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Set in the aftermath of Avengers. Fix-it, more or less. Also ... I think I sort of ship them? Just a little?
Title: Promises From Lie-Stained Tongues
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Avengers movieverse
Characters/Pairings: Nick Fury, Phil Coulson. Nick/Phil
Summary: This was where reality stopped. This was where it had to.
Wordcount: 864
Warnings/Notes: Healing, spies, truth, lies and choices
Disclaimer: Not mine
Title: Promises From Lie-Stained Tongues
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Avengers movieverse
Characters/Pairings: Nick Fury, Phil Coulson. Nick/Phil
Summary: This was where reality stopped. This was where it had to.
Wordcount: 864
Warnings/Notes: Healing, spies, truth, lies and choices
Disclaimer: Not mine
Promises From Lie-Stained Tongues
This was where reality stopped. This was where it had to.
Nick spread his hand over the still-livid scarring on Phil's chest. No pressure, very carefully exerting no pressure. Just the dark spread of his fingers eclipsing the whitening stain, his palm hiding the thick, blade-shaped wound from view.
Phil watched him. Leaning back against the pillow, new webs of pain creasing around his eyes, a tiny quirk at the corner of his mouth. Silent, calm. Smiling faintly up at Nick.
"You can't do this to me again," Nick heard himself say. More growl than whisper, a shaking note of fury that he never, ever allowed himself, outside these walls. Beyond this door, past which reality gave way. "You don't get to do this again. You hear?"
Phil huffed faintly. Not quite a chuckle, not quite a sigh. His smile creased wider, a little, as he raised his arm carefully. Ignoring the tightening of the fresh scar, touching gently at the side of Nick's head. The blind side, just under the patch. Rubbing his thumb just on the lip of leather, the only hand Nick trusted to touch him outside his field of vision.
He didn't say what they both knew. That was the agreement, just for this place, just for these moments. In all the rest of their lives, they traded in reality, in hard truths and pained necessities. Making no promises that would end up having to be broken, making no guarantees that couldn't be backed up with a gun if need be. Out there, promises didn't mean a damn thing, and hopes even less. They both knew that.
And they had agreed, more implicitly than by any spoken arrangement, that in this place, for these moments, they would pretend they didn't.
So Phil didn't say, "It worked, sir." He didn't say, "They needed the push." He didn't say, "I trusted you to know how to use it." He didn't say, "If I have to do it again, and next time it's permanent, we both know I will." He didn't say, "We always knew one or other of us was going to die first." He didn't say, "It was the job."
Phil didn't say any of that. Everything Nick had realised, with a sick sinking in his gut, and a ball of determination hardening around it, as he watched Phil's eyes cloud and realised medical might not be in time. Everything he'd known, around the black emptiness in his chest, as he stood up and turned to use the last weapon Phil had given him. As he gave the closest thing their world had to gods a reason to get biblical, and used the last breath of the man he loved to do it.
And Nick had, because they were true, all those things Phil didn't say, that was the job, and that was what worked, and they'd always known they'd do it. Either of them or both, whichever way the chips fell. That was the job, and that was the agreement, and that was who they were. Who they were damn good at being.
He'd done it. He played Phil's death to the hilt, lied straight into the faces of heroes, wondering all the while if it was really a lie at all. He'd done it, because Phil had put a weapon in his hand, and in all their association, Nick had never let a weapon from Phil's hand fall. He'd done it because it had to be done, and Phil had trusted him to do it.
He'd done it, and he'd do it again, every time he had to. But fucked if he wanted to.
Phil smiled up at him, serene and unperturbed with Nick's palm over the almost-fatal wound. Smiling around all the things they knew and didn't say. And what he did say, in this place where reality stopped and promises were allowed ...
"Sure thing, boss." With a faint grin, and perfect deadpan. "Whatever you say."
And Nick ... In the silence, staring down the barrel of that pained and knowing grin, Nick felt the laugh rumble up from somewhere in his gut. From the same black place determination had risen, from the same knowing. Low and dark and richly, desperately real, he felt the laughter bubble through him.
"Fuck," he whispered, curling close over Phil, dropping his forehead to his partner's. Tucking his shaking chest alongside Phil's healing one, fitting all their various scars back together. "We're getting too fucking old for this shit, you know that?"
Phil laughed, his hand drifting from under Nick's eye up over his skull, down to the nape of Nick's neck. "Sure thing, boss," he murmured, a shaking grin, and pressed his mouth to Nick's. Fitting promises together like scars with the sweep of a lie-stained tongue, while Nick rolled over him like a tide, and brought him home.
This was where reality stopped. In this tiny space where all their scars fit together, behind closed doors. This was where they told a different kind of lie, for hours at a time, and made reality wait at the door.
But you know what? Reality was a bitch sometimes, and fuck it anyway.
This was where reality stopped. This was where it had to.
Nick spread his hand over the still-livid scarring on Phil's chest. No pressure, very carefully exerting no pressure. Just the dark spread of his fingers eclipsing the whitening stain, his palm hiding the thick, blade-shaped wound from view.
Phil watched him. Leaning back against the pillow, new webs of pain creasing around his eyes, a tiny quirk at the corner of his mouth. Silent, calm. Smiling faintly up at Nick.
"You can't do this to me again," Nick heard himself say. More growl than whisper, a shaking note of fury that he never, ever allowed himself, outside these walls. Beyond this door, past which reality gave way. "You don't get to do this again. You hear?"
Phil huffed faintly. Not quite a chuckle, not quite a sigh. His smile creased wider, a little, as he raised his arm carefully. Ignoring the tightening of the fresh scar, touching gently at the side of Nick's head. The blind side, just under the patch. Rubbing his thumb just on the lip of leather, the only hand Nick trusted to touch him outside his field of vision.
He didn't say what they both knew. That was the agreement, just for this place, just for these moments. In all the rest of their lives, they traded in reality, in hard truths and pained necessities. Making no promises that would end up having to be broken, making no guarantees that couldn't be backed up with a gun if need be. Out there, promises didn't mean a damn thing, and hopes even less. They both knew that.
And they had agreed, more implicitly than by any spoken arrangement, that in this place, for these moments, they would pretend they didn't.
So Phil didn't say, "It worked, sir." He didn't say, "They needed the push." He didn't say, "I trusted you to know how to use it." He didn't say, "If I have to do it again, and next time it's permanent, we both know I will." He didn't say, "We always knew one or other of us was going to die first." He didn't say, "It was the job."
Phil didn't say any of that. Everything Nick had realised, with a sick sinking in his gut, and a ball of determination hardening around it, as he watched Phil's eyes cloud and realised medical might not be in time. Everything he'd known, around the black emptiness in his chest, as he stood up and turned to use the last weapon Phil had given him. As he gave the closest thing their world had to gods a reason to get biblical, and used the last breath of the man he loved to do it.
And Nick had, because they were true, all those things Phil didn't say, that was the job, and that was what worked, and they'd always known they'd do it. Either of them or both, whichever way the chips fell. That was the job, and that was the agreement, and that was who they were. Who they were damn good at being.
He'd done it. He played Phil's death to the hilt, lied straight into the faces of heroes, wondering all the while if it was really a lie at all. He'd done it, because Phil had put a weapon in his hand, and in all their association, Nick had never let a weapon from Phil's hand fall. He'd done it because it had to be done, and Phil had trusted him to do it.
He'd done it, and he'd do it again, every time he had to. But fucked if he wanted to.
Phil smiled up at him, serene and unperturbed with Nick's palm over the almost-fatal wound. Smiling around all the things they knew and didn't say. And what he did say, in this place where reality stopped and promises were allowed ...
"Sure thing, boss." With a faint grin, and perfect deadpan. "Whatever you say."
And Nick ... In the silence, staring down the barrel of that pained and knowing grin, Nick felt the laugh rumble up from somewhere in his gut. From the same black place determination had risen, from the same knowing. Low and dark and richly, desperately real, he felt the laughter bubble through him.
"Fuck," he whispered, curling close over Phil, dropping his forehead to his partner's. Tucking his shaking chest alongside Phil's healing one, fitting all their various scars back together. "We're getting too fucking old for this shit, you know that?"
Phil laughed, his hand drifting from under Nick's eye up over his skull, down to the nape of Nick's neck. "Sure thing, boss," he murmured, a shaking grin, and pressed his mouth to Nick's. Fitting promises together like scars with the sweep of a lie-stained tongue, while Nick rolled over him like a tide, and brought him home.
This was where reality stopped. In this tiny space where all their scars fit together, behind closed doors. This was where they told a different kind of lie, for hours at a time, and made reality wait at the door.
But you know what? Reality was a bitch sometimes, and fuck it anyway.
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