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Clint had always prided himself on not being one of those guys, one of the ones who let their tongues hang out and behaved like Neanderthals just because they'd seen a particularly pretty pair of eyes or legs. Nope, he was mature. Sensible. Able to control himself.
His conscience laughed at him at this point in his internal rationalisation and it sounded like Natasha's wickeder chuckles.
Point was, he could control himself. And the other important point was that he'd never let himself think about Phil Coulson as anything except his handler. His boss. He really hadn't.
(Maybe that was a lie too. His conscience had Natasha's voice nailed.)
And honestly, he hadn't thought too much about the current mission parameters even though they were a little...unusual. His biggest concern had been that none of them would be able to conceal any weapons while they were out in enemy territory. Natasha could probably figure out something lethal with a life-preserver and he'd seen Coulson wield a pool net with malice, but neither of those options was on the same kind of fatality level as half a dozen automatic weapons.
(His second biggest worry had been that Natasha would take photos and she always seemed to find the filter that highlighted all the things he didn't want highlighted. That worry had been fulfilled five minutes into the mission with a bright flash and a muffle snicker and he hadn't been fast enough to catch her.)
Not once, during his depressed contemplation of the impossibility of hiding a knife in his SHIELD-issues undercover clothes, did he consider the implications of Coulson being issued with a matching set.
So on the first morning of pretending to be a lifeguard at the swimming pool where their target (and his goons) would be taking his daughter every day of their vacation, Clint caught sight of Coulson pulling himself lithely out of the water and promptly slipped in a puddle and skidded straight into a wall.
There was all that skin, glistening in the sunlight. More than Clint had expected to see on display because Coulson was the guy in a suit with the pretty blue eyes. The guy who looked a little bit like an accountant. Not this guy wiping at his face with a towel while water streamed down his back and legs and his ass filled out a pair of swimming trunks perfectly.
And sweet baby Jesus, there were freckles as well. Dotting across Coulson's shoulders, dusting down his arms and back, drawing Clint's eyes to the wiry muscles rippling under Coulson's skin. Freckles.
Clint had never liked his own freckles much. They made his nose look weird and blotchy when he caught too much sun.
Coulson's freckles, though? Clint was feeling slightly dazed and he was pretty sure only part of that was due to his sudden faceplant into a wall.
***
The second day of their week long assignment dawned bright and warm and beautiful. Exactly the kind of weather that was perfect for swimming and hanging out around a pool. Clint had carefully manipulated the pool schedule so that he would spend the day working on the slides and flumes for the little kids, well away from the temptation of Coulson and his freckles.
Admittedly, Coulson had pulled on a loose t-shirt after he'd dried off yesterday so Clint hadn't actually been forced to stare at the damned freckles all day. He'd known they were there, though, and apparently that was almost as distracting as being able to see them.
How did a guy who wore suits like they were his personal armour end up with such beautiful skin and defined muscles anyway?
The problem was that he hadn't counted on the depth of Natasha's sneakiness and her absolute loathing for teenaged boys staring at her breasts. He got to the pool, checked the rota, and swore under his breath when he spotted that he was working the main pool with Coulson. Again.
And because the fates hated him, he walked out just as Coulson was finishing up his pre-opening swim so Clint had an absolutely perfect view as Coulson pulled himself out of the pool with a fine display of rippling muscles and glistening skin. Clint almost swallowed his tongue and promptly tripped over a bench.
Thankfully Coulson already had a towel over his head, scrubbing at his hair, so he didn't witness Clint's inelegant attempt to stay upright and clutch his bruised foot. He also didn't see the moment when Clint stopped hopping and stared at his shoulders, tracing the little dots of freckles with hungry eyes and feeling dazed again without a head injury to explain it.
By the time Coulson emerged from the towel, his hair standing up in fluffy little tufts that did funny things to Clint's insides, Clint was standing up slightly lopsided with the most neutral expression he could find plastered on his face.
"Good morning, Barton," Coulson said, one of his little half smiles twitching at the corner of his mouth. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"
"Beautiful," Clint said.
His voice sounded weirdly throaty, maybe a little hoarse, and he swallowed against the dryness in his mouth even as Coulson's brow wrinkled.
"Are you alright?" Coulson said. "You sound like you're coming down with something."
Only a bad case of freckle obsession, the traitorous little voice in Clint's mind said. It still sounded a lot like Nat.
Clint forced himself to grin. "I'm fine. Just a bit caffeine deprived."
"Want to grab a coffee before the hordes arrive?"
For one very brief moment, Clint kind of (maybe, sort of) forgot how to process words. It didn't help that Coulson picked that moment to swipe the towel over his belly, which drew Clint's eyes downward and...
Fuck. Freckles on his forearms. Clint gave himself a mental slap and refocused.
What had Coulson asked him? Coffee, right. He would focus on the coffee. He clearly needed the caffeine even though he'd drunk two cups at the motel before he left.
He would smoothly accept the coffee invitation because he was a SHIELD asset and not a mass of babbling hormones.
"I love coffee," Clint said. "Coffee is great. It's just...great."
Or he'd do that and then bite his tongue just to stop the words pouring out. Coulson gave him a strange look but clearly decided that Clint really was deeply caffeine deprived and didn't call him on the babbling.
Instead Coulson shook his head and pulled a t-shirt out of the bag he'd left on the bench, which Clint told himself was a good thing because Coulson's freckles clearly needed to be covered up for his own sanity.
"We've got fifteen minutes, I'm buying," Coulson said. "Are you sure you're alright?"
"Just need that coffee."
***
On the third day, Clint accidentally saved a drowning child.
Thankfully it wasn't the mark's kid or the mission would have been a bust right there. The whole point was to blend in, stay off his radar. Saving the guy's daughter from drowning did not appear on the SHIELD list of approved blending activities.
Clint wouldn't even have need to save a drowning child if he hadn't been so distracted by the two inches of naked lower back that were exposed when Phil's t-shirt rode up that he didn't notice four boys running around the pool edge.
Fucking freckles.
He'd been trying to work out whether they went all the way underneath the waistband of Coulson's trunks so he didn't see the kids until they barrelled into him.
Clint wheeled his arms, trying not to fall over, but two of the boys fell and one of them grabbed Clint's shirt as he tumbled over the side of the pool and they were all dragged in together. Warm water closed over Clint's head for a moment but he pushed up and broke the surface, spluttering and fighting to escape the thin arms that were clinging to his shoulders and threatening to shove him under again.
A moment later the arms disappeared and Clint thrashed round in the water in time to see Coulson lifting a soggy boy onto the tiled floor. Two more boys stood behind him, their faces pale and scared as they realised what they'd done. The fourth boy...
Clint looked around but there was no sign of him and most of the other swimmers had moved away to create a clear space so he couldn't be hiding.
"Can he swim?" Coulson asked the boys, urgency filling his voice.
They all shook their heads mutely.
Clint ducked under the water and peered through the clear blue, immediately seeing the dark shape of the boy at the bottom of the pool. This part of the pool was eight feet deep and the boy wasn't moving.
"Can you see him?" Coulson asked when he emerged.
"Yes," Clint said.
He didn't explain, there wasn't time. Clint took a couple of deep breaths and plunged down under the surface again. He swam down to the bottom and nudged the child's shoulder with no response. Dragging the kid up through the water seemed to take forever and he was heavier than he looked. Finally Clint felt air on his face again and there were hands reaching down to pull the boy out of his arms and do whatever it was people did with half-drowned children.
Coulson handed him a towel as he clambered out of the pool and his smile made Clint's breath catch in his throat.
Or maybe he was still just breathless from the rescue.
"Well done," Coulson said quietly.
Nope, the breathlessness definitely wasn't all from the rescue.
***
On the fourth day, Clint managed to stay focussed on the mission all day. He was very proud of himself.
It helped that Coulson only just arrived in time for the pool to open so there was no chance for him to swim and show off his freckles before work. The part where Natasha spent half the day glaring at everyone because the mark's bodyguard was getting slightly too friendly also assisted him. The mark's daughter, cute and golden-haired and precocious, occupied most of Clint's attention throughout the afternoon because she genuinely didn't seem to have any fear or any real comprehension of how deep the pool was and how tentative her grasp of doggy-paddling was.
Accidentally rescuing some other kids from drowning was one thing. Having to rescue the target's kid was on the mission brief in big bold "FUCK NO, DO NOT DO THIS" print.
So Clint managed to keep his attention fully occupied on the mission and his duties as a temporary lifeguard all day without even the smallest freckle-related slip up.
Then Coulson decided to take a quick swim after the pool closed to the public and Clint blamed him entirely for what happened next.
After all, if Coulson hadn't been hauling himself out of the water with his back to Clint at the exact moment when Clint hurried back to the pool looking for a misplaced stack of water wings, he would have fetched the equipment without embarrassing himself.
Instead Clint saw the freckles, the rippling muscles, the water streaming down his back. He followed the water droplets down to the waistband of Coulson's trunks, which were riding too low and showed off unexpectedly alluring hips and even more freckles.
And then Clint plunged into the surprisingly cold water, feet first, fully clothed.
He wasn't sure what the chain of events was after that. His jeans, sneakers and sweater immediately became waterlogged and tried to drag him down to the bottom of the pool. There was a lot of flailing and splashing and choking on water and then strong arms were dragging him out of the pool and he looked up into Coulson's worried face.
"Are you alright?" Coulson asked.
Clint tried to signal that he was absolutely perfectly fine, no problem, nothing to see here. Because he really was. Fine. Completely.
"I'm all wet," Clint said before coughing water all over Coulson's wet knees.
Unfortunately, Coulson didn't let him drown himself. Clint thought that was completely unfair.
Natasha didn't let him drown himself either. Not in the pool and not in the cheap vodka in the motel minibar. Clint thought that was unfair as well.
He fell asleep later that night cursing freckles and men with silly pretty eyes and crushes that he'd been happier being unaware of.
***
Natasha signalled that she'd exchanged the information they were waiting for at noon on the fifth day. Clint didn't even see how she did it, which was the perfect demonstration of why she was the Black Widow. There didn't seem to be anything different about the way their target behaved: he smiled indulgently as his daughter dive-bombed into the pool and demanded burgers from the food counter, he talked to mysterious men in badly fitting suits and he tapped impatiently at the game on his phone.
But Clint knew from the briefing that something had changed. Their target was now a SHIELD asset, his record wiped clean as long as he performed whatever service SHIELD had asked him for.
Clint had deliberately made sure he didn't know why they were gunning for the guy. The less he knew, the better. Nobody could be tortured for information they didn't have. He was fairly sure Coulson knew and Natasha always knew, even when she shouldn't, but his role on this mission was observation and backup only so he didn't want to know.
With the signal given, all that was left was finishing out the day and then a careful extraction so no one would ever remember they'd been there. They'd done a dozen missions like this, so Clint wasn't worried.
He even managed to avoid any potential Coulson-related embarrassments all day.
It helped that he'd been the one running late that morning and by the time he'd hurried in, Coulson had already changed into dry trunks and a loose t-shirt so the only evidence of his swim was his damp, fluffy hair. Clint absolutely didn't fantasise for a minute about running his hand through Coulson's hair to find out whether it was as soft as it looked.
OK, maybe he did, but it was only for one minute. Less than a minute. Half a minute at most.
His conscience laughed at him again, sounding more like Natasha than ever.
Anyway, the point was that he was nearly out of the mission without actually doing anything that would cause irreparable damage to his relationship with Coulson. All week he'd been hopelessly distracted, he'd fallen over a few times, he'd ended up the pool once...or twice...but none of those incidents had been the kinds of things that a guy looked at and said, "Huh, obviously my co-worker has a huge crush on me."
Part of Clint regretted that they'd be going back to the world of suits and shirts where freckles and distracting skin were neatly hidden from sight.
Another part of Clint hoped that the lack of freckles would let his crush fade away so everything could go back to normal quickly.
Of course, because the universe sucked, their careful plans and Clint's hopes came crashing down just when they were starting to think they were clear. Clint wasn't even sure how it all went to shit so quickly.
Scratch that, the big black SUV that tried to run them down in the parking lot behind the pool was the obvious culprit for the 'how'. Natasha was already at her car, throwing her bag into the trunk. Clint was a few steps behind because his stupid crush meant that he was keeping pace with Coulson, who was frowning down at a message on his phone. Tires screeched, an engine roared, and Clint reacted on instinct. He leapt at Coulson, wrapping his arms around Coulson's chest to pull him out of danger. Momentum carried them on, falling to the ground and then rolling a couple of times until they finally slammed up against a curb.
Clint's heart was hammering in his ears and the adrenaline rush was making his breath come in pants and gasps. That was the excuse he gave himself for not noticing at first that he'd ended up sprawled on top of Coulson, cradled between Coulson's knees and bracketing Coulson's head with his elbows. It was the kind of position that made his mind go to all kinds of places that had nothing to do with black SUVs and everything to do with the way Coulson was looking up at him.
Somewhere far away, Clint was vaguely aware of gunshots and the distinctive sounds of a car crashing into something and rolling a couple of times. It didn't register properly, though. His gaze, all his attention, was fixed instead on Coulson and that strange expression he couldn't interpret.
Coulson's lips parted and his tongue flicked out to wet them.
Clint swallowed hard because suddenly everything became clear. The look in Coulson's eyes, the hands tightening on his hips, holding him still and pulling him closer. He could duck down and kiss Coulson so easily and if that look was any guide, Coulson would kiss him back.
This wasn't the right time. Clint could hear Natasha talking on her phone and the soft crackle of flames licking over a dead SUV. They were out here in the twilight where anyone could see them and Clint wouldn't do that to Phil, not for their first kiss. He couldn't just let this moment pass him by, though. His stupid ridiculous crush seemed a lot less ridiculous when he was looking down into Coulson's eyes and reading all the same feelings reflected back at him.
He just needed to say something to acknowledge that he knew they were having a moment and very much hoped to have more moments later. Really, really hoped. It needed to be subtle, smooth and charming because Coulson was a sophisticated kind of guy. The type who appreciated understatement and would read all the right things into a casual request for coffee, particularly when they were practically panting into each other's mouths and Clint could feel a hard bulge nudging against his hip.
Subtle. Charming. Smooth.
Clint listened with horror as he heard himself say, "Can I lick your freckles?"
Yeah, that was smooth.
***
The sensible option, after all the debriefings were over and Fury had finished yelling, would have been to go to Coulson's office and try to explain the freckles thing. Unfortunately there was no way to wipe the comment out of Coulson's mind so they could pretend it had never happened.
Clint had asked. He'd got a weird look from the scientist holding down the research lab at three AM and he'd backed out quickly before she could call anyone.
Anyway, as he couldn't conveniently make Coulson forget it then the next thing to do would be to explain. Maybe try to blame it on adrenaline and overexcitement, because there had definitely been some 'excitement' there on both their parts.
Parts.
Clint mentally slapped himself. Now was not the time to think about Coulson's parts. Not after the complete mess he'd made of asking Coulson out for coffee. Why did those fucking freckles have to keep interfering with everything he did? It wasn't as if Clint had ever had a thing for freckles before. He'd never even noticed them on anyone else and he slathered sunscreen onto his nose every summer in a pointless effort to keep his own from appearing.
No, now was the time for sneaking out of the building and hiding in his apartment until his two days of down time were over. That probably wouldn't be long enough to live down his humiliation, but it might be long enough for Clint to be able to look at Coulson without blushing. Or at least to be able to look at Coulson at all.
The hallways were quiet at this time in the early morning so Clint grabbed his gear and managed to get all the way down to the parking lot without seeing a soul. He was starting to breathe a sigh of relief when he turned the corner and found Coulson leaning against the driver side door of his current rust bucket.
There was an amused smile lurking at the corners of Coulson's lips. Clint stopped in his tracks and eyed him warily.
"Hi," Coulson said.
"Blerghble," Clint said.
"I thought we should talk."
Clint swallowed and forced his mouth to work in English instead of gibberish. "Talk about what?"
Coulson just gave him a look. One of the ones that always meant "Do you really think I'm that stupid?" and Clint sagged a little. Playing the idiot never worked with this man.
"We could just pretend it never happened," Clint said without any real hope Coulson would allow them to do that. "Who would know? We could put it down as adrenaline and just...forget."
"When a man offers to lick my freckles-"
"Asks permission."
"Same thing." Coulson waited a beat before continuing. "When a man offers to lick my freckles and then runs away, I usually think it's the kind of thing that needs discussing."
"Is this about the running away? Because I can explain that."
"It's a little bit about the running away." Coulson tilted his head. "Mostly it's about your offer."
"Oh."
"And the fact that you're trying to rescind it now without even waiting for my reply. You were too busy using five armed men as an excuse to run away before I could say anything."
"The armed men seemed kind of important at the time."
Coulson conceded that with a shrug. "You're still trying to run away, though."
"Yeah, that seems kind of important right now as well."
Clint waited for Coulson to say something else, to find some logical point to extend the discussion with, but all Coulson did was watching him with that shadow of an amused smile at the corners of his mouth. It was distracting and unfair and after a minute Clint couldn't stand the silence anymore.
"I didn't plan to say that," Clint said. "The freckles thing. I wanted to ask you out for coffee or something and I figured you'd know whether it was coffee or coffee and say something to get us both out of it if you didn't want that. Except I keep losing control of my words every time I'm around you lately and I fucked it all up."
"You lost control of your words and the first thing you asked me was about my freckles?" Coulson asked.
Clint felt his face heat. "Yeah? They've kind of been an issue lately."
Coulson straightened up and took a step forward, an odd expression on his face. "My inability to tan evenly has been an issue for you lately."
"It's been on my mind."
Another step closer. "On your mind. My freckles are on your mind."
Clint swallowed. "You know, it's going to be a lot more difficult to pretend I never said that if we keep using the F word."
"And if I don't want to forget?" Coulson took moved forward again. "If that was something I'd actually planned to say yes to?"
A feeling of unreality was starting to make Clint's brain feel foggy. He could hear the words but they didn't make any sense because they sounded a lot like Coulson was seriously considering his completely ridiculous request. Clint tried to say something smooth and sophisticated that would make the whole thing magically turn out right. Something intelligent, something classy...
"So that's a yes to the licking?" Clint said and mentally kicked himself.
The corner of Coulson's mouth twitched into a real smile. "You really do seem to be having a problem controlling your words."
"It's kind of embarrassing."
"Why? I like it."
"Really?"
Coulson reached out and touched Clint's nose, tracing it lightly with one finger from bridge to tip, and Clint sucked in a quick, surprised breath. His nose seemed to tingle in the wake of Coulson's touch and he was disappointed when Coulson moved his hand away.
"I've been thinking about your freckles for months," Coulson said in a low, thoughtful tone. "Not just your freckles, I admit, but I've had this strange desire to kiss them ever since I noticed them last summer. It surprised me because I've always disliked mine and I didn't think I'd ever find them attractive on anyone else. But then I met you."
"Sir, you met me over ten years ago."
"And your freckles are just the latest in a long line of peculiar fascinations I've discovered about myself." There was a mischievous twinkle in Coulson's eyes that made Clint's heart beat a little faster. "I can catalogue them for you, if you'd like. If you offer still stands, that is."
"Fuck yes," Clint said and winced. "I mean-"
"Stop apologising for speaking your mind," Coulson said. "That's another thing I find attractive about you."
Clint snorted. "You'll be regretting that when I offer to suck your cock in front of the barista instead of asking if you want sugar in your coffee."
Coulson's smile turned into an actual, full-blown grin and Clint felt his own instinctive wince at his crude words turning into something similar.
"Maybe we could start with coffee and some negotiations about our mutual freckle problem," Coulson said in a dry tone completely at odds with the delight sparkling in his eyes. "If that goes well, I'm sure you'll tell me about any other offers while we're negotiating for dinner."
"Coffee sounds great," Clint said. "Really great. I like coffee."
"You've mentioned that before."
"Right, yeah." Clint paused and narrowed his eyes. "That time you asked me for coffee, was it...?"
"My subtle way of asking you for a date?"
"Sir, you need to be less subtle with me."
"I'm getting that impression. And it's 'Phil', not 'sir'." Coulson moved half a step closer, standing so close that Clint could almost feel his body heat. "I think that now we've established I'd definitely like you to lick my freckles, 'sir' might not be appropriate outside the workplace."
Clint grinned. "I can work with that. Any chance you're standing right here so I can kiss you?"
Coulson's answer involved a soft brush of lips together and a fingertip just touching the edge of Clint's jaw. It was a ridiculously sweet kiss, barely enough pressure to even deserve the name, but Clint still felt the air whoosh out of his lungs in a sigh. He wanted to do it again, to press forward and ravish Coulson's mouth, but they were standing in the middle of a SHIELD parking garage and there were some things he didn't want caught on camera. Their first really good make out session was definitely on that list.
He darted one quick, hard kiss before moving away, though, because sometimes he really had no control over his lips and no desire to assert control.
"What's the timetable on the coffee date?" he asked. "Are we talking tomorrow...next week...?
"How much time do you need to nap and shower?" Coulson asked.
"Five hours," Clint said quickly. "Maybe four if you don't expect coherence."
"I'd prefer you to have some of your wits around you, so let's say noon. My apartment?"
Clint grinned, a bubble of warm happiness expanding in his chest. "I'll bring the coffee, you bring the freckles. It's a date."