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saoneTitle: On a Dark, Desert Highway (1/1)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
saone77
Fandom: Avengers 2012
Pairing: Clint/Coulson
Summary: Clint's pretty sure he's seen this movie.
Rating: R
Warnings: Not betad, grammarians beware. Off screen and on screen violence (involving but not directed at Phil & Clint). Domestic violence. Death of an OC. Talk of more violence and serial killers.
Word Count: 3914
Disclaimer: This is indulgent, cracktastic fiction.
Notes: I may have overdosed on scary movies recently.
Clint looks out through the bleary, rain-splattered windshield to the low building in front of him. He frowns and switches his glance to the man in the passenger seat of his car, then looks back to the building. His frown deepens.
"Hell-to-the-fucking-no, sir," he says.
Phil sighs. "Barton-"
"No."
"Barton."
"No."
Phil sighs again. "Clint."
Clint scrunches his face up peevishly. "What?"
"We don't have any choice," Phil says, in a disgustingly reasonable manner. "This is the only hotel for miles."
"Motel," Clint says.
"Pardon?"
"This is not a hotel. This is a motel. There's a difference."
Phil blinks at him. "All right. This is the only motel for miles. And miles. And miles. Look at the GPS. This place is a black dot in a sea of nothingness."
"We've got plenty of gas," Clint says, "I'll just keep driving."
"In this weather?" Phil's raised eyebrow is accompanied by an eye-searingly bright flash of lightening and, a handful of seconds later, thunder loud enough to rattle Clint's bones. "Clint, we're both exhausted. If either one of us tries to push through this, we're going to end up planting the car in a ditch."
"Then we'll sleep in here," Clint says. "You can take the backseat."
Phil gives him a cold, flat look. "I am forty-five years old. I am not sleeping in a backseat. Especially not when there's a perfectly fine motel with perfectly fine beds only a few hundred yards away. Now, park."
Clint's fingers tighten on the steering wheel. Phil's right; he knows that. But, he just can't shake the feeling that...
"Why are you being so difficult?" Phil asks.
"Oh, come on!" Clint says, using one hand to gesture wildly towards the low, one-story building. "Does that not look like a place where horrific murders happen on a daily basis? Haven't you ever seen Psycho?!"
Phil stares at him, unblinking, for long enough that Clint starts to feel part of his soul shrivel. "Park the damn car, Barton."
"Yes, sir." There are only two other cars in the lot, so Clint has his choice of spots and he picks the one closest to the office. "You know, even if this place doesn't have a resident serial killer, they probably have bed bugs."
Phil pinches the bridge of his nose. "That is a risk I'm willing to take at the moment." He unfastens his seat belt, opens the car door, and throws himself out into the deluge.
Clint curses and fumbles with his own seat belt. He's not sure what kind of horrors might be waiting for them, but he doesn't want Phil facing them alone.
Because he's a sap.
And possibly whipped.
By someone who doesn't even know the power he holds over Clint.
"Fuck my life," Clint growls as steps out into distressingly horizontal rain.
He sprints towards the office, despite the fact that he's soaked through to his underwear in less than a second. When he gets to the building, the door opens and Phil ushers him into the light and warmth. For a moment they both just stand there looking like drowned rats and dripping onto the worn linoleum.
Phil snaps out of it first. He gives himself a little shake then squelches his way over to the empty reception desk. There's an old fashioned bell on the counter. Phil taps at it, then puts on his calm and serene waiting face.
Clint doesn't know how someone can look so pulled together with droplets of water hanging off the end of his nose, but Phil pulls it off. The bastard.
Phil taps at the bell again, and Clint takes the opportunity to inspect the various pictures and knick knacks hanging on the walls. There are some desert prints, obviously professional and purchased. Then there are the older, black and white shots of the motel itself. From the cars and clothing of the people in frame, Clint figures those were taken sometime in the fifties, probably when this old place was built.
The sharp ping of Phil ringing the bell for the third time jars Clint out of his musings. He looks over and can tell that Phil is beginning to get annoyed, though he's not sure if it's at the lack of service or the situation in general.
Just when Clint is about to suggest sleeping in the car again, he catches sight of something through the window.
"Somebody's coming," Clint says softly, his eyes trained on the figure in the yellow rainslicker that's steadily making its way towards them. Clint doesn't have a gun, but he's got a bowie knife strapped to his calf and a switchblade in his back pocket. He knows that Phil's got his holster on under his jacket and probably has a few other weapons secreted away on his person.
The yellow-clad figure bursts into the office, accompanied by wind and rainwater.
"Whoo whee!" the man says, pulling back his hood and revealing a middle-aged and unremarkable face. "You two surprised me! It's so nasty out there; I thought I was done for the night." He shed the slicker and hung it up on a hook beside a door marked private, then he walked behind the desk. "Sorry to keep you folks waiting. It took me a while to get down from the house."
"We're sorry to make you come back out on a night like this," Phil says.
"Down from the house?" Clint asks.
"Yeah," the man says, "we live just behind the motel." He takes out an old fashioned registery book and places it on the counter. "Cash only, I'm afraid."
Phil raises an eyebrow.
The man shrugs apologetically. "Phone lines are down from the storm and we don't get cell service out here so the credit machine's not working. Normally, I would say you could wait until morning and see if the lines are back up, but, well, we've had some issues in the past with people skipping out on us. Not that you two don't look like fine, upstanding citizens." The man's eyes glance over from Phil's sodden suit to Clint's sopping tee shirt and jeans.
Phil sighs and digs out his wallet. "How much?"
"Depends. You want two rooms or-"
"A double will be fine," Phil says, surprising Clint.
"You sure?" the man asks. "We've got plenty of-"
"A double, please," Phil says.
"All right," the man says. "That'll be an even hundred, then."
Clint wants to make some crack about highway robbery, but he supposes the only motel for eighty or so miles can charge whatever it wants to.
Phil takes two fifties out of his wallet, hands them over, then signs them in.
"You said we," Clint says. "Before. You said, we live behind the motel."
"Oh, right," the man says, doing something behind the desk. "That would be mother and I."
Clint feels his eyes widen. "You and your mother? Live behind the motel? In a house?"
The man rolled his eyes. "If it makes you feel any better, my last name is Thompson, not Bates. My mother is alive and well and yelling out answers to Jeopardy. And, I have yet to murder anyone in the shower. Of course, the night is still young."
Clint feels about two feet tall, and he withers even more under the glare Phil levels at him. "Sorry, I just-"
"It's all right," Thompson says. "I'm used to it. And, I guess, as first impressions go, this place can look kind of creepy, especially on a dark and stormy night."
Clint smiles wanly.
"I'm glad you stopped, though," Thompson says. "You're much safer in here than you would be out there."
"Yes," Phil says, "this storm is quite remarkable."
"I wasn't talking about the storm," Thompson says. "I was talking about the guy that's killing people out on the highway."
Clint glances at Phil. "There's a guy killing people on this highway?"
"Yep," Thompson says. "For the past ten years or so."
"Ten years?" Phil says. "And he hasn't been caught yet?"
"Oh, they usually don't catch people like that. Not when they stick to prostitutes and runaways." Thompson says. He takes a key off a board hanging on the wall and gives it to Phil. "You're in room six. Hey, did you two know that Hawaii and Nebraska are the only two states in the U.S. that don't have any reports of highway related serial killer activity?"
For a few moments the only sound in the office is the steady hammering of rain against the roof. "No," Clint says slowly, "I didn't know that. Phil, did you know that?"
"What time is checkout?" Phil asks.
"Eleven. On the dot."
"Thank you," Phil says before turning on his heel and heading back out into the stormy night. "Come along, Barton."
"Uh, yeah," Clint says. "Thanks." He gives Thompson a nod then follows Phil.
They each retrieve one bag from Clint's car and hurry over to the covered walkway that stretches out from the right side of the office. There's a light under the door and bleeding out from around the covered window of room number five.
"Jeez," Clint says as Phil opens their door. "With the place so empty, you'd think the guy could have skipped a room and given us a buffer. Hope our neighbors aren't screamers."
"Charming," Phil says as he proceeds Clint into the room. He sets his bag down on the bed closest to the door leaving Clint to claim the one by the wall.
"Hey," Clint says as he surveys the room, "there's nothing worse than being kept awake all night by loud, enthusiastic sex that you're not participating in. Ugh, I don't think this place has been redecorated since the sixties."
Phil doesn't comment on Clint's comments. Instead, he takes some clothes and toiletries out of his bag and says, "I'm taking the shower first. Try not to let anyone ax murder me, will you?"
"Ha, ha. And, for your information, Norman used a knife," Clint finishes his statement just as the bathroom door closes. He huffs.
Clint hears the shower start up. He knows that Phil won't take long, but his wet clothes are cold and uncomfortable, so he decides to go ahead and strip down. He leaves his underwear on, though, so Phil's sensibilities won't be too shocked when he comes back out.
Clint drapes his wet clothes over the back of a chair and puts his weapons and cell phone on the nightstand. He then perches gingerly on one corner of his bed and debates on whether or not he wants to touch the remote control.
He's still having the debate a few minutes later when the sound of two loud thumps comes through the wall.
Clint's on his feet and halfway across the room before he realizes it. He pauses by the wall, then leans in until his ear is pressed against the old paneling. Clint's hearing has never been as good as his eyesight, of course, but it's still better than average. He puts all his concentration towards trying to pick out any more sounds through the wall.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Clint flails a bit at Phil's voice. He had been so focused on the sounds from next door, he had evidently missed hearing the bathroom door open.
"Uh," Clint says, blinking at the sight of the senior agent wearing nothing but pajama bottoms. "This probably looks bad."
"What, you mean you listening to the people next door having sex while dressed only in your underwear?" Phil's eyes dart down to Clint's crotch, then immediately fly upward to focus on the ceiling. "Your very wet underwear. Jesus, Barton."
"I don't think they're having sex," Clint whispers.
"Clint-"
"No, Phil, I heard things."
"What kind of things?"
"Thumpy things."
Phil closes his eyes briefly. "Clint, go take your shower and don't come back out until you've put pants on."
"But-"
"Now."
"But-"
"Now, Barton."
"But, Phil-"
"You're being paranoid and ridiculous," Phil says. "Bathroom. Shower. Pants. Now."
"It's not paranoia if someone's trying to disembowel you with a chainsaw," Clint grumbles as he gathers his shower supplies and heads into the bathroom. He puts his stuff on the sink and peels off his boxer briefs. They hit the floor with a wet squelch and Clint winces.
Clint hadn't realized how chilled he'd been until he steps into the shower. The hot water feels like heaven, but he still finishes as quickly as possible. Something's not sitting right in his gut, and he really wants to get back to Phil.
After a quick towel off, Clint's pulling on his own sleepwear. When he goes back out into the main room, Phil's sitting on his bed, staring at the shared wall between them and number five, and frowning.
"You heard something, didn't you?" Clint says.
Phil's frown gets deeper. "I think your paranoia's contagious."
"Like, I said, it's not paranoia." Clint puts his stuff back in his bag. He fingers the zipper pull and considers the best way to breach this subject. "When I was a kid, growing up the way I did... You learned to be careful, you know? You learned that if something doesn't sit right, maybe there's a reason."
"I'm not completely devoid of instincts myself, Clint," Phil says.
"Yeah," Clint says, "but you learned yours in the Rangers and doing spy stuff. I learned mine on roads like this one."
Phil absorbs that for a moment. "And you don't think that the weather, that this motel, might be playing up those instincts?"
Clint scowls.
"If you really think something's wrong, we'll knock on the door, check things out," Phil says.
Clint looks back towards the wall. Maybe Phil is right. Maybe he is just being paranoid and freaking himself out. "No," he says. "No, that's okay."
"Are you sure?" Phil asks.
"Yeah," Clint says, forcing a chuckle. "I mean, what are the odds that two SHIELD agents end up at a desolate motel staying next door to the serial killer that's been hunting along this highway?"
Phil gets a strange look on his face. "Yes, what are the odds on that?"
"Astronomical," Clint says.
"Implausible."
"That's the kind of thing that would happen to Sitwell."
"Hmmm."
Clint stares at Phil. Phil stares at Clint.
"Well, shit," Clint says just as a scream pierces the air.
Phil - who had left his gun on the dresser - is out the door first, while Clint - who has to get his own gun out of his bag - is a close second.
Phil sprints to the far side of the door and puts his back against the wall. He waits until Clint gets into position on the near side of the window before he announces their presence.
"Federal agents!" Phil yells.
Not more than a second goes by before the motel door is peppered by buckshot. The second shot goes through the window and Clint ducks back further to avoid being hit by shards of glass.
"Federal agents!" Phil yells again. "Put down your weapon and come out with your hands up!"
Another volley of metal comes through the door, adding to the holes from the first round.
"I don't think that's gonna work, sir," Clint says.
"Do you have a better idea?"
"Actually..." Clint feels a grin stretch across his face. "Do you remember Vladivostok?"
Phil's eyes narrow. "I do."
"Awesome." Clint darts back into their room, gets into a crouch, and starts shooting through the wall into room five. He aims high, not wanting to accidentally catch any innocents that might be in there. Less than a minute passes before the shot gun blasts start coming into their room. Clint stays low and keep shooting and ten seconds later there's a single shot from next door and a loud thump.
Clint stays down until he hears three sharp knocks on the wall. He gets up, thinks about the broken glass between this room and the next, quickly pulls his boots on, and races back to room five.
Phil's standing tall with his weapon pointed at an unmoving form on the floor. There's a woman huddled in the far corner of the room, red faced and staring at them. Clint honestly doesn't know what to do.
"Check his vitals, please," Phil says. "I think it was a good shot, but..."
"You're no Hawkeye," Clint says with a tight smile. He keeps his own weapon out as he crouches down and feels for a pulse. He checks both wrists and the neck. There's nothing. Clint turns the man's head and peers down into sightless eyes.
"Yeah," Clint says, "he's toast."
"Good," Phil says as he relaxes his stance. "Agent, can you please go back to our room and retrieve our credentials?"
Clint glances at the woman in the corner and nods. Once he's back in their room he grabs both his and Phil's IDs, pauses for a moment, then scoops up Phil's shoes as well. On his way back to number five he notices Thompson and his yellow rainslicker heading across the parking lot.
Clint steps into the other room long enough to hand Phil his badge and shoes before he goes out again to intercept Thompson.
"What the Sam hell has-"
"My partner and I have stopped a crime in progress," Clint says smoothly, letting Thompson get a good look at his ID. "I know you said the cell service is out and the land lines are down, but do you have any way of contacting the authorities? Any way at all?"
"Uh, there's an old CB radio in the office. I should be able to raise somebody on that. But the nearest sheriff is a good thirty, forty minutes away."
"Doesn't matter," Clint says, "call them. And we're gonna need an ambulance."
"Right. Okay." Thompson stands there, blinking at Clint.
"Go, Mr. Thompson."
"Right. Go. Okay."
Clint watches as the motel owner scurries towards the office. He turns back towards the room and hesitates. Clint's used to causing death and destruction; he's not sure how to deal with the aftermath of something like this. But Clint's feet are already taking him back to Phil even as his brain hems and haws about it.
He's so, so whipped.
_____________
The state cops arrive first, followed closely by the local Sheriff. There's a bit of a jurisdiction kerfuffle which Phil gracefully extracts himself and Clint from. He also somehow finagles both agencies to agree to leave their names out of the official reports. Clint is amazed at Phil's skill and horrified to find himself growing more and more attracted to the man.
It takes until dawn to work everything out. The dead man's not the elusive serial killer after all, just a greedy bastard who had taken out a rather large life insurance policy on his wife. It's not Clint's job to dwell on motives, so he doesn't.
Thompson turns out to be a pretty decent guy, even with the various holes Clint, Phil, and the dead guy added to the decor of the motel.
"If I play my cards right, this could really up my business," Thompson says. "Lots of folks want to stay in a murder room."
Phil winces. "Just as long as you-"
"I know, I know," Thompson says, "keep you two out of it." He taps the side of his nose. "Gotcha. Oh, and I know you two haven't been to sleep yet, so don't worry about the check-out time. Just leave whenever you get going."
"Aw, thanks, Mr. Thompson," Clint says. "And, I just want to apologize for the insinuation I made when we first met-" Clint tries to say more, but Thompson waves him off.
"That's all right," he says. "First impressions and all that. Hell, when I first saw you, I thought you were a hooker. So, bygones!"
Clint forces his mouth into a grin and ignores Phil's sharp bark of laughter. "Sure. Bygones."
_____________
"Hooker," Clint snorts when they're back in their room. "Do I look like a hooker?"
Phil lets his gaze travel down then back up Clint's form. He clears his throat. "I have requested that you dress a bit more professionally," he says.
Clint looks down at himself. Both he and Phil had put their street clothes back on while they were waiting for the cops and he's once again wearing his standard tee shirt and jeans combo. Clint thinks he looks perfectly acceptable. A thought hits him and he can't help but smirk.
"Hey," he says, "if Thompson thought I was a hooker that means he thought you were my john." Delight flares up in Clint's chest as he watches the very tips of Phil's ears go red.
Phil sits on his bed and starts to remove his shoes. "Well, the man almost had a murder happen right under his nose; he obviously needs to work on his perception. Speaking of..." Phil places his hands on his knees and looks up with the most earnest expression Clint thinks he's ever seen on the older agent's face. "I'm sorry."
"Uh. For what?"
"For not trusting your instincts," Phil says. "You knew something was off. I should have listened to you."
"Oh." Now it's Clint's turn for his ears to go red. He ducks his head and runs a hand across the back of his neck. "It's okay."
"No, it's not," Phil says. He stands up and moves until he's in front of Clint. "And this isn't the first time it's happened, either. I don't always listen to you, and I think..." Phil takes a deep breath. "I think it's because I've been trying to ignore what's between us."
Clint swallows a couple of times. "Uh... I don't... What?"
Phil leans in a bit, and Clint locks his knees to keep from falling over.
"I've been doing both of us a disservice with my actions," Phil says, "and I'm sorry for that too. And when we get back to New York, I'd like to take you on a date."
Clint blinks at him. "Like a date date?"
Phil's lips quirk upward. "Yes, Clint. Like a date date."
"Oh. Um. Yes, that would be nice."
Phil gives him a bright smile. "Good. That's good."
Clint's pretty sure that he was already half-way in love with Phil and that gorgeous smile just cemented it. "Of course," Clint says, "now that you've had your big epiphany, I'm okay with not waiting 'til we get to New York."
"Clint," Phil says, narrowing his eyes, "I want you to remember what's going to happen between us for a very, very long time. And there is no way those memories will include this decor."
Clint laughs.
"Besides," Phil says, "there's something that's bothering me."
"What's that?"
"All the excitement of the past few hours. The cops, the ambulance, the sirens. The lights, and noise, and hoopla. Don't you think it's just a little strange..." Phil trails off and raises his eyebrow.
Clint thinks for a moment, trying to figure out what Phil's alluding to. When he gets it, he swears he feels something skitter up his spine. "Mrs. Thompson never came down from the house."
"Yeah," Phil says, his brows drawing down into a frown.
"You don't think..."
"What are the odds?"
Clint stares at Phil. Phil stares at Clint.
"Well, shit."
_____________
end
Author:
saone77Fandom: Avengers 2012
Pairing: Clint/Coulson
Summary: Clint's pretty sure he's seen this movie.
Rating: R
Warnings: Not betad, grammarians beware. Off screen and on screen violence (involving but not directed at Phil & Clint). Domestic violence. Death of an OC. Talk of more violence and serial killers.
Word Count: 3914
Disclaimer: This is indulgent, cracktastic fiction.
Notes: I may have overdosed on scary movies recently.
Clint looks out through the bleary, rain-splattered windshield to the low building in front of him. He frowns and switches his glance to the man in the passenger seat of his car, then looks back to the building. His frown deepens.
"Hell-to-the-fucking-no, sir," he says.
Phil sighs. "Barton-"
"No."
"Barton."
"No."
Phil sighs again. "Clint."
Clint scrunches his face up peevishly. "What?"
"We don't have any choice," Phil says, in a disgustingly reasonable manner. "This is the only hotel for miles."
"Motel," Clint says.
"Pardon?"
"This is not a hotel. This is a motel. There's a difference."
Phil blinks at him. "All right. This is the only motel for miles. And miles. And miles. Look at the GPS. This place is a black dot in a sea of nothingness."
"We've got plenty of gas," Clint says, "I'll just keep driving."
"In this weather?" Phil's raised eyebrow is accompanied by an eye-searingly bright flash of lightening and, a handful of seconds later, thunder loud enough to rattle Clint's bones. "Clint, we're both exhausted. If either one of us tries to push through this, we're going to end up planting the car in a ditch."
"Then we'll sleep in here," Clint says. "You can take the backseat."
Phil gives him a cold, flat look. "I am forty-five years old. I am not sleeping in a backseat. Especially not when there's a perfectly fine motel with perfectly fine beds only a few hundred yards away. Now, park."
Clint's fingers tighten on the steering wheel. Phil's right; he knows that. But, he just can't shake the feeling that...
"Why are you being so difficult?" Phil asks.
"Oh, come on!" Clint says, using one hand to gesture wildly towards the low, one-story building. "Does that not look like a place where horrific murders happen on a daily basis? Haven't you ever seen Psycho?!"
Phil stares at him, unblinking, for long enough that Clint starts to feel part of his soul shrivel. "Park the damn car, Barton."
"Yes, sir." There are only two other cars in the lot, so Clint has his choice of spots and he picks the one closest to the office. "You know, even if this place doesn't have a resident serial killer, they probably have bed bugs."
Phil pinches the bridge of his nose. "That is a risk I'm willing to take at the moment." He unfastens his seat belt, opens the car door, and throws himself out into the deluge.
Clint curses and fumbles with his own seat belt. He's not sure what kind of horrors might be waiting for them, but he doesn't want Phil facing them alone.
Because he's a sap.
And possibly whipped.
By someone who doesn't even know the power he holds over Clint.
"Fuck my life," Clint growls as steps out into distressingly horizontal rain.
He sprints towards the office, despite the fact that he's soaked through to his underwear in less than a second. When he gets to the building, the door opens and Phil ushers him into the light and warmth. For a moment they both just stand there looking like drowned rats and dripping onto the worn linoleum.
Phil snaps out of it first. He gives himself a little shake then squelches his way over to the empty reception desk. There's an old fashioned bell on the counter. Phil taps at it, then puts on his calm and serene waiting face.
Clint doesn't know how someone can look so pulled together with droplets of water hanging off the end of his nose, but Phil pulls it off. The bastard.
Phil taps at the bell again, and Clint takes the opportunity to inspect the various pictures and knick knacks hanging on the walls. There are some desert prints, obviously professional and purchased. Then there are the older, black and white shots of the motel itself. From the cars and clothing of the people in frame, Clint figures those were taken sometime in the fifties, probably when this old place was built.
The sharp ping of Phil ringing the bell for the third time jars Clint out of his musings. He looks over and can tell that Phil is beginning to get annoyed, though he's not sure if it's at the lack of service or the situation in general.
Just when Clint is about to suggest sleeping in the car again, he catches sight of something through the window.
"Somebody's coming," Clint says softly, his eyes trained on the figure in the yellow rainslicker that's steadily making its way towards them. Clint doesn't have a gun, but he's got a bowie knife strapped to his calf and a switchblade in his back pocket. He knows that Phil's got his holster on under his jacket and probably has a few other weapons secreted away on his person.
The yellow-clad figure bursts into the office, accompanied by wind and rainwater.
"Whoo whee!" the man says, pulling back his hood and revealing a middle-aged and unremarkable face. "You two surprised me! It's so nasty out there; I thought I was done for the night." He shed the slicker and hung it up on a hook beside a door marked private, then he walked behind the desk. "Sorry to keep you folks waiting. It took me a while to get down from the house."
"We're sorry to make you come back out on a night like this," Phil says.
"Down from the house?" Clint asks.
"Yeah," the man says, "we live just behind the motel." He takes out an old fashioned registery book and places it on the counter. "Cash only, I'm afraid."
Phil raises an eyebrow.
The man shrugs apologetically. "Phone lines are down from the storm and we don't get cell service out here so the credit machine's not working. Normally, I would say you could wait until morning and see if the lines are back up, but, well, we've had some issues in the past with people skipping out on us. Not that you two don't look like fine, upstanding citizens." The man's eyes glance over from Phil's sodden suit to Clint's sopping tee shirt and jeans.
Phil sighs and digs out his wallet. "How much?"
"Depends. You want two rooms or-"
"A double will be fine," Phil says, surprising Clint.
"You sure?" the man asks. "We've got plenty of-"
"A double, please," Phil says.
"All right," the man says. "That'll be an even hundred, then."
Clint wants to make some crack about highway robbery, but he supposes the only motel for eighty or so miles can charge whatever it wants to.
Phil takes two fifties out of his wallet, hands them over, then signs them in.
"You said we," Clint says. "Before. You said, we live behind the motel."
"Oh, right," the man says, doing something behind the desk. "That would be mother and I."
Clint feels his eyes widen. "You and your mother? Live behind the motel? In a house?"
The man rolled his eyes. "If it makes you feel any better, my last name is Thompson, not Bates. My mother is alive and well and yelling out answers to Jeopardy. And, I have yet to murder anyone in the shower. Of course, the night is still young."
Clint feels about two feet tall, and he withers even more under the glare Phil levels at him. "Sorry, I just-"
"It's all right," Thompson says. "I'm used to it. And, I guess, as first impressions go, this place can look kind of creepy, especially on a dark and stormy night."
Clint smiles wanly.
"I'm glad you stopped, though," Thompson says. "You're much safer in here than you would be out there."
"Yes," Phil says, "this storm is quite remarkable."
"I wasn't talking about the storm," Thompson says. "I was talking about the guy that's killing people out on the highway."
Clint glances at Phil. "There's a guy killing people on this highway?"
"Yep," Thompson says. "For the past ten years or so."
"Ten years?" Phil says. "And he hasn't been caught yet?"
"Oh, they usually don't catch people like that. Not when they stick to prostitutes and runaways." Thompson says. He takes a key off a board hanging on the wall and gives it to Phil. "You're in room six. Hey, did you two know that Hawaii and Nebraska are the only two states in the U.S. that don't have any reports of highway related serial killer activity?"
For a few moments the only sound in the office is the steady hammering of rain against the roof. "No," Clint says slowly, "I didn't know that. Phil, did you know that?"
"What time is checkout?" Phil asks.
"Eleven. On the dot."
"Thank you," Phil says before turning on his heel and heading back out into the stormy night. "Come along, Barton."
"Uh, yeah," Clint says. "Thanks." He gives Thompson a nod then follows Phil.
They each retrieve one bag from Clint's car and hurry over to the covered walkway that stretches out from the right side of the office. There's a light under the door and bleeding out from around the covered window of room number five.
"Jeez," Clint says as Phil opens their door. "With the place so empty, you'd think the guy could have skipped a room and given us a buffer. Hope our neighbors aren't screamers."
"Charming," Phil says as he proceeds Clint into the room. He sets his bag down on the bed closest to the door leaving Clint to claim the one by the wall.
"Hey," Clint says as he surveys the room, "there's nothing worse than being kept awake all night by loud, enthusiastic sex that you're not participating in. Ugh, I don't think this place has been redecorated since the sixties."
Phil doesn't comment on Clint's comments. Instead, he takes some clothes and toiletries out of his bag and says, "I'm taking the shower first. Try not to let anyone ax murder me, will you?"
"Ha, ha. And, for your information, Norman used a knife," Clint finishes his statement just as the bathroom door closes. He huffs.
Clint hears the shower start up. He knows that Phil won't take long, but his wet clothes are cold and uncomfortable, so he decides to go ahead and strip down. He leaves his underwear on, though, so Phil's sensibilities won't be too shocked when he comes back out.
Clint drapes his wet clothes over the back of a chair and puts his weapons and cell phone on the nightstand. He then perches gingerly on one corner of his bed and debates on whether or not he wants to touch the remote control.
He's still having the debate a few minutes later when the sound of two loud thumps comes through the wall.
Clint's on his feet and halfway across the room before he realizes it. He pauses by the wall, then leans in until his ear is pressed against the old paneling. Clint's hearing has never been as good as his eyesight, of course, but it's still better than average. He puts all his concentration towards trying to pick out any more sounds through the wall.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Clint flails a bit at Phil's voice. He had been so focused on the sounds from next door, he had evidently missed hearing the bathroom door open.
"Uh," Clint says, blinking at the sight of the senior agent wearing nothing but pajama bottoms. "This probably looks bad."
"What, you mean you listening to the people next door having sex while dressed only in your underwear?" Phil's eyes dart down to Clint's crotch, then immediately fly upward to focus on the ceiling. "Your very wet underwear. Jesus, Barton."
"I don't think they're having sex," Clint whispers.
"Clint-"
"No, Phil, I heard things."
"What kind of things?"
"Thumpy things."
Phil closes his eyes briefly. "Clint, go take your shower and don't come back out until you've put pants on."
"But-"
"Now."
"But-"
"Now, Barton."
"But, Phil-"
"You're being paranoid and ridiculous," Phil says. "Bathroom. Shower. Pants. Now."
"It's not paranoia if someone's trying to disembowel you with a chainsaw," Clint grumbles as he gathers his shower supplies and heads into the bathroom. He puts his stuff on the sink and peels off his boxer briefs. They hit the floor with a wet squelch and Clint winces.
Clint hadn't realized how chilled he'd been until he steps into the shower. The hot water feels like heaven, but he still finishes as quickly as possible. Something's not sitting right in his gut, and he really wants to get back to Phil.
After a quick towel off, Clint's pulling on his own sleepwear. When he goes back out into the main room, Phil's sitting on his bed, staring at the shared wall between them and number five, and frowning.
"You heard something, didn't you?" Clint says.
Phil's frown gets deeper. "I think your paranoia's contagious."
"Like, I said, it's not paranoia." Clint puts his stuff back in his bag. He fingers the zipper pull and considers the best way to breach this subject. "When I was a kid, growing up the way I did... You learned to be careful, you know? You learned that if something doesn't sit right, maybe there's a reason."
"I'm not completely devoid of instincts myself, Clint," Phil says.
"Yeah," Clint says, "but you learned yours in the Rangers and doing spy stuff. I learned mine on roads like this one."
Phil absorbs that for a moment. "And you don't think that the weather, that this motel, might be playing up those instincts?"
Clint scowls.
"If you really think something's wrong, we'll knock on the door, check things out," Phil says.
Clint looks back towards the wall. Maybe Phil is right. Maybe he is just being paranoid and freaking himself out. "No," he says. "No, that's okay."
"Are you sure?" Phil asks.
"Yeah," Clint says, forcing a chuckle. "I mean, what are the odds that two SHIELD agents end up at a desolate motel staying next door to the serial killer that's been hunting along this highway?"
Phil gets a strange look on his face. "Yes, what are the odds on that?"
"Astronomical," Clint says.
"Implausible."
"That's the kind of thing that would happen to Sitwell."
"Hmmm."
Clint stares at Phil. Phil stares at Clint.
"Well, shit," Clint says just as a scream pierces the air.
Phil - who had left his gun on the dresser - is out the door first, while Clint - who has to get his own gun out of his bag - is a close second.
Phil sprints to the far side of the door and puts his back against the wall. He waits until Clint gets into position on the near side of the window before he announces their presence.
"Federal agents!" Phil yells.
Not more than a second goes by before the motel door is peppered by buckshot. The second shot goes through the window and Clint ducks back further to avoid being hit by shards of glass.
"Federal agents!" Phil yells again. "Put down your weapon and come out with your hands up!"
Another volley of metal comes through the door, adding to the holes from the first round.
"I don't think that's gonna work, sir," Clint says.
"Do you have a better idea?"
"Actually..." Clint feels a grin stretch across his face. "Do you remember Vladivostok?"
Phil's eyes narrow. "I do."
"Awesome." Clint darts back into their room, gets into a crouch, and starts shooting through the wall into room five. He aims high, not wanting to accidentally catch any innocents that might be in there. Less than a minute passes before the shot gun blasts start coming into their room. Clint stays low and keep shooting and ten seconds later there's a single shot from next door and a loud thump.
Clint stays down until he hears three sharp knocks on the wall. He gets up, thinks about the broken glass between this room and the next, quickly pulls his boots on, and races back to room five.
Phil's standing tall with his weapon pointed at an unmoving form on the floor. There's a woman huddled in the far corner of the room, red faced and staring at them. Clint honestly doesn't know what to do.
"Check his vitals, please," Phil says. "I think it was a good shot, but..."
"You're no Hawkeye," Clint says with a tight smile. He keeps his own weapon out as he crouches down and feels for a pulse. He checks both wrists and the neck. There's nothing. Clint turns the man's head and peers down into sightless eyes.
"Yeah," Clint says, "he's toast."
"Good," Phil says as he relaxes his stance. "Agent, can you please go back to our room and retrieve our credentials?"
Clint glances at the woman in the corner and nods. Once he's back in their room he grabs both his and Phil's IDs, pauses for a moment, then scoops up Phil's shoes as well. On his way back to number five he notices Thompson and his yellow rainslicker heading across the parking lot.
Clint steps into the other room long enough to hand Phil his badge and shoes before he goes out again to intercept Thompson.
"What the Sam hell has-"
"My partner and I have stopped a crime in progress," Clint says smoothly, letting Thompson get a good look at his ID. "I know you said the cell service is out and the land lines are down, but do you have any way of contacting the authorities? Any way at all?"
"Uh, there's an old CB radio in the office. I should be able to raise somebody on that. But the nearest sheriff is a good thirty, forty minutes away."
"Doesn't matter," Clint says, "call them. And we're gonna need an ambulance."
"Right. Okay." Thompson stands there, blinking at Clint.
"Go, Mr. Thompson."
"Right. Go. Okay."
Clint watches as the motel owner scurries towards the office. He turns back towards the room and hesitates. Clint's used to causing death and destruction; he's not sure how to deal with the aftermath of something like this. But Clint's feet are already taking him back to Phil even as his brain hems and haws about it.
He's so, so whipped.
_____________
The state cops arrive first, followed closely by the local Sheriff. There's a bit of a jurisdiction kerfuffle which Phil gracefully extracts himself and Clint from. He also somehow finagles both agencies to agree to leave their names out of the official reports. Clint is amazed at Phil's skill and horrified to find himself growing more and more attracted to the man.
It takes until dawn to work everything out. The dead man's not the elusive serial killer after all, just a greedy bastard who had taken out a rather large life insurance policy on his wife. It's not Clint's job to dwell on motives, so he doesn't.
Thompson turns out to be a pretty decent guy, even with the various holes Clint, Phil, and the dead guy added to the decor of the motel.
"If I play my cards right, this could really up my business," Thompson says. "Lots of folks want to stay in a murder room."
Phil winces. "Just as long as you-"
"I know, I know," Thompson says, "keep you two out of it." He taps the side of his nose. "Gotcha. Oh, and I know you two haven't been to sleep yet, so don't worry about the check-out time. Just leave whenever you get going."
"Aw, thanks, Mr. Thompson," Clint says. "And, I just want to apologize for the insinuation I made when we first met-" Clint tries to say more, but Thompson waves him off.
"That's all right," he says. "First impressions and all that. Hell, when I first saw you, I thought you were a hooker. So, bygones!"
Clint forces his mouth into a grin and ignores Phil's sharp bark of laughter. "Sure. Bygones."
_____________
"Hooker," Clint snorts when they're back in their room. "Do I look like a hooker?"
Phil lets his gaze travel down then back up Clint's form. He clears his throat. "I have requested that you dress a bit more professionally," he says.
Clint looks down at himself. Both he and Phil had put their street clothes back on while they were waiting for the cops and he's once again wearing his standard tee shirt and jeans combo. Clint thinks he looks perfectly acceptable. A thought hits him and he can't help but smirk.
"Hey," he says, "if Thompson thought I was a hooker that means he thought you were my john." Delight flares up in Clint's chest as he watches the very tips of Phil's ears go red.
Phil sits on his bed and starts to remove his shoes. "Well, the man almost had a murder happen right under his nose; he obviously needs to work on his perception. Speaking of..." Phil places his hands on his knees and looks up with the most earnest expression Clint thinks he's ever seen on the older agent's face. "I'm sorry."
"Uh. For what?"
"For not trusting your instincts," Phil says. "You knew something was off. I should have listened to you."
"Oh." Now it's Clint's turn for his ears to go red. He ducks his head and runs a hand across the back of his neck. "It's okay."
"No, it's not," Phil says. He stands up and moves until he's in front of Clint. "And this isn't the first time it's happened, either. I don't always listen to you, and I think..." Phil takes a deep breath. "I think it's because I've been trying to ignore what's between us."
Clint swallows a couple of times. "Uh... I don't... What?"
Phil leans in a bit, and Clint locks his knees to keep from falling over.
"I've been doing both of us a disservice with my actions," Phil says, "and I'm sorry for that too. And when we get back to New York, I'd like to take you on a date."
Clint blinks at him. "Like a date date?"
Phil's lips quirk upward. "Yes, Clint. Like a date date."
"Oh. Um. Yes, that would be nice."
Phil gives him a bright smile. "Good. That's good."
Clint's pretty sure that he was already half-way in love with Phil and that gorgeous smile just cemented it. "Of course," Clint says, "now that you've had your big epiphany, I'm okay with not waiting 'til we get to New York."
"Clint," Phil says, narrowing his eyes, "I want you to remember what's going to happen between us for a very, very long time. And there is no way those memories will include this decor."
Clint laughs.
"Besides," Phil says, "there's something that's bothering me."
"What's that?"
"All the excitement of the past few hours. The cops, the ambulance, the sirens. The lights, and noise, and hoopla. Don't you think it's just a little strange..." Phil trails off and raises his eyebrow.
Clint thinks for a moment, trying to figure out what Phil's alluding to. When he gets it, he swears he feels something skitter up his spine. "Mrs. Thompson never came down from the house."
"Yeah," Phil says, his brows drawing down into a frown.
"You don't think..."
"What are the odds?"
Clint stares at Phil. Phil stares at Clint.
"Well, shit."
_____________
end