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It was a well-known fact to anyone with ears that Clint had a deep and abiding love for country music in all of its nasal, twangy, inbred-back-water forms (especially at odd hours of the day and night, especially on long ops with uncooperative marks, and especially if Specialist Romanoff was on the con but unable to immediately silence him with the judicious application of quick, brutal violence). Less known among SHIELD facility members was Coulson’s own affinity for the genre.
It was probably a sign of some kind of rare but serious brain disease, or at least prolonged exposure to Barton, but Coulson had found over the years that his internal lexicon of musical selections had expanded to include a shocking number of country songs.
It most likely had something to do with the fact that Clint was so completely, joyously, and unashamedly passionate about the things he enjoyed. Whether it be his collection of Nerf guns crowding up Phil’s spare room, or his completely illogical love of Ethiopian food (that unequivocally did not love him back), Clint loved with his body, his heart, and with the full force of his life.
It was a little hard not to love the world when you saw it through Clint’s eyes.
Phil’s life had been… strange… ever since Clint came along. Little things took on new meaning. He couldn’t look at a pigeon without smiling now, and he sometimes even fed the little bastards. He was a crack shot with a Nerf gun and even though he would have sworn that their sourdough bread was a crime again god and man, he nonetheless craved Ethiopian food at odd hours of the night. Clint helped him rediscover his love for Captain America—not the one bickering with Tony on the bridge, but the one of Phil’s childhood—the one who dared to stand up and say no when the bullies of the world came knocking at the door. The one who understood that doing the right thing was sometimes the only thing that could keep you going—and might be the only thing that cost you everything you love.
As Phil stood in front of the doors to the Phase Two Weapons bay, he thought about country music and Captain America. And Clint. Always Clint.
They’d been together for three years, give or take a couple of weeks depending on who you asked. They had matching tattoos just under the bone on their left hip.
Dum spiro, spero.
Dum spiro, certo.
While I breathe, I hope. While I breathe, I fight.
They’d sworn to live together, and if all went as planned, they were gonna go down together. They’d made vague plans for the future, kicked around a house out in West Virginia where Clint could set up a shooting range and Phil could try his hand at organic gardening. It was a fairy tale made of half-baked dreams and unfinished plans, but they’d talk about it over dinner at Phil’s place, and then Clint would take him in his arms and dance him around the kitchen singing “Georgia Law Man.” He always started soft and built to a crescendo, and more than once Phil’s neighbors had taken to banging on the walls as Clint belted out the final lines of the song, Phil tight in his arms and laughing despite the lyrics.
Clint loved the world with his world heart—his whole body, and he loved Phil with all of that and more.
The way Phil figured it, despite all their talk about happy endings and homes off in the mountains, this was the end they always knew they’d get-- Phil and Clint going down together on a doomed ship, world in the balance and hope no more than a whisper in the whirlwind of combat. Clint was three floors up, eyes milky and cold, empty of the passion Phil knew was inside him. Phil was three floors down, pulling experimental tech out of a locker and getting ready to do battle with a god.
But Phil was smiling. Because he loved Clint, and country music, and Captain America and maybe standing up for what was right wasn’t that hard after all. He was going to miss Central Park, and slow dancing in the kitchen, the coffee place on 5th that Clint never could get him to give up. He was going to miss his sisters and their stupidly adorable children, Christmas presents and warm socks.
He was going to miss lunch.
But he had breath in his body, and a gun in his hands, and he could think of nothing better to do with his life than to defend the world that Clint had taught him to love so much.
So as he walked toward the containment room where two gods were reenacting the less interesting parts of Shakespeare, just waiting for Phil arrive and turn their petty family drama into a tragedy worthy of the name, Phil couldn’t help but sing a bit under his breath, his steps echoing with country music and the love of Clint Barton.
“And when hell came down on that county line
and all he could remember was the Oklahoma sunshine
she looked at him and he looked away.
He said ‘I hear West Virginia looks just like heaven, and right here’s about as close as we’re gettin’…
I don’t think we’re gonna win this one today…’
We’re gonna die today,
but I loved you all the way,
and I’d go right down to hell just to set you free.
And I’d find a way
to promise you forever
even if forever means dying right here with you next to me…”