Chapter Text
Maybe Sitwell should have ducked. Or maybe they shouldn’t have decided to walk back to HQ, still buzzed from taking down a drugs factory in the centre of New York. The drugs had been heavy-duty hallucinogenics, so neither Coulson, Sitwell or May were comfortable getting behind the wheel of a car. They could have waited for SHIELD dispatch to have them picked up, or even grabbed a taxi. But they hadn’t and now it felt like war had broken out. They’d been walking through the park when high-pitched screams had caught their ears. A projectile whizzed past Coulson and then Jasper lay prone in the snow gun in each hand.
“Kids, Sitwell,” Coulson called, pointing towards the group of teens peppering each other and any passing pedestrians with clumps of frozen water. His tone was sharp enough to cut through the wash of adrenaline and Jasper jumped up like wrath personified. He holstered the guns, scooped up hands full of snow and suddenly it was every man for himself as snowballs flew from all directions.
Duck!
Coulson was so used to that particular voice in his ear that he responded without thought. He hit the ground and two missiles missed his scalp by an icy breath or two.
“Barton?”
Stay low. Move to your left.
Coulson hadn’t banked on help from above, but he took it anyway. It was comforting to see Barton up and about and his irrepressible self again. After his recent brush with death – captured, poisoned and turned into a walking bomb – Clint wasn’t cleared for fieldwork yet. But no fieldwork clearly didn’t translate to Clint staying warm and dry and taking it easy.
Enforced idleness didn’t sit well with Barton. And while there was a tiny trace of the drug remaining in Clint’s blood and he needed regular checkups and the occasional day of rest and meditation, the freedom to move at will again had to be intoxicating.
“Are you by any chance checking up on me, Barton?”
Would I do that?
Face down in the snow while snowballs skimmed his hair, Coulson allowed himself a smile. Of course the archer would check up on him; quietly, unobtrusively, and for the most part without anyone being aware of his presence. Barton guarded Coulson’s back as diligently as Coulson guarded Clint’s.
Once the poison in Clint’s blood had fallen to a level where basic tasks didn’t leave him gasping for air and passing out from lack of oxygen, Clint had moved back into his own apartment and Coulson and Nat had returned to more regular work schedules. Coulson had done his best to ignore how empty his apartment felt after weeks of Clint’s company. He’d visited Clint almost every night after work - merely to check up on Clint’s progress and stop him from climbing the walls - and had often stayed for dinner and a movie. Clint had turned out to be a surprisingly good cook and Coulson had had to put in extra hours in the gym to compensate for living on something richer, tastier and more nourishing than take-out Chinese and gas station donuts.
Incoming. Nine o’clock.
From one moment to the next, the teasing vanished from Clint’s voice. Instructions to duck and move and attack came in quick order and unless he wanted to be caught in the cross-fire of May and Sitwell’s shots, Coulson had to listen and react. It was second nature, something they’d done in countless fire fights and practised over and over on SHIELD’s training ranges. And if nothing else, it told Agent Phil Coulson that a capture, a brush with death and three months of medical leave hadn’t impaired his top asset’s tactical abilities.
***
Clint watched from his hideout as Sitwell and May shook hands with Coulson before heading off across the park. The impromptu snowball fight had surprised the hell out of Clint. Frivolous and Coulson were two terms that didn’t fit into the same sentence, let alone the same thought. But there the man was, with rosy cheeks and a coat dusted with white, gloves and hat soaked through with melting slush. His shoes squished as he came closer to Clint’s meagre shelter, hinting at wet socks and freezing cold feet. Clint mentally reviewed the contents of his wardrobe and prepared arguments that would get Coulson into a hot shower and warm, dry clothing sooner rather than later.
“You can come out, Barton.”
Clint stayed where he was, sure that Phil Coulson was bluffing. He wasn’t even looking Clint’s way.
“Barton. You realise I can smell you.”
“Now that’s unkind, sir,” Clint huffed as he stepped from concealment. “It’s the middle of winter. I’m fully dressed. And after the last three months – much of which I’ve spent taking calming baths, just in case you’d forgotten – physical exertion and I aren’t even on speaking terms anymore. Personal hygiene is so not an issue right now.”
“I wasn’t implying that it was,” his handler replied calmly and closed the distance between them. Clint stood stock still as Coulson leaned and sniffed delicately at his neck. “You’ve been baking gingerbread,” he said, voice low and full of gravel, and the combination of that rumbling voice and Coulson’s hot breath on his neck made Clint shiver. “You’re a walking cloud of enticing warm scent.”
“Really?” Clint’s knees weren’t entirely steady, but he would have dared anyone to stand unaffected under Coulson’s close scrutiny. The man’s voice alone was cause for an injunction. And was that a come-on or wishful thinking on Clint’s part?
“Really.”
Clint swallowed a tiny whine of protest as Coulson drew back and focused his thoughts on wet socks instead. And on the bone-chilling cold that crept in their wake. Coulson had his share of scars and once-broken bones. He wouldn’t find standing around cold and wet any more comfortable than Clint did on a normal day.
“Can I offer you… the fruits of my labours? Or dry socks?”
“Dry socks?”
Confusion looked adorable on Coulson and Clint suddenly didn’t care that a flush had crept up his neck to his ears and that a touch of arousal simmered in his blood. Here was his chance to take care of Coulson, and he wasn’t going to let it pass.
“Dry socks,” he confirmed stubbornly. “I could hear you squishin’ from right over there. Now, did you breathe any of those drugs or did you just feel the need to walk off the buzz?”
“The latter, why?”
Clint flagged down a passing taxi and held the door open for his handler to climb into the back. “Don’t want you to be sick on the way.”
Judging by the way Coulson sank into the taxi’s upholstery, the excess mission adrenaline was well and truly gone. The infrequent shivers that rocked the older man’s frame didn’t escape Clint’s hawk eyes, nor did the way Phil’s shoulders hunched forward as he curled in on himself to stay warm. Not that it stopped that agile mind from continuing its work. Question after question flew Clint’s way, asking about his latest blood results, his workout schedule and the time he’d spent on the range and the gym that week.
“Come in and get out of those wet shoes,” Clint said half an hour later as he led the way into his apartment. He disappeared into his bedroom to grab dry clothes and fresh towels and found his guest still struggling with his shoe laces on his return. His movements were slow and unusually clumsy and there was a fair bit of frustration on Coulson’s face.
His fingers must be stiff from the cold.
“Damn, boss, you should have said something,” Clint admonished with the broadest grin he could lay claim to. “We could have held hands in the back of that cab.”
“That something you think about doing, Barton?”
“You know, I just might,” Clint said easily, not at all put off by the hint of threat in Coulson’s tone. He held out the pack of towels, thick woollen socks, fleece-lined sweats and long-sleeved tee he carried and nodded towards the bathroom door. “Go warm up while I make dinner.”
It was fortunate that Clint had already had plans to invite his handler to dinner that night. He had mashed potatoes all ready and the venison stew he’d made needed just a few finishing touches. He used the time until Coulson stepped from the bathroom in a cloud of hot, lemon-scented steam to set the table and concoct after-dinner drinks.
“In the circus, we used to call this a Bowtie,” Clint said as he handed his guest a large, softly steaming mug. “Didn’t often get the chance to make it. It’s hot chocolate, but not as you know it. And not to be confused with any of that powdered stuff,” he continued, set a plate of gingerbread on the coffee table and settled onto the sofa beside Phil.
The chocolate was hot and dark and almost rich enough to be eaten with a spoon. Redolent with cinnamon, ginger and nutmeg and boosted with rum and a large dose of caffeine, it managed to rouse Coulson from his stew-induced food coma. Again and again he brought the mug to his face to inhale the spicy steam before taking a small, careful sip.
“You’re right,” he said quietly, visibly enjoying the treat. “I’ve never had hot chocolate like this. It’s like dessert.”
“Best remedy for cold that I’ve ever come across. But not for the fainthearted,” Clint drained his own mug and set it back on the coffee table. “I’m not much for puddings, but this… ,” He shrugged and his grin grew lopsided. “Mixing up a Bowtie reminds me that even the shittiest past can have good memories.” He nibbled on a slice of gingerbread, once again hot with embarrassment and wishing he’d kept his mouth shut rather than talk of stuff that nobody wanted to hear about.
“Like the memory of a first kiss long after that love affair has died,” Coulson said softly. “This tastes like a memory worth keeping. And well worth passing on. Will you show me how to make it?”
Clint had no idea how Phil Coulson always managed to find the right words, but as they headed to the kitchen and Clint showed his handler how to melt a large bar of Coulson’s chocolate in cream, add muscovado sugar and spices and lace it with Hawkeye rum and strong black coffee, he couldn’t have felt more content and at peace.