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Clint basks in the sun, soaking up the rays he so rarely gets with his mostly nocturnal lifestyle. His calloused hands wrap familiarly around the rail of the ferry. He’d had to go deliver bulbs for Natasha’s lighthouse as soon as the sun brightened the Earth enough for him to leave his post. He’d already gotten his ‘good morning, Hawkeye’ from Coulson exactly two weeks ago to the day (and it’s his last for a little while more because the fisherman is too far away for their radio waves to reach) and hadn’t been tired enough to try to sleep after his night awake.
He watches the waters for any signs of the Triskelion, but he can’t see her on the nearby waters and he’s fast approaching shallower areas and his beloved Gallantry Light.
He’s antsy as the ferry docks and he’s one of the first people off the boat. He loves the ocean, don’t get him wrong, but he’s more fond of being high on the land and looking out over it. He grips the handle bars of his motorcycle and saddles up to head into the market to grab whatever catches his eye for dinner.
Clint buys up some fresh cod—from the looks of it, a local daily fisherman got lucky because normally fish this big don’t come close enough for his nets. He takes the paper-wrapped fish and carefully loads it into the saddlebag on his bike that he’d lined to make it a keep cold/keep hot bag. He sets off up the hill to his home after settling into the seat. He doesn’t drive fast, there are too many people out and wandering at this hour, so he takes in the sights and sounds and breathes the salt air deep.
He sighs happily at the sight of the main house. It’s a little rough around the edges, but so is he, and it doesn’t matter how broken it becomes because it belongs to Clint and that is all that matters. Still, the old wooden clapboard could use a fresh coat of whitewash and the porch could have a few boards mended or replaced. He’ll think about it (no, he really won’t. The slightly ragged look adds to the charm in his personal opinion).
Behind the house is Gallantry Light, and the sight of her, backlit in the late afternoon sun, takes his breath away. (He’d meant to come back hours ago, but Nat and he had gotten into the gossip that passes through the islands and couldn’t stop talking for too long. Neither will admit to doing it.) He bypasses the house and rests his hand on the thick painted plaster that covers the stonework and strokes his hand over the cool surface. She is his one true love, just like Coulson’s is the sea.
Polyamorous, that’s what he is and he hopes Phil’s the same way.
Clint has a thick stew simmering on the stove to ward off the cool night breeze. His radio is in the weird set of straps he jury-rigged together to bring it with him so he can talk to Coulson as soon as possible. He’d met him, officially, almost six months ago. He’d laid eyes properly on the Triskelion and almost sagged in relief at her size. Some ships could stay out to sea for up to 300 days and thank whoever’s watching that Phil Coulson’s lovely ship looks like she could only hold about five months worth if the fishing was average.
It’s nearing the time for Phil to come ashore and Clint knows it. He knows Phil knows it too (of course he would know. He can see how full of fish he’s getting). He keeps the radio close in case Phil can call out to him every night, even though he can’t currently. It’s discouraging, but he doesn’t let it get him down.
One day, Phil will get one of those satellite phones in case of an emergency. Clint’s been slowly working on him to get one. He’d feel safer if he did. He knows the death rate of fishermen too well and the fact that Phil works completely alone makes it even more dangerous. Clint has a very safe job (except where his heart is concerned) and that makes everything about Phil’s so much more worrisome.
Clint ladles out a good portion of his soup and puts the rest away in both fridge and freezer to keep it fresh. He detours to his room to grab a fondly worn cigar box that had belonged to his Gramp and uses it to balance his bowl, the oyster crackers, and his empty stein he’d be filling with coffee soon enough. He settles into his comfy seat in the watchroom and sets his things down.
He’d checked his mail for anything from Phil, but not a single letter was present.
Clearing off the box, he opens it to reveal carefully catalogued letters with small dividers to keep them in neat columns and mark the weeks they were sent. Ever since their first meeting, they had taken to writing a letter to each other every day, even if they didn’t receive one because Phil was so far out to sea. They would reference old letters by the date to continue important conversations, but mostly they were learning about each other through sea-stained paper and ball-point pen ink. A majority of it was talk about the difference in sea conditions between Phil’s spot in the ocean and Clint’s shore, or trading tall-tales they’d heard.
Clint knows that Phil keeps all of his letters in a coffee can, that’s inside a coffee can, and secured shut with duct tape to keep the water out. In between the two cans are many, many corks to make it float in case the worst happens to the Triskelion so he can keep Clint’s letters (Clint had blushed like a fool when he’d read that and couldn’t say anything to anyone for a whole day).
He pulls a pad of paper and the logbook toward himself and begins to write the current conditions down in both. Once the logbook is set, he settles the pad into his lap and begins to write.
Gallantry Light 1742 CLR 15 N/A E 10G12 SMTH LO-SW
Dear Loner,
Got the lights at Nat’s fixed today. One of them hadn’t been seated right by whoever did it last and briny air had gotten in, rusting it to the seating. Damn near broke the bulb under my hand, I was gripping it so hard to twist it out. I’ve never been so glad to wear gloves before.
He contemplates what to write next with a tap of pen to lip. He’s always careful not to write too much every day and leave some stories for when he can’t think of anything to write. The first thing that comes to mind is how much he misses him. Sure, Clint’s used to being alone—so is Phil—and he mostly prefers it that way but... but sometimes it would be nice to see the handsome and weathered man before him and be able to touch him, not that he really does.
They had hugged when Phil came into port for the second time after meeting, and again when he left. There were casual touches and brushes-by during his stay when they were out in the town or cooking together in the evenings while Phil stayed at the lighthouse. Other than that? Nothing else. Not unless one counted the flirting. ‘Doomed flirting,’ Clint muses to himself. He had put the full charm on and nothing resulted of it. He won’t push it because clearly Phil isn’t as interested as his small, hidden smiles that are betrayed by the crinkles at the corners of his eyes make him seem.
Natasha says they’re both emotionally constipated. He won’t deny that, but at least he can tell when someone is actually interested. Mostly. He knows it would help if he would even attempt to talk about feelings but... he’s not that kind of person. It’s either there or not, the what ifs don’t need to be brought to voice in his opinion.
Clint shakes himself. He has a letter to write.
There’s some Wickie meet coming up in a few days, you might hear about nothing but that for a while in these letters. It looks like there is going to be a new Wickie or two coming into local ranks. One from the mainland in Newfoundland, the other from PEI. The Princey is some greenhorn and he’ll be coming to stick with me for a bit and learn the ropes here for a day or two before going to Natasha’s... “gentle” care.
I promise to try to behave and not scare him. No promises.
Hope the fishing is fair, Lady Luck on your side, and the Triskelion is treating you like the best of lovers,
Hawkeye
He dates the envelope and adds it to a pile to pass off to a local going out the next morning.
Running into someone as they’re looking for you is the best thing in the world, Clint decides. He has no sooner headed out of his place to get Phil’s letters off to him, than a post-runner had met him half-way with a weeks worth of letters from Coulson tied and waiting for him. They trade the small bundles and Clint turns around to head for home. He knows they will be short as Coulson doesn’t have any time when the sun is out, and he likes to preserve his batteries as much as he can for the radio when he’s within reach, but he’s grinning brightly.
Hawkeye,
One reads,
I started my morning with coffee and the reddest sky ever. It boded as well as the saying and I might be coming to port earlier than I had expected with this seasons delays.
During lunch I had dolphins come close to my ship to play. I don’t know if they’ll stick by, but if I can manage it, I’ll pet one for you.
Not too much gossip...
Clint almost walks into a tourist as he reads and walks back to the lighthouse. He knows he’ll just be rereading it later as well as all the others, but he can’t help himself. He groans when his cell rings and he has to tuck the letters under his arm.
“Barton.”
“Saw your favorite man today,” Natasha purrs.
“Coulson?”
“Stark.”
Clint snorts. “Not my favorite. He’s an ass.”
“He’s a rich ass who helped bail out our asses.”
Clint sighs because it’s true—and he won’t let them forget it. Anthony Stark is some rich to-do guy from the States who owns a yacht in Nova Scotia and comes out here to escape during the summer. He as a moderate “tower” on the coast that doubles as a self automated lighthouse, running completely on the energy of something called an “arc reactor”. Clint doesn’t like it, even though it’s good for the environment. It takes the personal sense of responsibility out of being a lighthouse keep. It’s an empty beam, not a guardian light on the water.
“Clint?”
“Yeah, ‘m here.” He sighs, rubbing his forehead. “What did he want from me?”
“News about the Howling Commando.”
Clint blinks. That’s Captain Roger’s fishing boat. “What’s that?”
“Apparently he likes his fish young, hot, muscled, and blond.” Natasha replies cattishly. Clint wouldn’t put it passed her to purr next. He lets the news sink in and the first words out of his mouth are about telling Phil. “Don’t do that!”
“Nat, it’s gossip. What else am I to do with it?”
“You’ll scare Rogers away.” Clint doubts that Steven Rogers scares easily, not with the height and muscle he has on almost anyone Clint’s ever met. But he also has a gentle and sweet side on shore (Clint knows all this from a double date—blind on his side—that Natasha had set up for him with her and...), so maybe it was possible he’d scare off.
“Is this ‘cause you’re still, y’know, with his first mate?”
“Barnes? No. That was over a while ago.”
“You break more hearts than a mermaid, and those creatures actually eat them.” Clint’s only teasing and he knows that Natasha knows it. She scoffs and changes the topic completely. He half-listens to more about the locals of Brunette Island (who do happen to be all brunette. Her red hair sticks out like a sore thumb, and so does Clint’s blond when he goes to visit). He lets her as he heads back up to the Light to properly settle in and read more of his letters.
“Clint? Clint.” He hums. “I have to go. Text me tonight?”
“Yeah,” they hang up and Clint mulls over the half-heard information. Natasha knows almost everything about everyone in a fifty mile vicinity, Clint would bet on it. She’ll tell him everything, even. However, those Natasha is open about does not include herself. She guards information about herself close to her chest and Clint is fine with that. He respects it. As a fellow guardian, he’ll guard her too as best as he can.
He jogs up the stairs, grabbing his patchwork quilt along the way, and settles into his watchroom chair, his feet up and his eyes out over the horizon. He has a chart on his wall, laminated, with Phil’s estimated and projected course. He knows where the man will be coming from and almost when, depending on the fish. Sighing, Clint returns to reading over his letters.
What Clint learns is disheartening. Apparently the fish aren’t good in his usual area right now and he’s been forced to go further, deeper, after stopping into port for a lot more supplies. It looks like he might be delayed a couple weeks if not a whole month.
There are five letters in total and the last is now yet-to-be unfolded and in his hands. He doesn’t want it to end, he wants to keep reading but he knows it has to come to an end eventually. He fiddles with it and postpones it by writing an entry into the logbook. By the time that’s done, a ship has entered radio communication range and Clint spends some time chatting with Prince’s Red Sands and catching up with the ship gossip. He gets good news about the Howling Commando and makes a note of it on his arm to tell Natasha about so she can bribe Stark with it.
He turns on a few lights before turning back to his last letter and sighs. He’ll just reread everything after, he supposes.
Hawkeye,
I don’t get lonely out on the water by myself, as you well know. I have the gulls and waves and breeze. I have the dolphins when I’m lucky and the stars at night. I like being alone, and I don’t get lonely.
But... more often than not as of the last few months... I’ve wanted a familiar voice that doesn’t come over the crackle and hiss of a radio. I’ve wanted that voice with me every night no matter how far out I go, I’ve wanted that company more than... I’m not sure what.
I’ve always been confident that the sea is my one true love and now I’m not so sure that she is enough for me anymore.
Not the best way to end a letter, I know, but I need to rest for tomorrow. I’m hauling out deep to try to catch up on the progress I’ve lost getting out here.
Sincerely,
Your Loner
Clint stares at the letter for a while as the world begins to darken around him. It’s a clear night so he doesn’t have to worry too much about keeping watch as diligently as he usually does. He can’t even think about it anyway. All he can think about is how loud his heart thuds in his ears as he rereads the letter and... wow. Just... wow. Phil rarely talks feelings—not these kind of feelings—and Clint will occasionally admit after large quantities of alcohol that he is way too gun-shy to bring his own up.
Now? Now he can’t think of anything he can say to reply to that.
He folds the letters up and puts them away in the box. He has too much to think about already that re-reading old letters can’t even distract him. His body runs on auto-pilot, brewing coffee, running maintenance checks, the works. Other than the thoughts storming through his had, he works through the night like any other and goes to sleep once the rising sun no longer paints the sky.
The benefit of keeping the logbook like clockwork and not being able to send out letters every day means that Clint can fake it once he finds out what to say and write it down in the best, well-thought-out way possible. Currently, it’s not possible. He doesn't even bring it up to Natasha when he calls her when he gets up because although she is world-wise, she is blunt.
Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his shorts, Clint stares out over the water. He can hear kids shrieking and playing in the water around the bend, the ocean carries the sounds on the lull of the waves. This part of the beach is his own, he doesn’t have to share it.
But he wants to share it.
He wants...
He runs back up to the lighthouse, kicking sand up as he goes, to grab paper and pen. He knows how to respond and lucky for him, it’s only a day and a half later. He drags a piece of driftwood that he had leveled on one side to use as a lap desk and settles on a large rock, his feet tucked into a tide pool that is getting gently buffeted with the waves that come in.
Gallantry Light 1202 CLR 15 N/A NW 5G10 SMTH LO-SW
Dear Loner,
He’s shaking with excitement—it’s not often he knows the right words—and nervousness.
I understand your loneliness and I’ve felt that way too for some months. I have similar company but at night it’s just me and the stars and the sea.
It’s lonely.
Or, at least, it was.
You see, I’m writing right now from the shoreline, my feet in the water. The same water that the Triskelion is in. Sure, there are miles and miles and miles between us... but so is the ocean. The same ocean that stretches all over the damned Earth, connecting everything.
Do me a little favor, and I’ll do it too. Every night when the sun goes down, take a break. For five minutes as soon as the sun touches the water, put your hand in the sea, and I’ll do the same, and through the ocean—our lovely ocean that doesn’t part us—hold my hand.
Yours,
Hawkeye
Clint has no way of knowing if Phil does it or not. He immediately works “holding” his hand in every night, even before he sends the letter. He doesn’t care if Phil even knows about the idea, it somehow makes him feel a little closer to him regardless. He doesn’t tell anyone about it, it’s just a little thing between them... or well, him. For now, at least.
Sending the week and a half’s worth of letters when the time comes fills him with trepidation. He watches the post ship leave with them and his stomach does a little flip. It’s way too late to try taking them back now. The damage is done. Nevertheless, he waits and watches the boat slip further and further out of his grasp. Panic wells up in his throat and he really hopes that he won’t regret that first letter.
He goes about his days as normal, writing letters to Phil and running errands and sleeping during the day while being the guardian of the waters and chatting over the radio at night. Every morning once the sun comes up and every night when it goes away, Clint makes his way down to the shore to place his hand in the water (and feet and legs. He just wades right in because it’s easier on his back) and imagines Phil doing the same.
It makes every single day a little less lonely, a little easier to bear.
A week after the letters were sent Clint hears the Howling Commando on the radio. He’s pleased to hear from Steve (and have the opportunity to tease Captain Rogers about Stark. Clearly the something going on is mutual with how the man reacts and Clint grins like a shark the whole time) and even more pleased that they’re in radio contact distance with the Triskelion, even though he is not. Steve asks if he’d like to pass a message on and Clint can feel his ears burning.
“Just tell him to stay safe,” is all Clint can make himself say. ‘Come back to me’, ‘come home soon’, ‘I miss you’, and more spring to mind but anything he wants to vocalize is for Phil’s ears only. Or it would be if he could manage to say anything.
They talk more, sharing weather stories and the gossip out at sea. Steve reveals that they only reason they came in so close is that they were picking up supplies for their boat, and the Triskelion too, as she was running low. Clint’s stomach twists a little, wanting to protect them all. He almost invites Steve’s whole crew to dinner for when they come back in to shore after their season is up. He bites his tongue.
Parting of their ways happens a few minutes later, and Steve promises to pass the message along. Clint keeps the portable radio with him the entire day. He’s carefully wading through the waters on his beach with his left hand in the water when Bucky calls over the radio. “Lamp,” Clint almost jumps and grabs for the microphone when the fisherman asks, “hey, Hawkeye, you there?”
“I’m here, you okay?” He’s looking out over the waters, but it’s not quite dark enough, but the visibility is lower today than usual for such clear skies.
“Yeah, fine, just got a message for you from the Triskelion.” The sound of paper fluttering comes over the hiss of static, “makes no fucking sense...”
Clint freezes, concentrating on the radio with everything he is. “What is it?”
“‘My hand’s in the water.’”
Warmth seeps through Clint’s chest and he doesn’t even know that he’s smiling until his face begins to hurt. “Thanks, Bucky. That’s good news.”
“You both are fucking weird.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He chuckles softly. They hang up and Clint stays in the water well passed the five minutes. He can’t be sure if Phil’s hand is still in the water connecting them but he doesn’t care. The fact that he did it means the most to him.
Three nights later of “holding” Phil’s hand via ocean, he gets a surprise: a familiar voice calling out to him over the radio. He almost topples off the rock he’s laying on with his hands in the water when he hears Phil call, “Lamp.”
He bites his lip, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. He has to fight with his pulse to get it to behave as he reaches for the radio after drying one hand on the shoulder of his shirt. When he can manage his voice he responds, “Aye, Loner.”
Another pause passes between them. He’s aching to hear Phil talk but at the same time just having a shared silence feels good too. He keeps one hand in the water at all times as he searches the horizon of any sign that the Triskelion is nearby, but he doesn’t see the ship. He swears he can hear Phil gulp before he says softly, “the water’s warm tonight.”
That’s it, a hint that Phil’s hand is in the water just like Clint’s. He sucks in a breath as his heart swells in his chest. He bites his lip and tries not to sound as stupid as he knows he must look. He presses the button on the mic, “yeah, it is.” He doesn’t care that they’re talking about it indirectly at all. At least something is being said.
“It was cooler last night,” Phil’s voice sounds husky and it might just be the radio waves but Clint really hopes that it isn’t.
“Was about the same for me, this close to shore.” He can hear the grin in his own voice, so Phil must too.
“Yeah?” Phil’s grinning too.
“Yeah.”
And that’s all they say about that matter. They go back to their normal topics, each saying a little bit and letting the silence stretch between them when both are thinking over what’s been said. He stretches slowly. “Gotta let you go and head up to the watchroom.”
“Okay,” Clint can imagine him nodding. “I should get ready for bed.”
“You do that, I’ll get settled and we can...?” He’s hoping they're not done for the night already.
“Yeah.”
Clint listens to the hiss of the radio, waiting to jerk the microphone off the hook on the side so he can respond when Phil calls. His stomach flips and he can’t help but be restless and excited and nervous all at once. He curls into the quilt that he left on his chair even though the night isn’t that cool and waits.
It doesn’t take too long for Phil to return and once again they fill the darkness with idle talk and heavy, meaningful silences. Too soon, it’s getting late and Clint knows he needs to let Phil catch some sleep before his next early morning. Chewing on his lower lip—a nervous tick—he swallows and starts to pick at a scab from a burn. It’s starting to itch as it’s on the edge of his palm. He’s not sure what to say just yet but Phil’s talking about how he plans on catching up on his catch and coming back to shore sooner than the delay has put him.
“Be careful.” Clint says before he can stop himself. He knows he worries too much, and Phil sort of knows indirectly from all the letters, but he’s never said something as forward as that aloud.
“I always am.” Phil’s voice is quieter and it’s a solemn promise without having to be stated as such.
Clint nods and his throat tightens. It might just be time to take a leap. Or, at least, a step. He ducks his head and tucks the hand holding the microphone to his chest a little tighter. He takes a slow breath, the button already pressed so Phil can hear him muster up his courage. “Come home safe, Phil...” He can hear a soft breath as the man goes to speak. “Come home safe and you can hold my hand all you want.” He looks out over the water at the lights of Phil’s boat and their reflection on the water.
“Home?” He can hear the uncertain question in Phil’s voice. He knows why it’s there, he knows that Phil considers the Triskelion his home. It had been the same for Clint and the lighthouse.
But now, Gallantry Light is no longer his home. “Yeah. Home.”
His home is Phil.