After missions Clint is usually really wound up (what with all the adrenaline and all) and has found the only way he can calm down is if he uses that energy on Coulson and Coulson is happy to oblige. If it's been really stressful or if Clint's really proud of something one of them did they wind up fucking. If it's been hard because someone died or they made a mistake they slowly kiss and comfort each other (I love the image of Coulson petting Clint's hair). Clint usually wants all of this done ASAP so this usually happens in the first place they can get to alone (an alley, a bathroom stall, the back seat of a car, etc.)

So what happens when the mission is in a cold place where it's snowing or raining and one or both of them are soaked and cold?


Title: Just a Dry Jacket and a Warm Hand Stroking

Author's Note: This is the first of two fills I wanted to write for this prompt. I hope it's close enough to the prompt! The other fill is only a quarter of the way written and is much happier/hotter in tone. But I couldn't get images of this version out of my head, so I went ahead and wrote it.



Just a Dry Jacket and a Warm Hand Stroking


‘Barton. Have to find Barton.’ This single thought was stuck in Coulson’s head on a repeating loop as he made his way through the streets. He took one corner a bit too fast on his brisk pace and almost collided with some innocent civilians going the opposite direction, their shoulders hunched and heads down against the rain pelting from above. Coulson apologized and gripped the handle of his umbrella more tightly, as if he were ready to use it as a weapon. ‘Barton. Barton. Have to get to Barton.’


He could feel it in his knees when he ran—not an especially good sign—and the deep puddles he couldn’t avoid splashed rainwater at him so his shoes, socks, and black slacks up through the shins were soaked and cold by the time he got closer to the scene.


First, Coulson encountered the undercover S.H.I.E.L.D. agents trying to lock down the scene in a three block radius; it wasn’t working too well as they were few and the town’s disgruntled and now concerned residents were many. Coulson scanned the gathering crowd of gawkers and agents for the one face he desperately needed to see… because he knew the man was going to be even more desperately searching for him. He found Agent Cauldwell, dressed as a panhandler, and latched onto her arm with a tight grip. “Where’s Barton?”


She thumbed over her shoulder. “With Agent Milo.”


Of course he was. Coulson felt a little guilty about ignoring Agent Cauldwell’s shiver as he left at a run, splashing her leg and taking his umbrella with him. But he could hear all the agents chattering over the com and everyone had sprung into action as they were supposed to if the mission went south. There wasn’t anything else Coulson could do… except find Barton. He sprinted the last block and a half with a stitch in his side telling him he wasn’t cut out for field work, at least not without doing some serious stretching first.


The moment he spotted Agent Barton, Coulson came to a stop only yards away. Agent Milo, pale and motionless, lay on his back in the middle of the street. Traffic was halted and one truck’s headlights cast yellow beams through the rain straight at Hawkeye and the fallen agent. Barton knelt beside the man, one hand on the pavement on either side of him, shielding the man’s upper body from the rain as best he could. Hawkeye’s uniform was darker and shinier than normal from water and his head hung down as well, but the man below him, wincing in considerable pain, didn’t look too wet. Bloody, yes, but not too wet.


Coulson rushed over, careful to not splash. He held the umbrella over the men and Barton grunted his appreciation. Weakly, he lifted his head just enough to catch sight of Coulson out of the corner of his eye. Coulson got that flash of Barton’s face briefly and wanted to lean down to kiss it. Barton would blame it on the rain, but his cheeks were wet.


The man turned them back down toward Agent Milo. Something that had once been white was pressed against the injured agent’s left cheek, slowing blood loss there. There were scratches down the side of his face and his neck. There was something small and metallic sticking out of his side, but it didn’t look like it had buried itself too deep. And one of his arms lay at his side at an impossible angle. The man probably had bruises and a concussion, possibly some hearing loss. He was unconscious still, so it was impossible to know for sure. But, all things considered, it could have been a lot worse. The man was alive.


Medics had already been called. From the sound of it, they were on their way, trying to get through the crowd and stopped traffic to the scene. Barton rocked slightly on his hands and knees, eyes squeezing closed tightly. He hunched forward more and turned his head, smashing his face into his shoulder. Then his whole body shook. “Nnxxgtttt!” After the sneeze, he rubbed his face against his shoulder, sniffing wetly and coughing harshly.


Coulson sank to his knees. He was careful to keep the umbrella over the two men, even though the umbrella didn’t cover everything and the rain was coming down harder now. With his free hand he rubbed Clint’s back, the tense curve of it softening and straightening as Clint leaned into him a little. “We need to get you out of here. Need to warm you up.”


The shake of Clint’s head was small, but rain droplets fell from the tip of his nose and ends of his hair. “Not ‘til someone comes for Milo.”


Clint was damn good at taking orders when he was on a mission. But outside that time, he made up for it with unflinching stubbornness. So Coulson didn’t say anything else. He just held the umbrella, rubbed Clint’s back, and kept telling Agent Milo to hold on, just in case the man could hear him.


Help came after what felt like hours. Coulson’s knees screamed with pain as he tried to get up, pulling Clint with him, stumbling back to make room for the S.H.I.E.L.D. medics. He knew they were needed to enforce the perimeter, to push the throng of onlookers back. The last thing they needed was someone in the crowd getting the smart idea to trigger another device and take out half the block. But Clint clung to him with a desperation Coulson hadn’t seen in months. And he found he couldn’t stop rubbing the man’s back. “Come with me.”


Coulson said it as though he knew exactly where to take the man, when, in actuality, he had no idea. So he stood for a moment as he looked around for any sort of cover. He’d given his umbrella to one of the medics and the rain made flat sounds against his water resistant jacket as he ushered a shivering Clint to the sidewalk and under a shop’s awning.


When they squeezed into the darkened doorway, Clint immediately tried to put his arms around Coulson. “Hold on just a minute.” Coulson wriggled out of his jacket. He then pulled off his suit jacket and forced Clint to drop his quiver, bow, and what remained of his arrows to the ground. Once that was taken care of, he put the suit jacket around Clint, giving the man a nudge and a look to make him slide his arms through the sleeves. The man’s broad shoulders and muscular arms tested the fabric’s limits, but when Coulson pulled it as closed in the front as it was going to get, Clint stopped shivering. Coulson started to put his S.H.I.E.L.D. jacket around Clint as well, but the man’s stubbornness came out again, so he ended up putting that jacket back on himself.


The moment he did, Clint leaned forward, attacking Coulson with a deep, strong embrace. “Well hello there,” Coulson whispered in mild surprise, rubbing the man’s back again through the suit jacket, feeling the bumps of Hawkeye’s uniform beneath it. He dropped a kiss on the top of the man’s head, figuring that wouldn’t be enough to catch whatever bug Clint had. “How’re you doing?” Coulson regretted asking that the moment he’d said it. The man was soaked right through, ill with what was at best a head cold and at worst walking pneumonia, and had just seen one of their best agents get hit by a device that he’d sworn they’d fully deactivated. Clint had to be shouldering the blame for that, even if he wasn’t going to come right out and say it.


Clint wasn’t going to come right out and say anything except one strangled, “Phil…” before burying his face in Coulson’s shoulder and tightening his grip around him. The man’s body spasmed with a few violent coughs. He sniffed and stiffened. “I’m gonna…”


Coulson slid his hand up and stroked Clint’s wet hair. “Go ahead. My jacket’s already wet. A couple sneezes won’t make a difference.”


Clint let out a breath like a weak laugh then gasped and sneezed. And sneezed. And sneezed. And sneezed. They were stronger than the one earlier when he’d been trying to not sneeze on Agent Milo, a bit stronger than the ones Coulson had heard occasionally over the com during the mission, and much stronger than the few he’d heard when they’d been in bed or in the shower together the day before. “Bless you.”


Clint sniffled and tensed again, and Coulson thought maybe he had another in him about to come out. But then he heard the softest of sobs and felt Clint’s fists grab and hold handfuls of his jacket.


Coulson kept stroking his head. He didn’t tell the man to hush or stop crying. Didn’t tell him everything was going to be okay, because Clint would see right through that B.S. Coulson didn’t know Milo’s condition. And S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were prepared to give their lives at any time; death was part of the job, but that didn’t make the hurt any less when you fucked up and someone paid the price. Besides, his jacket was already wet. A couple of tears wouldn’t make a difference.


They’d be back in the helicarrier by morning, back in their bed where Coulson could finally catch up on some paperwork while repeatedly wiping Clint’s runny nose as the man curled in a ball beside him. By then, it wouldn’t be so bad. The medics would know about Milo, might even have him out of surgery by then. Fury would have debriefed them on the mission and they could put the whole mess behind them. The cold medicine Clint couldn’t take while out in the field would have kicked in, and Coulson might even manage to get a doctor to listen to that cough of his. But, for now, Clint needed immediate comforting and this was all Coulson could offer—just a dry jacket and a warm hand stroking, letting him know they’d made it through another mission.