A/N: I read a bunch of time loop fics this week, so of course that meant I wanted to write one myself. I intended it to be a little more crack-y, but it sorta gained a mind of its own. Oops.
On Monday, at 4:37pm, Phil dies in Clint's arms.
The archer turns angry eyes on the artifact they'd come for, sitting on the table, unharmed and unaffected by the violence it had caused.
He draws an explosive arrow, aims, and fires.
The world explodes into a wash of light.
On Monday, at 6:50am, Phil spots Clint walking ahead of him, going into the Shield offices. He's not due in to the office for the briefing for another three hours, and he's never early.
"Barton!" Phil calls, determined to get to the root of this quickly. Clint jumps at the sound of his voice, and nearly falls over as he tries to turn around too fast. Phil stares at him. He looks terrible. His face is drawn, his eyes are puffy and red, and the state of his hoodie is not to be commented on. He's also staring at Phil like he can't believe his own eyes. A strangled sob comes out of his throat, and he lurches forward, grabbing Phil in a hug that nearly crushes his ribs.
"Barton," Phil wheezes, and the archer does relax his grip, fractionally, leaning back to look up at him.
"You're alive. How are you alive? I can't believe it," Clint is saying, mostly to himself. Phil quickly runs through the possibilities, eliminating several right off the bat. He's left with three options. He needs more information.
"Barton," he says again, and then, more forcefully, "Clint." This gets his attention. "Clint, what day was it yesterday?"
Clint looks bewildered. "Monday?"
Phil sighs.
"Clint, you're stuck in a time loop," he tells him, watching as the archer processes this information. Phil takes the opportunity to guide him inside the Shield building, and into his office. Clint seats himself heavily in one of the chairs in front of Phil's desk.
"Clint," Phil says, gently, "talk to me. I need you to tell me what happened in the first Monday."
Clint's eyes, wild and bloodshot, meet his. "Okay," he croaks.
.
.
.
Monday, at 4:39pm, Phil dies in Clint's arms, clutching his tac vest, and trying to tell him something.
The world goes white.
On Monday, at 6:50am, Phil spots Clint running towards him as he walks toward his Shield office. He's not due in for the briefing for another three hours, and he's never early.
Phil's mind is already running possibilities. He doesn't have time to ask, though, because his arms are suddenly full of archer. He pats Clint's back soothingly.
"Phil," Clint says, with a broken voice, into his previously immaculate suit jacket. "I'm stuck in a time loop."
"Good," he says, and Clint jerks back a bit.
"Good?!"
"Yes," Phil says, calmly. "The other two options are very tricky. This is much easier."
Clint's gaping at him like a fish out of water. "I thought it was weird when you took this well yesterday."
"It's not the first cycle for you, then? Even better. Come on, let's go. My office."
.
.
.
Monday, at 4:44pm, Phil, clutching Clint's tac vest, gasps something to him, before dying in his arms.
The world goes white.
On Monday, at 6:04am, Phil has just sat down with his coffee in his breakfast nook, when his doorbell rings. He checks the time, frowns, and gets up to answer the door, sliding the gun from under the table into the waistband of his pajama pants.
He peers through the peephole, and sees Clint, looking wild eyed and desperate, standing on his doorstep. His mind runs through the possibilities, as he opens the door.
Clint immediately barrels through and gives him a bone-crushing hug.
"Alternate universe, time travel, or time loop," he manages to ask, despite the lack of breathing that's happening.
"Time loop," Clint says, voice muffled in Phil's sleep shirt.
"Ah," says Phil. "How many cycles has it been?"
"This is my fourth Monday," Clint finally lets him breathe. "The worst fucking Monday of my life."
"It does usually feel like that," Phil says. "Alright, talk to me Barton. I'll make breakfast."
.
.
.
On Monday, at 4:57pm, Phil dies in Clint's arms.
The world goes white.
On Monday, at 6:04am, Phil has just sat down with his coffee in his breakfast nook, when his doorbell rings. He checks the time, frowns, and gets up to answer the door, sliding the gun from under the table into the waistband of his pajama pants.
He peers through the peephole, and sees Clint, looking wild eyed and desperate, and Natasha, eyeing him a bit skeptically, standing on his doorstep.
His mind runs through the possibilities, as he opens the door.
Clint immediately barrels through and wraps his arms around Phil. He pats Clint's back soothingly, and opens his mouth to ask, but Clint says, "Time loop," before he can ask.
"Good," he says. "Morning to you too, Natasha. How many cycles has it been?"
Natasha acknowledges him with a nod. Clint pulls back from the hug.
"Five. Where in the world did you get alternate universe and time travel, anyway?"
Phil thinks back to his aborted question.
"There are only four scenarios in which you know my address. Only three are currently possible," he explains.
"Are you telling me you've met alternate universe me? And time travel me?"
"You two are not allowed to meet," Phil says.
"Aw, Phil," Clint whines. Phil fights back a smile.
"Not happening," he says, firmly. "Now, talk to me Barton. I'll make breakfast. What cycle are you on?"
.
.
.
On Monday, at 5:01pm, Phil dies in Clint's arms.
The world goes white.
On Monday, at 6:04am, Phil opens his door, and Clint barrels through, wraps his arms around him, and mutters, "Time loop," before he can ask. Natasha walks in behind him.
"Good," he says. "Morning to you too, Natasha. How many cycles has it been?"
Natasha acknowledges him with a nod. Phil pats Clint's back soothingly. The hug goes on for several more seconds, until Phil finally has to repeat himself, "How many cycles, Clint?"
"Sixteen," Clint says, his voice breaking on a sob.
"Ah," says Phil. "And… I've died every time?"
Clint nods into his sleep shirt. He lets the hug continue for a little while longer, and then nudges him.
"Alright, talk to me, Clint. I'll make breakfast."
Clint reluctantly lets him go, and Phil moves to the kitchen. Natasha is perched on the counter, sipping some pilfered coffee.
Clint succinctly gives them the rundown of the day. It's clear he's explained it this way many times before; his recitation is nearly clinical, up until the part where Phil dies every day. When he's done, Phil slides a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him. Clint frowns at his plate.
"What's wrong?"
"You've made me something different every day," Clint says, "but I've said the exact same things to you. Everyone else does all the same things unless I vary the script."
"You have said something different."
"How would you know?" Clint cries wildly.
"I presume that in your previous cycle, you told me it had been fifteen Mondays?" There's an expression of dawning realization and disbelief on Clint's face.
"You have a-a protocol for breakfasts in a time loop?"
"Of course. You've got to have some variety in your day," he explains. "But we'll be back to pancakes tomorrow; I've reached the bottom of the list."
Clint laughs, a bit hysterically, and he's leaking a few tears, but he's smiling by the time he wipes them away.
"I don't know how you do it," he says. "Sixteen Mondays, and you've surprised me, somehow, every day."
"Maybe this one I'll surprise you and live."
.
.
.
On Monday, at 5:02pm, Phil dies in Clint's arms.
The world goes white.
On Monday, at 6:04am, Phil opens his door, and Clint collapses into his arms, sobbing. He looks at Natasha questioningly. She shrugs.
"He said something about time loops. I'm stealing some of your coffee."
Phil rubs Clint's back comfortingly, up and down, until his sobs have petered out.
"I'm sorry, Clint," he says. The archer snorts.
"Not your fault."
"I hate to ask, but-"
"Yester-Monday you said today was pancakes," Clint interrupts, finally letting go of Phil.
"I see," Phil says. He doesn't know how many times they've been through his list of breakfasts, but it's at least once, by the way Clint's acting.
"I don't know how many more Mondays I can take, Phil," Clint says, when he has a stack of pancakes in front of him.
"We'll get it right, eventually. You just have to hang in there," Phil tells him, although he knows it's not very reassuring. It's just the truth.
.
.
.
On Monday, at 5:06pm, Phil dies in Clint's arms.
The world goes white.
On Monday, at 6:04am, Phil opens his door.
They eat bacon and eggs for breakfast.
.
.
.
On Monday, at 5:23pm, Phil is dying in Clint's arms. They've got it almost right this time; they're so close.
"Talk to me, Barton," coughs Phil, blood spattering out of his mouth. Clint chokes back a sob, tries to think of something to say.
"What was the fourth reason?" He asks. "You said, on Monday number… five, I think, that there were four reasons I might know where you live. You only ever said three of them."
"Alternate universe," Phil rasps.
"Yeah, and then time travel, or a time loop. What was the last one?" Clint presses. Phil coughs up more blood. He's too tired to remember any of the reasons on his list of Why Not To Tell Clint.
"If I-" he hacks up more of his lung "-finally ask you out."
Clint's face is one he'd really love to remember, completely wonderstruck, but he's fading fast.
"You wanted to… Phil," Clint looks like he might cry now, "I didn't even know."
Phil barely registers the words. He's not really thinking anymore.
"I love you," Phil confesses, and then he is gone.
The world goes white.
On Monday, at 6:02am, Phil has just finished pouring his cup of coffee when his doorbell rings. He checks the time, frowns, and goes to check the peephole, sliding the gun from under the sink into the waistband of his pajama pants.
Clint is standing on his doorstep, looking a bit wild and desperate, and bouncing on his toes. Natasha, next to him, has a strange glint in her eye. Phil's mind runs through the possibilities as he opens the door.
Clint immediately barrels in, throws his arms around Phil's neck, and kisses him. It's messy, imperfect. Phil doesn't care. He hears Natasha snickering as she moves past them, no doubt to the coffeepot.
"Alternate universe or time travel?" Phil asks, when they finally pull back for air. Clint laughs, and pecks his lips.
"Time loop," he says, "and a little bit of reason number four."
.
.
.
On Monday, at 5:57pm, Phil is lying in Clint's arms in a Shield medical room. Natasha had slipped away with a wink, a few minutes before.
Phil's eyes are closed as they numb the area, prep the needle, and stitch up the wound left in his side by the bullet that grazed him.
The artifact is safely packed away in a padded carrying case.
Clint sighs in contentment, when they're done, and slides down so he's hugging Phil close to him, careful not to jostle the stitches. Phil opens his eyes and smiles up at him.
"You did it," he says.
"We did it," Clint corrects him, smiling back.
"Go on a date with me?" Phil asks. "Tomorrow?"
"I hope you mean Tuesday," Clint says. "I'm done with Mondays."
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.
.
Bonus scene:
"Wait," Clint says, later, in sudden realization. "Does this mean you've kissed other alternate universe and time travel me's before?"
"That's classified."
"…sooo, that's a yes. Huh. I'm feeling weirdly jealous of myself."
Hope this brought you as many laughs and feels as it brought me while I was writing it! :)