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It’s a messy sight that greets him when shoulders open the door to the run-down flat that’s been doubling as a S.H.I.E.L.D safe house for as long as he can remember (and probably hasn’t seen a cleaning rag for about the same amount of time). There is gauze all over the floor, bloody and dirty; cut-up bandages and scraps of ripped clothing make a nice addition to the non-existent décor. In the middle of it all are two grimy and slightly deranged-looking agents, wrapped up in a weirdly gymnastic looking figure while tending to each other’s wounds. Also, both are grinning smugly.
“I told you there was no need to bring us coffee, sir.” Clint smirks up at Phil through a bloody lip while sewing together a nasty cut on Natasha’s leg.
“Did you disinfect that needle?” Phil replies, ignoring Clint as per usual.
“Does it look like there’s disinfectant anywhere close?” comes Natasha’s reply, talking around a mouth of tape while she secures the ends of a bandage on Clint’s back. Done, she lifts one hand and makes a grabby motion. Coulson hands over her cup.
“Seriously though, sir. No need to pretend with the coffee.” Clint is in the process of biting through the string he’d used for sewing and the knowing, toothy and bloody grin he throws Phil’s way looks just a little terrifying. Well, terrifying if you aren’t Phil Coulson and have seen this particular master assassin curled into a weeping ball over Marley & Me more than once. So Phil just raises an eyebrow, slightly.
“Just sayin’. We could have gotten our own coffee.”
“Barton, you know the regulations …”
Clint waves a hand, only wincing slightly around what Phil now realizes is a still-dislocated shoulder, brushing his words aside.
“That was ONE time.”
“Plus,” Natasha adds, an almost thoughtful look on her face while she reaches for Clint’s arm. “It was Budapest.” Of course Clint doesn’t do much more than grunt when Natasha pops his shoulder back where it belongs with a satisfying snap. If it was a grunt of pain or agreement is anyone’s guess, but Phil decides it was probably both.
“It would have been about 20 times if we didn’t change regulations after that.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Clint sighs. “No more coffee runs for team Delta. Because of ‘a high possibility of motherfucking buildings exploding for not stocking the right sweetener’” His impression of Fury is a little bit too spot on and Phil covers his laugh by taking a sip from Clint’s coffee, grimacing as the sweet concoction washes over his taste buds.
“Hey,” Clint pouts, snatching his coffee from Phil’s hands and cradling it to his chest. “No mocking my coffee. Either you commit to your coffee story and respect the coffee, or you don’t but you can’t have both.”
“Uh,” Natasha says from where she has been putting on new clothes. The very big question mark is implied and Phil is thankful that he isn’t the only one lost.
“Whatever, I don’t even know,” Clint mutters, nearly shrugging and sipping his brew with a look of bliss on his face.
“Evac is scheduled for 0500.” Phil says after a moment of silence. Clint snorts from where he’s curled himself onto the one ratty chair. Phil throws another look toward Natasha, but the Black Widow is grinning mockingly at him this time.
“And you’re here at 0100 because …” Sometimes Phil hates how good Natasha is at her job. Especially when she makes him her job. Then again, of course she would know. It only all happened five days ago, this thing with Clint. Not that it hadn’t been happening for years but … anyway. She and Clint are too close for anyone’s good and they’ve been on close quarters at the back-ass end of the world for the entire time of the op. Of course she already knows, not that Phil is going to indulge her.
“Because Agent Barton kept yammering on about coffee for more than two thirds of the entire op,” Phil answers her, smooth as always but a slight twitch to his lips. “I just wanted to spare the hard working shop-owners of Bosnia and Herzegovina mopping up your mess – again.”
“It was ONE TIME.” Clint, even though nearly 40 years of age, sometimes sounds a lot like a 10-year-old. Phil decides he is not allowed to find it adorable. Clint wrinkles his nose at Phil before balling up the paper cup and throwing it into the one office-sized trash can in the corner without looking while rolling to his feet.
“Also,” he continues, putting a little swagger into his movement while advancing on Phil. “Last we talked, you were hovering somewhere over the UK and those?” he points to where the empty cup vanished a moment ago, “Had Croatian writing all over them.”
“Like I said, I am just trying …”
“Yeah, yeah,” Clint is close now, half his face still covered in dirt, debris and blood, but a promising look in his eyes that has Phil swallow a little thickly.
“Director Fury would have my butt if …” Phil tries again, but finds his lips blocked by Clint’s. The kiss is short, dry but filled with too much promise considering the current situation.
“Could’ve just said you were worried, sir.” This time, the smile isn’t mocking. Instead, it’s honest and happy and something warm curls in Phil’s stomach.
“Could have. But where’s the fun in that?”