head. What he could not ignore was a different sort of cradle, this a gentle touch of his hand between two others.
That touch slipped away when he blinked open his eyes and his fingers gripped at air, somehow warmer as though the heat lingered. “Don’t go on my account,” he said, voice uneven and tinged with gravel as harsh as the rooftop he had laid upon so recently.
Coulson paused, hand outstretched for the briefest of moments before it fell to his side. “You’re awake,” he said simply. It wasn’t really a question, and it wasn’t colored with any of the usual teasing or even solemnity that meant the mission had gone even more pear shaped than Clint remembered.
“Yeah, I know I’m more interesting when I’m out, but...” Clint tried to infuse a bit of humor into a far too serious matter.
“Not interesting, contained,” Phil corrected, his lips quirking slightly. He reached for the pitcher of water and filled a cup, efficient, mechanical, perfectly assessing the situation and its needs, avoiding those which he clearly wished to ignore.
Clint casually tucked his own fingers around those that held the cup while he took a blissful sip, and then refused to let go when Coulson made a halfhearted attempt to do so. “Clint,” he chided. He pulled just so, the cold water sloshing over their hands and causing Clint to flinch just enough to give him the advantage.
Cup and hand now gone, Clint folded his cold hands atop the thin blanket draped across him. Coulson turned as if to leave, pulled his suit jacket from where it was draped over the back of his chair. The shirt and the jacket had been changed, no hint of any damage to the fabric, no hint of what Clint now knew lay beneath. Phil moved stiffly though, sore in ways that were undoubtedly to be left unexplained.
Clint took his chance and blurted, ridiculous and echoing as it was, “I thought they would be white.”
Coulson froze, hand on the knob to the door. “White?” he asked, surprise winning out over his carefully schooled blandness.
“Yeah,” Clint shrugged and, wow, bad idea. He blinked away the worse of the pain, tried not to grin when Phil waited for him to do so. He always waited, always knew when there was a chance he would be needed. “You being my guardian angel and all, it made sense.”
Phil snorted, harsh and oh so real. “I’m no angel, guardian or otherwise.” He turned now, honest and open and a hint of the stiffness gone.
“You’ve saved me,” Clint offered. With a wry grin, he added, “More than once.”
“I was in the right place at the right time,” Phil demurred.
Clint was tempted to let that slide, but then decided he never did take the easy way out of things. “With the right abilities?” he guessed.
Phil tensed again, but then seemingly forced himself to relax. “We can call it that, if you want,” he conceded.
“What do you call it?” Clint asked, pointedly not mentioning the slow approach, the hip against the bedside.
There was a pause, but it was thoughtful and not offended. “A blessing,” Phil shrugged. Then, “A curse. Maybe a little of both.”
“I’ll take what I can get,” Clint told him, admitting too much. He coughed, covered for it poorly, and said, “It looked like it hurt like hell though.”
“I heal,” Phil said, maybe a bit too quickly. “You know this already.” And wow, that was an understatement. So many injuries, so many near deaths, shared by them both. So many times of each of them clawing their way to the other’s side to do what they could to protect them both. Clint almost always had the advantage of a bow. It looked like Coulson had an advantage of his own.
Clint pretended to think about that for a moment, about the healing and the everything else. "Not an angel, not a demon, just something a little extra?" he guessed.
"Let's just say that SHIELD wasn't the only agency with an offer on the table," Phil said, leaving open far too many possibilities, most of them away from Clint and the chance to save his life yet again.
“I’d love to see sometime,” Clint said, knowing he sounded absurd, knowing it was not about the healing. “Them, it, you,” he said by way of non-clarification.
A spark of interest, maybe intrigue flitted across Phil’s face before it was almost sculpted to its usual impassiveness. Almost. “Would you now?” he asked, leaning forward ever so slightly.
Clint took the opportunity, and the dangling tie, by the hand and pulled until Phil’s face was barely an inch from his own. “Yeah, I really would,” he said. He resisted the urge to make a comment about all the unholy possibilities that lay between them, but only just barely.
There was a sound from the outside, his team held back too long. He glanced towards the door, knowing he was about to lose any advantage he may have gained. It was Phil who took advantage though, pressed lips quick and fleeting against his brow. “I think that could be arranged,” he whispered before pulling back.
When the team invaded, they saw nothing but handler and agent, friends watching over each other, one with coat in hand as he left them to cause their usual trouble, and the other with a quirky grin of something shared upon his features. Only Natasha looked to the bedside table with a raised eyebrow, but she never did ask about the single black feather left behind, or how Clint kept it close, long after he escaped to jump right back into the fray again.
It was only the first of many that his guardian angel gifted him with in the years that followed.
Feedback is always welcomed.
Title: Of a Feather
Genre: Slash/Pre-Slash, Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, Hurt/Comfort
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~2,200 words
Synopsis: He'd love to do more than flock together, if the thought of the whole thing wasn't possibly sacrilegious.
Author's Notes: I received "wings" as a prompt again this year for
hc_bingo. This is where my mind ran with it.Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no profit from this.
Also available on AO3.
Phil Coulson was Clint Barton’s guardian angel – not that anyone believed in such things anymore. He'd be so much more than that if the sheer thought of it all didn't seem sacrilegious and totally against the whole angel thing, but that was another matter all together. In a world where giant space whales wreaked havoc over metropolitan cities and carnie tricksters could be seen as heroes, Clint Barton decided that was the least of his concerns. As it stood, Coulson, his handler and friend, had pulled his ass out of the fire more times than anyone would believe, managed to get him to safety where no one should have even been able to find him let alone stop the oncoming attack, and had simply been there for him when he needed it most enough times for him to call it as he saw it.
He saw it as such: Coulson was his angel. Perhaps a little dented around the halo, but no one was perfect, least of all him.
So it came as almost no surprise that, when he found himself pinned down, a bullet in his shoulder and another in his leg, trying to restring a broken bow in time to shoot something a little more damaging than a stick at the men surrounding him, that he heard a very familiar voice via the comms announce, “Hold on, I’m on my way.”
Of course it would be Coulson. It had to be him. Natasha was stuck on the other side of the block with a handful of goons all of her own, Cap was six stories below him taking out a separate regiment, Stark was airborne and providing cover for them all, and Thor and Hulk were in the midst of lowering the property values of the surrounding real estate. Coulson it was; Coulson it would be. How the hell he would get up there in time was beyond Clint’s higher reasoning process at this point, but he knew he would either be there or there would be hell to pay for all involved, possibly of the literal sense.
He had the bow almost ready when a shot whizzed by his head and he really needed to ask Stark to either come up with a better restringing process for his fancy new compound bow – maybe something automatic if possible – or maybe just a string that could withstand an armor piercing round because he had just wasted some valuable shooting time messing with the pulleys. He keyed the quiver to give him an explosive arrowhead and did a quick test of the tension while he waited. Not perfect, but it would have to do for now, so he grabbed the arrow and took aim for where at least three men approached from the North side.
Apparently they had decided to split their losses or some such thing as a shot came from the South and, yeah, that one was going to hurt. His muscles already burned from a combination of holding his earlier position and his wounds and he really did not appreciate the added agony nor the distraction it caused. He breathed through it and tightened his grip on the string for a moment before he readied the release. There was the sound of another shot and then there was a blur, black and quick and possibly deadly. He attempted to prop himself back up again to shoot, but found he was knocked to the rough gravel of the rooftop, a weight pinning him into place.
He thought of struggling, but there was something that held him back, something familiar like a smell or the weight itself or maybe the fact that, when he pried his eyes open, he was looking up into an all too familiar face. “Hi, sir,” he managed, voice a little harsh and maybe a little liquidy to his own ears.
“Stay down,” Coulson ordered.
He’d like to, really he would, but there were still shots and they were still coming and he still had one arrow prepped and ready and it would be a quick enough to grab a second one if the quiver wasn’t now off to his side, possibly out of reach. “They are still firing, sir, and you aren’t exactly made of Kevlar,” he quipped.
Coulson responded by holding a hand to his ear, the universal sign of keying his comm, and demanded, “Iron Man, please tell me you have them.”
There was a whoosing noise, and then a slight burst of static before Stark’s voice responded, “Negative, I’ve got like eighteen of them surging on Cap and Natasha’s positions.”
“Understood, go to them” Coulson replied resignedly, even as the shots began, even as something large and looming surged up and over them both.
Clint had a moment of confusion, not just of the newfound shadows, but of where a sound reminiscent of tearing fabric was coming from and just where the bullets were going as not a one hit him despite the fact he knew they had a bead on him just moments before. The shadows were more than shadows though, they were dark and supple and almost caressing and oddly… feathery. A thousand little shafts brushed against his injured shoulder, his cheek, almost tickling as they flinched with each resounding shot.
He was losing blood fast though, and running out of time even faster. The men were approaching, obviously armed, and he had a payload loaded and ready that would take care of them nicely, and possibly himself and Coulson as well if they got much closer. “I need an opening,” he said, voice no more than a whisper.
Phil heard him though and then the whatever it was around him lifted ever so slightly, the world no longer bathed in black but a bright blue with hints of fluffy white dotted with streaks of gray and dust. He took his shot, fletching harsh and artificial when compared to what he had just felt, and he indulged, just for a moment, and let the backs of his fingers trail over the softness before he grabbed a second arrow from his side and let that loose as well.
The darkness descended as the roof shook and the blue turned to red and the screams turned to muffled silence and yeah, it might have taken them out but the action had definitely taken its toll. There was a hint of light, just enough to make out questioning, almost frightened eyes framed by a dome of feathers. He smiled up, or at least hoped it was a smile instead of a grimace, reached forward with his hand to touch the softness again, just for a moment, before he realized it was slick and stained as red as the sky had been, maybe darker. He didn’t want to destroy that prize, that gift that surrounded him, dirty it or mar it with something so low as blood. He let his hand drift back and his consciousness drift away and his last passing thought, possibly whispered and possibly prayed, was, “I thought they would be white.”
He awoke to the tight wind of bandages around his arm and thigh, another taped across his shoulder. Those were nothing, ignored as easily as the scratch of the sheets beneath him, the flat pillow that did nothing to cradle his head. What he could not ignore was a different sort of cradle, this a gentle touch of his hand between two others.
That touch slipped away when he blinked open his eyes and his fingers gripped at air, somehow warmer as though the heat lingered. “Don’t go on my account,” he said, voice uneven and tinged with gravel as harsh as the rooftop he had laid upon so recently.
Coulson paused, hand outstretched for the briefest of moments before it fell to his side. “You’re awake,” he said simply. It wasn’t really a question, and it wasn’t colored with any of the usual teasing or even solemnity that meant the mission had gone even more pear shaped than Clint remembered.
“Yeah, I know I’m more interesting when I’m out, but...” Clint tried to infuse a bit of humor into a far too serious matter.
“Not interesting, contained,” Phil corrected, his lips quirking slightly. He reached for the pitcher of water and filled a cup, efficient, mechanical, perfectly assessing the situation and its needs, avoiding those which he clearly wished to ignore.
Clint casually tucked his own fingers around those that held the cup while he took a blissful sip, and then refused to let go when Coulson made a halfhearted attempt to do so. “Clint,” he chided. He pulled just so, the cold water sloshing over their hands and causing Clint to flinch just enough to give him the advantage.
Cup and hand now gone, Clint folded his cold hands atop the thin blanket draped across him. Coulson turned as if to leave, pulled his suit jacket from where it was draped over the back of his chair. The shirt and the jacket had been changed, no hint of any damage to the fabric, no hint of what Clint now knew lay beneath. Phil moved stiffly though, sore in ways that were undoubtedly to be left unexplained.
Clint took his chance and blurted, ridiculous and echoing as it was, “I thought they would be white.”
Coulson froze, hand on the knob to the door. “White?” he asked, surprise winning out over his carefully schooled blandness.
“Yeah,” Clint shrugged and, wow, bad idea. He blinked away the worse of the pain, tried not to grin when Phil waited for him to do so. He always waited, always knew when there was a chance he would be needed. “You being my guardian angel and all, it made sense.”
Phil snorted, harsh and oh so real. “I’m no angel, guardian or otherwise.” He turned now, honest and open and a hint of the stiffness gone.
“You’ve saved me,” Clint offered. With a wry grin, he added, “More than once.”
“I was in the right place at the right time,” Phil demurred.
Clint was tempted to let that slide, but then decided he never did take the easy way out of things. “With the right abilities?” he guessed.
Phil tensed again, but then seemingly forced himself to relax. “We can call it that, if you want,” he conceded.
“What do you call it?” Clint asked, pointedly not mentioning the slow approach, the hip against the bedside.
There was a pause, but it was thoughtful and not offended. “A blessing,” Phil shrugged. Then, “A curse. Maybe a little of both.”
“I’ll take what I can get,” Clint told him, admitting too much. He coughed, covered for it poorly, and said, “It looked like it hurt like hell though.”
“I heal,” Phil said, maybe a bit too quickly. “You know this already.” And wow, that was an understatement. So many injuries, so many near deaths, shared by them both. So many times of each of them clawing their way to the other’s side to do what they could to protect them both. Clint almost always had the advantage of a bow. It looked like Coulson had an advantage of his own.
Clint pretended to think about that for a moment, about the healing and the everything else. "Not an angel, not a demon, just something a little extra?" he guessed.
"Let's just say that SHIELD wasn't the only agency with an offer on the table," Phil said, leaving open far too many possibilities, most of them away from Clint and the chance to save his life yet again.
“I’d love to see sometime,” Clint said, knowing he sounded absurd, knowing it was not about the healing. “Them, it, you,” he said by way of non-clarification.
A spark of interest, maybe intrigue flitted across Phil’s face before it was almost sculpted to its usual impassiveness. Almost. “Would you now?” he asked, leaning forward ever so slightly.
Clint took the opportunity, and the dangling tie, by the hand and pulled until Phil’s face was barely an inch from his own. “Yeah, I really would,” he said. He resisted the urge to make a comment about all the unholy possibilities that lay between them, but only just barely.
There was a sound from the outside, his team held back too long. He glanced towards the door, knowing he was about to lose any advantage he may have gained. It was Phil who took advantage though, pressed lips quick and fleeting against his brow. “I think that could be arranged,” he whispered before pulling back.
When the team invaded, they saw nothing but handler and agent, friends watching over each other, one with coat in hand as he left them to cause their usual trouble, and the other with a quirky grin of something shared upon his features. Only Natasha looked to the bedside table with a raised eyebrow, but she never did ask about the single black feather left behind, or how Clint kept it close, long after he escaped to jump right back into the fray again.
It was only the first of many that his guardian angel gifted him with in the years that followed.
Feedback is always welcomed.