Clint's Alphabets

A is for The Amazing Hawkeye but it could just as well be for arrows. Because they’re the thing that sets Clint apart from everyone else—even Trick Shot—and that means that for the first time in his life, he feels…good at something. Sure, it always comes with a price but doesn’t everything? So what if he has to pay for it with a bit of blood in his mouth and some bruises in his ribs? When he’s in the Big Top, all he can see and hear is the audience, watching him, gasping at his jumps, applauding wildly after he performs what they think is a dangerous stunt and what he knows will actually kill him if he messes up. For a moment, he’s free. And that’s well worth the roughhousing he’ll face later.

B is for burning. His lungs burn and his muscles burn and all he can think is to run, run, run, as fast and as far as he can so that dad won’t catch him and beat him bloody and blue. And later, his muscles burn when he jumps the trapeze and twists into almost impossible angles to make the increasingly fantastical shots so that the audience can let out ooh’s and aah’s and Clint can rest slightly easier knowing he did okay. And even later than that, burning is for those days when he’s so tired it feels like his whole body is on fire and not just the barely healed bullet wounds that decorate his body.

The burning in his eyes, though, is a completely another matter. The odd feeling when he was so sure he was finished but instead, all he got was a stern lecture from his handler and a gentle but firm escort to medbay. Closing his eyes helps so he does that.

C is for closure. It’s not that Clint has that but perhaps at some point, he’d like to. That is, if he ever reaches a point where Barney’s betrayal doesn’t sting so much it gets hard to breathe. He thinks about it sometimes, the reason why it was so easy for his brother to just…sell him out, to stand by and watch how he was almost beaten to death. Sometimes, he wishes Barney was already dead but that always leaves him feeling hollow and sad and he doesn’t understand why.

D is for distance. He claims he sees better from a distance but perhaps it’s more about the fact that it’s easier to kill people when you don’t see the look on their faces when they realize they’re about to die. Perhaps it’s just a form of self-deceit. But since getting close almost cost him his life, it’s only rational that keeping his distance keeps him alive. It makes him feel alone and abandoned as well, but he figures it’s better than the alternative.

It might also be he’s just fooling himself, especially later on when he watches his fellow Agents clap each other in the back after an op well done. He feels like he’d like to have that someday. Maybe. 

E is for ears. His are broken, a gift from his dad. Sometimes he wonders how it would feel to be able to hear birdsong, although hearing traffic or a door opening on the other room would probably be better. But…birds. He sees them in the trees, their beaks open and their chests vibrating but without the song he’s not sure if they’re singing or screaming. He wishes it’s the first.

F is for fine. Everything is fine because Clint is still alive, he’s still kicking, he’s still going to make it. It’s all about survival, right? Fine is running for his life, fine is hiding in the shadows and waiting for the suits to leave, fine is not eating for three days in a row. Fine is the tremor in his hands that only goes away when he’s watching someone through the scope. Fine is the way fever racks his system and leaves him weak as a kitten, hallucinating about his brother. Fine is when he watches the only man he’s ever allowed himself to love, so pale and immobile in his bed, surrounded by machines that blink and beep and hum and rotate and Clint hides in the vents and refuses to leave because what if he dies when Clint’s not watching?

But it’s fine. Everything is fine.

G is for the involuntary grunt he lets out when the bullet hits his left thigh. ”It’s time to come in, Barton,” the man in a black suit says mildly and he snarls, forces himself back up, because he’s not gonna go out like this, not like some…animal. ”Oh, for fuck’s sake,” the man sighs, switches guns, and shoots him again. 

He rips the tranq dart out almost instantly but whatever poison was in it is working fast because he’s already fading, already falling and… So, okay, G could also be for the hard ground he hits when he topples over before everything goes gray.

H is for home, a place to call his own. He doesn’t have one, probably hasn’t had since dad wrapped his car around a tree and took mom with him. He haunts the corridors of the base with a wary look in his eyes, expecting to be kicked out from his meager quarters any day now. It takes him three years to finally get an apartment and even then it’s tentative, like he isn’t sure he’s allowed.

It’s not until over a decade later, when he’s laughing so hard he inhales his beer and ends up hacking his lungs out on the floor that he realizes that home isn’t a place, it’s people. Two people, in fact: a woman with red hair and sharp eyes and a man with a bland smile and the whole world in his eyes. It’s a heady feeling, realizing you’ve been home for some time already.

I is for ice cream. He thought hospitals were supposed to serve bright red jello that suspiciously kept on shivering minutes after anyone had touched it but he gets ice cream. It’s weird. It takes him back to the few good days he had as a kid; the ones where his dad was away at some construction or another, gone for weeks at times, and his mom, Barney, and him could go to the store and get ice creams. Funny how those days always seemed to be all sunshine and carefree smiles. So, Clint eats his strawberry ice cream, closes his eyes, and lets a small, careful smile spread on his face.

On the other side of the door, his handler looks at him, nods, and makes a mental note for future reference.

J is for the jarring look of disappointment in Coulson’s eyes when he comes in from the cold, bringing the brittle, sharp-edged Black Widow with him. It cuts like a knife, leaves him reeling, and punches out a small, almost inaudible whimper that makes his new companion give him an unreadable look. There’s nothing he can do, though. He broke that little something that was slowly growing in between them and now Coulson can barely look at him. ”You didn’t tell me,” Coulson says in a flat voice. ”You let me believe you took off, went rogue. You let me believe I’d grossly misjudged you.” 

It takes him years to earn back the trust he lost and he almost breaks himself in the process. He isn’t sure what finally convinces Coulson but he feels like that one time he jumped in front of a bullet meant for their handler might have had something to do with it. Tasha later tells him she’d never seen Coulson as white as he’d been when Clint had been busy bleeding to death in his arms.

K is for the first and the last kiss he and Natasha ever share. It happens soon after he brought her in, back when she’s still trying to find her footing in the new world of SHIELD. She slips into his room and under his blanket late at night, smelling of floral shampoo and minty toothpaste, her naked, lithe body an open invitation for him to explore. He turns her down, of course, because not only is she like a sister he never thought he missed, he’s also…kinda into someone else. They end up cuddling and whispering half-buried secrets into the darkness where no one can see them for what they are.

She later explains to Clint that she’d thought that having sex with him would make him more amenable, an ally of sorts. Clint rolls his eyes, punches her arm, and tells her she’s an idiot. It earns him  a thorough beating in the gym but her genuine smile makes it worth it.

L is for letters, those odd shapes that make up words that make up sentences that make up whole other worlds. It’s taken him a long time to learn the curves and angles, the shapes that build up the syllables he first traces with his finger and then silently mouths to form full words. It’s odd how many things letters can be molded into. How, back when he first started learning, it was all about funny pictures and short, simple words that still managed to take his mind to a journey beyond his aching body and the stink of dirty back alleys. And now? Now, he doesn’t need the pictures anymore because the letters dance for him now, slow and a bit clumsy, but they do dance and they draw him into a maze of words, a labyrinth of chapters and plots that take him to a journey he could never imagine. 

M is for mashed potatoes. It’s one of the only foods he knows how to prepare and it’s something he falls back to when things get rough. There’s something undeniably comforting in gently squeezing the potatoes into a paste, adding a pinch of salt and way too much butter, and blending them into a thick, savory mush. He eats mashed potatoes after he passes the probationary period and after the disastrous Malawi mission he was sure was going to get him terminated. Tasha makes him mashed Kongo potatoes after Budapest and the purple mush is almost as comforting as watching the steady, ventilator-assisted rise and fall of Coulson’s chest.

N is for nakedness. Not the sexy kind but the way he feels when Coulson has him cornered and the sudden clarity that there’s nowhere to hide. It’s the kind of naked when he realizes everything he feels is on full display on his face and he tries to deflect, tries to close his eyes and turn away to spare them both of the humiliation of his selfish needs. He waits for the inevitable dressing down but instead, there’s a hand, oh-so-gently cupping his cheek. The naked fear and longing he sees in Coul—Phil’s eyes mirrors everything he feels.

”How long?” He asks later, cradled in Phil’s arms. ”Years,” is the answer, whispered into the crook of his neck and sealed with a kiss.

O is for oranges. They’re juicy and bright and taste like sunlight and summer, one of the very few happy memories he has from his circus times. He almost gets yelled at during an op in Sevilla when he stops for fresh oranges and misses his ride out but…it’s oranges! They taste so different straight from the tree compared to the slightly dry ones SHIELD canteen serves which for him is a perfectly reasonable explanation. Phil just gives him an all-suffering look and shakes his head, muttering something from under his breath but it shouldn’t come as a surprise when Clint’s rations start to include oranges.

It turns out that Phil is mildly allergic to citrus fruits which doesn’t stop him in the least in feeding Clint carefully cut slices after he takes a bad fall and breaks both his wrists.

P is for pajamas. Those weird, loose garments that are in no way practical or protective. They’re soft and comfy, and they make him smile and smooth his hand down the worn fabric. Pajamas represent a level of security he never thought he’d reach: a chance to relax and let his guard down, knowing there are people who have his back. Knowing he’s not alone.

Also, the flat look on Phil’s face when he sees the Captain America themed pajamas Stark got him for Christmas is priceless. 

Q is for the quiet that comes with taking his hearing aids out. It’s not complete silence, though, because of the tinnitus that keeps ringing in his ears but it’s as close to complete silence he’ll ever get. Sometimes, when he just…can’t deal with the world, he takes the aids out and just curls into himself, hugs his knees against his chest and lets his head fall forward so that he can’t even see anything. Curled into as small a bundle as he can get and blocking the light of the room with his arms he can pretend to be somewhere else, just for a while. It’s not as often now as it used to be but sometimes things get too much; too crowded, too bright, too everything and the only way to keep himself going is to shut down for a while.

Barring for the first couple of times it happened, Phil always finds him and settles down beside him, ignoring the dirt and dust he’ll definitely get in his clothes. He sits there, completely calm, and does paperwork or something, a solid, stable form of competence and understanding, patiently waiting for Clint to pick up the small pieces of himself and putting himself back up again. He never asks and Clint is pitifully, fervently grateful. 

R is for red. Not only is blood so, so red but also Natasha’s hair is a brilliant, vibrant red that almost seems to shimmer in the setting sun, like a crimson halo around her head. She descends on the goons holding him like an angel of death and when he tells her that, she rolls her eyes and scoffs. But there’s a small smile playing around the corner of her lip and later, when he’s going under the good drugs and the pain finally starts to fade, she doesn’t call him out on burying his face into her hair. It smells of roses and copper and it fits her perfectly.

Her hair is also the first thing he sees when he finally pries his eyes open after what seems like an eternity. It pools on the mattress and runs off from the edge, a stark red contrast to the white sheets and her pale face. He reaches out to touch but stops when Phil whispers, ”Don’t wake her. She’s been guarding you for the past 14 hours. Let her sleep.” So, he just rests his hand next to her face and feels her breath puff gently against his skin as he slowly drifts off again.

S is for shampoo, the good kind that leaves his hair soft and silky and smells like rain on a warm summer day. The first time he uses it, it’s at Phil’s place, back when they were still Coulson and Barton, and he squirrels the bottle back to his place with him. Of course Phil knew which was probably the reason he had a stash of a dozen bottles in the cupboard under the sink but he never said anything. Perhaps he liked that Clint smelled a bit of him. 

Clint used to love it before…before the aliens and Loki and the endless blue but after it just reminds him of the things he lost—the things he helped to kill. He keeps the latest bottle he snatched hidden away in the back of his closet, sealed in a plastic bag and then in a paper bag because even though he can’t bear to smell it let alone use it, he can’t make himself to get rid of it either. It’s the last thing of Phil he has left because it’s not like he has any claim on his things anyway? Why would he? It’s his fault Phil’s dead.

After everything, after months of nightmares and self-hatred, when he finds out Phil is actually alive, he ends up crying on the bathroom floor, gripping the half-empty bottle of Phil’s favorite shampoo in his hand. 

T is for tea. Phil might claim he’s all a coffee guy but when his eyes get this certain pinched look, Clint knows it’s time for a nice cup of carefully brewed tea. It’s always some of the loose-leafed ones, the kind Bruce likes to drink but Phil doesn’t like the berry-flavored ones Bruce enjoys. No, he prefers unflavored blends, Oolong and Darjeeling and sometimes even the smokey one that always makes Clint sneeze. He still thinks tea tastes like grass and takes great care to proclaim it out loud, if only to enjoy the flat look Phil gives him. Of course, not liking tea doesn’t mean he’s gonna fuck up brewing it. Because grass water or not, the way Phil’s shoulders drop and he lets out a long breath after the first sip is always worth the bother.

U is for the utter feeling of uselessness he feels when Phil is hurried into an emergency appendectomy straight from the fancy restaurant they finally had time to visit. Clint stays behind in the waiting area, his left hand clenching and unclenching sporadically around the pale pink napkin. It feels like a cruel joke. It’s Phil fucking Coulson, the man who has stared down death and walked it off, he’s not supposed to—to— he can’t even think about it. 

He doesn’t even realize he’s shaking until Natasha wraps her arms around him, shushes him, and hums that weird Russian lullaby in his ear. It never fails to calm him down and this time is no exception.

V is for the vulnerability he feels the first time he whispers ”I love you” into Phil’s skin. It’s so quiet he’s sure Phil didn’t hear it but he should’ve known better. For a split second, he’s terrified he’s got it all wrong and that Phil is gonna just…get up and leave but then his fingers gently tip his head up to meet Phil’s wide, happy eyes. ”I love you, and I’ve loved you for a long, long time,” Phil murmurs back. ”Thank you for trusting me.”

Saying it doesn’t really get much easier with time but Clint can handle the vulnerability just to see the joy in Phil’s eyes.

W is for how the weight of his keys feels in his hands. He’s never had that many to start with, just the bent, slightly rusted key of his rental shack of the week. SHIELD gave him a couple of keys—the one for his gear locker was his most treasured thing for ages—but when Stark manhandled them to his Tower, he doesn’t need keys anymore. Everything is controlled by JARVIS or thumbprint locks because apparently physical keys are obsolete or something.

But the key to the small house by the lake a couple of hours away is something Clint had never even dared to dream of. It isn’t just the key itself but the fact it’s his and Phil’s, a place just for them. The fact that Phil wants this, wants him is something Clint’s still having trouble believing. But he’s getting there, okay? It’ll just take some time. 

X is for the scar on Phil’s chest. The entry wound on his back is a jagged, angry red ridge that bursts into an uneven mess on his chest where Loki’s spear exited his chest cavity. It’s a constant reminder of Clint’s betrayal and he’s having a hard time facing Phil without a shirt on. He knows it isn’t really on him but he remembers it all, the cold blue that tinted all his actions and distorted sound and sight. He remembers how it felt to shoot friends and allies, he rememberers the cold detachment of the well-executed shot that took out the Helicarrier’s engine.

Phil tells him he doesn’t blame Clint for it because he wasn’t responsible for his actions. He takes Clint’s hand in his hand holds them against his chest, against the smooth, raised edge of the scar, and ignores the hitch in Clint’s breathing. ”I’m too stubborn to die because a teenage demigod had a temper tantrum,” he says fiercely. ”And I sure as hell won’t put this on you.” 

And Clint closes his eyes and wishes that someday, he’ll be worthy of the faith Phil has in him.

Y is for the field of bright yellow sunflowers they pass when they drive home from a low-level op one state over. It was the kind that wasn’t really for two as high-ranking agents as them but they took it as a vacation of sorts. Clint is pretty sure that was the reason Fury assigned them in the first place. He’s driving while Phil is filling out paperwork and when he suddenly jumps the brakes, he feels only slightly sorry about the crude line Phil’s pen leaves on the form. ”Look!” He breathes out and points at the field. ”They’re freaking huge!” He doesn’t wait for Phil to take off his seatbelt, just rips out of the car and runs into the field, laughing at the massive flowers at least head taller than him.

The picture of him with his arms wide and his head held high, eyes squinting and mouth wide with unbridled joy ends up as the lock screen of Phil’s personal phone.

Z is for the unabashed happiness of zombie movies. The whole team gathers in front of Tony’s giant plasma-TV with heaps of popcorn, sodas, microbrew beer, chocolate…anything they fancy, and start a marathon of absolutely awful movies. They laugh and boo at the crappy special effects, scoff at the stupid choices that will eventually get the main characters killed, and plot how to actually execute a proper zombie apocalypse, only to be thwarted by Phil’s dry commentary.

It’s not what Clint ever thought he’d get but it’s everything he’s ever dreamed of. And it’s awesome.