Fanfiction: Slow and Steady Steps (Complete, Phil/Clint, 1/2)
Title: Slow and Steady Steps
Writer: Sporadic_Writer
Status of work: Complete.
Disclaimer: I don't own this.
Fandom: The Avengers movie.
Characters and/or pairings: Phil/Clint, Natasha, Hill, Sitwell.
Rating: Mature.
Warnings, kinks & contents: Sexual situations near the end. Mild swearing.
Length: 10,345 words.
A/N: I have a weakness for romance and fluff, but lately, I've been getting tired of stories in which the two characters meant to be together have a smooth, automatic soulmate-type connection. I suppose it's because relationships usually aren't so easy in real life. So, I decided to write a story in which the falling in love part ties into trust issues and takes its time.
Summary: Phil's not sure why Barton thinks they could have a relationship, and it's exasperating.
“Whoa, check out your 12 o'clock, Coulson,” Sitwell drawled. “Hawkeye keeps looking over here. Do we need to have a little conversation about the birds and the bees and the reasons you don't want to piss off the assassins in our little government clubhouse?”
“Maybe he's looking over because he knows you're the one who keeps putting stale Cadbury crème eggs in his locker,” Phil countered, ignoring the telltale feel of eyes on his back from across the room.
“I'll take you down with me,” Sitwell warned, grinning broadly. “I may be the prankster, but you're my supplier; the accomplice always gets it too.”
“Hmm, I doubt it. Ask Barton who gave him your office code last month.”
Sitwell gaped unbecomingly. “That was you? Jeezus, Phil, you're a jackass! It took forever to hoover up the confetti.”
“Feel sorry for the janitorial staff. They're the ones who always have to clean up your little war with Barton. Should I be sensing some UST?” Phil teased, squinting at his half-eaten lasagne; he wasn't sure those green bits were really spinach.
Sitwell rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. “Don't talk to me about UST. Every single time I'm in the same room as you and Barton, I feel like I should be shouting, 'Kiss! Kiss!'”
Phil made a rude noise that he'd deny if any eavesdroppers heard. “You're making things up; we barely talk to each other.”
Sitwell tossed a few more fries into his mouth; he gestured at Barton with the last one. “Phil, you've been to Egypt. Don't make me bring up denial.”
Tetris is really soothing, Phil decided, as he started a new game on his laptop and contentedly stacked the colored blocks on top of each other. At the sound of a knock sounding on his door, he quickly x-ed out of the program and pulled a stack of reports closer to him. “Door's not locked,” he called, wondering if Fury had made good on his vow to play hooky during the next useless Council meeting.
Clint Barton walked into his office, and Phil tried not to frown at the intense look in the man's eyes. He fiddled nervously with his papers for a moment before setting them aside and smiling amiably even as he wondered if Hawkeye had the ears to match. It would be very embarrassing, to say the least, if his less than professional conversation with Sitwell had been heard.
“What can I do for you, Barton?” Phil asked, bringing his cup of coffee to his mouth.
“I like you, and I want you to go out with me.”
Coffee held frozen midway, Phil stared Barton hard in the eyes and wondered if he was getting pulled into the prank war regardless of his insistence on staying neutral. He waited for Barton to break into hoots and start crowing over the dumbfounded look on his face. He waited. His wall clock ticked along the seconds, and all he could hear was their quiet breathing.
Barton looked deadly serious, and Phil could tell that the other man wasn't going to leave easily without some kind of response, so he bought time by closing his laptop and setting his coffee mug down on his desk, without taking the sip he'd planned.
Barton's eyes tracked his movements, and Phil wondered what those acute eyes could glean from what he's doing.
“I'm flattered that you feel that way,” Phil started, trying not to recite the words, “but SHIELD is like any other professional insular organization; dating coworkers isn't against official policy, but it is highly discouraged. I value our being able to work together, and I'm afraid that a romantic relationship would change that.”
Phil looked at Barton at the end of his answer and waited for the usual resigned reaction, but Barton tilted his head with a little smile playing on his lips, and asked curiously, “How many star-struck junior agents did you have to use that speech on?”
Blinking in surprise, Phil tried to recover the situation and hoped that a flush wasn't making its way up his neck. “I'm-this isn't a joke, Barton. I might have reminded some people of their primary duties, but it's not just a 'speech.' I mean every word of what I said. SHIELD's mission is our priority.”
Barton's sharp eyes softened every so slightly with the light of mutual understanding. “I get that, s- Coulson, and I'm not trying to lure you away from doing your job for SHIELD; I've got a job to do for SHIELD too. I just want you to think over whether we can't go out once in a while and have something together.”
“Barton,” Phil tapped his fingers on his desk exasperatedly. It just figured that Barton would be more stubborn than any of the other agents who'd fancied themselves in love with him; on the other hand, Barton hadn't used those exact words. “What exactly do you want?” If it was just sex...but he didn't want to insult Barton by being so crude. Still, he could drop mentions of various vetted escort services in the next few weeks and see if that solved the problem. It had done for 40% of his previous cases.
Barton looked as though he knew what Phil hadn't said anyway. “I'm not asking for marriage,” he scoffed. “Or a long-term commitment, so relax. I just don't have many friends in or outside of SHIELD, and if you have some of the same free time, then we can enjoy each other's company. That's all I'm looking for.
“Of course, I'm also hoping for sex being on the table sometime, but I can be patient,” Barton added bluntly with a grin that flickered to life on his face. Arms crossed, he leaned back against the wall in a sinuous sprawl that prompted lustful attention to his physique.
Phil hated that Barton sounded so persuasive and logical; his most rational brain cells were screaming that he would regret agreeing to the man's proposition. “We'll see,” his mouth said without any input from his brain. Damn it. That sounded too much like a 'yes.'
If Barton grinned or did a victory symbol, Phil would gladly have revoked his range time and made a strong take-back, but the other man just nodded seriously like they'd made a meaningful bargain, and then he left the room, thoughtfully closing Phil's door with a quiet click.
“Got a minute?” Barton asked, swinging into the free seat across from Phil in the cafeteria. He barely waited for Phil to look up before holding up a cheap flier. “A new kabob place, so they're offering a free drink with each order.”
Phil briefly contemplated being a vegetarian before he remembered that his congealing plate was filled with the remains of a beef stew. He hadn't really expected Barton to pursue his lukewarm acquiescence from last week. “Fine, when do you want to go?”
“Thursday looks good for me,” Barton offered. “I have a mission the following Monday, and it would be great to get some good food before shipping out to the middle of nowhere.”
Phil's lips twitched despite himself. Barton always referred to each and every location as 'the middle of nowhere.' The man sometimes seemed oddly like a homebody, and Phil couldn't deny that he found it a little endearing.
Unfortunately for Barton, the food was several steps away from being good or even being palatable; Phil chewed half-heartedly on one more piece of near-charcoal meat before reaching for the restaurant-baked bread, which was nicely firm. He thought the little restaurant would close before long, but it would be a shame to lose the bread, so he was going to enjoy the most of it.
Barton determinedly continued making headway through his second stick, but Phil raised an eyebrow at him, and he laughed, giving it up as a bad job and reaching for a slice of bread. Phil handed him the little dish of sauce, and their fingers brushed in passing. Barton's gaze flicked up to meet Phil's, and he didn't move his hand.
“This isn't what I expected from a first date, Barton,” Phil said blandly, pulling his hand back to his side of the table.
Instead of being discouraged, the other man actually laughed-a loud bark that garnered attention from a few coeds who glanced over in annoyance before giggling with their heads together and trying to catch Barton's eye.
Oblivious, Barton looked a bit ruefully at his plate and poked the leftover kabob with his fork. “Don't worry; it's the last time I listen to random hawkers on the street for dinner recs. I'll make it up to you; dessert at any ice cream shoppe or café still open at this hour.”
“Oh, stop, you're spoiling me,” Phil said as dryly as he could. Barton's good-natured response to his ribbing made him feel a little guilty, and he picked off the chunks of beef to reach the slices of red pepper and mushroom. Those bits were still edible, if a little on the soggy side. How the kabobs could be both burnt and soggy was beyond him.
Barton was still talking. “...I actually did try them before, so I can guarantee that their pho is excellent. And their egg rolls have the right ratio of meat to veggie filling.”
“Oh?” Phil said belatedly, aware that he'd missed part of the conversation.
“Yeah,” Barton concluded, apparently not noticing or caring. “So, what do you think? Next month good for you? I have some downtime coming up soon.”
“Okay,” Phil agreed, a bit nonplussed that he'd not been paying attention earlier, and he returned Barton's brilliant smile before realizing that he'd just accepted another date. He opened his mouth, not wanting to lead Barton on, but then the bill arrived, which prompted a pro forma argument over who paid.
“Stark better be grateful we took out his latest set of kidnappers,” Agent Hernandez mumbled on the secondary line, as she tapped away on her computer, monitoring the inside feeds. Seated next to her, Phil watched the outside feeds, checking each bystander for suspicious behavior, and chuckled lightly, “Don't count on it.”
“All seven targets have been secured, sir,” Agent Deng announced crisply through the comms, and Phil could hear the rustling of the wind outside, and the murmuring of SHIELD agents wrapping things up and making plans for the downtime they'd been promised. “We have zero fatalities and only three injuries,” Deng summed up.
“Ow, that fucking hurt!” Agent Williams shouted, making everyone wince, before the medic treating him thoughtfully turned off his comm.
“And Williams has a fractured collarbone,” Deng explained, a smile in his voice as he patted the injured agent on the back.
“Good work, Agent Deng. You can send me the report tomorrow.” Sighing as his system came down from the adrenaline from the earlier mess, Phil sat back in his chair and wished that he had been out there. Unfortunately, carpal tunnel syndrome was a lot more painful and inconvenient than he'd been led to believe.
Hernandez sipped from her water bottle and began shutting down all the monitors. “I can drive the van back to Headquarters, if you want to start your vacation early, sir,” she offered generously.
Phil shook his head. “That's kind of you, Amy, but I plan on heading back to New York tomorrow afternoon.”
“You're not taking a vacation?” Hernandez looked a little baffled, and behind her professional facade, Phil could see the “Robot Coulson” rumors making their way through her head. “But you got carpal tunnel because you wouldn't stop working.”
“Not quite,” Phil corrected dryly. “I got carpal tunnel because I was the only one who knew how to operate a jack hammer, and we had to get Gupta out of the collapsed tunnel before he suffocated.”
Hernandez continued to eye him doubtfully. “I'll be fine, Amy; I'll get Deng or Morretti to drive the van, and I'll just ride with them.” He smiled gamely and made a shooing gesture. “Go on; enjoy your downtime and visit your sister.”
Once Hernandez had left, Phil opened the freezer and took out an ice pack; he could ice his arm for a bit before putting it back into the brace. He scratched gingerly at the pale, wrinkled skin, and he was about to make a sigh of relief when he felt a prickle on his neck.
“Arm still hurt, Coulson?” The shadows wavered and condensed to reveal Barton's broad form. He was full on grinning despite the heavy layer of soot on his face. Phil examined him and wondered if it was the lighting or whether Barton was bleeding from a cut near his eye. He decided to be kind and handed Barton a handkerchief, and the man accepted amiably, not seeming to read anything more into his courtesy.
“It's not the first time I've shot a bomb to disable it, but it is the first time I've gotten a bit too close to the blast radius,” Barton said a bit mournfully, wiping at his cheeks.
Phil studied him quietly. “You've been on back to back missions for the past few months. Take some time off now and recoup. We need you at your best for your mission with Hill.”
Barton folded the handkerchief in half and dabbed away at the area around his eyes. “Yeah, I guess I've been stiffer than usual. I could use a massage.”
Phil wondered if Barton was being euphemistic; if so, now would be a good time to steer Barton towards the discreet services being offered in town. “Some of the other agents plan on using their downtime here. It is Las Vegas after all.” All glitz, glamour, and gilt.
“Nah,” Barton demurred. “It's not really my kind of town. Still, I'm sure they have a Baskin Robbins or a Tom and Jerry's. Want to grab some ice cream?” He gestured at Phil's mushy ice pack. “You can always drip some of it onto your sore arm,” he said flippantly, with an inviting smile.
Phil's arm twinged painfully, and he decided that he could use a distraction. Anyway, it was just ice cream.
It was ice cream in 60°F. Barton shivered in his leather jacket, and he grinned brilliantly at Phil, his mouth a disorienting purple smear from the Gumball Dream, a cotton candy flavored ice cream with an incongruous mixture of multi-colored gumballs. Barton crunched down gleefully onto the little sugary spheres, chewing them into a giant wad that he molded into small, quickly deflating bubbles.
Phil spooned out another chunk of his Blueberry Crunch and savored the mixture of graham cracker pieces with the fruity ice cream. “I tried something similar in San Francisco, but I never really took to the multi-tasking.”
“Multi-tasking?” Barton laughed. “For ice cream?”
Phil shrugged in amusement. “Either you break the spirit of the ice cream by picking out all the gum balls beforehand, or you eat some ice cream, chew some gum, eat some more ice cream, chew some more gum. It got really tiring.”
Barton hopped onto a waist-high street pillar and settled on top, and he pulled Phil to the neighboring pillar. “You know, I don't really like this flavor either. You're right: it's a pain in the butt to eat, and the only reason I asked for it is because I used to really love it when I was a kid. Growing up in the circus, you get to have all kinds of crazy junk food, and you get a craving for it even though you feel sick once you're actually eating it again.”
Phil knew that Barton lived in a circus for a number of his adolescent years, but it was different to hear the details straight from the man himself. “Ice cream with gumballs isn't that bad. I always thought the deep fried chocolate chip cookie dough was terrible.” He hesitated for a moment, wondering if they weren't getting into rather personal territory, but the clear interest on Barton's face made him finish the story. “My dad always had a weakness for it, so my mom would take control of the map at the beginning of the fair and steer us away from even the smell of the fried dough. The only exception she made was for my dad's birthday.”
Barton laughed low in his throat. “It takes a cast-iron stomach to keep that stuff down. My brother had a thing for the fried dough too. It was a good thing he had such high metabolism; otherwise, he'd look just like the Pillsbury Dough Boy.”
“Ah,” Phil said carefully before occupying himself with mining for an actual blueberry in his ice cream. It took him some time.
Barton quirked a rueful smile. “Yeah, my murderous asshole brother. He was human once upon a time; he liked the ring and bottle game; he liked Sprite and Dr. Pepper; and he actually liked me.”
Phil had no idea what to say. He barely knew Barton, and the man was giving him an intimate look into the sob story that was his childhood. 'I'm sorry your life sucked' hardly seemed like an apropos response, so Phil said nothing.
Barton quickly finished his ice cream and started crunching on the sugar cone. Despite the depressing revelations, the man seemed content enough, nibbling slowly at the remaining cone and admiring the bright stars that fought with the hotel lights.
Phil tossed his spoon and carton into the nearby trash can before retaking his seat, and he too watched the night sky contemplatively. Vegas hardly had a bedtime, but when the streetlights came completely to life, he suggested that they take rooms at a nearby motel.
“Hey, Coulson,” Barton said suddenly after they had already exchanged goodbyes. Room key in hand, Phil turned around curiously. “Yes?”
“Just, thanks for listening,” Barton said simply before swinging his door open and disappearing into the unlit darkness.
Phil stared at the closed door frustratedly. What did Barton really want from him?
“You look like hell,” Phil told her kindly, handing over a styrofoam cup of chamomile tea.
Hill looked into the steaming cup and gave him the finger before ungraciously taking a sip. “You're a bastard, Phil. I'm in the hospital, and you refuse to get me coffee. Just wait your turn.”
“But Dr. Sun said that caffeine wouldn't be good for you,” Phil said mildly. “We have to follow the doctor's orders, you know.” He didn't hide his smile the second time Hill showed her gratitude.
She shifted uncomfortably, broken leg flat and still in its cast on the bed. Phil shifted the cushions until her leg was more elevated and took another pillow from the closet for her upper back.
Hill sighed with the lessening stress on her spine. “I'd ask you to marry me, but you'll get enough of that from the other agent you'll visit, so I won't bother.”
“Who else would I be visiting?” Phil asked bemusedly. He tried to check her IV line for the painkiller dosage without her noticing.
Cracking an eye open, Hill gave him an unamused look. “Acting dumb isn't cute at your age.”
“No, really, who else? Don't tell me Jasper or Amy had an accident on-base. I'll laugh myself sick, and I don't want to be your neighbor.”
“You really aren't the type to kiss and tell, huh.” Hill rolled her eyes and gestured imperiously for an ice chip. “Still, it's not a big deal to visit Barton. Everyone knows the fraternization policy is just a joke for the newbies.”
Phil froze with his hand in the ice cup. “Barton's in the hospital?”
Outside the door, Phil actually dithered: he walked in small circles in the hallway outside Barton's room before a stern look from the nurse on duty convinced him to go in. Barton's eyes were closed in peaceful sleep, and the slight rumblings of a snore filled the room.
He looked considerably worse than he had after the mission in Zimbabwe, the ugly one involving a mudslide and three terrorists. His face sported a few nasty looking lacerations, and the chart on the foot of his bed noted a serious concussion and a possible skull fracture. Phil shifted uncomfortably as he stood beside Barton's bed; he always made sure the person he was visiting was conscious and in the right mood for company. But he'd been too hurried to check this time.
Phil appraised Barton's sleeping face, and it didn't seem like the man would wake up anytime soon. A nurse would probably arrive in another hour or so to check his neurological signs, but Phil was hesitant to actually talk to Barton now that he was there by the man's sickbed. He'd considered visiting in tandem with Jasper, but Fury had sent him on a high-priority mission a day ago, and it wasn't likely he'd be back before Barton got out of the hospital.
Unsure what to do, Phil finally just placed the ziplock bag of washed grapes on the bedside table and stared at Barton's motionless body for a while. Feeling vaguely like a creeper, Phil eventually cleared his throat and said normally, “Get better, Barton.” Then, feeling like an idiot, he adjusted the blankets to cover Barton's chest a bit more-it would be bad for the man to catch a chill-and then left hurriedly.
He almost walked out of Medical before turning around and doing some sleight of hand near the front counter. He waited for the nurse on duty to notice and look for her missing pen, mouth frowning in frustration as she searched her paperwork. Then he swiped the visitor's list and carefully changed “P. Coulson” to “B. Coaleer.”
He was back out the door before the nurse gave up and reached for a new pen from the holder.
“Thanks for the corny get well card.”
Ready to deny making a visit, much less leaving washed, de-stemmed grapes, Phil automatically said, “That wasn't me” before Barton's words registered. Once they did, Phil, rather confused, actually looked up from his paperwork. “Wait, that really wasn't me.”
Barton cocked his head in surprise before thinking for a moment. “Oh, right, sorry, that was Sitwell. Thanks for the grapes though. They were good.”
“Sure,” Phil said awkwardly before nearly choking on his tongue as he tried to take the admission back.
Barton let him flounder for a minute before being generous and changing the topic. “I have no idea where Sitwell got that card. Even Hallmark doesn't write sappy things like that. I almost broke a rib after I read it.”
“He's incredibly resourceful,” Phil said honestly. “He just likes to use his powers for evil sometimes.”
Barton smirked. “Well, if you see him before I do, let him know that I'm hale and hearty and ready to take revenge for that plushy Big Bird toy he also left. Anyway, I'm really late, but pho tomorrow?”
Phil's thinking of an excuse already, but Barton hissed in pain and touched his left temple before taking out a bottle of Advil and dry-swallowing a few tablets.
“You're supposed to take that with food,” Phil reminded him, unable to stop the innate urge to corral risk-takers and get them to be reasonable. It probably had to do with being childhood friends with a guy like Nick, who only gained an ounce of sense once he became the head of SHIELD.
“Okay,” Barton said agreeably. “It's past 12 anyway. Join me for lunch?” He seemed to take Phil's silence as assent, and he slipped out with a grin, flashing a few fingers to indicate meeting Phil in the cafeteria soon.
Phil stared after him and resisted the urge to rest his head on his desk. How was it that every time he talked with Barton, he seemed to lose control of his faculties? He looked down at the reports that he still had to review and sighed deeply. Having been at his desk since 7, his eyes felt strained, and his back was in need of a good stretch. He could use a sandwich and a break to refuel before he finished going through the rest.
His computer beeped to signal the receipt of an e-mail with PRIORITY. Adrenaline flared through him as he read the subject line. He skimmed the pages, retaining as much information as he could, before starring the e-mail and sending it to its proper folder.
So, she had surfaced again. He was definitely going to lunch now; he was going to need all his energy to deal with the plan to capture the Black Widow.
Lunch with Barton was quieter than Phil expected, but his mind was still on the Black Widow report, and Barton himself seemed more subdued than usual. Probably the concussion having its lingering effects.
“Most agents think you sold your soul to the devil,” Phil observed lightly, his voice echoing across the open range, and his shoes made a measured tapping on the floor.
Barton kept nocking new arrows and firing them into the targets. Judging by the thick number of them already pinioning various circles in the air, he'd been at it for quite some time. “What do you think?”
“I think you kept practicing past the point at which anyone else would have gotten bored,” Phil admitted as he came closer, so they wouldn't have to shout at each other.
A reluctant grin curled Barton's lips, but the rest of his face remained grim as he finally put his bow down before swigging some water. “Looking for something?”
“Wondering something,” Phil corrected. “I was a bit surprised at your cancellation last night, and your excuse was really vague, not to mention full of holes.”
“Thought I'd give you a break, Coulson,” Barton said a bit caustically. “I didn't have the impression that you really enjoyed our time together.”
Part of Phil flinched at the accusation, but the rest of him, the consummate agent and bullshit-detector, was completely undeterred. Barton's unwarranted comment just steered him towards the truth, and he was going to get it.
“I'd accept that explanation if it were actually true, Agent Barton,” Phil said calmly. “But I do wonder at the timing.” Phil stepped into Barton's personal space, forcing eye contact. “I can't help you if you don't talk to me.”
Barton averted his eyes and roughly brushed past Phil, who breathed in sharply at the warm contact. “Trust me, Coulson. Our ability to work together wouldn't survive what I'd tell you. Leave it alone.”
Phil followed him to the showers, ignoring the scowl on Barton's face, as he realized that privacy and modesty weren't going to stop Phil. “What's changed?” Phil demanded.
Barton glared at him and defiantly began to strip down, starting with his pants. Willing his cheeks not to change color, Phil kept his eyes above Barton's neck and played dirty. “Trust me, Barton. Our ability to have a relationship wouldn't survive if you hide important things from me.”
Barton's lips thinned in anger, and Phil worried that he'd pushed the other man too far, but instead of storming out, Barton threw himself onto the bench and visibly tamped down his frustration with a barely audible growl. “SHIELD's going after the Black Widow.”
Phil waited patiently, still not looking down to precarious areas.
Barton twisted his hands together. “I know her, and I owe her something better than letting SHIELD hunt her down and end her for being a potential threat.”
It dawned on Phil that he'd asked for a confidence that he might not be ready to handle, but the gates were open, and Barton had already told him the most critical fact. “What were you going to do?” Phil asked in vague horror as he thought of Barton being shot down alongside the Black Widow in an ill-advised escape attempt.
“You know what I was going to do,” Barton said flatly. He looked at Phil with an unreadable look in his eyes. “Now what are you going to do?”
Head reeling, Phil had no idea what he was going to do. “What do you owe her?” he wondered more to himself than to Barton, but Barton answered anyway.
“My soul,” Barton said simply with a humorless, ironic smile, as he turned on the shower.
Leaving him there, Phil walked away, stomach churning and heart filling with turmoil. He had to talk with Fury.
Part 2
Writer: Sporadic_Writer
Status of work: Complete.
Disclaimer: I don't own this.
Fandom: The Avengers movie.
Characters and/or pairings: Phil/Clint, Natasha, Hill, Sitwell.
Rating: Mature.
Warnings, kinks & contents: Sexual situations near the end. Mild swearing.
Length: 10,345 words.
A/N: I have a weakness for romance and fluff, but lately, I've been getting tired of stories in which the two characters meant to be together have a smooth, automatic soulmate-type connection. I suppose it's because relationships usually aren't so easy in real life. So, I decided to write a story in which the falling in love part ties into trust issues and takes its time.
Summary: Phil's not sure why Barton thinks they could have a relationship, and it's exasperating.
“Whoa, check out your 12 o'clock, Coulson,” Sitwell drawled. “Hawkeye keeps looking over here. Do we need to have a little conversation about the birds and the bees and the reasons you don't want to piss off the assassins in our little government clubhouse?”
“Maybe he's looking over because he knows you're the one who keeps putting stale Cadbury crème eggs in his locker,” Phil countered, ignoring the telltale feel of eyes on his back from across the room.
“I'll take you down with me,” Sitwell warned, grinning broadly. “I may be the prankster, but you're my supplier; the accomplice always gets it too.”
“Hmm, I doubt it. Ask Barton who gave him your office code last month.”
Sitwell gaped unbecomingly. “That was you? Jeezus, Phil, you're a jackass! It took forever to hoover up the confetti.”
“Feel sorry for the janitorial staff. They're the ones who always have to clean up your little war with Barton. Should I be sensing some UST?” Phil teased, squinting at his half-eaten lasagne; he wasn't sure those green bits were really spinach.
Sitwell rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. “Don't talk to me about UST. Every single time I'm in the same room as you and Barton, I feel like I should be shouting, 'Kiss! Kiss!'”
Phil made a rude noise that he'd deny if any eavesdroppers heard. “You're making things up; we barely talk to each other.”
Sitwell tossed a few more fries into his mouth; he gestured at Barton with the last one. “Phil, you've been to Egypt. Don't make me bring up denial.”
Tetris is really soothing, Phil decided, as he started a new game on his laptop and contentedly stacked the colored blocks on top of each other. At the sound of a knock sounding on his door, he quickly x-ed out of the program and pulled a stack of reports closer to him. “Door's not locked,” he called, wondering if Fury had made good on his vow to play hooky during the next useless Council meeting.
Clint Barton walked into his office, and Phil tried not to frown at the intense look in the man's eyes. He fiddled nervously with his papers for a moment before setting them aside and smiling amiably even as he wondered if Hawkeye had the ears to match. It would be very embarrassing, to say the least, if his less than professional conversation with Sitwell had been heard.
“What can I do for you, Barton?” Phil asked, bringing his cup of coffee to his mouth.
“I like you, and I want you to go out with me.”
Coffee held frozen midway, Phil stared Barton hard in the eyes and wondered if he was getting pulled into the prank war regardless of his insistence on staying neutral. He waited for Barton to break into hoots and start crowing over the dumbfounded look on his face. He waited. His wall clock ticked along the seconds, and all he could hear was their quiet breathing.
Barton looked deadly serious, and Phil could tell that the other man wasn't going to leave easily without some kind of response, so he bought time by closing his laptop and setting his coffee mug down on his desk, without taking the sip he'd planned.
Barton's eyes tracked his movements, and Phil wondered what those acute eyes could glean from what he's doing.
“I'm flattered that you feel that way,” Phil started, trying not to recite the words, “but SHIELD is like any other professional insular organization; dating coworkers isn't against official policy, but it is highly discouraged. I value our being able to work together, and I'm afraid that a romantic relationship would change that.”
Phil looked at Barton at the end of his answer and waited for the usual resigned reaction, but Barton tilted his head with a little smile playing on his lips, and asked curiously, “How many star-struck junior agents did you have to use that speech on?”
Blinking in surprise, Phil tried to recover the situation and hoped that a flush wasn't making its way up his neck. “I'm-this isn't a joke, Barton. I might have reminded some people of their primary duties, but it's not just a 'speech.' I mean every word of what I said. SHIELD's mission is our priority.”
Barton's sharp eyes softened every so slightly with the light of mutual understanding. “I get that, s- Coulson, and I'm not trying to lure you away from doing your job for SHIELD; I've got a job to do for SHIELD too. I just want you to think over whether we can't go out once in a while and have something together.”
“Barton,” Phil tapped his fingers on his desk exasperatedly. It just figured that Barton would be more stubborn than any of the other agents who'd fancied themselves in love with him; on the other hand, Barton hadn't used those exact words. “What exactly do you want?” If it was just sex...but he didn't want to insult Barton by being so crude. Still, he could drop mentions of various vetted escort services in the next few weeks and see if that solved the problem. It had done for 40% of his previous cases.
Barton looked as though he knew what Phil hadn't said anyway. “I'm not asking for marriage,” he scoffed. “Or a long-term commitment, so relax. I just don't have many friends in or outside of SHIELD, and if you have some of the same free time, then we can enjoy each other's company. That's all I'm looking for.
“Of course, I'm also hoping for sex being on the table sometime, but I can be patient,” Barton added bluntly with a grin that flickered to life on his face. Arms crossed, he leaned back against the wall in a sinuous sprawl that prompted lustful attention to his physique.
Phil hated that Barton sounded so persuasive and logical; his most rational brain cells were screaming that he would regret agreeing to the man's proposition. “We'll see,” his mouth said without any input from his brain. Damn it. That sounded too much like a 'yes.'
If Barton grinned or did a victory symbol, Phil would gladly have revoked his range time and made a strong take-back, but the other man just nodded seriously like they'd made a meaningful bargain, and then he left the room, thoughtfully closing Phil's door with a quiet click.
“Got a minute?” Barton asked, swinging into the free seat across from Phil in the cafeteria. He barely waited for Phil to look up before holding up a cheap flier. “A new kabob place, so they're offering a free drink with each order.”
Phil briefly contemplated being a vegetarian before he remembered that his congealing plate was filled with the remains of a beef stew. He hadn't really expected Barton to pursue his lukewarm acquiescence from last week. “Fine, when do you want to go?”
“Thursday looks good for me,” Barton offered. “I have a mission the following Monday, and it would be great to get some good food before shipping out to the middle of nowhere.”
Phil's lips twitched despite himself. Barton always referred to each and every location as 'the middle of nowhere.' The man sometimes seemed oddly like a homebody, and Phil couldn't deny that he found it a little endearing.
Unfortunately for Barton, the food was several steps away from being good or even being palatable; Phil chewed half-heartedly on one more piece of near-charcoal meat before reaching for the restaurant-baked bread, which was nicely firm. He thought the little restaurant would close before long, but it would be a shame to lose the bread, so he was going to enjoy the most of it.
Barton determinedly continued making headway through his second stick, but Phil raised an eyebrow at him, and he laughed, giving it up as a bad job and reaching for a slice of bread. Phil handed him the little dish of sauce, and their fingers brushed in passing. Barton's gaze flicked up to meet Phil's, and he didn't move his hand.
“This isn't what I expected from a first date, Barton,” Phil said blandly, pulling his hand back to his side of the table.
Instead of being discouraged, the other man actually laughed-a loud bark that garnered attention from a few coeds who glanced over in annoyance before giggling with their heads together and trying to catch Barton's eye.
Oblivious, Barton looked a bit ruefully at his plate and poked the leftover kabob with his fork. “Don't worry; it's the last time I listen to random hawkers on the street for dinner recs. I'll make it up to you; dessert at any ice cream shoppe or café still open at this hour.”
“Oh, stop, you're spoiling me,” Phil said as dryly as he could. Barton's good-natured response to his ribbing made him feel a little guilty, and he picked off the chunks of beef to reach the slices of red pepper and mushroom. Those bits were still edible, if a little on the soggy side. How the kabobs could be both burnt and soggy was beyond him.
Barton was still talking. “...I actually did try them before, so I can guarantee that their pho is excellent. And their egg rolls have the right ratio of meat to veggie filling.”
“Oh?” Phil said belatedly, aware that he'd missed part of the conversation.
“Yeah,” Barton concluded, apparently not noticing or caring. “So, what do you think? Next month good for you? I have some downtime coming up soon.”
“Okay,” Phil agreed, a bit nonplussed that he'd not been paying attention earlier, and he returned Barton's brilliant smile before realizing that he'd just accepted another date. He opened his mouth, not wanting to lead Barton on, but then the bill arrived, which prompted a pro forma argument over who paid.
“Stark better be grateful we took out his latest set of kidnappers,” Agent Hernandez mumbled on the secondary line, as she tapped away on her computer, monitoring the inside feeds. Seated next to her, Phil watched the outside feeds, checking each bystander for suspicious behavior, and chuckled lightly, “Don't count on it.”
“All seven targets have been secured, sir,” Agent Deng announced crisply through the comms, and Phil could hear the rustling of the wind outside, and the murmuring of SHIELD agents wrapping things up and making plans for the downtime they'd been promised. “We have zero fatalities and only three injuries,” Deng summed up.
“Ow, that fucking hurt!” Agent Williams shouted, making everyone wince, before the medic treating him thoughtfully turned off his comm.
“And Williams has a fractured collarbone,” Deng explained, a smile in his voice as he patted the injured agent on the back.
“Good work, Agent Deng. You can send me the report tomorrow.” Sighing as his system came down from the adrenaline from the earlier mess, Phil sat back in his chair and wished that he had been out there. Unfortunately, carpal tunnel syndrome was a lot more painful and inconvenient than he'd been led to believe.
Hernandez sipped from her water bottle and began shutting down all the monitors. “I can drive the van back to Headquarters, if you want to start your vacation early, sir,” she offered generously.
Phil shook his head. “That's kind of you, Amy, but I plan on heading back to New York tomorrow afternoon.”
“You're not taking a vacation?” Hernandez looked a little baffled, and behind her professional facade, Phil could see the “Robot Coulson” rumors making their way through her head. “But you got carpal tunnel because you wouldn't stop working.”
“Not quite,” Phil corrected dryly. “I got carpal tunnel because I was the only one who knew how to operate a jack hammer, and we had to get Gupta out of the collapsed tunnel before he suffocated.”
Hernandez continued to eye him doubtfully. “I'll be fine, Amy; I'll get Deng or Morretti to drive the van, and I'll just ride with them.” He smiled gamely and made a shooing gesture. “Go on; enjoy your downtime and visit your sister.”
Once Hernandez had left, Phil opened the freezer and took out an ice pack; he could ice his arm for a bit before putting it back into the brace. He scratched gingerly at the pale, wrinkled skin, and he was about to make a sigh of relief when he felt a prickle on his neck.
“Arm still hurt, Coulson?” The shadows wavered and condensed to reveal Barton's broad form. He was full on grinning despite the heavy layer of soot on his face. Phil examined him and wondered if it was the lighting or whether Barton was bleeding from a cut near his eye. He decided to be kind and handed Barton a handkerchief, and the man accepted amiably, not seeming to read anything more into his courtesy.
“It's not the first time I've shot a bomb to disable it, but it is the first time I've gotten a bit too close to the blast radius,” Barton said a bit mournfully, wiping at his cheeks.
Phil studied him quietly. “You've been on back to back missions for the past few months. Take some time off now and recoup. We need you at your best for your mission with Hill.”
Barton folded the handkerchief in half and dabbed away at the area around his eyes. “Yeah, I guess I've been stiffer than usual. I could use a massage.”
Phil wondered if Barton was being euphemistic; if so, now would be a good time to steer Barton towards the discreet services being offered in town. “Some of the other agents plan on using their downtime here. It is Las Vegas after all.” All glitz, glamour, and gilt.
“Nah,” Barton demurred. “It's not really my kind of town. Still, I'm sure they have a Baskin Robbins or a Tom and Jerry's. Want to grab some ice cream?” He gestured at Phil's mushy ice pack. “You can always drip some of it onto your sore arm,” he said flippantly, with an inviting smile.
Phil's arm twinged painfully, and he decided that he could use a distraction. Anyway, it was just ice cream.
It was ice cream in 60°F. Barton shivered in his leather jacket, and he grinned brilliantly at Phil, his mouth a disorienting purple smear from the Gumball Dream, a cotton candy flavored ice cream with an incongruous mixture of multi-colored gumballs. Barton crunched down gleefully onto the little sugary spheres, chewing them into a giant wad that he molded into small, quickly deflating bubbles.
Phil spooned out another chunk of his Blueberry Crunch and savored the mixture of graham cracker pieces with the fruity ice cream. “I tried something similar in San Francisco, but I never really took to the multi-tasking.”
“Multi-tasking?” Barton laughed. “For ice cream?”
Phil shrugged in amusement. “Either you break the spirit of the ice cream by picking out all the gum balls beforehand, or you eat some ice cream, chew some gum, eat some more ice cream, chew some more gum. It got really tiring.”
Barton hopped onto a waist-high street pillar and settled on top, and he pulled Phil to the neighboring pillar. “You know, I don't really like this flavor either. You're right: it's a pain in the butt to eat, and the only reason I asked for it is because I used to really love it when I was a kid. Growing up in the circus, you get to have all kinds of crazy junk food, and you get a craving for it even though you feel sick once you're actually eating it again.”
Phil knew that Barton lived in a circus for a number of his adolescent years, but it was different to hear the details straight from the man himself. “Ice cream with gumballs isn't that bad. I always thought the deep fried chocolate chip cookie dough was terrible.” He hesitated for a moment, wondering if they weren't getting into rather personal territory, but the clear interest on Barton's face made him finish the story. “My dad always had a weakness for it, so my mom would take control of the map at the beginning of the fair and steer us away from even the smell of the fried dough. The only exception she made was for my dad's birthday.”
Barton laughed low in his throat. “It takes a cast-iron stomach to keep that stuff down. My brother had a thing for the fried dough too. It was a good thing he had such high metabolism; otherwise, he'd look just like the Pillsbury Dough Boy.”
“Ah,” Phil said carefully before occupying himself with mining for an actual blueberry in his ice cream. It took him some time.
Barton quirked a rueful smile. “Yeah, my murderous asshole brother. He was human once upon a time; he liked the ring and bottle game; he liked Sprite and Dr. Pepper; and he actually liked me.”
Phil had no idea what to say. He barely knew Barton, and the man was giving him an intimate look into the sob story that was his childhood. 'I'm sorry your life sucked' hardly seemed like an apropos response, so Phil said nothing.
Barton quickly finished his ice cream and started crunching on the sugar cone. Despite the depressing revelations, the man seemed content enough, nibbling slowly at the remaining cone and admiring the bright stars that fought with the hotel lights.
Phil tossed his spoon and carton into the nearby trash can before retaking his seat, and he too watched the night sky contemplatively. Vegas hardly had a bedtime, but when the streetlights came completely to life, he suggested that they take rooms at a nearby motel.
“Hey, Coulson,” Barton said suddenly after they had already exchanged goodbyes. Room key in hand, Phil turned around curiously. “Yes?”
“Just, thanks for listening,” Barton said simply before swinging his door open and disappearing into the unlit darkness.
Phil stared at the closed door frustratedly. What did Barton really want from him?
“You look like hell,” Phil told her kindly, handing over a styrofoam cup of chamomile tea.
Hill looked into the steaming cup and gave him the finger before ungraciously taking a sip. “You're a bastard, Phil. I'm in the hospital, and you refuse to get me coffee. Just wait your turn.”
“But Dr. Sun said that caffeine wouldn't be good for you,” Phil said mildly. “We have to follow the doctor's orders, you know.” He didn't hide his smile the second time Hill showed her gratitude.
She shifted uncomfortably, broken leg flat and still in its cast on the bed. Phil shifted the cushions until her leg was more elevated and took another pillow from the closet for her upper back.
Hill sighed with the lessening stress on her spine. “I'd ask you to marry me, but you'll get enough of that from the other agent you'll visit, so I won't bother.”
“Who else would I be visiting?” Phil asked bemusedly. He tried to check her IV line for the painkiller dosage without her noticing.
Cracking an eye open, Hill gave him an unamused look. “Acting dumb isn't cute at your age.”
“No, really, who else? Don't tell me Jasper or Amy had an accident on-base. I'll laugh myself sick, and I don't want to be your neighbor.”
“You really aren't the type to kiss and tell, huh.” Hill rolled her eyes and gestured imperiously for an ice chip. “Still, it's not a big deal to visit Barton. Everyone knows the fraternization policy is just a joke for the newbies.”
Phil froze with his hand in the ice cup. “Barton's in the hospital?”
Outside the door, Phil actually dithered: he walked in small circles in the hallway outside Barton's room before a stern look from the nurse on duty convinced him to go in. Barton's eyes were closed in peaceful sleep, and the slight rumblings of a snore filled the room.
He looked considerably worse than he had after the mission in Zimbabwe, the ugly one involving a mudslide and three terrorists. His face sported a few nasty looking lacerations, and the chart on the foot of his bed noted a serious concussion and a possible skull fracture. Phil shifted uncomfortably as he stood beside Barton's bed; he always made sure the person he was visiting was conscious and in the right mood for company. But he'd been too hurried to check this time.
Phil appraised Barton's sleeping face, and it didn't seem like the man would wake up anytime soon. A nurse would probably arrive in another hour or so to check his neurological signs, but Phil was hesitant to actually talk to Barton now that he was there by the man's sickbed. He'd considered visiting in tandem with Jasper, but Fury had sent him on a high-priority mission a day ago, and it wasn't likely he'd be back before Barton got out of the hospital.
Unsure what to do, Phil finally just placed the ziplock bag of washed grapes on the bedside table and stared at Barton's motionless body for a while. Feeling vaguely like a creeper, Phil eventually cleared his throat and said normally, “Get better, Barton.” Then, feeling like an idiot, he adjusted the blankets to cover Barton's chest a bit more-it would be bad for the man to catch a chill-and then left hurriedly.
He almost walked out of Medical before turning around and doing some sleight of hand near the front counter. He waited for the nurse on duty to notice and look for her missing pen, mouth frowning in frustration as she searched her paperwork. Then he swiped the visitor's list and carefully changed “P. Coulson” to “B. Coaleer.”
He was back out the door before the nurse gave up and reached for a new pen from the holder.
“Thanks for the corny get well card.”
Ready to deny making a visit, much less leaving washed, de-stemmed grapes, Phil automatically said, “That wasn't me” before Barton's words registered. Once they did, Phil, rather confused, actually looked up from his paperwork. “Wait, that really wasn't me.”
Barton cocked his head in surprise before thinking for a moment. “Oh, right, sorry, that was Sitwell. Thanks for the grapes though. They were good.”
“Sure,” Phil said awkwardly before nearly choking on his tongue as he tried to take the admission back.
Barton let him flounder for a minute before being generous and changing the topic. “I have no idea where Sitwell got that card. Even Hallmark doesn't write sappy things like that. I almost broke a rib after I read it.”
“He's incredibly resourceful,” Phil said honestly. “He just likes to use his powers for evil sometimes.”
Barton smirked. “Well, if you see him before I do, let him know that I'm hale and hearty and ready to take revenge for that plushy Big Bird toy he also left. Anyway, I'm really late, but pho tomorrow?”
Phil's thinking of an excuse already, but Barton hissed in pain and touched his left temple before taking out a bottle of Advil and dry-swallowing a few tablets.
“You're supposed to take that with food,” Phil reminded him, unable to stop the innate urge to corral risk-takers and get them to be reasonable. It probably had to do with being childhood friends with a guy like Nick, who only gained an ounce of sense once he became the head of SHIELD.
“Okay,” Barton said agreeably. “It's past 12 anyway. Join me for lunch?” He seemed to take Phil's silence as assent, and he slipped out with a grin, flashing a few fingers to indicate meeting Phil in the cafeteria soon.
Phil stared after him and resisted the urge to rest his head on his desk. How was it that every time he talked with Barton, he seemed to lose control of his faculties? He looked down at the reports that he still had to review and sighed deeply. Having been at his desk since 7, his eyes felt strained, and his back was in need of a good stretch. He could use a sandwich and a break to refuel before he finished going through the rest.
His computer beeped to signal the receipt of an e-mail with PRIORITY. Adrenaline flared through him as he read the subject line. He skimmed the pages, retaining as much information as he could, before starring the e-mail and sending it to its proper folder.
So, she had surfaced again. He was definitely going to lunch now; he was going to need all his energy to deal with the plan to capture the Black Widow.
Lunch with Barton was quieter than Phil expected, but his mind was still on the Black Widow report, and Barton himself seemed more subdued than usual. Probably the concussion having its lingering effects.
“Most agents think you sold your soul to the devil,” Phil observed lightly, his voice echoing across the open range, and his shoes made a measured tapping on the floor.
Barton kept nocking new arrows and firing them into the targets. Judging by the thick number of them already pinioning various circles in the air, he'd been at it for quite some time. “What do you think?”
“I think you kept practicing past the point at which anyone else would have gotten bored,” Phil admitted as he came closer, so they wouldn't have to shout at each other.
A reluctant grin curled Barton's lips, but the rest of his face remained grim as he finally put his bow down before swigging some water. “Looking for something?”
“Wondering something,” Phil corrected. “I was a bit surprised at your cancellation last night, and your excuse was really vague, not to mention full of holes.”
“Thought I'd give you a break, Coulson,” Barton said a bit caustically. “I didn't have the impression that you really enjoyed our time together.”
Part of Phil flinched at the accusation, but the rest of him, the consummate agent and bullshit-detector, was completely undeterred. Barton's unwarranted comment just steered him towards the truth, and he was going to get it.
“I'd accept that explanation if it were actually true, Agent Barton,” Phil said calmly. “But I do wonder at the timing.” Phil stepped into Barton's personal space, forcing eye contact. “I can't help you if you don't talk to me.”
Barton averted his eyes and roughly brushed past Phil, who breathed in sharply at the warm contact. “Trust me, Coulson. Our ability to work together wouldn't survive what I'd tell you. Leave it alone.”
Phil followed him to the showers, ignoring the scowl on Barton's face, as he realized that privacy and modesty weren't going to stop Phil. “What's changed?” Phil demanded.
Barton glared at him and defiantly began to strip down, starting with his pants. Willing his cheeks not to change color, Phil kept his eyes above Barton's neck and played dirty. “Trust me, Barton. Our ability to have a relationship wouldn't survive if you hide important things from me.”
Barton's lips thinned in anger, and Phil worried that he'd pushed the other man too far, but instead of storming out, Barton threw himself onto the bench and visibly tamped down his frustration with a barely audible growl. “SHIELD's going after the Black Widow.”
Phil waited patiently, still not looking down to precarious areas.
Barton twisted his hands together. “I know her, and I owe her something better than letting SHIELD hunt her down and end her for being a potential threat.”
It dawned on Phil that he'd asked for a confidence that he might not be ready to handle, but the gates were open, and Barton had already told him the most critical fact. “What were you going to do?” Phil asked in vague horror as he thought of Barton being shot down alongside the Black Widow in an ill-advised escape attempt.
“You know what I was going to do,” Barton said flatly. He looked at Phil with an unreadable look in his eyes. “Now what are you going to do?”
Head reeling, Phil had no idea what he was going to do. “What do you owe her?” he wondered more to himself than to Barton, but Barton answered anyway.
“My soul,” Barton said simply with a humorless, ironic smile, as he turned on the shower.
Leaving him there, Phil walked away, stomach churning and heart filling with turmoil. He had to talk with Fury.
Part 2