[Fic] A little bit of your taste (in my mouth), Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, 1/2

[sirona_fics]

Title: A little bit of your taste (in my mouth)
Authors: delicatale and sirona_gs
Pairing: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Darcy Lewis/Bucky Barnes (implied), Darcy Lewis/Steve Rogers (one-sided)
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~21,000
Warnings: AU (including Clint's background), pining, a bit of angst, a lot of fluff, elements of h/c, otherwise nothing that isn't implied by the rating.
Summary: Coffee Shop AU. In which Clint owns the coffee shop that makes the best damn coffee Phil has ever tasted, and things only go downhill from there.
Notes: Co-written with delicatale, who said to me, Clint/Phil Coffee Shop AU, and much like Phil, I fell helplessly for her charms. Endless thanks to laria_gwyn, who has been an absolute trooper and helped an enormous amount to polish this. ♥ Thanks also must go to all other Coffee Shop AUs out there, which I'm sure we've borrowed from without even realising. :) And to everyone who was so fantastically enthusiastic about this story, and made apt suggestions that we have shamelessly taken advantage of! <3



The newly opened space is on a side-street off some of the biggest skyscrapers in New York, hosting a slew of law firms and random agencies, ranging from marketing to governmental. It doesn’t look like much from the outside, no incredibly bright sign trying to look appealing, but through the front window Phil Coulson can see it looks warm and homey inside.

There are small tables for two on one side of the room, no tablecloths, just clean dark wood gleaming with polish; the walls are decorated with random pictures, old newspaper clippings that Phil can't read from outside, but also paintings of landscapes that look painfully familiar and random pictures of what seems to be circus folk. The wallpaper underneath is paisley and somewhat horrifying, in an old-family-home kind of way, but Phil pays little attention to it as he drags his eyes to the other side of the room, the counter that takes up most of the length of the shop, glass displays on either side of the cash register. There are cakes, and cookies, and scones, and Phil realizes with some surprise that he hasn’t had breakfast yet when his stomach rumbles at the sight.

Most importantly, Phil wants coffee. If he has one addiction, it’s caffeine, and the coffee in the NSA offices is so terribly rank he has no choice but to nose around to find a viable source of espresso on a regular basis. He’s been to every coffee shop in a five-mile radius, knows them all, and his favorites know his order and call him Agent Coulson when he walks in. He’s been to Starbucks, to the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, to Dunkin Donuts (to his great despair), to Peet’s, to any number of family-owned little coffee shops; hell, he’s been to McDonalds.

So Phil knows this one is new. It’s too close to the office for him not to have noticed it before, and it looks new, still hopeful that it will work out. It's not often that that happens, and Phil has seen too many nice little coffee shops close down in this area. People are too busy to notice and take the time to learn great coffee, preferring the mediocre quality and familiarity of their usual chains.

He opens the door, bell jingling over his head, and suddenly he feels like he just stepped back into the 60’s, the whole decor reminding him of evenings spent sitting on his grandfather’s knee, reading from decrepit fantasy books in front of a fire. It’s almost suffocating in how comforting it is, the smell of coffee and cinnamon and citrus weaving through the air, the low tones of Eric Clapton’s modern blues playing through a well-concealed hi-fi system and mingling with the muted conversation of the few people occupying the cozy tables. Phil feels the overwhelming urge to sit down and take his time.

Surprisingly enough, it’s a man in an apron stamped with the shop’s name that comes through the back door, a tray of croissants in his hand. He’s young - younger than Phil, anyway - and good-looking, with piercing blue eyes that look straight through him, flicking up and down rapidly until Phil feels thoroughly evaluated. The man smiles.

"Hi, welcome to Under the Big Top. How can I feed your habit?"

Phil blinks at the name, but the man is amiable enough, a faintly mocking twist to his smile, like he knows of Phil's relationship with the life-giving elixir that is coffee. Somehow Phil thinks it wouldn't be a stretch of the imagination to think he does.

There's a huge blackboard behind the register, filled with row upon row of tidy writing. Phil barely glances at it; he tends to order off-menu most of the time.

"A triple-shot latte, in the biggest take-away container you've got," he says evenly, watching the man's smile grow into a smug grin.

"Totally called that one," the man mutters to himself. Phil raises an eyebrow at him, but the guy doesn't elaborate; instead, he reaches for a tower of paper cups, taking one that makes Phil's other eyebrow rise to join its mate. It's enormous. The guy's shop might go far in this neighborhood if this is the size of the drinks it offers.

"Anything to go with it? Syrup? You look like a vanilla kind of guy." The mocking lilt is back in force. Phil expends some effort not smiling.

"Just plain, thanks."

"You sure? I could blow your mind, if you let me."

Hmmm. Cocky, isn't he? Phil is tempted to let him do his worst, but he's late for a meeting as it is and he just doesn't have the time to get into it like he wants to, for reasons he can't quite pin-point.

"Another time," he says, surprised to find he means it. The guy seems to sense it, too, because he merely nods and sets up the requested espresso shots with a dexterity that is impressive even to a seasoned coffee shop patron like Phil. The guy boils the milk, frothing it just right by the sound of the hiss in the metal container (no thermometer, another point in his favor), and then assembles the drink so fast and deftly that Phil can't help his grudging smile of appreciation.

"One triple-shot latte, here you go. That'll be $2.50."

Phil eyes the guy. "Seriously? You're not going to be meeting your overheads for long with prices like that."

"What are you, an accountant?" the guy says, amusement threading through his voice.

"I know enough to do the math."

"Yeah, didn't think so," the guy says cryptically. Phil wants to ask him what he means, so much that he bites it back out of a strange sense of dangerous proximity to something he shouldn't get too close to. "It's a starting week discount," the man adds after a moment, with the air of a confession.

That makes sense. Smart, too. Phil pays without arguing further, takes a sip while the guy fishes in the till for his change. And then stops what he's doing, what he's thinking, stops everything, because this coffee, it has just single-handedly trashed his entire coffee points system that he's been compiling ever since he started his job, going on twelve years ago. He closes his eyes as the taste hits his tongue, wonderfully hot but not enough to scald, just fucking right. There are notes of vanilla, cinnamon, something else that he can't quite put his finger on, but Jesus Christ, it is delicious.

He thinks he might have stopped breathing for a moment there, because when the guy clears his throat he sucks in a shocked inhale, thoroughly rattled like he hasn't been for years. The guy is standing there, hand outstretched with the change, a smugly pleased smirk curling his mouth in an interesting and slightly disturbing way.

"Don't worry," the guy says; seriously, no one should sound this smug about the effect he's having on Phil, "it takes everyone like that the first time. Just imagine what it'll be like when you let me make you one of my tailor-made specialities."

Phil actually can't even contemplate it. "Thanks," he says shortly, because he feels vulnerable in a way that is physically uncomfortable. The walls he maintains at all times, like they're his own version of religion, seem thinner than normal; it's unsettling and he wants none of it. "Have a nice day."

The guy's smile doesn't falter, but it turns thoughtful in a way that promises nothing good. "You too, Agent..."

Phil will not ask how the guy knows this. "Coulson," he says, just short of snapping.

"Agent Coulson, duly noted. Clint Barton," the guy tells him, offering a sturdy, strong hand that Phil tries not to pay too much attention to as he shakes it perfunctorily.

And then flees. He's not proud of it, but honestly, he's allowed to have an off day every now and again, and there's something about Barton that nudges him just that bit off-balance. He comforts himself with the thought that there's no way that Barton could possibly know that this is not normal Phil Coulson behavior -- for one, there's no one looking chastised and cowed anywhere near him. He doesn't look back when he walks out the door, though, because for all his bravado, he has a feeling Barton reads him a lot more clearly than anyone Phil's just met has any right to.

;;;

Clint opens the shop early, earlier than most places in the area, and closes later than most, too. It’s not that he doesn’t have anything better to do (although, to be fair, he doesn’t), but it’s a chance to collect the last few stragglers working late, and the early birds in impeccably pressed suits. He never asks Darcy to come in before 9 -- at least, not after the incident last time. He's still cleaning out chocolate syrup from under the coffee machine.

Pulling up the metal blinds, he looks out for a moment, blinking at the dusty morning light filtering through the tall buildings, making him feel small, insignificant in a way he likes, hidden away in the folds of the city, as far away from the lights of the circus and his past as possible.

It wasn’t really what he had planned in life, opening a coffee shop in the heart of the business neighborhood in New York, but it’s a welcome change. For once he’s stable, he has an actual apartment and bills to pay, and, after a week and a half of having been opened, he’s already got a few regulars, coming every day and raving about his coffee-making skills. He takes the compliments but he knows he owes it to his father, who patiently taught him all of his tricks and recipes before he died. Clint keeps the large, overflowing leather-bound recipes book in the kitchen, poring over it when the shop is quiet - mid-mornings and mid-afternoons can be terribly slow, and when he’s got the time, he’ll try new ways to make his father’s apple turnover even more special, or he’ll add a dash of hazelnut to his mocha. Clint came to the conclusion years ago that he thrives on improving everything he does and can do, an eternal perfectionist with no desire to ever see perfection.

He’s pouring himself a coffee while waiting for a potential first client, expecting Pepper Potts, Tony Stark’s assistant, who’s been coming in at 6am sharp every day, rattling off the order for her and her boss’ very specific drink preferences; but instead, it’s Agent Coulson that walks through the door. Clint doesn’t forget names, and he doesn’t forget faces, either, but even if he’d wanted to forget Agent Coulson he wouldn't have been able to. From the moment Agent Coulson had walked in, in his understated suit and wearing a sour expression, Clint'd had an overwhelming urge to get the man to talk and loosen up. This morning he looks tired, dark circles under his eyes, suit looking almost limp over his frame, and Clint can't help the way he frowns.

“Agent Coulson.”

“You talked about a tailor-made drink last time. Go on, then.” The tone is clipped, almost angry.

“Seems to me you need sleep more than you need caffeine right now.”

Coulson’s jaw clenches and he looks away for a moment, to the quiet road outside. Clint wants to know everything Coulson is thinking about, and the thought startles him, making him blink at his coffee maker.

“Lucky for me, your job isn't to tell me what I need. Just make me some coffee, Mr. Barton.” Coulson stops, and their eyes meet; after a moment, Coulson looks almost apologetic, shoulders slumping the tiniest bit. “Please. I have a meeting I have to be at in ten minutes.”

Clint purses his lips. “Fine. But the least you could do is call me Clint when you're using me to get your fix.”

Agent Coulson makes a tired gesture that might mean whatever, as long as I get my coffee, or maybe something completely different, and it’s unnerving for Clint to not to be able to decipher him as easily as he normally can. He prides himself on the way he reads people, and how good a barista it makes him. He still gives it his best shot, mixing two shots of coffee with a splash of vanilla syrup, adds the smallest amount of hot dark chocolate for bitterness before filling the cup with water and a generous portion of whole milk. If the man falls asleep on his desk, Clint will deny everything. He tops the drink with hazelnut syrup and slides it over the counter, reaching down for an apple fritter; he drops it in a paper bag and leaves it next to the coffee.

“There you go.”

“I don’t need food.”

“No? Then why am I hearing your stomach rumble from over here?”

Coulson sighs, looking very close to rolling his eyes. “You’re kind of cocky.” To Clint, this admission feels like a slip, like something he wouldn’t have said if he wasn’t so obviously overworked. Clint grins.

“Ah, some would call it confidence. It sounds better.”

"By all means dress it up, if it helps you sleep at night."

Clint fights a smile at Coulson's testiness. For some reason, instead of ticked off it makes him want to reach over the counter and ruffle the man's hair (he would, too, if he wasn't afraid of getting shot for it -- Coulson looks like he’s at the end of his tether).

Coulson pays without asking how much, just over the amount that is on the board behind Clint's back, adjusted a week ago for post-opening week prices. Instead of collecting his change, Coulson drops it in the jar by the till, cup already lifted to his face, eyelids drooping a little when the smell of fresh coffee hits him. He looks like he could use a drip of the stuff. Clint watches him closely as he takes his first sip; a jolt of pleasure hits his stomach when Coulson pauses, then drains a third of the cup in one go. He looks reluctantly pleased with the taste, shooting Clint a grateful look before leaving without another word, shoulders stiffening again as soon as his foot hits the sidewalk outside the shop. Clint finds himself concerned, which is stupid; he's spent a grand total of ten minutes in the man's presence over the course of a couple of weeks.

Stupid or not, the feeling doesn't fade.

;;;

Phil would maintain that he doesn't know what draws him back to Under the Big Top again and again, but that would be a bald-faced lie. He does know; he only wishes he didn't. He wishes even more that it was only to do with the stupidly tasty coffee, and the heavenly pastry that Bart--Clint had slipped him last time. There's just something about the proprietor that sets off a strange resonance inside his chest, warming parts of him that he'd honestly forgotten were even there. In the weeks since that morning from hell when he'd made it home only to get changed and head out again, when he'd gone to Under the Big Top out of desperation for caffeine and something that made him feel at least fractionally human again, he's found himself going back again and again, under the flimsiest pretexts. Vexed with himself, he had tried returning to his usual haunts for a while, the nearby Coffee Bean and Peet's that topped his points list of all the coffee houses around the perimeter of his office. He'd lasted a grand total of four days (the last of which was made up of sheer stubbornness not to fold, and was one of the most miserable days of his existence) before he's pushing the familiar door open again, finding Clint in his usual spot behind the counter, emptying the dishwasher into neat rows of mugs over his machine.

Clint lifts his head at the sound of the bell, and honestly, Phil has got to be imagining the look in his eyes, because no one ought to look this relieved to see him when there are no bullets flying around. He resolutely refuses to consider why he would be imagining the look in question.

"Hey, Agent Coulson. It's been a while. You look better."

Phil doesn't feel better than last time, but he must have looked truly horrendous for Clint to mention it. He makes no reply, busying himself instead with evaluating any changes that have happened in the time since he was here last. The glass counters are filled with muffins and cupcakes today, which look so appetising that for the first time in forever Phil feels a craving so strong he doesn't think he can resist it.

Then he notices the bandage that's wrapped around Clint's right hand, over the palm and across the knuckles.

"What happened?" Phil blurts, immediately wishing he could take it back. It's none of his business, and Clint hasn't given any indication that he would welcome this kind of familiarity (if you didn't count the friendly greeting he always has for Phil, which is only good retail manners).

Clint's eyes flicker to his hand and away again, dismissive. "Nothing. Scalded myself with a bit of milk is all. It's already mostly healed, but you know, Food Prep Health Standards."

Phil stamps down on the overwhelming urge to take Clint's hand in his and check the damage for himself. Clint is a grown man -- he can take care of himself.

He doesn't even know the guy. This is an unsettling level of attachment he's skirting right there. Maybe he should try harder to stay away.

The girl that works in the shop - Darcy, if Phil remembers correctly - pops up from behind the glass cases, tossing her long, wavy hair back and smirking at her boss in a show of companionship that makes Phil’s stomach clench. He’s got all these colleagues and teammates that he trusts, but none he can call his friends, and watching Darcy grin up at Clint like this reminds him. It's odd; he's never had these kinds of thoughts before -- he's never felt the need, really. He wonders what prompts them now.

“He can be surprisingly clumsy for someone with such good aim.”

Phil blinks, taken by surprise by this scrap of unasked-for information, stowing it away in his mind before he even registers the process, on top of a little pile of random data about Clint that he's been collecting surreptitiously from the start. He’s gathered quite a few tidbits in the short time he's known him, but he puts the blame for it on his job, because that is what his job entails at all times.

“I am not clumsy. I’m just not much of a morning person. Please be so kind as to mind your own business, Darcy.”

Clint isn't looking at Phil, glaring defensively at Darcy instead, but there is no mistaking the slight flush to his cheeks. Phil decides he isn't touching that one with a ten-foot pole when Clint turns back to him, face still flaming -- for both their sakes.

"So. What will it be today?" Clint asks after a long moment of silence as Phil keeps staring at his hand and clenching his into fists in the pockets of his slacks, Jesus, he needs to pull himself together. He raises his head, shaking off the ridiculous, misplaced concern.

"Surprise me," he says, because hell, the last coffee Clint had made him had been pure magic, and he can trust the guy to do his job when he's obviously so good at it.

Clint gives him an approving smile and flicks out a large coffee cup, twirling it through his fingers like he could make it disappear into thin air if he wanted to. He sets up the shots -- both nozzles, what is that, a quadruple espresso? Damn -- and snags an empty paper cup, turning to press a few doses of a bunch of syrups inside. Phil can barely keep up; was that last one coconut? He grimaces. Not that he doesn't like it, but he's understandably concerned about coconut syrup in his coffee that he needs to drink, damn it.

Clint stops a hair's breadth before he tips the coffee shots inside, arching an eyebrow. "You're not allergic to anything, are you?" he asks, like he's hanging on Phil's answer, which, again, silly notion.

"Green tea and soy," Phil says automatically, watching as Clint nods and tips the coffee inside anyway. The milk is perfectly heated again, it seems, and Clint spoons a bit of froth on top that Phil looks at suspiciously, although he keeps his mouth shut. Clint presents the finished concoction with a flourish before, once again, reaching over to drop a cupcake into a paper bag and placing it next to the coffee. Phil won't ask how he knows to do that, but he wants to; oh, how he wants to.

He fishes for change, handing over a note when he can't find any and waving away the pile of coins Clint tries to give him. He picks up his coffee, steeling himself for the taste as Darcy watches with a strange, almost gleeful light in her eyes. He might trust Clint to not poison him, but trust only goes so far in the face of coconut.

Then he takes a sip, and fuck, fuck.

See, here's the thing about coconut. Phil's Gran came from a long line of Spaniards who adamantly used coconut in everything, disregarding any of the rules of common sense, and Phil has gotten used to the taste making normally palatable food too odd for him to enjoy. He loved his Gran, of course, and he could never refuse her when she tried to feed him up, but it's something he's understandably wary of.

But this, this, it should not be possible for it to be so good. There's something else mixed in with the coconut, hazelnut maybe, and it turns the taste less sweet and more nutty, binding beautifully with the bitterness of the coffee and the creamy flavor of the milk. It is, in short, the best coffee Phil has ever tasted.

Clint is watching him. It’s unnerving, especially because Phil isn’t sure what response is expected of him - in his job, it’s essential to know exactly what he’s supposed to do and say, and it’s easy, too, but this is not his job. Clint is not one of his superiors, nor is he one of his subordinates, and Phil has spent such a long time not having any kind of life outside of work that he doesn’t even know how to deal with this.

“You like it?”

Worst thing is, it’s like Clint gets it.

“It’s good. It’s really - good.”

The smile Clint gives him is blinding. Phil feels the world shifting beneath his feet.

“Good.”

Phil nods, shaken, eyes moving between Clint’s own and his bandaged hand, once again stomping hard on the desire to check on the burn himself. He’s the customer in a business Clint owns, there is nothing more to their relationship.

With this thought firmly in his head, Phil turns on his heels and leaves Under the Big Top, Darcy's cheerful "Bye, Agent Coulson!" ringing oddly in his ears.

;;;

Summer in New York is sticky in a way Clint isn’t used to. He’s traveled to some really hot places in the past, but the heat and pollution of the city is a new one for him, oppressive, making movements heavy and slow. He’s added iced drinks to his menu and they prove more popular than he ever thought they would, his customers finding relief from the temperatures wherever they can.

It’s mid-afternoon and the shop is deserted, the A/C on full blast as Clint watches the street outside the front window shimmer and blur with the heat, unable to focus on his copy of On The Road lying over his knee. He'd given in and sent Darcy home half an hour ago, when it was clear that everyone with any sense was sitting the heat out somewhere with working A/C.

Which is why, when Agent Coulson walks inside the shop, obviously shaking with cold, Clint’s alarms start blaring that something is terribly, terribly wrong. Coulson’s lips are a terrifying shade of blue; his skin looks waxy, swollen around his eyes, and Clint doesn’t wait a second to round the counter and walk to him, carefully reaching out to close a hand on his arm. Coulson is obviously trying to control the way his teeth are chattering.

“Come on, come sit down, my God, what happened to you?”

Coulson shakes his head, looking at the tabletop after he’s lowered himself carefully onto the chair, and it’s physically painful for Clint to pull away. He’s not going to ask further questions about why Coulson is in this state, but there is no way he is letting him walk back to his office like he’s fine.

“Coffee?” Coulson’s voice is raspy, the word coming out as a whisper. Clint nods, squeezing Coulson’s shoulder, wanting to put his palms on Coulson’s neck just to feel how cold he is, wanting to drag him to his nearby apartment, bury him in blankets and feed him soup until he looks human again.

But he can’t do that, it’s not his place. Coulson would never let him.

Instead, he makes coffee. This time without flourish, just good sturdy coffee with a splash of boiling-hot milk, and he brings the very full ceramic mug to Coulson, watches him wrap his hands around it.

“Are you hungry?”

Clint doesn’t seem able to overcome this urge to take care of Coulson - in a way, he doesn’t want to, because it’s so obvious that nobody else is doing it, not even Coulson himself. Clint has been alone for a long time, but he’s never let himself become so detached from his basic needs the way Coulson has. He'd bet that Coulson survives on microwaved poptarts, bad takeout and three hours of sleep a night at best.

“I - yes.” Despite Coulson’s hesitation, Clint smiles, quickly disappearing into the kitchen to find exactly what he’s looking for, tomato soup, made the day before to test on a few regular customers who like his savory treats. It’s not chicken, and it’s not the same as the one his mother used to make him when he was sick as a child, but it’ll do, and hopefully it'll warm Coulson up further.

He sets a bowl in the microwave and then shoots a look at the A/C, refusing to think about how sweat was making his shirt cling to his back by the time he'd made the walk from his apartment to the shop. He turns it off.

The microwave pings and he takes the soup out, checks it's hot enough and takes it outside where Coulson is hunching miserably into himself, face almost planted in his mug. Clint takes it out of his nerveless hands, ignoring Coulson's noise of complaint as he replaces it with the soup. Coulson eyes it warily, lowering his head to sniff at it.

"It's only tomato soup; just drink it, will you?" Clint tells him, vaguely exasperated with Coulson's mulishness.

Coulson frowns, but brings the mug to his face, takes a careful sip. His eyes close, and his mouth slackens a bit from its tight line. Clint watches, stupidly pleased, as Coulson drinks all of it, color improving with every mouthful.

"Do you need medicine? Advil? Antibiotics?"

Coulson stares at him, a strange look in his eyes. Clint stares back, waiting, unwilling to back down now. The silence stretches, while the look on Coulson's face transmutes from suspicion to caution to a kind of surprised wonder that, well, let's put it this way. If Clint wasn't sitting down, he would have had a close encounter with the floor. What is--is this guy for real? Is it really so strange to him that someone might be, Clint doesn't know, concerned when he staggers into someone's coffee shop looking like death warmed up?

"Coulson. Do you need anything."

Coulson shakes his head, face tight. Then he stops, and he nods, once. "Some Advil would be great," he croaks, looking embarrassed.

Clint goes to stand, when Coulson's hand curls around his forearm, warm now from the borrowed heat of the coffee and soup. "Call me Phil."

Clint stares for a moment before Phil looks away, down at the table again. Then he swallows dryly and goes to fetch the Advil from his desk in the back room, feeling like someone has just punched him in the gut.

Trying to make sense of Coulson - Phil - is way too hard in this heat. Maybe he just came to Under the Big Top for a coffee, expecting no reaction from Clint. Did he really think Clint wouldn’t care about seeing him in this state? Clenching his jaw, Clint nods to himself, putting the Advil in his pocket before going back to the front room. Instead of walking straight to Phil's side, he stalks decisively to the door and flips the sign around, showing the Closed side to the street. He sits in front of Phil, sliding the Advil over the tabletop.

“Do you have to go back to work?”

“I’m supposed to be going home. My partner wouldn't stop badgering me until I agreed to take the rest of the day off.”

"Will wonders never cease," Clint drawls, irrationally angry at Phil for not taking better care of himself, even thought he knows it's really not something that ought to concern him. "Will you go home?" he asks instead, because he has a feeling that he knows how Phil Coulson operates by now.

The guilty silence is answer enough. "Right, that's it. You're coming home with me."

Phil's head jerks up, glassy blue-grey eyes boring into his from much too close. "What?" Phil blurts, confusion so thick that it's obvious he's really not himself.

"You. My apartment. Come on. It's not far, just a couple blocks. You can take the sofa and sleep off whatever plague it is you've caught. Then we'll, I don't know, order a pizza or something, which you will eat, and then I'll drive you home if you insist."

Phil's jaw sets in a stubborn line. Clint can't decide if he wants to roll his eyes and ignore it in favour of forcing Phil to go home already, leave Phil to be miserable and pigheaded on his own. He does neither, merely waits, staring Phil down. After long enough that Clint is really tempted to carry out his original plan, Phil sighs and slumps against the table, the most unguarded Clint has ever seen him.

"All right," Phil rasps; his throat must be viciously sore. He lets his head hang down, stays in place as Clint hustles around him, wiping down counters, putting the cakes in the glass cabinets away in the cooler in the back, shuts off and cleans the coffee machine as quickly as he can. He runs a quick mop over the floor (he'll do a more thorough clean-up tomorrow, but this will do for now) and strides into the back office to deposit the day's turnover in the safe and fetch his keys. Phil gets up when Clint nudges him, walks to the door with his back as straight as he can make it, waits with one hand propped on the wall as Clint locks up and pulls down the metal blinds.

Clint turns him North, walks slower than normal so Phil can keep up, one hand hovering at the back of his elbow just shy of touching, in case Phil's legs let him down and he stumbles. There's a feverish heat coming off Phil's skin, even through the shirt and jacket that cover his arm. Clint would be lying if he said he wasn't worried. He uses the time getting to his place to run through all the groceries he has, the level of his tea supply, if there's any honey left over from the last time he felt like a cup. He thinks the answer to that is 'yes', and also 'you horrible sap, he is not your boyfriend'.

They reach the apartment without incident, and Phil braces himself against the door jamb until Clint unlocks the two locks and lets them in, running a quick eye over what he can see of the inside through the front door. It looks tidy enough, no old mugs crowding the table, no dirty clothes and kitchen towels hanging off the backs of chairs. It's actually a minor miracle that the place is this tidy; it's not his usual style, but he's not spent too much time in the apartment of late. He's been going in early and staying out later and later each night, hoping for... he doesn't really know what.

He moves aside to let Phil in, shuts the door behind them and leads him to the sofa; Phil sinks into it like his strings have been cut, letting his head drop back onto the cushions with a pained exhale. His eyes drift closed; Clint starts when he looks down at him. Phil looks, simply put, terrible. The circles under his eyes are so dark they look like bruises; his color has dropped again, leaving his face pale and sallow, drawn with exhaustion from the effort of walking here. There are beads of sweat rising over his forehead, his upper lip. Clint touches the back of his hand against Phil's skin, shocked at the heat that he can feel. Not good.

He leaves Phil there, makes a beeline for the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, takes out the paracetamol and aspirin and fills a glass of water from the tap. He carries his bounty back to the living room, nudges Phil and dishes out several pills into his hand. Phil doesn't even put up a token protest, that's how sick he must be, simply throws the pills into his mouth and washes them down with the water Clint offers; then his head falls back down, and several moments later his breathing evens out -- he's passed out cold. Clint pushes and tugs at him until he's horizontal, takes his shoes off and throws the blanket draping the back of the couch over his prone form.

Clint takes the armchair by Phil’s head and brings his feet up underneath him, curls up and just looks. He knows he wouldn’t do it if Phil was awake, but it feels like a perfect moment of sudden quiet, a stillness in time where Clint can take in little details about Phil he’s never had the chance to linger on before.

The worry lines on Phil’s forehead are so marked they’re still there, even in sleep, creases in his skin that Clint finds himself wanting to smooth out with his fingers; the curve of Phil’s mouth is soft, his lips slightly parted as he breathes evenly, and Clint is infinitely pleased with himself to see Phil’s got some color to his face again. He still wonders what exactly happened for Phil to develop a severe case of hypothermia, but he’s not going to ask. It’s not his place--no. Sooner or later that excuse is going to wear thin, and then he's just going to have to admit to himself that a) he cares about this man more than is probably wise, and b) the ever-present fear of rejection, even dulled after so many years, is raising its ugly head again, making him doubt himself, every word, every move. He knows, he knows Phil isn't him, and Clint isn't sixteen and stupid anymore, but rational arguments are not going to win the day when it comes to this.

Phil shifts in his sleep, and it startles Clint into moving himself, reluctantly leaving the armchair to go to the kitchen, doing the few dishes that need doing, trying to distract himself from Phil Coulson, sleeping on his couch. It feels surreal, like something that shouldn’t happen, something Phil clearly didn't want to happen, for some reason Clint has a hard time fathoming. It didn’t take long for Clint to get just how closed off Phil is, keeping everything tightly shuttered in his chest, and this show of vulnerability is such a first in whatever their relationship is evolving into that Clint isn’t quite sure what to do with it, with himself. Phil has invaded this quiet place inside Clint without even trying, most likely without even wanting to, but he’s settled there now, and Clint can’t dislodge him, can’t even remember a time when he wasn’t a little bit obsessed with Agent Phil Coulson. Maybe Darcy’s right -- he does have it bad.

Which would be fine; Clint is used to being the one infatuated with someone who isn't interested, except that day after day, meeting after meeting, Phil's unbending more and more around him. First by trusting Clint enough to make him a drink without demanding to know what's in it, then with his reactions, entirely unconcealed, to whatever Clint presents him with. And now, today, giving Clint free use of his given name, and Clint is trying hard not to give in to the giddy joy rising in his chest. Or dwell on the question of just how many people have been asked to address Phil by his first name.

He sighs, defeated yet curiously unconcerned about it. He knows he's letting himself get too involved. For the first time, though, there's someone coming towards him from the other side, too -- meeting him in the middle. Perhaps this time, he won't make a fool of himself by ignoring the warning signs and hoping for the best. This time, things might actually work out.

;;;

Phil wakes slowly, mind fuzzy and eyes bleary when he tries to open them to take in his surroundings. It makes a choking panic rise in his chest, that he can't snap to, can't clear his head enough to make note of where he is, if he's safe, if he needs to prepare to defend himself. He doesn't think he'll have to -- he's lying on something comfy, he's warm, there's something soft yet light covering him that even to his stuffed nose smells familiar. He can hear clattering from somewhere nearby, quiet and reassuring. He raises himself up on one elbow, takes a look around. He's in a small-ish living room, walls a faded magnolia white, bland yet somehow soothing. There's a bookshelf nearby, full of trashed-looking paperbacks, backs long broken into creases. Two inviting armchairs sit on the other side of a low coffee table made of a light shade of pine, surface covered with magazines and TV guides. The TV itself is state-of-the-art, taking over a solid half of the middle of the wall across from the sofa. Other than that, the room is mostly empty, curiously so -- like its owner doesn't spend more time in it than he must. The light coming from the small window is low, throwing long shadows across the off-white carpet, telling him what he needs to know about the time of day.

He pushes upright with some effort, head pounding and mouth dry, breathing laboured. He feels vile; he doesn't even know what he was doing, going into Under the Big Top, when really he should have stumbled his way home to collapse in peace. At least they'd arrested the wannabe bomber that had locked him and Steve into the meat cooler in the first place, which is a small blessing.

He coughs, throat aching like at any moment he's going to start spitting out flames. God, he wants to die. Maybe if he asks nicely enough, Clint might consider shooting him and ending his pain.

He's being inexcusably overdramatic, he knows, but damn, illness has always dragged the whining little boy out of him. He remembers well his mother's exasperation with him every time he felt sick, and made a nuisance of himself refusing to admit it.

He falls back on the couch, blinking sleepily at the ceiling when the sound of footsteps makes him look around. His eyes focus on Clint, shuffling into the room with a tea towel over his shoulder. He sits on one of the armchairs and stretches his legs, resting them on the coffee table. Phil notices idly that he’s barefoot.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like hell.”

“You look it.”

Phil snorts. “Charming.”

“Hey, I fed you my father’s special tomato soup and offered you my couch. You can’t say I’m not a gentleman.”

Phil can still faintly taste the spicy, comforting soup when he thinks about it hard enough. Under other circumstances, maybe he’d have kept on with the mocking, but as it is, he watches Clint cross his ankles together and murmurs, “That was some great soup. My compliments to your father.”

“He died a long time ago.”

Phil looks up at Clint’s face, which is still open, eyes clouded with grief. Phil is breathless for a second, realizing all of a sudden just how gorgeous Clint is, even with the sadness etched deeply into his features. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s okay. As I said, it was a while ago. He taught me how to make coffee, back when I was still a kid. Speaking of - do you want some?”

Phil sighs with relief at the idea. He guesses it’s not going to be as spectacular as the coffee Clint makes in the shop, but he’s more than willing to try it. “Yes. Please.”

“Coming right up.”

Clint leaves the living room again, and Phil closes his eyes, listens to the sounds coming from the kitchen, hissing and shuffling and some banging, until the smell of coffee starts drifting through the air. Fortified, he feels human enough to sit up and watch Clint step back into the room with a tray and two steaming mugs on it. He looks so comfortably domestic like this, legs stuffed in threadbare jeans and a t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, still barefoot, hair a little ruffled from when he must have changed after Phil passed out. The sight tugs at something inside him, making liquid contentment pour through his veins. He realises with a bit of a shock that he could really, really get used to this.

Clint pads over to the table, setting the tray down and moving one of the mugs in front of Phil. It's coffee with milk, nothing fancy, but it's hot when Phil picks up the mug and lifts it to his face, enjoying the way the steam makes it a little easier to breathe. His eyes are still watering from what promises to be a debilitating sinus inflammation, but he takes a sip anyway.

Yes, it is missing the dressing-up that Clint gives it at the shop, but good lord, that just strips it down to the basics, and Phil can't get enough of the sweet, nutty taste of it, more delicious than he could ever make it, no matter how much embellishment he uses.

He drinks half the mug before he looks up, straight into Clint's soft eyes fixed on him. He's smiling a little, mug cradled between his palms close to his face, stretched out in the same armchair as earlier, long, long legs sprawled out and crossed at his ankles again. It's--well. Phil feels a clench in his stomach like, wow, it's been so long since he's wanted someone this much. When the hell had that happened?

"You probably hear this all the time, but god, Clint, this coffee."

Clint's eyes darken a little; Phil wonders at that, until it hits him that this is the first time he's said Clint's name out loud. Could it really be affecting Clint like this? Okay, yes, Phil is not an idiot, but he still has trouble believing that someone like Clint could want someone as ordinary and boring as himself.

"Thanks," Clint says, mercifully derailing Phil's maudlin thoughts (there's a reason he hates and distrusts getting sick so much -- it's hell on his emotional balance). "It's my Dad's family's secret recipe. When I decided to--leave, I guess, my aunt gave me her blessing to use it for the shop, as long as I never told it to anyone who wasn't family."

Phil debates, but Clint's tone is as open as can be, and there's no effort to brush the topic off. And if he's honest, he wants to know as much about Clint as Clint will tell him.

"Leave?" he asks mildly, leaving it open to take up or ignore as Clint likes.

Clint watches him for a long moment, looking like he's pondering the same thoughts as Phil. "Yeah," he says at last, settling back further into the armchair. "My family is pretty big, and there is a family business that we're mostly expected to join from the start. Have you heard of the Carson Carnival of Travelling Wonders?"

Phil shakes his head. Not really his area of expertise. Clint looks a mixture of disappointed and relieved, which is... interesting.

"Well, Carson is my mother's maiden name. Pretty much the whole of the Carsons and the Bartons are involved in the running of it. My mother and father kind of grew up together, ended up falling in love when they were old enough to know what it meant. Anyway, I started helping out when I was five; by the time I was eight my uncle Morgan started teaching me archery. I worked with them until I turned eighteen. After that... After that I decided to leave the Carnival. I'm one of only three people to ever walk away; my Mom almost had a fit. It was the right thing for me, though, and my aunt Johanna, my Dad's sister, she was very supportive. She's the one who told me to stick to the only other thing I know. So that's how I started the coffee shop."

Phil listens thoughtfully, to Clint's tone and body language as much as the words. He can see just as clearly as if Clint had said so out loud, how much Clint loves his family, and misses them. But he can also see how content Clint is with his choice, at peace.

He can also tell that something pretty important must have happened to prompt Clint to make that choice. He won't ask, though; it would be far too invasive to pry about something so personal.

Maybe one day Clint will tell him himself.

"That explains so much," he says in the end, because it does. The corner of Clint's mouth quirks, a challenge, like he's saying 'You've no idea'. If Phil was feeling sharper, he'd probably delve deeper into that dare; but his mind is slow and dulled from the cold, and he doesn't think he has the wiles to pull it off, not with someone as slick and canny as Clint is turning out to be.

"What about you, Agent Coulson?" Clint asks after a moment of watching him shrewdly; probably seeing Phil's thoughts as they unfold sluggishly behind his eyes. "What prompted the men-in-black vocation?"

Phil drinks the rest of his coffee as a stalling device, so he can pull his wits together. Tell the truth or fib? Nothing particularly classified about the truth, only the specifics of it.

"I got recruited out of the Marines," he admits in the end, shrugging. "We had to take aptitude tests. About a week after I completed mine, I got a visit from Program Director Fury. Let's just say that he made me an offer I couldn't refuse," he adds with a self-depreciating smile. While Fury is a hardass bastard that takes enjoyment in pushing his agents to the limits, it's also a challenging, interesting job, even if it comes with chronic undersleeping. It's as good a choice as any and better than most.

Clint's eyes are considering where they rest on his face; he seems appeased by what information Phil can disclose. "You enjoy it," he says. It's not a question.

"I do. Keeps me on my toes. Makes me feel useful. And I'm good at it." Also not a question. Phil knows all these things to be facts, doesn't shy away from acknowledging them.

Clint nods, eyes growing heavy for no reason that Phil can discern. He drains his mug, bends almost double to pop it back on the tray without any apparent effort. Phil thinks of his abdomen contracting, muscles rippling with perfect control, and feels his mouth grow dry despite the coffee.

"All right," Clint says, getting up gracefully and stretching like an overgrown jungle cat. Phil tries not to watch the long, taut line of his body with hungry eyes, and mostly fails. "I promised you a pizza, if I remember rightly. What do you like on yours?"

It takes Phil a moment to switch speeds. Damn it, he hates the way his brain slows down when he's feeling under the weather. "Just ham and mushrooms. And extra cheese."

"Right you are," Clint says, rooting inside the pocket of his jeans for his mobile phone. Phil's eyes follow the movement of his hand. He swallows, hard.

Clint unearths his phone with a grunt of triumph that shouldn't be so endearing, and dials from memory. Phil wonders how often Clint must go through this routine, home-pizza-TV-bed, and immediately wishes he hadn't. Thinking about Clint, alone in this apartment but for the voices on the screen, night after night, makes something painful squeeze his gut.

Of course, he hasn't the slightest evidence that this is what happens. Maybe Clint is in the habit of frequenting bars and clubs; maybe he doesn't spend too many nights in this place at all. Strangely enough, that thought doesn't make him feel happier.

Clint orders for them, adding his own pepperoni pizza to Phil's order, and hangs up with a satisfied hum. "Should be here in a bit. Now then. Are you feeling up to a shower? There's hot water, and we're pretty much of a size, you can borrow a t-shirt and pants if you want. It'll make you feel better."

Thing is, it would. Phil's been thinking longingly of his own shower ever since he got out of that cooler this morning. He accepts gratefully, and Clint waves him over to the bathroom, at the end of a short corridor.

"I'll leave some clothes out in the bedroom for you to change into, just through here." Then he hands Phil a clean, neatly folded towel, and leaves him to it.

Phil closes the bathroom door behind himself, shucks his jacket, tugs off his tie and shirt gratefully while in the living room the TV clicks on, the muffled yet familiar buzz of a tattoo machine carrying through the door. Hmmm. Phil files that away for later investigation, kicks out of his slacks and drapes them carelessly over the rest of the clothes -- they're going to need to be dry-cleaned anyway. Boxer-briefs and socks follow, stuffed into the pockets of his slacks for safe-keeping. He turns on the shower to near-scalding and steps inside the surprisingly roomy cabin, dragging the flimsy door shut. The water soaks him quickly; he can practically feel it chasing away the lingering chill. It feels heavenly on his skin, and he tilts his head into it, lets it drench his hair, warm up his head as well. Once he's toasty, he looks around for something to wash with. His eyes land on the row of shower gels and hair products, lined up neatly in a metal nest on the wall by the shower head. He picks up the shampoo, surprised to find it smelling like something fruity and sweet rather than the generic masculine scent. It makes something warm and fond curl inside his chest and purr. He smiles, and pours out a handful.

He washes slowly and thoroughly, smile widening when he sees the hair conditioner (the same brand as the shampoo), the shower gel that smells like coconut and lime. The mingling scents make him feel calm, relaxed, pampered, if such a word could be applied to taking a shower in the apartment of someone he's only just getting to know. He shuts off his mind, lets himself just enjoy it.

He turns off the taps when the water starts to cool, emerges into the steam-filled room and dries quickly. The towel is just rough enough to feel good on his pinked skin; he scrubs at his hair before he winds it around his waist and tugs the door open, the air much more pleasant on his clean skin than before. He's about to turn right into the bedroom that Clint had indicated when there's a noise at the mouth of the corridor, a sharp inhale. He looks up to see Clint frozen in place, the tray with the empty mugs in his hands, staring at Phil like he's never seen a man mostly naked before. To his consternation, Phil feels his face heat in direct contradiction to the orders he's sending his bloodstream. He's not ashamed of his body; he knows he looks good, works out enough when he's not chasing suspects all over the place, keeps as fit as his active agent status requires. Still, the way Clint is practically eating him up with his eyes, he feels a strange and conflicting urge to duck into the room -- or to walk over there, make Clint dump the tray to the floor and pin him to the wall.

The doorbell decides for him; it rings shrilly, making both of them jump. Clint is flushing too, now, just as brightly as Phil; he scuttles into the kitchen, presumably to get rid of the tray. Phil takes the reprieve and steps sideways inside the bedroom, wondering with a mixture of lust and embarrassment just what might have happened if the doorbell hadn't intervened.

There's a tidy pile of clothes on the bed, a t-shirt, a pair of training pants, a warm hoodie that's soft to the touch, probably in deference to his cold. There is also a pair of boxers that Phil is uncomfortably aroused just to see, let alone pull on. He does, though, tries not to think too hard about wearing Clint's underwear -- mostly because his self-control only stretches so far, legendary or not. He shuffles into the pants, an inch or so short at the ankles, which is hardly an issue; the t-shirt fits him just right, a touch loose in the shoulders, which just highlights exactly what Clint's shoulders must look like under his clothes. Phil berates himself as he pulls the hoodie over his head; it's wonderfully big, feels like being enveloped in a fluffy hug. Phil's man enough (and tired enough) to admit that he enjoys it rather a lot.

He throws the towel over the back of a chair in the corner of the room, smaller than the living space yet cozy, warm, the soft blue of the walls bringing out the double bed's comfortable-looking covers and pillows. Phil spares it all barely a look, off-balance as he is about being in Clint's space, even though Clint's made it clear he's allowed; and then he walks away, because he knows if he doesn’t, he risks burying his face in the pillows and losing himself in Clint’s scent, all sleep-soft and sweet. He feels refreshed by the shower, even though he’s still sniffling and his head is still full of cotton wool, but he feels definitely ready to brave some food, now, and falling asleep on Clint’s bed doesn’t feel like the right way to thank him for everything he’s done.

He pads into the living room barefoot to find Clint on the couch, legs spread out and looking loose and relaxed, pizza box opened on the coffee table in front of him. He shuffles around a little to allow Phil to sit next to him, cheeks slightly flushed as his eyes flick up and down Phil’s body, either assessing how he looks in these clothes or just remembering what’s underneath. Phil’s not certain which he wants more.

“Feeling better?”

“Much. Thanks.”

“It’s okay. You need to eat.”

“Were you a nurse, in the circus?”

Clint smirks, leaning forward to grab a slice of pizza. He talks around his mouthful, a lack of proper manners that makes Phil smile more than anything else. His mother would have been so disappointed. “No. We did get random injuries, tended to them ourselves. I’m just guessing you haven’t eaten anything in at least a day.”

“I had a bagel for breakfast.”

“Well, that sounds healthy.”

“Says the man who owns a coffee shop.”

“Hey, at least I eat three times a day.”

Phil smiles, comfortable in the clothes he’s wearing and the easy flow of the conversation. As he eats next to Clint, they talk about random movies (Clint likes Bruce Willis films, he’s clearly embarrassed to admit) and TV shows (Phil admits that Celebrity Rehab is terribly engrossing, and Clint laughs until he wheezes), easy conversation, no need for heavy details about their pasts or their current lives. Once again it hits Phil, the way Clint gets him, gets it, understands that the job is incredibly important, and yet not something Phil can talk about openly. He doesn’t seem to resent that, unlike every other person to have shown interest in Phil in the past.

When they’re finished with their pizzas (Phil’s was nothing special, but good enough to eat at a rapid pace; he’d been starving), they settle in front of the TV, conversation falling into comments about the documentary on the Arctic they’re watching.

“Seriously, the noise penguins make, I don’t understand it. It’s a mix between a wail and a really aggressive truck driver.”

Phil closes his mouth as he realizes Clint is not looking at the TV at all, instead staring at the side of his face. He turns his head, looking back with a question in his eyes, but Clint speaks up before Phil can actually ask anything.

“Can I - I want to kiss you.”

If he answers, Phil will stammer like a blushing schoolgirl, and fuck's sakes, he’s not. He’s a grown man, he’s fucking forty-one years old and an NSA agent, he can take this kind of thing and roll with it. He almost wants to tease Clint for what he just said, but it’s so careful and respectful that Phil can’t. Instead, he leans close, frames Clint’s cheek with his hand.

This isn’t something he should want. The problem isn’t Clint, or gender, or any fucked-up idea of the kind. Phil works better alone, that’s all. Relationships always end with resentment and anger and bitterness, and Phil made the decision to stay away from all of that a long time ago. It’s easier for him, for his job. He doesn’t have to be afraid about a slip-up, or someone discovering his loved ones and threatening them. Being scared for his own life is okay; for someone else’s, less so.

And yet, when Clint moves in and presses his lips to his in a surprisingly tender way, Phil doesn’t pull away. On the contrary, he slides closer, deepens the kiss right away, tendrils of lust curling around his insides and making him hungry, suddenly desperate for intimacy. Clint groans, opens his mouth under Phil’s, takes and gives back just as hard, one of his hands under the hoodie, the other curled around Phil’s neck, keeping him right where he is.

And fuck, it’s hot, Clint’s palm flat against Phil’s stomach, between shirt and hoodie, Phil’s fingers skimming the waistband of Clint’s jeans. The kiss turns messy, shared breaths and groans and lips bitten and sucked, making Phil’s heavy head better and worse at the same time. He can’t stop, and apparently, neither can Clint, the two of them awkwardly pressed against each other as they go on, growing more desperate by the second.

When Clint pulls away, he rests his forehead against Phil’s, panting heavily right against Phil’s lips. And then he lets out a strangled chuckle, mouth curling into a smile that makes Phil wonder whether he should punch him or laugh with him. Right now, Phil can't think, can barely remember his own name.

“Do you want to stay tonight?” It’s a hopeful whisper, and Phil wants to say yes, yes, so much yes, but he brushes his thumb along Clint’s cheekbone and pulls away enough to be able to look into his eyes.

“I shouldn’t. I mean - I have a physical early tomorrow morning.”

“I wake up at five every day, Phil.”

Clint’s voice is raspy, sounding used, positively wrecked, and the way Phil’s name rolls off his tongue is filthy, promising so much that Phil can’t demand from him right now.

“I’m sick.”

Clint pulls back, as if he'd completely forgotten about Phil’s bout of hypothermia, even though it's the only reason they're here right now. He looks sorry, almost angry with himself, and Phil wants to backtrack.

“Not that I don’t--”

“No, God, no, you’re right, you need to rest. I’ll drive you back, if you want.”

“My car is parked close to your shop. I’ll drive home.”

“Are you sure you can?”

Phil smiles, letting his hand drop from where it was cupping Clint’s jaw.

“I’ve driven while in a worse state, believe me.”

It feels like ages since they’ve kissed, not the mere minute that has passed. Clint’s lips are still swollen red, though, a reminder of what just happened, and Phil can't help the way he brushes a thumb across Clint’s bottom lip, eyes drawn to it.

“I should go.”

“We can just sleep, you know.”

“I need some clean clothes. It’s just - I really should go.”

Clint sighs, but nods, pulling away reluctantly. He collects the pizza boxes, and Phil tries not to look at the way his shirt is riding up at his back, showing a sliver of skin.

“Let me walk you back to your car? I don’t want you to pass out on the way.”

Phil smiles. “Yeah, sure.”


[Part Two]