kathierif_fic (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kathierif_fic) wrote2012-08-29 11:08 pm
kathierif_fic) wrote2012-08-29 11:08 pm
Fic: A Treacherous Thing (Avengers, Phil&Clint, FRT, Pepper-the-cat-verse)
Title: A Treacherous Thing
by:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kathierif_fic
Fandom: MCU // Iron Man // Avengers
Pairing: none, pre-Clint/Coulson
Rating: FRT
Disclaimer: Another transformative fanwork.
Summary: How Phil got his cat.
A/Ns: This is the prequel to "The Only Way To Land", and it fills the "adoption"-square on my cottoncandy_bingo card :)
Again, for Ginny and Cookie, the two who poked me into writing more.
Title - from The Cure's "Love Cats", again.
Takes place after the first Iron Man movie.
Someone is knocking.
Phil barely manages to suppress a groan. If he keeps really quiet, the person knocking will probably go away, he thinks. Nobody knows that he's home, not yet, not even SHIELD, because he hasn't bothered to check in with them. He managed to sneak in at four in the morning, when all of his neighbors and all of the sane people were sleeping, even those living in New York City.
Not Phil Coulson, Agent of SHIELD.
No. He had spent the past few weeks in California, trying to get a hold of Tony Stark of all people and getting brushed away by him again and again.
If not for Pepper Potts...Phil takes a deep breath and holds it.
In the end, not even the great and talented Pepper Potts had been able to keep Stark under control and to stick to the plan, and Phil had been the agent in charge of trying to contain that massive ego and the fall-out of Stark's public statement of "I am Iron Man."
Phil had almost run himself ragged in the attempt to come up with a cover story, and Stark had simply tossed all his efforts away, with a single sentence.
Three words. Four, if you accept that Iron Man is two words.
The knock comes again. Louder, this time, more insisting. As if the person on the other side knows perfectly well that he's home.
Home and unwilling to get up from the couch, but what can he do? Before his mystery guest catches the neighbor's attention...the last thing Phil wants to deal with right now is an overzealous cop, called by one of the other tenants of the building.
Slowly, he unwraps himself from the old, threadbare blanket he keeps on his couch and shuffles toward the door.
On the other side, Clint Barton stands, a smirk on his face and a box in his hands. A bag is dangling from his wrist. The smirk only widens when Clint realizes what Phil is wearing - sweatpants and an old, soft-washed t-shirt.
He is at home, not at work. He can wear whatever he wants. If he's honest, he's surprised that Barton, of all people, believes the rumors that Phil owns nothing but suits. They are closer than most specialists and their handlers, and the long hours they spent together on various missions have brought them to a point where Phil was comfortable with telling Barton where he lives.
"Yes?" he prompts when Barton doesn't seem to want to start the conversation. They talked a few times on the phone while Phil was busy with his assignment, about their missions and random chit-chat, as much as both of them ever dared to indulge in it, and there was no indication of any problems with Barton's own mission. Phil thinks someone would have called him if he was needed at SHIELD instead of sending Barton, but his phone has remained silent, so he has no explanation for Barton being here, at this time of night.
"Can I come in? Sir?" Barton asks. His voice betrays no emotion, but he is still grinning, the skin around his eyes crinkled. Not for the first time, Phil realizes that he's more than just an asset. Clint Barton is a good-looking man.
Phil closes his eyes and takes a deep breath to get rid of that particular thought. He's Barton's handler, he can't afford thinking like this.
"Please?" Barton asks, and Phil is too tired to do this out here. He steps aside without a word, waves Barton in and shuffles into the kitchen, to start some coffee.
He didn't want to do that earlier, when he walked into his own home for the first time in weeks and took in the thin layer of dust on his bookshelves; he was just waiting to reach the point where he would be worn out enough to be able to go to bed instead of sitting on the couch and watching reality TV as if a live wire was running through his body. He's exhausted, but he still can't sleep, and with Barton here, he knows that he will need this coffee.
"Want some?" he asks when Barton follows him in and carefully deposits the little cardboard box he's been carrying on the counter.
"Sure," Barton says. "I brought you a present."
He sounds flippant, as if it's nothing special, as if he doesn't care if Phil refuses to accept his gift, but he's, again, careful when he pushes the box closer to Phil, and both his tone and his actions make Phil instantly suspicious and alert.
"What is it?" he asks, and that's when the little box starts making sounds. A shuffling, scratching sound, and then, a heartbreaking wail.
Phil gives Barton a look that made grown men cry in the past and carefully opens the box, to reveal a little ball of fluff in various shades of grey.
It's tiny. Phil could probably hold it in one open palm, and for a split second, he almost thinks it's a rat before he takes in the tiny paws with almost translucent claws hidden between folds of skin, the big pointed ears, the whiskers, and the huge amber-colored eyes.
"A cat," he says, struggling to keep his voice calm. "You got me a cat."
"A tiny little kitten," Barton says cheerfully and reaches out to lift the cat out of its box and pet it with one single finger. "Her name is Pepper."
"Really." Phil stares at him. He's definitely unimpressed with Barton's attempt at a prank, thinking that this can't be anything else, but his cold stare doesn't impress Barton at all. He just keeps grinning. Phil should never have mentioned Pepper Potts' efficiency to him.
"You can't just get me a cat," he says. "Do you even know anything about cats?"
Barton shrugs. "I grew up with a rheumatic tiger," he replies, and his voice is carefree and unbothered by Phil's lack of reaction.
It suddenly reminds him of Tony Stark's voice, when he told Phil about Obadiah Stane and his betrayal, how Tony had pretended that he hadn't been surprised by Stane's actions, how it didn't affect him; and suddenly, Phil's headache is back, sharp and furious behind his left eye.
"Barton," he says softly, a warning.
"Okay, not much," Barton admits, his eyes lowered to the little cat that's carefully exploring the countertop now, "unless you want to teach her to jump through burning hoops. In that case, I'm your man. Sir."
Phil stares at him.
Barton stares back.
Pepper-the-cat takes that opportunity to pounce on Phil's hand with a happy growl, claws like tiny needles in his skin, and Phil hastily pulls his fingers out of danger.
Her claws leave thin red lines on his skin, lines that burn like fire.
Pepper-the-cat doesn't care about what goes on above her head. She stalks Phil's hands, following it with her ears pricked up, and when she reaches his fingers, she bumps her head firmly against them and starts purring.
"I can't have a cat," Phil says, but his resolve weakens.
"Come on, sir." Barton looks at him pleadingly. "You can't kick her out. She doesn't have anywhere else to go."
Something else is going on here, Phil is sure, but he's too exhausted to figure out what it is. He just realizes, instinctively, that this is important for Barton.
"Why doesn't she have anywhere else to go?" he asks and finally gives in to the temptation of petting her. Her fur is downy, soft, and he can feel the line of her spine underneath it, sharp and vulnerable. She pushes into the contact with his hand with abandon, the volume of her purring picking up another notch.
Barton's shoulders slump slightly. "Found her," he says. "All alone, in a cardboard box." He shifts slightly. "The others in there didn't make it."
Phil swallows and looks down at the kitten. "Still," he says, as firmly as he can. "She needs a vet. Shots. And cat food. And a bed. And toys. Someone who can take care of her."
Barton finds his grin again. From one of his pockets, he produces a little booklet and pushes it toward Phil.
Pepper-the-cat, he learns, has all her shots and is a healthy, happy little cat.
He also learns that he is officially her owner.
"Isn't that a little...presumptuous of you?" he asks mildly, but Barton only shrugs a little. From the bag, he starts to unpack what looks like half a pet store - food and bowls and a mat to put underneath, and a vast array of brightly colored plush mice.
Phil can't make sense of it, and so he does the first thing coming to his tired brain.
He tucks the booklet into the kitchen drawer that holds the first-aid-kit and other important documents, such as take-out menus, and pours both of them a cup of coffee.
"Why me?" he finally asks, and again, Barton refuses to meet his eye.
"You're the only one I could think of, sir," he mumbles. "I can hardly keep her myself, and SHIELD isn't a place for a little thing like her."
In that, Phil has to admit, Barton is right. It still doesn't explain why he picked, of all the people, him for this little thing, and not one of the other agents, like Dora, who loves animals and has a whole wallet full of pictures that she loves to show to the other agents. Since Dora is almost as old as Phil's mother, he usually doesn't protest too much.
"She needs someone special," Barton says firmly. "Someone who looks out for her and...appreciates her and doesn't take advantage of her. Someone who will protect her." He finally looks up, and his eyes are wide and panicked, unexpectedly open. Barton is usually very good at hiding his thoughts and presenting a blank facade to the world, so this is a surprise.
Somehow, Phil has the feeling that they aren't talking about a simple cat anymore.
"Okay," he says slowly, his thoughts racing. "Okay."
Barton bites his lip and reaches out for the cat. His hands are gentle when he picks her up, protectively curving around her body when he sets her down, on the ground, to let her explore the rest of the apartment.
Phil knows Barton's file. He knows about the orphanage and the circus and the military, about sniper training and special ops. He knows every single available fact about Clinton Francis Barton. He's worked with him often enough in the past, and he knows that Barton is reliable, a perfect shot, and a consummate professional who actually prefers his bow to any other weapon. He remembers catching Barton on the range and letting him show Phil a few tricks with the bow, and how his eyes had sparkled.
That, he recalls, had been the first time he thought Clint Barton was a beautiful man.
It hasn't been the last time.
"When did you find her?" he asks, his eyes tracking the cat as she sniffs curiously at his bookshelf. Barton doesn't hesitate, tells him everything he knows.
By the time he falls silent, Pepper-the-cat has curled up in the middle of the small carpet that Phil only bought because it looks like Captain America's shield and is snoring softly.
They watch her for a little bit in silence, and then Barton swallows audibly and straightens.
"If you really don't want her," he says, "I can...find a shelter or something."
Phil nods. He doesn't say anything, afraid that the wrong words will slip out when he opens his mouth.
After what feels like an eternity, Barton stands. "I have to go," he says, and without a second glance at the cat, he turns toward the door. "If you insist, I can pick her up tomorrow morning."
Phil follows him, opens the door, watches Barton walk through.
He doesn't know why he does it, but before Clint disappears from sight, he calls after him.
"Agent Barton?"
Barton stops. He doesn't turn around.
Phil's thoughts grind to a paralyzing halt. He has no idea what to tell his agent now, or why he stopped him in the first place.
"You know," he says and swallows. "If you want to visit her sometime. You're always welcome."
Barton nods. He still doesn't turn around, but his shoulders relax a fraction, and Phil has no idea why he accepted the cat in his life, knowing fully well that he should have said no, and he also doesn't know why hejust made that offer, but he is glad he did.
Later, when he is sprawled out on his couch again, the blanket wrapped around him and the tiny cat curled up on his chest, her head resting under his chin and her tiny paws kneading his shirt, when they are watching another episode of reality TV, Phil brushes a single finger along Pepper-the-cat's spine and feels the tension disappear from his body.
It was, he slowly realizes, a good gift, and keeping her is the right decision.
"Hello, Pepper," he whispers quietly into a big, twitching ear. "Welcome home."
~end.
by:
kathierif_ficFandom: MCU // Iron Man // Avengers
Pairing: none, pre-Clint/Coulson
Rating: FRT
Disclaimer: Another transformative fanwork.
Summary: How Phil got his cat.
A/Ns: This is the prequel to "The Only Way To Land", and it fills the "adoption"-square on my cottoncandy_bingo card :)
Again, for Ginny and Cookie, the two who poked me into writing more.
Title - from The Cure's "Love Cats", again.
Takes place after the first Iron Man movie.
Someone is knocking.
Phil barely manages to suppress a groan. If he keeps really quiet, the person knocking will probably go away, he thinks. Nobody knows that he's home, not yet, not even SHIELD, because he hasn't bothered to check in with them. He managed to sneak in at four in the morning, when all of his neighbors and all of the sane people were sleeping, even those living in New York City.
Not Phil Coulson, Agent of SHIELD.
No. He had spent the past few weeks in California, trying to get a hold of Tony Stark of all people and getting brushed away by him again and again.
If not for Pepper Potts...Phil takes a deep breath and holds it.
In the end, not even the great and talented Pepper Potts had been able to keep Stark under control and to stick to the plan, and Phil had been the agent in charge of trying to contain that massive ego and the fall-out of Stark's public statement of "I am Iron Man."
Phil had almost run himself ragged in the attempt to come up with a cover story, and Stark had simply tossed all his efforts away, with a single sentence.
Three words. Four, if you accept that Iron Man is two words.
The knock comes again. Louder, this time, more insisting. As if the person on the other side knows perfectly well that he's home.
Home and unwilling to get up from the couch, but what can he do? Before his mystery guest catches the neighbor's attention...the last thing Phil wants to deal with right now is an overzealous cop, called by one of the other tenants of the building.
Slowly, he unwraps himself from the old, threadbare blanket he keeps on his couch and shuffles toward the door.
On the other side, Clint Barton stands, a smirk on his face and a box in his hands. A bag is dangling from his wrist. The smirk only widens when Clint realizes what Phil is wearing - sweatpants and an old, soft-washed t-shirt.
He is at home, not at work. He can wear whatever he wants. If he's honest, he's surprised that Barton, of all people, believes the rumors that Phil owns nothing but suits. They are closer than most specialists and their handlers, and the long hours they spent together on various missions have brought them to a point where Phil was comfortable with telling Barton where he lives.
"Yes?" he prompts when Barton doesn't seem to want to start the conversation. They talked a few times on the phone while Phil was busy with his assignment, about their missions and random chit-chat, as much as both of them ever dared to indulge in it, and there was no indication of any problems with Barton's own mission. Phil thinks someone would have called him if he was needed at SHIELD instead of sending Barton, but his phone has remained silent, so he has no explanation for Barton being here, at this time of night.
"Can I come in? Sir?" Barton asks. His voice betrays no emotion, but he is still grinning, the skin around his eyes crinkled. Not for the first time, Phil realizes that he's more than just an asset. Clint Barton is a good-looking man.
Phil closes his eyes and takes a deep breath to get rid of that particular thought. He's Barton's handler, he can't afford thinking like this.
"Please?" Barton asks, and Phil is too tired to do this out here. He steps aside without a word, waves Barton in and shuffles into the kitchen, to start some coffee.
He didn't want to do that earlier, when he walked into his own home for the first time in weeks and took in the thin layer of dust on his bookshelves; he was just waiting to reach the point where he would be worn out enough to be able to go to bed instead of sitting on the couch and watching reality TV as if a live wire was running through his body. He's exhausted, but he still can't sleep, and with Barton here, he knows that he will need this coffee.
"Want some?" he asks when Barton follows him in and carefully deposits the little cardboard box he's been carrying on the counter.
"Sure," Barton says. "I brought you a present."
He sounds flippant, as if it's nothing special, as if he doesn't care if Phil refuses to accept his gift, but he's, again, careful when he pushes the box closer to Phil, and both his tone and his actions make Phil instantly suspicious and alert.
"What is it?" he asks, and that's when the little box starts making sounds. A shuffling, scratching sound, and then, a heartbreaking wail.
Phil gives Barton a look that made grown men cry in the past and carefully opens the box, to reveal a little ball of fluff in various shades of grey.
It's tiny. Phil could probably hold it in one open palm, and for a split second, he almost thinks it's a rat before he takes in the tiny paws with almost translucent claws hidden between folds of skin, the big pointed ears, the whiskers, and the huge amber-colored eyes.
"A cat," he says, struggling to keep his voice calm. "You got me a cat."
"A tiny little kitten," Barton says cheerfully and reaches out to lift the cat out of its box and pet it with one single finger. "Her name is Pepper."
"Really." Phil stares at him. He's definitely unimpressed with Barton's attempt at a prank, thinking that this can't be anything else, but his cold stare doesn't impress Barton at all. He just keeps grinning. Phil should never have mentioned Pepper Potts' efficiency to him.
"You can't just get me a cat," he says. "Do you even know anything about cats?"
Barton shrugs. "I grew up with a rheumatic tiger," he replies, and his voice is carefree and unbothered by Phil's lack of reaction.
It suddenly reminds him of Tony Stark's voice, when he told Phil about Obadiah Stane and his betrayal, how Tony had pretended that he hadn't been surprised by Stane's actions, how it didn't affect him; and suddenly, Phil's headache is back, sharp and furious behind his left eye.
"Barton," he says softly, a warning.
"Okay, not much," Barton admits, his eyes lowered to the little cat that's carefully exploring the countertop now, "unless you want to teach her to jump through burning hoops. In that case, I'm your man. Sir."
Phil stares at him.
Barton stares back.
Pepper-the-cat takes that opportunity to pounce on Phil's hand with a happy growl, claws like tiny needles in his skin, and Phil hastily pulls his fingers out of danger.
Her claws leave thin red lines on his skin, lines that burn like fire.
Pepper-the-cat doesn't care about what goes on above her head. She stalks Phil's hands, following it with her ears pricked up, and when she reaches his fingers, she bumps her head firmly against them and starts purring.
"I can't have a cat," Phil says, but his resolve weakens.
"Come on, sir." Barton looks at him pleadingly. "You can't kick her out. She doesn't have anywhere else to go."
Something else is going on here, Phil is sure, but he's too exhausted to figure out what it is. He just realizes, instinctively, that this is important for Barton.
"Why doesn't she have anywhere else to go?" he asks and finally gives in to the temptation of petting her. Her fur is downy, soft, and he can feel the line of her spine underneath it, sharp and vulnerable. She pushes into the contact with his hand with abandon, the volume of her purring picking up another notch.
Barton's shoulders slump slightly. "Found her," he says. "All alone, in a cardboard box." He shifts slightly. "The others in there didn't make it."
Phil swallows and looks down at the kitten. "Still," he says, as firmly as he can. "She needs a vet. Shots. And cat food. And a bed. And toys. Someone who can take care of her."
Barton finds his grin again. From one of his pockets, he produces a little booklet and pushes it toward Phil.
Pepper-the-cat, he learns, has all her shots and is a healthy, happy little cat.
He also learns that he is officially her owner.
"Isn't that a little...presumptuous of you?" he asks mildly, but Barton only shrugs a little. From the bag, he starts to unpack what looks like half a pet store - food and bowls and a mat to put underneath, and a vast array of brightly colored plush mice.
Phil can't make sense of it, and so he does the first thing coming to his tired brain.
He tucks the booklet into the kitchen drawer that holds the first-aid-kit and other important documents, such as take-out menus, and pours both of them a cup of coffee.
"Why me?" he finally asks, and again, Barton refuses to meet his eye.
"You're the only one I could think of, sir," he mumbles. "I can hardly keep her myself, and SHIELD isn't a place for a little thing like her."
In that, Phil has to admit, Barton is right. It still doesn't explain why he picked, of all the people, him for this little thing, and not one of the other agents, like Dora, who loves animals and has a whole wallet full of pictures that she loves to show to the other agents. Since Dora is almost as old as Phil's mother, he usually doesn't protest too much.
"She needs someone special," Barton says firmly. "Someone who looks out for her and...appreciates her and doesn't take advantage of her. Someone who will protect her." He finally looks up, and his eyes are wide and panicked, unexpectedly open. Barton is usually very good at hiding his thoughts and presenting a blank facade to the world, so this is a surprise.
Somehow, Phil has the feeling that they aren't talking about a simple cat anymore.
"Okay," he says slowly, his thoughts racing. "Okay."
Barton bites his lip and reaches out for the cat. His hands are gentle when he picks her up, protectively curving around her body when he sets her down, on the ground, to let her explore the rest of the apartment.
Phil knows Barton's file. He knows about the orphanage and the circus and the military, about sniper training and special ops. He knows every single available fact about Clinton Francis Barton. He's worked with him often enough in the past, and he knows that Barton is reliable, a perfect shot, and a consummate professional who actually prefers his bow to any other weapon. He remembers catching Barton on the range and letting him show Phil a few tricks with the bow, and how his eyes had sparkled.
That, he recalls, had been the first time he thought Clint Barton was a beautiful man.
It hasn't been the last time.
"When did you find her?" he asks, his eyes tracking the cat as she sniffs curiously at his bookshelf. Barton doesn't hesitate, tells him everything he knows.
By the time he falls silent, Pepper-the-cat has curled up in the middle of the small carpet that Phil only bought because it looks like Captain America's shield and is snoring softly.
They watch her for a little bit in silence, and then Barton swallows audibly and straightens.
"If you really don't want her," he says, "I can...find a shelter or something."
Phil nods. He doesn't say anything, afraid that the wrong words will slip out when he opens his mouth.
After what feels like an eternity, Barton stands. "I have to go," he says, and without a second glance at the cat, he turns toward the door. "If you insist, I can pick her up tomorrow morning."
Phil follows him, opens the door, watches Barton walk through.
He doesn't know why he does it, but before Clint disappears from sight, he calls after him.
"Agent Barton?"
Barton stops. He doesn't turn around.
Phil's thoughts grind to a paralyzing halt. He has no idea what to tell his agent now, or why he stopped him in the first place.
"You know," he says and swallows. "If you want to visit her sometime. You're always welcome."
Barton nods. He still doesn't turn around, but his shoulders relax a fraction, and Phil has no idea why he accepted the cat in his life, knowing fully well that he should have said no, and he also doesn't know why hejust made that offer, but he is glad he did.
Later, when he is sprawled out on his couch again, the blanket wrapped around him and the tiny cat curled up on his chest, her head resting under his chin and her tiny paws kneading his shirt, when they are watching another episode of reality TV, Phil brushes a single finger along Pepper-the-cat's spine and feels the tension disappear from his body.
It was, he slowly realizes, a good gift, and keeping her is the right decision.
"Hello, Pepper," he whispers quietly into a big, twitching ear. "Welcome home."
~end.