Work Text:
Christmas Lights
When you're still waiting for the snow to fall, It doesn't really feel like Christmas at all.
Clint has spent most of the day in the vents over Coulson's office. It's warm there, and he has one of Natasha's crocheted afghans to cushion the metal. He comes down for lunch, reappears in the cafeteria for a 3 o'clock cup of coffee, which he takes to his quarters by the most deserted and circuitous route he can find, and then returns to the vents and his afghan.
It's Christmas Eve, and Clint doesn't do Christmas. Why should he? It's not like Christmas has ever done much for him. Even his memories of childhood are tainted. The carnival went south to play Florida and Georgia during the winter. It hardly seemed like Christmas when you had to work and it was eighty fucking degrees outside.
After that, the best thing about the Christmases when he was on the streets was that people were easy marks with lots of cash, and he'd never starved in December.
Now there's this S.H.I.E.L.D. gig and Clint can't figure out what he's supposed to do on Christmas in the real world. He has money, he has a warm place to stay, he even sort of has friends who seem to expect him to be all mistletoe and holly-jolly. He can't. He doesn't know how.
So, he hides in the vents and watches Coulson knot a red tie with a narrow green stripe around the collar of his pale green shirt. Phil never seemed like a Christmas kind of guy to him. Wrong. His people skills need some serious readjusting.
Coulson turns off his computer. Clint can't remember the last time he saw him do a complete system shut-down. Christmas is a serious deal, then. Coulson's phone rings and he answers it. "I'm leaving now. I'll meet you there. Save me a seat."
Who even knew Coulson had a social life? He always seems to be in his office, even when Clint returns from missions with other handlers. Clint wonders where and with who Coulson is going on Christmas Eve. He drops down from the vent in the receptionist's lobby and jogs down the eerily deserted halls to his quarters. He grabs his coat off a hook and leaves the building via the garage where he parks his bike. Coulson's car pulls out and Clint, running without headlights, follows. This, he's good at.
He tails Coulson through the streets, just keeping him in sight despite the traffic, which is surprising -- people must be shopping. That's what people did. Clint didn't buy anybody presents, and he doesn't expect to get them from anybody. He's not that kind of guy.
Coulson wheels into a parking place. Clint eases his bike into a narrow slot. It's freezing outside, but there isn't any snow this year in New York. He almost wishes it would snow. Snow softens hard edges, makes things less sharp and painful to his eyes.
Clint wrenches his thoughts back to the task at hand. Where is he going? Clint takes off after him, never losing sight of his target even in the passing crowds. Phil is standing on the corner of Madison Avenue across the street from St. Patrick's Cathedral. The church is beautiful. Even to Clint's untrained eye, the gothic architecture is breathtaking. There are wreaths outside the church, garlands of holly, ivy and pine, and the lights through the stained-glass windows fall like jewels on the pavement and the crowds gathering.
Coulson lifts his hand, and a woman comes towards him, her hand extended. Clint's cheeks heat. Of course, Coulson has somebody, somebody to spend Christmas Eve with; he's not a monk or a hermit. Clint can't not watch as the woman kisses Coulson's cheek and tucks her arm in his elbow. She isn't young, but she is youthful. She has glossy dark hair and blue eyes and her smile ... It's a mirror of Phil's. Clint doesn't know if he should laugh or cry. He knows Phil has a sister -- he feels like such an idiot. He should turn around, get on his bike and go back to S.H.I.E.L.D., but he doesn't. He watches Phil and his sister go inside the Cathedral.
He waits until everybody standing outside enters the cathedral. He stands on the steps, wondering if he should risk stepping inside, or if a bolt of lightning will strike him down when he crosses the threshold. He has too much blood on his hands for forgiveness. He decides that he doesn't belong in that holy space. He stands in the vestibule and listens to the music. He remembers the words to the carols but they have never held any magic for him; still, when the lights dim and the ushers pass out candles that bloom into light like stars as they sing Silent Night, he is drawn inside to the warmth. It has been so long ... For a moment, he allows himself to hope, to see a future. He finds Phil in the crowd. He's at the end of an aisle and the candlelight is warm on his face; his kind eyes. His sister rests her head on Phil's shoulder and Clint feels an entirely jealous pang in his heart. He has never had that closeness, never had that much trust and faith in anybody. His world has been a cold and lonely place. He's lived there for so long that he's forgotten that light, warmth and love exist.
Clint waits until the music fades and then he vanishes into the night. He's cold and the bright lights of an all-night coffee shop beckon him inside. He tucks himself into a corner booth. The barista looks like it's been a long day, but she's humming along with I've Got My Love To Keep Me Warm.. Clint wonders if she really has somebody or if she's volunteered to work to keep herself busy. It's what he would do if he had a regular kind of job.
Clint tucks a generous tip under the mug and leaves. If anything, the temperature has dropped and there is a rising wind chasing clouds across the sky. Clint takes a deep breath and his lungs ache. He thinks about riding back to his quarters. That's what he should do, but he's never been about should. He rides to Coulson's apartment. He doesn't know why he's there. He leaves his bike down the block and stands across from Coulson's building. He finds the windows on the seventh floor that are Coulson's. He's looked out at the street from them often enough. The building across the street is being renovated. Clint shelters in the doorway, looking up. Coulson's windows are dark. The service is still going on, or he's making sure his sister gets home safely. Clint is cold, but he won't, he can't, leave.
The hollow ache in his chest must be his heart.
He recognizes the purr of Coulson's car and watches the tail lights disappear into the garage. A few minutes later, the windows brighten. First the pale gold lamplight, then colors -- blues, reds, greens, yellows, tiny twinkle lights adorning a small tree. He doesn't know why that is a surprise, he doesn't know why that should make him feel warm and protective.
He steps out of the shadows and stands looking up at the lights. As he does, he feels a light touch on his face like cold feathers. It is snowing; big white flakes sparkling in the Christmas lights, melting on his eyelashes. He blinks away the blur, tugs up the collar on his coat and turns to leave.
A hand on his shoulder makes him turn, fists raised in a ready threat. Two firm, warm hands catch his. "You shouldn't spy on spies," Coulson says, but his eyes are kind and concerned. "Come in from the cold and tell me what you're doing out here."
Clint figures he has five minutes to think of a reasonable answer. He pauses, looks up at the lights for a moment before agreeing with a nod.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Clint is beautiful, Phil realizes. In that light, with the snow glittering on his impossible eyelashes, his finely cut lips slightly parted in wonder. "Come," he says, and takes Clint's elbow firmly, so that Barton has no choice but to follow him.
He's silent on the way up to Phil's apartment, which is somewhat unnerving. Clint is usually a chatterbox, even on comms. This is different. He opens his locks and the door and invites Clint inside.
It's not the first time Clint has been to his apartment, but it is the first time he's ever seemed skittish about it. "Barton," Phil sighs. "Please, come in and tell me why you're stalking me on Christmas Eve."
"Sir, I ... I'm not stalking you." Clint stutters and blushes, and Phil thinks that is the sweetest thing he's even seen. "I'm ... I just ... I wanted to make sure you were safe."
"Safe? Barton, you've seen me kill men with a paper clip. I think I can look after myself. Take your coat off. I'm not chasing you out into the cold." He goes to his bar and pours two tumblers of bourbon. "Here, you need this."
"I don't. I'm --"
Coulson presses the glass into his hand and wraps his fingers around it. "Now, talk to me, Barton."
"It's Christmas, sir." He sounds slightly desperate, and his eyes are fixed on the tree lights as if the answer to the riddle of the universe is in them.
"Yes, it is. You followed me to St. Patrick's."
"I saw your sister, sir. She looks like you."
"That's because we're twins. Her name is Jane. Every year, we go to St. Patrick's Christmas Eve service. Family tradition."
"My family tradition was watching my father drink, and cowering in a corner while he beat my mom if she spent too much on presents for me and Barney."
"I'm sorry," Coulson says because he doesn't know what else to say. Barton sounds so desolate, so lonely.
"Why? You weren't around to do anything about it." Clint shrugs off the sympathy. "The service tonight was good. I liked it when they lit the candles. I've never seen that." He finally takes off his coat. He sips the drink and Phil takes a deep breath that he wasn't aware he was holding. He hangs Barton's coat on the hall tree and when he turns, Barton is standing by the tree, one finger gently tapping an ornament, watching it spin.
He looks so young in those lights, his features softer, almost innocent. Phil stands next to him, their shoulders touching. "I like the lights," Clint says softly. "But I don't know why people go through so much trouble for a few days."
"Because it gives them hope," Phil answers. "It makes the winter less bleak."
"I don't like the cold," Clint says. "I never have. It makes my bones hurt."
That makes Phil's heart ache. Thinking of the child huddling in the corner, the lonely youth who became Hawkeye the world's greatest archer, the thin, desperate man Phil had saved nine months ago ... the friend who is next to him now ...
Clint turns to him, something dawning in his eyes. "Why did you save me?"
"Because you never miss."
"I feel like I'm missing something now," he turns to Phil. "But I don't know what it is."
Phil knows. He just prays he won't freak Barton out. He slides an arm around Barton's hard waist and feels the quiver of his muscles against his palm. Clint's eyes reflect the Christmas lights, colors dancing in the blue depths as he turns to Phil.
Barton is marginally taller than Phil, but their eyes are almost level and they are very close. Clint leans in, his breath brushing Phil's lips and stops there, watching for some sign of rejection or alarm. There is none.
^*^*^*^*^*^
Their first kiss is reverent, almost chaste; a touch of Clint's chilly lips on Phil's warm ones. His hands cup the back of Clint's head. "I never knew," he marvels.
Clint hadn't known it was something he wanted, but all that is lonely and cold in Clint is slowly melting like the snow on the glass. He wants to burrow more deeply into Phil's hands. He wants to press himself against Phil's body. He wants more from the kiss. So much more. He wants taste and touch and heat and everything that Phil is willing to give him, and that scares him. Instead he jokes a bit. "Do you think I hang around just anybody's vents?"
"So, you were stalking me."
Clint rests his forehead against Phil's. "Not stalking. Just making sure you were okay."
"Well, then. That's different." Phil smiles.
Daring, Clint wraps his arms around Phil's waist and Coulson's arms encircle him, pull him close. This time, the kiss is everything Clint wants and needs. Phil kisses him deeply, sweetly until Clint thinks his bones will melt. A flash of light outside catches his eyes and he pulls away, alert to any possible danger.
"Fireworks," Phil says. "Over the East River."
"Oh," Clint relaxes again. He feels like he's lit up inside. The fireworks, the blur of the lights, the colors, the softness of the snow falling outside, and the warmth of being inside, and Phil, in his arms.
"Stay," Phil says. "Don't go back out into the cold."
Is this what Christmas feels like? Like light, and joy and warmth? Like not being alone. If this is only for one night, Clint will never forget that he's had one perfect Christmas.
Oh Christmas lights, light up the street.
Light up the fireworks in me.
May all your troubles soon be gone.
Those Christmas lights, keep shining on."
The End