Author: Perpetual Motion
Fandom: Avengers (movie)
Summary: Clint, Coulson, injury, and the appropriate response from field agents regarding orders.
Dis: Lies and Bullshit
Author's Notes: Um, yeah. So these two are gonna be a thing now. Enjoy!
By Perpetual Motion
There is a very large hole in his side, and Clint stares at it for a solid ten seconds before he realizes that he is, in fact, bleeding out. Like, a lot. Like, a whole hell of a lot.
Like--oh holy fuckshit--like he's fucking dying.
"I'm dying," Clint says.
"You are not," Coulson replies, his voice over the comm as unruffled as if he's reminding Clint to sign his name to his field reports. "You're fine."
"No, I am pretty sure I'm dying." Clint pokes at the hole in his side. It really fucking hurts. "I have a massive chunk of myself missing." And it really, truly sinks in, taking root in Clint's head with utter, unchangeable truth. "Tell Nat to get the bastards."
There is a pause over comms, just long enough that Clint knows Coulson is concerned. Not that he'd say it, not that he'd do so much as twitch. Clint's learned over the years how to read the silences, and anything over two seconds is cocern.
"You're not dying," Coulson repeats.
"Barton, that's an order. I don't have time for the paperwork in this clusterfuck of an op. You're not dying."
"That's a great--"
"It's an order, Barton. I know you know how to follow those."
Clint doesn't say anything for a few seconds. It's getting harder to think. "Not that I don't appreciate that, Coulson, but I'm not sure I get a lot of say with this much of my blood on the ground."
"Not my problem if you can't follow an order. Either act like an agent or don't."
"I'm bleeding out, you prick!"
"In Delaware." Coulson replies, and there's the tiniest scoff over comms. "Think about that, Barton. You really want your final known location to be Delaware?
This is the most absurd conversation he's ever had, Clint thinks, and he grew up in the circus. "Not saying I wouldn't rather be in Aruba when I kicked off, but I am still missing some very vital parts of myself here."
"That's not my issue, Barton. S.H.I.E.L.D. trained you up to take care of your gear. You're the one responsible for keeping it in good repair."
Clint laughs, and it sends a spike of absolute agony through his whole body. He sees spots, bright white dots that tell him he's about to pass out. "Well, write me up, Coulson. I--" he falters and can't get his mouth to move again. The wall behind his head suddenly feels like the best place he's ever put his head. As he closes his eyes, he hears a crashing slam, but he can't open his eyes again to see what's going on.
"Ahh!" Clint yelps as something is jammed against his gaping side. His eyes snap open at the pain, and he looks up at Coulson, who is breathing hard and pressing his suit jacket against Clint's side. "That fucking hurts!"
"Oh, good. You're not dead," Coulson replies like his shirt cuffs aren't soaked in Clint's blood.
Clint opens his mouth to respond with something scathing, but he catches a flash of terror and pain in Coulson's eyes. "You said I couldn't be," he replies.
"Damn right," Coulson replies. He looks Clint in the eyes and works his jaw back and forth. Clint knows that look like he knows his own name. It's Coulson's maneuver for not kissing the hell out of him when they're somewhere it wouldn't be right. Like in the middle of meetings or during diplomatic missions or mid-op, like now, except Clint isn't usually bleeding all over him.
"Order received and respected, Sir," Clint says. He manages to move his fingers a few inches and touch Coulson's leg. The tight line of Coulson's neck relaxes a fraction. A second later, the sound of people running up the stairs echoes up to them.
"Medics," Coulson says. He presses even harder against Clint's side. "I'll be riding with you to get the debrief going before the drugs kick in."
"Sure," Clint agrees because it's the best they can do right now. "Whatever you need, Sir."