tarotgal: (Hawkeye About to Sneeze)
tarotgal ([personal profile] tarotgal) wrote2015-03-15 11:41 pm

Marvel NaNoFic: Assess & Acquire- Chapter 8

Coulson thinks it's time to try somewhere else. Let's see how that works out for him...

Title: Assess & Acquire
Author: tarotgal
Fandom: Marvel CMU (Avengers & Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Pre-Clint/Coulson
Spoilers: For the first Avengers movie and the first episode of Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Warning: Character death. A lot of character death.
Summary: When Clint Barton shows up unannounced on Phil Coulson’s doorstep, Coulson is forced to change his vacation plans. So when a simple mission to assess and acquire an object of unknown origin comes up, he figures there’s no reason he should turn that down. Naturally, things are never as simple as they seem.
Author’s Notes: Written for NaNoWriMo 2014 all in one month (a first for me!). This story is finished but will be posted in pieces. Total word count: 73,274.



Chapter 8

When Coulson woke to the sound of the buzzer, a scream caught in his throat. Knowing the day had reset and knowing he was not on fire, he still threw the covers off and stared down. His gaze traveled over his body, as though inspecting it for damage. There wasn’t a burn on him. Gunshots. Explosions. Fires. It had been a week of the same day on repeat and he still wasn’t quite used to finding that, once again, he was supposed to be dead but was not.

But this time he had to wonder why the day had ended the way it had. The time had been about noon or one o’clock in the afternoon when they’d entered the building and ridden the elevator up toward Coulson’s penthouse. He had made it far later in the day before without a fire taking place. What had caused it this time and not the times before? Every morning, without fail, Clint pressed the door buzzer at the same time. If given the chance, he always said the same thing. And then Agent Hill called every morning at the same time. She, too, always said the same thing. If he did nothing, the object would seek him out and take out the entire city in the process. If he did something, he could change the day’s events. But never before had his building burned. So it had to have been something he had caused. And he had been sure that, this time, the 0-8-4 had nothing to do with the cause of his death.

So what had changed? Or, more importantly, what had he changed?

It wasn’t telling Clint; he’d done that before. It wasn’t retrieving the object from the museum; he’d done that before, too. It couldn’t possibly be buying a different brand of tissues or letting Clint sit on the edge of his bed. It had to be something to do with the building. Or someone who had figured out Coulson lived there and targeted the building on purpose. But no one seemed to be interested in the 0-8-4 apart from S.H.I.E.L.D. and the researchers at the museum who had called S.H.I.E.L.D. to take it in the first place. He and Clint hadn’t been in the building when the fire started, though, so it wasn’t as though one of them had knocked over a lantern and caused the building to burn down. And in none of the days Coulson had done something to stop a figurative lantern from tipping over… as far as he knew. But it had to have been something or else the building wouldn’t have gone up in flames. He would have to pay close attention so whatever it was didn’t happen again.

Coulson made it to the intercom beside the door and pressed the button. “Yes?” he asked reflexively.

“Agent Coulson, it’s me.”

Poor Clint sounded terrible, like always. So apparently nothing had changed yet. “Come up to the top floor, Agent Barton.” He buzzed Clint in. Like he always did. Still no change.

Coulson felt strangely aware of his every move, over-analyzing everything. Did he usually have to wait this long for Clint to emerge from the elevator? Had he been too long in answering the door buzzer? Or too quick? He hadn’t bothered getting dressed this time around, but he couldn’t imagine what that had to do with anything. He couldn’t be completely sure, but he didn’t think the building had burned down because he’d skipped putting on his slippers and bathrobe before answering the door. He considered going back for them now, just in case, but there wasn’t time. As he opened the door to his apartment, he heard the ding of the elevator and saw the doors slide open.

He saw Clint standing there, talking to his neighbor from downstairs with the cat carriers in hand. He watched Clint leave the elevator and head toward him. And he anticipated Clint snapping forward with the strong, sudden sneeze. “Hahh-Ktshhhhh!” But he’d forgotten the tissues.

Coulson winced, feeling the spray fall against his chest, neck, chin. That wasn’t the worst part, though. The worst was having Clint sneeze on him and knowing that Clint was about to do it again.

Huh huh-KIHtchhh!

Coulson didn’t even have his bathrobe on in order to wipe his face off with his sleeve, so he pulled the end of his undershirt up and used that instead.

“Oh,” Clint’s voice was thick with congestion, and he sniffed hard, dragging his gloved hand under his nose. “I’b sorry, Sir. Sniff! I caught a horrible cold, add I really deed subwhere safe to crash. Datasha is off od a bissiod add I cad’t go to Avedgers Tower. Do you thidk I could… I bead, I dow this isd’t the best start id askig, sdeezig all over you like that. It’s just that by dose—”

“It’s all right,” Coulson said, stepping aside. “Come in. Just try not to sneeze on me any more, all right?”

Clint cupped his hand over his nose and mouth. “Huhhh… huhh-Urschhhhhh! Sniff! Sniff, sniff! I caddot bake ady brobises, Sir.” He stumbled in and threw himself on the couch. Once there, he sighed deeply, shoulders sagging, body relaxing into the couch cushions. Coulson retrieved the trusty tissue box from the linen closet, along with blankets and the pillow—just like he’d done before. He wondered, given the number of times Clint had sneezed on him or breathed germs on him or kissed him, why he hadn’t gotten sick yet. He wondered if that reset itself at the beginning of each loop as well, and decided it must. And that meant that he really should remember the tissue box next time. He didn’t want to get stuck on the final time through the loop with all of Clint’s germs pumping through his system, lying in wait to get him sick.

He thought about showering now, in fact, about how nice a hot shower would be during this loop. He could call his team to go babysit the 0-8-4 while he stood under the hot water and let it reduce his worries down to the very basics of being warm and clean and alive.

Huh… huh-uh… huh-EHSchhhhh! Hetchhhh!

“Bless you, Agent Barton.” Coulson draped one blanket and then the other over the sniffly, sneezy S.H.I.E.L.D. agent who had so quickly become a fixture in his living room and in his life. And he knew, as he tucked the blanket around Clint once again, that there wasn’t time for the luxury of a hot shower.

He had left his cell phone in the bedroom, but he could hear it buzzing away with urgency.

“I’ll be right back,” he promised Clint. Coulson got dressed while he answered the phone. He pulled on his pants with one hand while he held his phone in the other, listening to Agent Hill telling him about a mysterious, suspicious, and potentially dangerous object of unknown origins. He buttoned up his shirt as she very nearly begged him to cut his vacation time incredibly short in order to go retrieve the object. And he cradled the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he tied his tie and listened to her telling him the object was nearby, just a few blocks away at the museum. “All right,” Coulson gave in, as he had so many times before and as he knew he would have to from now on if he wanted to keep the city from exploding. “I can retrieve the object, but I want something in return.”

She was quiet for a moment before replying, “You know S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t make deals. What is it you want, Agent Coulson?”

“It’s Clint Barton, Hawkeye. Agent Barton just showed up at my place a few minutes ago with one raging head cold. Take him off active duty before he pushes himself too far. The guy’s a mess right now.”

“Hey!” came a shout from the other room. “I heard my name! What are you saying about me?”

Coulson chuckled. “Just arranging for S.H.I.E.L.D. to ship you off to the sandbox if you sneeze on me again!” Coulson yelled back, pressing the phone to his chest so that he wasn’t shouting into that. Then he held the phone back up again. “Well?”

“You’ve got yourself a deal, Agent Coulson. Barton’s useless if he isn’t at the top of his game.”

Coulson couldn’t entirely agree with that statement. Sure the man’s shooting skills were not up to his usual standards of perfection due to the cold, but so far Clint had proved to be useful in other ways. “Thanks, Agent Hill. I’ll let you know when I have the 0-8-4 in hand.” He hung up and laced up his shoes. Then he took a second to look at his reflection in the mirror that hung over his bedroom dresser. The same suit he always wore today.

He had made so few changes. But how was he to know if he’d been careful to not change the one thing that ended up with his home on fire?

“What was that about?” Clint asked from behind a handful of tissues when Coulson walked back into the living room.

“Agent Hill called me in on a case. She needs me to retrieve an 0-8-4 for S.H.I.E.L.D.” He thought about telling Clint about the time loop again, but he decided he had enough balls in the air without worrying about keeping track of yet another. Besides, Clint would probably insist on coming along again, and the man looked so comfortable on the couch. Tucked under the blankets. Head nestled on the pillow. Tissue box propped up on his chest. Sneakers on the couch. Used tissues on the floor. Some things were worth changing.

Coulson lifted up the ends of the blankets and pulled the shoelaces until the bows came undone. He slipped the shoes off and then tucked the blankets back around Clint’s sock-clad feet. He grabbed the trash can from the bathroom and rounded up the discarded tissues into it. “Try to get some rest, Agent. Call me if you need me. I’ll grab some things for you on the way home. Just… stay put, all right?” He wanted to tel Clint to stay out of the elevator, but he didn’t have a way of saying that without revealing far too much. “And feel better.”

Halfway through Clint’s nodding, his eyelids dropped closed. His nostrils still flared with sniffles, but his breathing slowed down. Coulson’s fingertips ghosted over Clint’s forehead. He thought about kissing the man’s forehead, but then he thought better of it. He didn’t want to disturb Clint.

So, remembering what Natasha had told him, Coulson settled for a brief touch and a kind sentiment before heading out to the museum.

Everything played out exactly as Coulson remembered. The museum was as busy as ever. The little girl with the bouncy brown ponytail collided with him again then scampered off after her father. The security guard stationed between the public area and the authorized personnel glanced at Coulson’s S.H.I.E.L.D. badge only briefly before waving him right right through. Dr. Daniels introduced himself. Scientists and researchers stood in awe, gazing at the object. And even Coulson took an extra second to marvel at the awesome display of teal and purple energy leaping about from its smooth, silvery surface.

Then he picked it up and secured it in the S.H.I.E.L.D. artifact case. No good S.H.I.E.L.D. agent should leave home without one. And the amount of relief he felt upon locking the object away and holding the case tightly in hand was intense, measurable even. This time, he skipped asking about research. He hadn’t done that on the first day, and he’d made it through the day to the evening at least in his apartment before dying down by the docks. He couldn’t imagine what that would have to do with it, but at this point, he was just trying to keep the changes he made to a minimum.

He stopped by the grocery store and filled the cart more quickly than usual. He grabbed item after item, unable to remember which ones he had chosen on the first day compared to ones from subsequent trips. He hoped his instincts were good enough for him to rely on. But he couldn’t imagine that his selecting the orange juice with a little too much pulp had somehow been the cause of the fire in the building.

When he returned to his apartment building, he stood outside it for a full minute, studying the windows for flames or smoke or any sort of an indication that a fire might start. But there was nothing. Still, when he got inside to the lobby, he decided to take the stairs all the way up instead of using the elevator. By the time he got to his home, he was sweating. His white dress shirt was wet at the pits beneath his suit jacket and his tie was completely undone, hanging loosely from his neck. He was panting a bit when he opened the door to his place.

Clint was dead asleep, snoring up a storm. He lay on his stomach, one arm hanging down over the side of the couch, one leg sticking out from under the blankets. He was drooling on the pillow. And there was the shape of a tissue box under the covers with him, though it was probably empty given that the small trash can from the bathroom was almost full to the top with balled-up, used tissues.

As quietly as possible, Coulson put the groceries away. He kept glancing back at Clint, warily. He knew he should probably wake the man up and give him some cold medicine. But Clint looked exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes. And unless some genius scientist like Banner had discovered something new in the last few hours, there was still no cure for the common cold; sleep was one of the best things for Clint right now. It sure beat dying in an explosion, that was for sure. Perching on the arm of the couch, arms crossed over his chest, Coulson couldn’t help but notice how peaceful he looked, despite the loud, inhuman snores coming from him.

Coulson let his body calm and cool down after the climb. But he kept thinking he smelled smoke. Four times he got up and checked the hallway, listening for screams or the roar of fire, but the building was quiet and safe.

Deceptively safe, perhaps? He sat down on the armrest, staying for only a few minutes before getting up and pacing back and forth. He sat back down, but watching Clint sleep wasn’t too comforting. So he popped up again just a few minutes later. After checking the hallway two more times, he decided it was time he did something. So he reached down and gripped Clint’s ankle. He gave it a small shake. “Clint?” Clint didn’t wake. “Agent Barton?” Clint stirred, barely awake and already drifting back off again. Coulson moved to sit on the side of the couch now. He reached under the blanket and closed his hand over Clint’s shoulder. “Agent Barton, wake up.”

This time, Clint wrenched himself from sleep and stayed that way. He blinked up at Coulson. “H-hey,” he said. “I… oh… I’m gonna sneeze.”

“What a surprise.”

Huhhh… huh-KTChhhhh! Sniff!” He rubbed hard at his nose. And now he looked both exhausted and pathetic. “Sniff! Sniff!

“Bless you.” Nervously, Coulson glanced around, as if expecting the apartment to burst into flames at any moment. He couldn’t stay here. It would probably be safe; if the place was going to burn down, it would have done so already. But he didn’t know what had changed—or what hadn’t changed. But just being here made him too nervous. “We need to go.”

“Yeah…” Clint pushed himself up off the couch, blinking tiredly. “Wait, why do we have to go?”

Coulson’s hands were tight in fists. He glanced over at the 0-8-4 in its case, knowing that if he didn’t get a hold on this situation, this could easily drive him to paranoia and insanity. He had to tell Clint something—something other than the last time he’d been through this day, they had died in a terrible apartment building fire. “It’s not safe here.”

Clint looked around. “Seems fine to me.” He coughed and gave his handler a weak smile. “I’ve got my bow and quivers. I’ll protect you if something happens, Sir.”

Coulson smiled. “I’m sure you will. But we still need to go.”

Clint coughed. “Okay. Where?”

Where indeed. The jet? The helicarrier? “Your apartment.”

Clint’s eyes widened. “Aw, no. Not my apartment. Not a good idea.”

“Not open to debate, Agent.” He tried to look reassuring. “Don’t worry. I’ll bring the groceries. Aaaaand the medicine. You should take some right now before we leave. Get your shoes on while I get you some water to wash it down with.” He had two pills and a glass of water in front of Clint in less than a minute. Clint only had one shoe on by then; it seemed like he was moving in slow motion since he woke up. Slowly, he took the glass of water and took a first sip to wet his mouth. Coulson almost died of old age while waiting for him to take the pills and down them. Clint sniffled and continued sipping the water. Coulson let him drink a little, but Cling was taking too long. So Coulson took the glass from his hand and patted his arm. “All right. Get up.”

Coulson rounded up the necessary items before practically pushing Clint out of the apartment.

“I really don’t think this is a good idea, Sir.”

Coulson insisted they use the stairs. Clint spent the whole time coughing and sneezing and complaining and protesting. Coulson was sweating again by the time they got to the bottom. But he still raised his hand boldly to hail a cab. He had bags in his hand and on his shoulder, but he wrapped his free arm around Clint. Clint seemed worse than earlier, and Coulson couldn’t help but remember the way Clint sneezed his head off around this time on some previous days. He hoped they would reach Clint’s place before the worst of it hit.

A cab pulled up to the curb, and Coulson manhandled Clint into the back seat before climbing in after him. “Brooklyn. Quincy and Tompkins in Bedford-Stuyvesant,” Coulson told the cabbie, who sat looking over his shoulder through the Plexiglas divider at them. He didn’t look too happy about the location, but he turned and started his meter. Then he pulled out into traffic.

Within a minute, Coulson regretted not insisting Clint take a blanket with him. It was chilly out and Clint sat huddled in the backseat with his arms crossed over his chest to keep warm. Feeling sorry for him, Coulson scooted over to the middle seat. He fastened the seatbelt there, and then he wrapped his arm around Clint again. Clint did not protest. Instead, he leaned into Coulson for the warmth, among other things. He coughed a little. He sniffled a little. And he sneezed a lot—mainly into the tissues from the box in his lap but sometimes right into Coulson’s shoulder.

Hehh… hhhhh…. huh... huh-CHIShhhhhhh!” Clint snuffled, rubbing his nose into Coulson’s shoulder. “M’sorry, Sir. Sniff! Sniff!

“It’s all right,” Coulson said, rubbing his hand up and down Clint’s upper arm. He knew this was silly. Clint would probably have been perfectly safe back at the apartment, but Coulson couldn’t take that chance. This really did seem like the best option, though they could just get a hotel room somewhere. But he was sure Clint would be most comfortable somewhere familiar.

Heh… hahhh… heh-Uhschhhhhh!” Clint pulled back from Coulson’s side, sniffling. “I… I hahhh…” He pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He held his breath. Neither did much good, and he still ended bobbing forward from the force of the sneeze. “H’Ngstt!

“Bless you,” Coulson said softly, trying to assuage his guilt. But even though Clint might feel miserable, at least he wasn’t burning to death, trapped in Coulson’s building.

Clint glanced up at their driver warily before closing his eyes. “Wake me up when we get there.”

With traffic the way it was, it took practically forever to get to Clint’s building. The whole time, Coulson was worried about Clint, but mostly worried about what might happen. A semi might come out of nowhere and ram the car. A fire hydrant might explode, flooding the street and causing the cab to hydroplane and crash. Dr. Doom could suddenly show up right next to the cab, reach in, and strangle them.

Finally they arrived at Clint’s place. Coulson paid the driver, and then he nudged Clint. “Hey. We’re here.”

Clint had been resting but hadn’t managed to fall to sleep during the ride. Sniffling, he crawled out of the cab after Coulson. The climb up the stairs to Clint’s top floor apartment felt like it took twice as long as the trek down the stairs from Coulson’s place. And once they got inside, Coulson realized he probably should have listened to Clint. They shouldn’t have gone there.

First of all, the apartment was a complete mess. Coulson had thought Clint had made a mess of his apartment in previous time loops, but this was beyond anything Coulson had seen before. Tissues were absolutely everywhere, some balled-up and some folded and crumpled. There were little piles concentrated near certain places in the room—the couch, the kitchen counter, the coffee table. Scattered everywhere that tissues weren’t—on the floor, in the sink, on the couch—were dirty dishes, mugs, glasses, silverware. Then there were items of clothing strewn about. Blankets on and off the couch. An empty bottle of medicine here. An empty blister pack of pills there. A thermometer sitting in the empty fruit bowl. A wash cloth hanging over the faucet. A heating pad on the coat rack Tea bags on the stove. A bottle of nasal spray on the chair. Four days. Clint had been sick in this apartment for four days, making a mess of it. It was going to take some time to clean up properly.

But none of that was why Coulson now wished he hadn’t insisted on going to Clint’s place. Standing in the middle of the living room was a man. He wore a cheap red track suit, white sneakers, and gold chains around his neck. His hair was slick with gel. His chin was shaved clean except for a single patch beneath his lower lip. And in his hand was a gun. Pointed right at Clint.

“Welcome home, Bro.”

“Fucking tracksuit dracula,” Clint muttered under his breath. He reached for his bow and arrow, but the man tisked, clucking his tongue against the top of his mouth four times, scolding him. All it did was make Clint angry. “Damn it.”

“You didn’t tell me you had company over,” Coulson said to Clint, whose teeth and fists were all clenched.

“Been waiting a while for you. Thought it best to get you while you were under the weather, Bro.” He glanced over at Coulson. “Who’s your friend?”

Coulson started forward, his hand out as though to shake hands. “Oh, I’m Agent Phil Coulson. Nice to meet you. And your name is…?”

The barrel of the gun swung toward him. “Don’t you move!” Dramatically, and even though he didn’t need to in order to fire, he unclicked the safety on the gun.

Coulson stopped in place. He wasn’t scared of dying, because he knew the day would just repeat again. But he didn’t want to watch Clint die. He didn’t want Clint to die.

So Clint wasn’t going to die. Not this time around at least. Coulson was a S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent. He’d been trained for circumstances exactly like this. Carefully, Coulson set down the 0-8-4 still in its case. He didn’t know what would happen if it got caught in the crossfire, but that wasn’t an experiment he wanted to run today. With the object safe and out of the way, Coulson raised his hands in surrender. “All right, all right.” He took a step back. “You don’t have to be scared of me.”

The man gave a derisive laugh. “I’m not scared.”

“You should be.” Coulson charged at him. He got to the man just as the gun went off.

Coulson felt the breath leave him. For a moment, everything was all right. But then the pain took over. Coulson doubled up as the intense hurt started to take over his whole body. He still tried to move forward, however, needing to stop the man at all costs before the man could take Clint out. Luckily, the man hadn’t anticipated that Coulson wouldn’t go right down. Coulson charged and knocked the gun out of his hand and then shoved him up against the wall. The shove was more like plowing, throwing all the strength he had left in him forward and taking the man with him. At the same moment, an arrow came shooting over Coulson’s shoulder. It tore a hole in the red tracksuit and pinned the man’s arm to the wall. The man shouted and pushed Coulson away. But that was the worst thing he could have done. It left him open for another arrow to pin his other side against the wall as well. The man howled in rage just as Coulson collapsed to the floor among the tissues.

He tried to keep his eyes eyes open. He tried to stay conscious. But the pain was too strong. He raised his hand, grabbing for Clint, trying to reach out to him. His his arm suddenly felt too heavy. But it was all right, because he felt his head being lifted into Clint’s lap. He felt Clint’s fingertips graze over his lips and cheeks. “No… Sir… Phil… No, no…” Clint choked on his words and coughed. Coulson realized Clint was on the verge of tears. He didn’t want that; he didn’t want Clint to be in distress. But it would take too long to explain that this wasn’t the end, that he wasn’t really dying. And Coulson had neither the time nor the strength to say anything. All he could do was lie there and listen to Clint sniffle and feel Clint caress his cheek. “I… I’m so sorry.” Then, suddenly, the man shifted a little and suddenly he felt Clint’s warm lips against his.

It was an amazing kiss. It was almost even a kiss worth dying for. Almost.

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