The past is real (Avengers, Coulson/Hawkeye)
Fandom: Avengers movieverse
Warnings: mentions violence
Summary: Tracing scars
A/N:Written for this prompt at norsekink.
There are scars on the soles of his feet, little nicks that don’t form any discernible pattern.
Clint laughs when Coulson traces them, following them randomly.
“That tickles.” He complains.
“Did you walk through glass?”
“I wanted to try it,” Clint shrugs casually, “hey, even circus kids have bad ideas.”
The scar on his right thigh is round.
“Bar fight,” Clint says when Coulson traces it with his tongue.
“What did you do to piss them off?” He asks against Clint’s skin.
“I started it.” Clint answers and closes his eyes to appreciate the feeling of Coulson’s tongue on his skin more.
On his back the scars criss-cross wildly. Coulson has seen wounds like this before, can guess where they’re from.
“I never liked cats,” Clint gasps when Coulson kisses him between the shoulder blades while languidly stroking his cock at the same time. “Especially not one’s with nine tails.”
The one on his stomach is a small, surgical scar, blunt trauma resulting in a ruptured appendix, Clint’s file says but not what happened.
When Coulson traces it with his fingers there’s a deceptively blank look on Clint’s face.
“A pillowcase full of soap.”
“Whenever they felt like it.” Clint covers Coulson’s hand with his own as if to calm the rage he sees in Coulson’s eyes.
“Whoever it was, I hope you killed them.”
A long, thin scar on the inside of his left arm, just above the elbow. It’s old and faint, nearly invisible if you don’t know where to look but Coulson does.
“Bowstring,” Clint says and smiles for the first time, “Every time I shot until I learned to twist my elbow out of the way.”
“Somehow I can’t imagine that.” Coulson murmurs and kisses the scar.
“Even I had to learn it first.” Clint’s free hand traces invisible patterns on Coulson’s back while he leans over him.
Four bullet wounds in his chest, Coulson has been there for every single one of them but he still wants to hear Clint say it.
“Manila,” The two are just under his left collarbone.
“Massachusetts,” The one that is right above his sternum.
“You, possessed by an evil alien that needed a distraction,” the last one, underneath the one from Massachusetts where the sternum ends.
Coulson remembers being prisoner in his own body and screaming in his mind for the alien to let Clint live. It’s not a pleasant memory but it’s not the most painful one either.
A jagged, broad but flat scar on his right upper arm as if Clint flayed his own skin there. Coulson thinks he did but when he touches him there, the only scar that Clint hides under clothes and makeup, Clint shakes his head.
The short scar underneath his right jawline almost looks as if he nicked himself badly while shaving.
“Natasha, brainwashed and crazy,” Clint says and kisses Coulson, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and pulling him closer to stop the questions.
Clint lays his hand over Coulson’s heart but Coulson shakes his head.
“Too many stories.”
“Just one. One for now.”