kathierif_fic (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kathierif_fic) wrote2012-08-17 06:51 pm
kathierif_fic) wrote2012-08-17 06:51 pm
Fic: The Only Way To Land (Avengers, Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, FRT)
Title: The Only Way To Land
by:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kathierif_fic
Fandom: Avengers movie'verse
Pairing: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Rating: FRT
Disclaimer: This is a transformative fanwork and most emphatically not a source of income.
Summary: People who didn't know Phil very well often can't imagine him at all as a pet owner.
A/Ns: A few days ago I posted that my bunnyfarm was invaded by an OFC - an original feline character. This is her. Written for the most adorable![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
cottoncandy_bingo, for the prompt "roommates". Special super many thanks go to ginny305 and to The Cookie, for inspiration and handholding and the occasional delusion of being a sabre tooth tiger (Cooks, not Gin.)
Title from the wonderfully, wonderfully, wonderfully pretty The Cure's "Love Cats".
People who don't know Phillip J. Coulson very well, like SHIELD's junior agents for example, often can't imagine him at all as a pet owner.
He is too put-together, too by-the-rules for a pet, they think, and even if he has some kind of pet, it probably is a dog. Having a dog is kind of predictable and bland, and doesn't that fit perfectly with Coulson's personality?
Yeah, Coulson is a dog type, someone who owns a Doberman or a German Shepard dog, something that is perfectly trained and highly efficient in scaring people, just like Coulson is kind of Fury's dog, looking harmless unless provoked and then proving to be really dangerous.
Maybe more like one of these unassuming breeds then, those that looked harmless and, when least expected, suddenly turned into ferocious defenders of their owners. Coulson is something like the opposite of a pitbull, because he isn't one of those guys who looks dangerous and in most cases is harmless. He looks like an accountant and hides how deadly he is.
But, they argue, Coulson definitely is a dog person.
Or maybe he breeds piranhas and alligators in his bathtub.
The truth is a little different, and not many, and only those that Phil considers close friends, know about it.
Fury does, Maria Hill, Natasha and Clint, his mother and his neighbor, but that's about all of them.
Phil loves cats.
A cat, he argues, will still love him even when he's gone for weeks on end on a mission, and even if it's the neighbor feeding her, she'll remember him and not turn her nose up at him, at least as long as Phil gives in and lets her sleep in his bed.
A cat doesn't need to get walked, and she doesn't complain too much about the long hours he keeps.
Or the paperwork he brings home. The worst that happens is that she curls up on top of his files and takes a nap, but she would never eat his homework.
He likes that she is independent, but still comes to him, he says when asked.
There aren't many people to ask, and Nick Fury is the only one who did, one late evening when they were poring over reports together, planning another search expedition into the arctic based on nothing but rumors, the late Howard Stark's calculations, and some research that neither Fury nor Coulson could really make sense of, except that it promised results.
Another assumption people make about Phil Coulson is that he is ruthlessly meticulous about his suits. They are sacred, treated with more respect than assets and junior agents, and he keeps them not in a closet, but on some kind of shrine.
Well, of course he takes care of his work clothes, but he doesn't break out in tears if one gets ruined in the line of work. That's what expense accounts are there for.
The first thing he does when he comes home is to take off his tie and jacket, roll up his sleeves and crouch down to greet the cat, who is winding herself around his legs, leaving hair everywhere while purring her little heart out.
Phil doesn't mind the cat hair at all.
This, the enthusiastic greeting followed by her demand of him to fill up her food bowl, no matter what time he comes home, is part of a ritual, and he cherishes it and looks forward to it.
When he steps into his apartment this evening, it is so late he could argue that it is early again. He is tired, a faint headache has made his day more than a little irritating, and he can't wait to sprawl out on a soft surface and fall asleep.
Flicking on the lights, he frowns. The sound of the key in the lock usually is enough to bring the cat out, to greet him, but there is nothing.
A weird feeling fills his stomach, but he takes a deep breath and takes off his tie, his jacket, and his shoes.
She has to be somewhere here, he reasons while padding on silent feet into the kitchen, where her bowls are. She can't get outside, doesn't want to go outside as far as he knows, and if something happened, the neighbor would've called him.
Everything is fine. Has to be.
He stops to listen, but the apartment is quiet. No soft meowing to indicate he accidentally locked her in his closet (that happened only once, and Phil still doesn't know who was more traumatized by the experience, he or the cat), no purring, and no sounds of sharp claws on furniture.
He shakes his head, takes a deep breath and holds it for a long moment.
It has been a long day. He's tired and he's stressed. She's probably pretending to be annoyed at him for some reason, and she'll come around.
He still tops up her bowls, kibble and fresh water, hoping to lure her out with that, but there is nothing.
Now that, he thinks, that is really unusual - the cat, passing up food?
From the darkness of his living room, he hears a sound. For a split second, he is relieved, but then, his senses sharpen. What he's hearing are not typical cat sounds.
Someone is in his apartment.
His imagination kicks into overdrive - someone is here for him, to kill him, HYDRA found out where he lives, and they sent some of their best assassins, and they did something to his cat, she's probably dead, or bleeding out...
Forcibly, he calms his breathing and reaches for his gun in its holster. He hasn't taken it off yet, because he wants to lock it into his bedside drawer. If there's a HYDRA assassin in his living room, he probably would have killed Phil already. He's getting paranoid in his old age.
Still, it doesn't hurt to be careful, and he creeps into the room and flips the light switch while at the same time keeping a firm grip on his weapon.
The room looks the same it did this morning, when Phil hurried through on his way to work. His coffee cup is still sitting on the low table, and there are no signs of a break-in.
The only difference to the room is sprawled out on the couch, a blanket wrapped tightly around him, his eyes closed and his face relaxed as if he was still sleeping.
Slowly, Phil lowers his gun and forces every single muscle in his body to relax.
"I know you're awake," he says, and Clint hums quietly and wriggles his toes.
The blanket shifts and moves, and then, a little head plops up and the cat wriggles her way free, ears pointed in Phil's direction. She stops on Clint's chest to lick a dark-grey shoulder, then she elegantly hops down and traipses toward him, tail straight up in the air and quivering.
Phil smiles. He can't help himself, he has to reach out a hand and pick her up, cradle her against his chest and run his fingers over her dark fur.
Clint makes a small noise at the back of his throat and rolls himself into a sitting position.
"Seriously," he grouses, one hand lifted up to rub at his eyes. "You love that cat more than me." He waits a heartbeat before adding, "Sir."
"Shut up, Barton," Phil replies pleasantly and rubs the cat behind her ears. "You, I saw a few hours ago at the office. Pepper, not so much." Despite his words, he lets her down and straightens, to give Clint a soft kiss. "You didn't have to wait up for me."
"Yeah, maybe," Clint says. "But we wanted to, right, Pepper?"
The cat bumps her head against Phil's knee, and it's confirmation enough.
Phil smiles. "I love you. Both of you," he points out as he straightens. Pepper-the-cat rubs herself against his leg one last time before walking toward the kitchen and her food bowl, and Phil drops a soft kiss to Clint's head.
"Yeah," Clint replies. "You still hungry? I could whip something up for you."
Phil thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. "Come to bed?" he asks softly. "I'm exhausted."
Clint only nods.
They have a routine, and they work seamlessly around each other as Clint brushes his teeth and Phil takes a quick shower. Twenty minutes later, they're both in bed, the lights have been turned off, and Phil is almost ready to doze off. Clint's arm is around his waist, and he feels sleep tugging at him when suddenly, the bed dibs slightly and Pepper-the-cat starts kneading enthusiastically, her claws making tiny ripping sounds on the sheets. She's purring like a little engine, too.
Clint sighs into Phil's shoulder.
"She's your cat," he mumbles. "Why is she always sleeping on my side of the bed?"
Phil feels his mouth curve into a smile. "It's her side," he replies. "She's just letting you borrow it." He turns around until he's facing Clint and can reach over his side to pet Pepper-the-cat with his fingertips. "She lives here, after all."
"Good to know," Clint says, but when Pepper-the-cat curls up between them, her head pressed against Clint's ear, he's careful not to disturb her.
~end
by:
kathierif_ficFandom: Avengers movie'verse
Pairing: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Rating: FRT
Disclaimer: This is a transformative fanwork and most emphatically not a source of income.
Summary: People who didn't know Phil very well often can't imagine him at all as a pet owner.
A/Ns: A few days ago I posted that my bunnyfarm was invaded by an OFC - an original feline character. This is her. Written for the most adorable
cottoncandy_bingo, for the prompt "roommates". Special super many thanks go to ginny305 and to The Cookie, for inspiration and handholding and the occasional delusion of being a sabre tooth tiger (Cooks, not Gin.)Title from the wonderfully, wonderfully, wonderfully pretty The Cure's "Love Cats".
People who don't know Phillip J. Coulson very well, like SHIELD's junior agents for example, often can't imagine him at all as a pet owner.
He is too put-together, too by-the-rules for a pet, they think, and even if he has some kind of pet, it probably is a dog. Having a dog is kind of predictable and bland, and doesn't that fit perfectly with Coulson's personality?
Yeah, Coulson is a dog type, someone who owns a Doberman or a German Shepard dog, something that is perfectly trained and highly efficient in scaring people, just like Coulson is kind of Fury's dog, looking harmless unless provoked and then proving to be really dangerous.
Maybe more like one of these unassuming breeds then, those that looked harmless and, when least expected, suddenly turned into ferocious defenders of their owners. Coulson is something like the opposite of a pitbull, because he isn't one of those guys who looks dangerous and in most cases is harmless. He looks like an accountant and hides how deadly he is.
But, they argue, Coulson definitely is a dog person.
Or maybe he breeds piranhas and alligators in his bathtub.
The truth is a little different, and not many, and only those that Phil considers close friends, know about it.
Fury does, Maria Hill, Natasha and Clint, his mother and his neighbor, but that's about all of them.
Phil loves cats.
A cat, he argues, will still love him even when he's gone for weeks on end on a mission, and even if it's the neighbor feeding her, she'll remember him and not turn her nose up at him, at least as long as Phil gives in and lets her sleep in his bed.
A cat doesn't need to get walked, and she doesn't complain too much about the long hours he keeps.
Or the paperwork he brings home. The worst that happens is that she curls up on top of his files and takes a nap, but she would never eat his homework.
He likes that she is independent, but still comes to him, he says when asked.
There aren't many people to ask, and Nick Fury is the only one who did, one late evening when they were poring over reports together, planning another search expedition into the arctic based on nothing but rumors, the late Howard Stark's calculations, and some research that neither Fury nor Coulson could really make sense of, except that it promised results.
Another assumption people make about Phil Coulson is that he is ruthlessly meticulous about his suits. They are sacred, treated with more respect than assets and junior agents, and he keeps them not in a closet, but on some kind of shrine.
Well, of course he takes care of his work clothes, but he doesn't break out in tears if one gets ruined in the line of work. That's what expense accounts are there for.
The first thing he does when he comes home is to take off his tie and jacket, roll up his sleeves and crouch down to greet the cat, who is winding herself around his legs, leaving hair everywhere while purring her little heart out.
Phil doesn't mind the cat hair at all.
This, the enthusiastic greeting followed by her demand of him to fill up her food bowl, no matter what time he comes home, is part of a ritual, and he cherishes it and looks forward to it.
When he steps into his apartment this evening, it is so late he could argue that it is early again. He is tired, a faint headache has made his day more than a little irritating, and he can't wait to sprawl out on a soft surface and fall asleep.
Flicking on the lights, he frowns. The sound of the key in the lock usually is enough to bring the cat out, to greet him, but there is nothing.
A weird feeling fills his stomach, but he takes a deep breath and takes off his tie, his jacket, and his shoes.
She has to be somewhere here, he reasons while padding on silent feet into the kitchen, where her bowls are. She can't get outside, doesn't want to go outside as far as he knows, and if something happened, the neighbor would've called him.
Everything is fine. Has to be.
He stops to listen, but the apartment is quiet. No soft meowing to indicate he accidentally locked her in his closet (that happened only once, and Phil still doesn't know who was more traumatized by the experience, he or the cat), no purring, and no sounds of sharp claws on furniture.
He shakes his head, takes a deep breath and holds it for a long moment.
It has been a long day. He's tired and he's stressed. She's probably pretending to be annoyed at him for some reason, and she'll come around.
He still tops up her bowls, kibble and fresh water, hoping to lure her out with that, but there is nothing.
Now that, he thinks, that is really unusual - the cat, passing up food?
From the darkness of his living room, he hears a sound. For a split second, he is relieved, but then, his senses sharpen. What he's hearing are not typical cat sounds.
Someone is in his apartment.
His imagination kicks into overdrive - someone is here for him, to kill him, HYDRA found out where he lives, and they sent some of their best assassins, and they did something to his cat, she's probably dead, or bleeding out...
Forcibly, he calms his breathing and reaches for his gun in its holster. He hasn't taken it off yet, because he wants to lock it into his bedside drawer. If there's a HYDRA assassin in his living room, he probably would have killed Phil already. He's getting paranoid in his old age.
Still, it doesn't hurt to be careful, and he creeps into the room and flips the light switch while at the same time keeping a firm grip on his weapon.
The room looks the same it did this morning, when Phil hurried through on his way to work. His coffee cup is still sitting on the low table, and there are no signs of a break-in.
The only difference to the room is sprawled out on the couch, a blanket wrapped tightly around him, his eyes closed and his face relaxed as if he was still sleeping.
Slowly, Phil lowers his gun and forces every single muscle in his body to relax.
"I know you're awake," he says, and Clint hums quietly and wriggles his toes.
The blanket shifts and moves, and then, a little head plops up and the cat wriggles her way free, ears pointed in Phil's direction. She stops on Clint's chest to lick a dark-grey shoulder, then she elegantly hops down and traipses toward him, tail straight up in the air and quivering.
Phil smiles. He can't help himself, he has to reach out a hand and pick her up, cradle her against his chest and run his fingers over her dark fur.
Clint makes a small noise at the back of his throat and rolls himself into a sitting position.
"Seriously," he grouses, one hand lifted up to rub at his eyes. "You love that cat more than me." He waits a heartbeat before adding, "Sir."
"Shut up, Barton," Phil replies pleasantly and rubs the cat behind her ears. "You, I saw a few hours ago at the office. Pepper, not so much." Despite his words, he lets her down and straightens, to give Clint a soft kiss. "You didn't have to wait up for me."
"Yeah, maybe," Clint says. "But we wanted to, right, Pepper?"
The cat bumps her head against Phil's knee, and it's confirmation enough.
Phil smiles. "I love you. Both of you," he points out as he straightens. Pepper-the-cat rubs herself against his leg one last time before walking toward the kitchen and her food bowl, and Phil drops a soft kiss to Clint's head.
"Yeah," Clint replies. "You still hungry? I could whip something up for you."
Phil thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. "Come to bed?" he asks softly. "I'm exhausted."
Clint only nods.
They have a routine, and they work seamlessly around each other as Clint brushes his teeth and Phil takes a quick shower. Twenty minutes later, they're both in bed, the lights have been turned off, and Phil is almost ready to doze off. Clint's arm is around his waist, and he feels sleep tugging at him when suddenly, the bed dibs slightly and Pepper-the-cat starts kneading enthusiastically, her claws making tiny ripping sounds on the sheets. She's purring like a little engine, too.
Clint sighs into Phil's shoulder.
"She's your cat," he mumbles. "Why is she always sleeping on my side of the bed?"
Phil feels his mouth curve into a smile. "It's her side," he replies. "She's just letting you borrow it." He turns around until he's facing Clint and can reach over his side to pet Pepper-the-cat with his fingertips. "She lives here, after all."
"Good to know," Clint says, but when Pepper-the-cat curls up between them, her head pressed against Clint's ear, he's careful not to disturb her.
~end