The Air Between Us

Clint puttered around R&D, waiting for someone from the staff to notice him. His hearing aids had been busted to hell during the latest mission dealing with something that looked like sonic screwdrivers, but were, in fact, more akin to sentient transformer toys. Afterwards, he had been ordered to go to R&D to get his aids repaired and to get himself a replacement pair. It wasn’t like he needed them, but Coulson had made it clear that wearing aids on base was not only a safety measure, but also something called common courtesy.

The R&D department was hectic in a controlled way, completely different from Stark’s egocentric den of invention and functional schizophrenia. Clint didn’t mind about the scurrying around him, mostly because it was sorta relaxing, but also because of his lack of hearing aids. It wasn’t like he heard anything anyway.

Usually, if R&D was informed in time about Clint’s aids going FUBAR, they reserved a pair of spares for him on the side table. And true, there was a pair of slightly modified hearing aids on the side table with a couple of other comm. links. 

Clint wandered over to check them. The design was a bit different from what he was used to, but hey, it was R&D. Redesigning was kinda their thing.

“Hey, are these okay to use?” He hollered, looking up to catch the answer from whoever defined to answer him.

Someone nodded and held their thumbs up, so Clint shrugged, snatched the replacement pair to go and headed out.

He was supposed to meet Coulson later that afternoon to go over some mission reports. Apparently, Clint had somehow fucked up again, not dotting all i:s or crossing all t:s or some other shit. Coulson was weird like that — the guy strove for perfection in everything and with everyone, although Clint had to admit that the Agent cut more slack to Clint than anyone else. Clint liked to think it was because of his sparkling personality.

He tilted his head from one side to the other, trying to get used to the slight weirdness of the aids. It was nothing he couldn’t cope with, but he probably had to mention the small discomfort to the R&D guys anyway. It wouldn’t matter when used for a short time, but in the long run even a slightest ridge might chafe his inner ear canal raw. Clint himself didn’t care, but Coulson would throw a fit if he found out.

Concentrating on the feeling in his ear, Clint missed the fellow Agents walking towards him, and bumped straight into them.

”Sorry guys,” he called automatically, and winced at the way his voice sounded in his ears: muffled and flat, like the aids didn’t actually work at all.

”Fucker,” the other said.

Clint blinked. 

First: Oo-kay, someone was in a mood.

Second: Obviously, the aids worked, but the R&D needed to do some serious work about the sound distortion. 

He still had plenty of time before his meeting with Coulson, so Clint decided to make a quick run to the range for some target practicing and grab some lunch to go. Coulson had this idea that he could survive on coffee and pre-packed doughnuts. Clint had decided to feed him at least one proper meal a day, even if it was just mac’n’cheese from the HQ’s cafeteria.

When he entered the range, it was packed, and Clint automatically switched the aids off to preserve what little hearing he had left. 

However, switching the aids off didn’t spare him from the looks, but he had learned to ignore them a long time ago. He kept his eyes forward, but still managed to lip read the occasional ”It’s him,” and ”Carnie” from the periphery of his vision. Even after being an established asset, his background still managed to catch up with every new wave of baby Agents SHIELD digested. 

The back end of the range had been his for several years now, after he had convinced not only Coulson, but also Fury, Hill, and the R&D about what he could do with bow, guns, and knives — or with anything that could be used as a projectile, really. His practice range was adaptable and partially computer-controlled with several training programs, including throw-anything-and-everything-at-me-the-world-is-ending apocalypse scene. Clint had tinkered that one himself and he was pretty proud of it. 

This time, he decided to go easy and selected a standard one-hour training program with an occasional surprise. He lost himself in the routine as his concentration focused on the targets and the steady draw and release of his bow. As always, his bow helped him to center himself and enter that clear headspace where nothing else mattered but nailing the target time after time. 

When he was done, he collected his arrows, checked his gear, and cleaned up the range for the next time. He switched his aids back on on his way out, just in time to hear an awed, ”He’s a fucking mutant!”

”Nope,” Clint groused with a wink. ”I’m just a regular human.”

”Bullshit!”

Clint shrugged on his way out. Not his problem.

<===||===>

At 11:30, the cafeteria was still pretty empty. Usually, Clint tried to make it there before the rush of the lunch hour, partially to eat in peace, partially to pick up the good pieces before anyone else. Growing up in a circus had taught him to grab food when it was available, and, after joining SHIELD, he had had some serious food hoarding issues. With time, he had almost learned to suppress them, but arriving early for the best treats wasn’t something he wanted to let go. 

They were offering meatloaf with mashed potatoes, one of Clint’s favorites. He smiled and scooped up a healthy portion for himself and a sensible one for Coulson, adding  peas and chewy bread to the side.

”Still not feeding you enough, it seems,” Margie the cook grumbled disapprovingly.

Clint liked Margie. She had been the one to feed him, almost fattening him up after SHIELD had taken him in, and she was constantly fussing, nagging him to eat more. It had been embarrassing at first, until Clint had learned she was genuinely concerned and tended to mother-hen all young probies. And even after Clint had risen in ranks and gained the status of an Agent, her behavior had sorta stuck. Clint shyly enjoyed the attention, and tried to remember bringing Margie flowers for Mother’s Day.

”I try to eat more,” he said meekly, scooping another spoonful of peas on his plate to please her.

”Poor boy,” Margie sighed forlornly.

Clint blinked. As much as Margie babied him, it wasn’t like her to coddle him so openly. He opened his mouth to comment, but she had already turned towards the kitchen, and he didn’t want to disturb her.

Shaking his head a bit, Clint exited the cafeteria with his tray and wandered off to Coulson’s office. 

His handler was deep in work, typing away with a pissed-off frown on his forehead. He barely noticed Clint entering other than nodding as a thank you. Clint snorted and rolled his eyes. He knew how these things worked: He would sit on the couch and eat while Coulson continued working, mechanically consuming the food Clint placed in front of him. After Coulson was done, they would talk, and Coulson would try to bully Clint to do his paperwork correctly and in time for once.

He was already done with his food and on his way through his second form, when Coulson said wistfully, ”Gorgeous.”

Clint’s head snapped up. ”What?”

Coulson frowned. ”What?”

Clint blinked and stared at him.

”He has no idea how beautiful he is.”

”What?” Clint asked again, his voice a disbelieving squeak.

”I didn’t say anything,” Coulson said, as he continued, ”Shit, did I say it out loud?”

Clint swallowed. He opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out.

”Those lips…” Coulson sighed, except his lips didn’t move. 

Clint was pretty sure Coulson wasn’t a ventriloquist, which left only one option.

He was going crazy.

Avoiding Coulson’s eyes, he scrambled hastily up, apologizing and shaking his head, and slammed out of the office.

<===||===>

Clint had never been as grateful as today that the SHIELD Agents avoided the administrational level by principle. It meant that no-one would see him running from the direction of Coulson’s office in what might be described as controlled panic. 

As he neared the corner and readied himself to the turn, he let himself breathe out a sigh of relief.

Of course, that was a mistake.

He let out a muffled ”oomph!” as he collided with something with the consistency of a brick wall. 

”Motherfucker!”

Great. 

Clint steadied himself and grinned sheepishly at Fury who scowled at him. 

”Sorry, Sir,” he offered and took a step back.

The one eye was even more terrifying from up close than it was from afar, and Clint’s spectacular sight had in no way readied him for the experience.

”I don’t have time for this shit,” Clint heard at the same time as Fury asked, ”Going somewhere, Barton?”

”Uh. Heading home?”

Fury narrowed his eye. Clint tried to radiate innocence like a pro, which never really worked that well with the Director.

”Fuck this.”

”I fully agree, Sir,” Clint agreed.

”What?” Fury barked, and Clint realized Fury hadn’t actually said anything.

”I’d rather tap that than talk to Cheese’s boy.”

Clint’s jaw dropped. He blinked, turned, and followed Fury’s eye line to something — someone — behind him. There wasn’t anyone but that much too perky personal assistant of Thor’s Jane. Darla or something like that.

”That rack though. A man could die happy between those boobs.”

Clint swallowed and turned slowly around to look at Fury.

”Hmm… I wonder if she’s into riding?”

Clint was definitely going crazy.

<===||===>

Whenever Clint was feeling threatened or dealing with emotional stress, he reacted the same way: he retreated into the vents. They were his safe place, his haven, and he knew he would be left alone unless the world was about to end.

So, when he realized he was hearing voices, that there was something seriously wrong with him, he acted on instinct. He knew SHIELD tolerated many an eccentric personalities — just look at Jenkins with his frilly aprons from HR — but he figured that they would draw a line on a schizophrenic assassin. Clint didn’t blame them, on the contrary: SHIELD business was serious business, and an unstable Agent was a danger to everyone around him or her.

Which meant that as soon as SHIELD figured out what was going on, Clint would be terminated, or worse: kicked out.

He didn’t even realize where he was crawling until he found himself on his favorite nest right above Coulson’s office. He was about to turn around and crawl the hell out of there when he heard voices.

Heh. Heard voices. Funny, right?

”Did he hear me?” Fury asked.

”Shit. He heard me.” That was Coulson, but his voice was off. Weird.

”When did that fucker turn into a telepath?”

”He heard me. I probably need to transfer him.”

”Motherfucker!”

”I wonder if he’s ever going to bring me meatloaf again?”

”Telepathic hearing aids?”

Wait — what?

Clint snatched the aids off and the vent fell silent. He blinked several times, swallowed, and put them back on.

”— doing Darcy instead of dealing with this motherfucking pile of —”

Okay, no. Just — no. He dug the aids out and stared at them like they had betrayed him.

The silence around him was loud enough to emphasize what he was holding. 

’Telepathic hearing aids,’ Fury had said. How the hell was that even possible? Then again, Clint was almost-friends with a mythical Norse god, so perhaps telepathic ear thingies weren’t that far-fetched after all.

It took him a moment to realize that he probably wasn’t going crazy after all. Then he remembered what he had heard when sharing lunch with Coulson.

So he hadn’t imagined that either?

Fuck, he didn’t know what to do.

With his heart hammering in his ears, he put the aids back on.

”— you there? Clint? If you can hear me, could you please tap on the vent?”

Clint went completely still, barely daring to breathe. Then, hesitantly, he knocked on the hatch once.

”Thank you,” Coulson said (Thought?), relieved. ”You are not going crazy. The R&D contacted me. You accidentally took devices that were not meant to be used yet. Apparently, they magnify the theta brain waves of the people near you, allowing you to hear their thoughts. It’s technology. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Clint let his eyes slide closed. Trust Coulson to deal with one of Clint’s biggest fears first.

”Could you please say something? Talking to you like this is exhausting.”

Clint swallowed. He guessed he owed Coulson as much. Slowly, he slid the vent’s hatch aside and dropped down in one, fluid motion.

”Sorry,” he muttered, and dug the aids off, dropping them on Coulson’s desk. As he stepped back, he braved a quick peek at Coulson’s face and frowned. Coulson looked relieved and… nervous? 

Why would Coulson be nervous? The man faced off goons with unflappable calm on regular basis, and had once even stared down a caffeine-deprived Assistant Director Hill. That had been a fun morning.

Unsure of what to do, Clint dropped his gaze back to his boots. 

A short moment later, Coulson’s shoes appeared toe-to-toe with his boots. Then a hand reached towards his face, slowly enough for Clint to react if he so wished. 

Gently, Coulson took a hold of his chin and raised his head up.

”Did you hear me earlier?” Coulson asked, articulating clearly for Clint to lip read, even though he had witnesses Clint lip reading a drunk-up-his-ass guy from his nest in a pouring rain.

Clint nodded warily.

”I’m sorry,” Coulson said.

Something clenched inside Clint. He swallowed and and averted his eyes.

Coulson pressed his chin a tiny bit, just enough to let him know he wasn’t finished, and Clint’s eyes snapped back into his face.

”I’m sorry you found out like that,” Coulson said, staring him intently in the eye. ”I’m not sorry for thinking that. I meant it.” Then he frowned. ”I’m not sure what I thought, exactly, but whatever it was, I meant it. I usually do, when it’s about you.”

”Really?” Clint asked, hoping his volume was okay.

Coulson smiled. ”Yes.”

”Okay,” Clint said. It sounded fake, but… okay.

”Would you like to have coffee with me?” Coulson asked, still holding on Clint’s chin.

”Now?”

Coulson shrugged. ”Why not? Although I think we’ll stop by the R&D to get you your proper aids.”

”Yeah, okay,” Clint breathed, slightly bewildered.

Coulson nodded with a relieved smile and beckoned with his head in a ’Shall we?’ gesture. Clint followed, trailing behind him like a lost puppy. He wasn’t quite sure what was happening or if he was even awake, but since the dream was nice, he didn’t want to wake up.

The R&D staff was ecstatic to get their gadgets back, showing only borderline regret about the ordeal Clint had gone through. Then again, no amount of apologizing was going to help Clint to get over hearing Fury drooling after Jane’s assistant. Anyway, he was grateful when Coulson demanded the temporary aids and staved off all attempts of briefing. He knew the questions were coming sooner or later, and he pitied the tech who was appointed with the task of verifying things Clint had heard from Fury.

Turning their backs on the bustling, they made their way slowly to the small café a couple of blocks from the HQ. They had been there several times, just the two of them. It was a bit on the shabbier side, but the coffee was excellent and the pastries were to die for, which was the reason they had never told Sitwell about it. They’d rather keep the café safe from SHIELD personnel flooding the place and ruining it.

Humming under his breath, Coulson picked a lemon-meringue pie and cut a huge piece of a red velvet cake for Clint without asking him. He didn’t have to, because red velvet was Clint’s favorite, and not only because of the color. 

They chose a window table and sat in companionable silence, enjoying their pastries. Clint wondered if this was going to be a thing, him and Coulson.

Then he remembered something.

”Did you know that Fury’s got a hard-on on Darcy?”

As it turned out, witnessing Coulson spit coffee all over his suit was a thing of beauty.