Moments

In a rare moment to himself, Natasha and Clint both out of the room, Phil lifted his shirt to check over his stitches.  They could probably come out, he healed quickly, after all.  So, he carefully sat, holding his side, sore from the gunshot, and rooted around in the side-table for something sharp to cut the stitches out with.

hawkeye-in-the-sky:

Clint came in with a tray and scowled.

“What exactly d’you think you’re doing?”

“Trying to find a knife or scissors or clippers or something.”  Phil didn’t even bother trying to lie to Clint.   “Ah.” he said triumphantly, coming up with a pair of nail clippers.  He tucked the hem of his shirt up under his chin and pulled at the first knot on the front set of stitches to get the edge of the clipper under it to cut it free.

Clint came in with a tray and scowled.

“What exactly d’you think you’re doing?”

“Trying to find a knife or scissors or clippers or something.”  Phil didn’t even bother trying to lie to Clint.   “Ah.” he said triumphantly, coming up with a pair of nail clippers.  He tucked the hem of his shirt up under his chin and pulled at the first knot on the front set of stitches to get the edge of the clipper under it to cut it free.

“Don’t you dare.” Clint growled. “Let me do it if you must.”

He set the tray, laden with waffles and a glass of milk, down on the foot of the bed and sat down.

“Gimmie.”

“It’s fine, Clint,” Phil said, working on the second of six on the front.  He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d manage the six on the back, but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

Clint whapped his nose and stole the clippers.

“Hey!” Phil scowled at him ineffectively, considering his shirt was still tucked up under his chin.  “I was doing fine, Clint.”

“Hush.” Clint carefully snipped and pulled the stitches remaining, front and back.

Phil huffed while Clint was working.  “I’m perfectly self-sufficient.”

“And idiotically stubborn to boot. There.” He finished and sat back, discarding the clippers.

“Food?”

Phil frowned then peered over at the bed table.  “You made me waffles.”

“I did.”

 ”Thank you,” Phil’s lips quirked in a small smile.

“Hmm. I was feeling charitable. Until I saw you cutting your own stitches. I might just give you gruel now.”

Clint stuck out his tongue.

“Oh for crying out loud, do what you want,” Phil huffed, leaning back in the bed grumpily.

“Don’t you sass me, Philip Coulson. You are the worst patient in the history of the universe. And that’s coming from me.”

“That’s only because you’re blinded by your status as Horrible Patient and think you puppy-eye your way out of medical every time by good behaviour - when really they’re at their wits end trying to keep you in bed without strapping you down,” Phil snarked back.

“Well, strapping me down doesn’t usually end well.” Clint quipped and dumped the tray in Phil’s lap. “Eat.”

“Woah, hey!” Phil grabbed at the glass of Milk before it could tip and spill all over the bedding.

Clint smirked and got up to dig around for his grey sweatshirt.

He’d had to run out for the blueberries and the chill from the air was lingering in his bones.

Phil set the glass of milk on the bedstand and pushed himself up to sit, very determinedly hiding a wince.  He watched Clint a moment then sighed.  “If I manage to finish this, will you stay?”

Clint pulled the soft sweatshirt over his head, emerging ruffled and exasperated.

“I wasn’t going anywhere, Idiot.”

“I’m bored out of my skull,” was the only explanation for his train of thought that Phil gave.

Clint sighed.

“Eat. I got you blueberries.”

Phil didn’t put up much a fight at that. They WERE hawkwaffles with blueberries after all.  He ate quietly as he watched Clint move around the room.

Clint sat facing him on the bed and tucked a knee up under his chin.

When he finished eating, Phil set the tray aside on the floor, drank his milk, and carefully adjusted how he was sat in the bed before opening his arms.  “Come here, Mine.”

Clint scowled.

“You’re still hurt.”

“Then lie to my left, Idiot,” Phil said, giving him a Look.

Clint grumbled and snuggled into his left side.

“Grumpy.”

“I’m allowed to be grumpy,” Phil protested, pressing a kiss to Clint’s hair with a content sigh.  “I’m stuck useless in bed and am temporarily anaemic.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have gotten shot then, should you?”

Clint poked his side, tight eyes giving away the worry under the admonishment.

“It was the right thing to do,” Phil replied.  “You’d have done the same thing.”

“I have done the same thing. And you didn’t like it either.”

“That’s beside the point.  Last time you did it, you ended up in a coma,” Phil frowned.

Clint was silent, just turning his face into Phil’s shoulder.

Phil tucked him closer to his side, not as strong as he’d like.  “Got you,” he said stubbornly.  “Not gonna leave you.  We’re getting married in a couple months.”

“Damn right we are.” Clint mumbled.

“And Nat’s home to stand up for us.  And there will be a ridiculous amount of purple.  And waffles,” he added.

“I found a confectioner’s that’ll build ‘em into a tower and decorate.” Clint informed him. “I need to make the waffles myself, though.”

“How big of a wedding are we talking about, here?” Phil asked, rubbing Clint’s arm and glad for their change in subject away from the maudlin and toward hope.

“Not huge.” Clint shrugged. “About forty, fifty guests?”

“That sounds about right,” Phil replied.  “We should probably send out invitations if you haven’t done it already,” he poked at Clint’s shoulder.

“I’m arguing with the designers.”

“What… why are you arguing with the designers?” Phil asked, confused.

“They keep wanting to add lace.”

Clint scrunched up his nose.

“Dear Lord.  No.  No lace,” Phil frowned.  “Why are we paying them, if they won’t do it right.  Find someone else to make them.  There aren’t that many.”

“Because they’ll keep the guestlist out of the papers.” Clint huffed. “I can’t run another security check on someone else in time.”

Phil sighed.  “And they’re adamant about the lace?  They do realise we’re a gay couple, right?”

“I think they’re more used to, er, ‘flamboyant’ clients.”

Phil pressed his lips together with a noise of disapproval.

Clint poked his nose.

“I won’t let them add lace.”

“We’re going to have to make phonecalls at this rate to make sure people can come,” he replied, wrinkling his nose a little at the poke.

“If they’re not out by the end of the week, we will.”

Phil nodded, resting his cheek against Clint’s hair.  “You have the list still, right?”

Clint hummed an affirmative.

“Good,” Phil said, sighing contentedly.

Clint hesitated.

“… could you, um… Never mind.”

“I should think after twenty years you’d know ending a sentance that began with ‘could you’ with ‘nevermind’ means I want you to tell me what you were going to say, Clint.”

“… play with my hair?” Clint mumbled, embarrassed.

“Is that all?” Phil asked, smiling softly as he slid his hand up to cradle Clint’s head, pushing his fingers through the short hair in soft strokes.

Clint sighed contentedly.

Phil smiled softly, contentedly cuddling his fiancé.  It made being stuck in bed far more dealwithable.”Got you, Mine,” he said softly.

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