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As a general rule, Phil Coulson wasn't surprised anymore.
As a SHIELD agent, it was his job to be able to handle every possible situation...even the ones that really shouldn't have existed.
Case in point, shapeshifters.
Humans being able to morph themselves into a different species at will was at one point on his ever decreasing “Things That Cannot Possibly Exist” list. Yet, they were a thing. A very real, a very unpredictable, and sometimes very dangerous thing.
Shapeshifters were often known for hellish tempers and instinctual reactions. For example, SHIELD had, at one point, a shapeshifter with the alternative form of a llama employed. Said employee got so angry, he spit at the other agent pissing him off
When he'd shot Clint Barton in the leg to haul him into HQ, Phil had subconsciously ruled any possibility of him being a shapeshifter. As previously noted, hellish tempers and instinctual reactions, the man should have shifted after being shot. Keyword: should.
As Phil Coulson later finds out, should isn't a word you can use with Clint Barton.
It was almost eight years after they'd met that Clint’s secret revealed itself.
They were in Phil’s office and Clint was losing his ever living shit.
He'd recently (as in like half an hour ago) got off the quinjet from a mission ran by the one, the only, Victoria-fucking-Hand. The one SHIELD agent that hated him more than anyone else, which was a lot.
It should have been an easy, in and out intel mission, but of course, it wasn't. It'd been staged. Clint had lost four baby agents, four, and was now on disciplinary probation for going against Hand’s orders to save as many as the other babies as he could. He tells himself he only did that because Phil hates the paperwork.
“Clint, you can't blame yourself for losing them. They knew the risks.” Phil had been repeating that phrase with different words for fifteen minutes now.
“I failed, Coulson! I'm the eyes in the sky! I should have fucking known! If I hadn't been such an idiot I would have all ten of them back instead of only six!” Clint was pacing and ripping his hands through his hair, grabbing at the roots of his golden brown hair and yanking on it. It was painful to watch. Clint never handled losing baby agents well, hell, Phil never handled losing baby agents well.
Phil rose from his desk and grabbed Barton’s shoulders firmly and steered him to the couch that'd been a permanent fixture in his office for the last six years. He lowered Clint down to the couch and looked him in the eye.
“You need to get control of yourself, Barton. Save your freak out for at home. You have too many people who don't like you to topple over here. Breathe, Agent. What do you need to get your head back?” Phil felt like such an ass for having to force the man out of a panic attack, but they were both on duty for a few more hours. He needed Clint to hold himself together until they could leave and get him properly settled.
It was unnerving how Clint searched his eyes. The archer’s tricoloured eyes swirling in indecision and hesitation, like he knew what he needed, but was scared to say it. Phil for his part didn't flinch away. He held steady eye contact and tried to radiate enough calm for the archer to allow himself some form of comfort.
Phil saw the resolution come to in Clint's eyes and the archer nodded firmly. It was a familiar nod to Phil. One Clint used often on missions. Before Phil’s eyes, the archer shoved up off the couch, stripped his shirt and cargo pants off and suddenly, Clint was gone and in his place a lithe black and silver cat with deep striping and spots and swirling multi colored eyes.
As a general rule, Phil wasn't surprised. But right now? He was pretty fucking surprised.
He blinked down at the cat who was standing stock still, tense and ready to run or hide. He just shook his head fondly.
“Do you know how much paperwork this is going to be?” Phil rolled his eyes at the soft mrrp of apology, “Come on then.”
The softness of his voice surprised him, but then again, he always was soft with Clint. In his skittish secondary from, he reminded Phil of the scared teen he'd brought in eight years ago, minus the smartass remarks and anger.
Phil sat at his desk and began his paperwork once more. Clint took a moment of hesitation before he jumped up and landed in Phil's lap with a soft thump.
Clint curled around himself and tucked his face under his paws. Phil dropped a hand to the velvety fur and trailed his fingers gently down the length of Clint’s back. He wasn't sure of the boundaries here, but when Clint arched into Phil’s touch, he had to hold back a chuckle. Now that he sees Clint's second form, a lot of the man’s odd mannerisms make sense.
Within seconds of Phil beginning to pet Clint, he began to purr. The rumbling vibrations were gentle and soft at first, just hints of the sound that barely reached Phil’s ears. But it wasn't long until Clint was nearly shaking with the force of his purrs. Clint fell asleep in Phil's lap purring. Phil couldn't hold back a smile at that. He snapped a picture with his personal phone and texted Natasha.
Did you know about this?
The reply was almost instantaneous.
Of course. The idiot finally told you?
Phil could hear her sniff of disdain behind that text. He rolled his eyes.
What do you mean “finally”? And there wasn't much telling. He just stripped and shifted. Long story.
Phil was surprised at the length of silence from the other end. He knew Nat was off duty today, much to her protests, and had been pretty much glued to her phone for something to do.
He had a panic attack, didn't he?
Phil sighed. He knew that Clint had some issues with panic attacks, but for even Natasha to jump straight to that told him Clint had attacks far more often than he let on.
Almost. He lost four baby agents on this last mission. He's pretty shook up.
Phil ran his hand down Clint’s back a few more times before her reply came in.
I'll be there soon. Keep him with you. If you think he's hard to find as a human, don't imagine trying to find him as a cat. It's nearly impossible for even me.
Phil huffed out a laugh and glanced at the sleeping feline. He could only imagine how difficult that endeavor would be.
Of course.
True to her word, Natasha was there in 22 minutes. She opened his office door without knocking and he felt Clint tense. Phil rested his hand gently on the cat’s back.
“Clint.”
The cat’s ears perked up immediately and he launched out of Phil’s lap. Natasha’s hands were splayed in front of her torso for Clint to launch himself up onto her shoulder, where he sat with a small mew.
Natasha reached up and scratched the side of his face and behind his ear in greeting. His purrs instantly filled the room. Phil quirked a brow.
“Is that normal for him?” The corners of Nat’s mouth twitched up in a small smile.
“You know how he always looks over your shoulder while you cook?” Phil nods. Natasha just gestured dismissively towards Clint.
“This is how that started. We were in a safe house in Berlin and he was really sick. Clingy, tired, miserable. When I went to go make dinner, I ended up with a cat on the counter. A miserable, sick, sneezing, clingy cat. On the counter. So I sat him on my shoulder so he could see and have physical contact. He's done it ever since.”
Phil shook his head fondly. His archer was a dork. Natasha had a rare softness in her eyes. Not near as sharp as they usually were, gently swirling seas of dark green as she looked at Clint, who was absently batting around a lock of her crimson hair.
Phil sighed. This warm, comforting feeling that was nestled comfortably behind his breastbone was addictive. He longed to see that warmth in Natasha’s eyes more often, he craved Clint’s trust like a heroine addict. He wishes more than ever that they were all in his apartment, dressed down and not worried. He wished that Clint could be comfortable enough to lounge around as a cat or a human.
He impulsively leaned over and clocked out on his computer. He wasn't going to get anything more done today. Both Natasha and Clint watched him curiously.
“Thai sound good to you two?” Natasha's eyes lit up with laughter.
“Perfect.” “Mrrp!”
Clint jumped off Nat’s shoulder and looked at the Russian expectantly. She held open a black backpack. Clint hopped into the bag with a small huff.
“Everything is a little too much when he's like this. It keeps him from getting scared.” Natasha explained. An offended sounding yowl exploded from the bag.
“Hush, маленькая птица. Your masculinity is the least of my concern. The last time I carried you through a crowd, you left my favourite blouse in tatters.”
Phil barked a short laugh. Clint popped his head out of the partially zipped pocket and turned offended eyes to Phil. The mock offense and indignant meow were too much for Phil to handle. His body shook in silent laughter. Clint turned a smug look to Natasha who rolled her eyes dramatically at his antics.
It took them only a few minutes to get out of headquarters and into Phil’s personal car, Lola. Clint sat on Natasha's lap and yowled along to the radio. Much to both Natasha's and Phil’s amusement.
They stopped at a small, hole in the wall Thai restaurant near Bed Stuy, Phil left both Natasha and Clint in the car with a strong warning about claws anywhere his seats and a certain cat would find himself relocated to Siberia. Clint gave him a look before glancing at Natasha as to say “hey, she's the Russian, not me!”
Phil just rolled his eyes.
He came back a few minutes later with a hot bag of Spicy Pad Thai, Chicken and Yellow Curry, and Rice and Green Curry. Clint was asleep in Natasha's lap.
He drove in peaceful silence, only periodically interrupted by sporadic purrs. Natasha looked as though she was dozing in the passenger seat and his head was quiet and warm as he pulled up to his dingy apartment building.
Both Clint and Natasha blinked sleepily when he turned the car off. He smiled, “Come on, you two.”
They made it into Phil's apartment quickly and began to shed the most obnoxious of their clothing. Nag peeled off her leather jacket and slipped her shoes off, storing them in the cubby of the hall bench. She pulled her hair up into a loose top knot and opened the bag fully to allow Clint to hop out.
Phil loosened his tie and hung his suit jacket up on the hooks above the bench. He kicked his shoes off and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. He flicked the top buttons of his shirt open with deft precision. When he looked back up, Clint and Natasha were looking at him with curious stares.
“Make yourselves comfortable. I'll bring some sweats out for both of you. There's a shower down the hall if you want one. Natasha, would you mind playing up dinner?” Nat replied with a soft “of course”. And he disappeared down the hall. He pulled off his slacks and slipped on a pair of soft sweats and an old Rangers t-shirt that had cracked letters and was beginning to turn see through.
On his way out he grabbed a pair of sweats for both Clint and Natasha as well as a hoodie and shirt for them, should they want it.
He had to stop in the hall as he approached his kitchen. Clint was sitting on Natasha’s shoulder as she plated up each dish. Natasha was speaking in a low pitch , and even the natural frost of her Russian words didn't hide the gentle tone in which she spoke. He pulled his phone from his pocket and quickly snapped a few pictures before they realized he was there.
He walked up beside Natasha as she looked up, a knowing look in her eyes. He smiled sheepishly and shrugged. Her eyes narrowed playfully. He locked eyes with Clint just as the cat’s pupils exploded. The tricolor was barely a ring on the very outside of his eyes. Clint shifted back and forth a moment before launching himself onto Phil's shoulder.
Phil huffed out a soft laugh at his archer’s antics. He grabbed two of the plates off the counter and took them to the table, careful not to jostle Clint too much.
“I don't know how you expect to eat Pad Thai noodles as a cat, Clint.” The cat just looked at him. Phil felt a little guilty about saying that, but he laughed at the familiar “watch me” challenge in Clint’s eyes.
“Very well.” Phil laughed.
Clint decided he loved to see Phil smile.
It was weird to see Coulson this open, but it was an amazing look on him. The tension lines faded from his face and were replaced by laugh lines and the haunted look in his eyes faded a little.
Clint had never been to the senior agent’s apartment before, but it suited the man. Soft browns and mahogany furniture, shaggy cream colored carpet, light wood cabinets, and granite countertops.
He wasn't prepared for how at home he felt here.
When Coulson walked out of the hall, dressed in sweats and a see through Rangers tee, he wasn't prepared for how right everything felt. Sitting on Tasha’s shoulder he sighed. He wanted this. This quiet in his head, the warmth he felt around both of these people.
He wasn't attracted. Well, he was actually really attracted to Coulson, but at the moment, he was attracted to the feeling of home. Of family. Of Tash and Phil and him. In this moment, they weren't Strike Team Delta. Or SHIELD Agents. They were just Nat, Clint, and Phil. And that felt good.
The gentle teasing and easy banter that went between them was soothing. Even when Phil started laughing when Clint had gotten a noodle stuck on one of his canine teeth.
And when rain started to pitter-patter on the window, he sighed in contentment. He stretched after he jumped down from the table and meandered over to the window, he set his front paws up on the lip of the wall and set his chin down to watch the droplets of rain draw patterns.
Time was slow when he was like this, so he didn't know whether it had been minutes or hours later when Phil set a gentle hand on the top of his head. He started purring immediately. The senior agent scooped Clint up gently and deposited him on the couch next to Nat, who was now bundled up in a pair of Phil's sweats, his hoodie, and a pair of socks. He eyed her feet warily. She had the worst habit of forgetting socks and her feet were always cold. More often than not, Clint turned into her personal heater. Damn Nat and her freezing feet.
Phil sat down next to Clint and flipped on the newest episode of Dog Cops. Clint tried to pay attention for all of two minutes, but then Coulson’s hand joined Natasha's in petting him and he was gone. He purred loudly, deep rumbles of total contentment and peace. He was so gone he didn't even notice himself falling asleep pressed against both of their legs.
“He's asleep, isn't he?” Phil murmured.
“Passed out about two hours ago.”
Phil chuckled, “How long will he stay like this?”
Natasha pulled her lip in between her teeth. Phil recognised the tell as her not being sure about what to say. He sat quietly until she found her words.
“In my experience, he’ll stay like this for tonight and be back in the morning,” She pauses, hesitant to continue for some reason.
“But..?” Phil prompted gently, normally Natasha would close right up, but he felt so outside of the parameters of normal, and he was pretty sure so did she.
“But, he's been wanting to tell you for years and I've never seen him so comfortable in this form. If I know him, he's probably going to stay like this for longer than usual.”
Phil couldn't help the smile that launched itself onto his face. He really didn't want to go to work tomorrow.
“In that case, you two are more than welcome to stay here tomorrow. I'll put Clint on mandatory rest for hiding injuries from medical.” He thinks Natasha hears the wistful undertone to his voice because she gives him a small smile. Her expression fades for a moment, the hesitation is present again.
“Just so you know...when Clint is in this form...he's...tactile. Just know he'll probably seek you out tonight.” Natasha actually looked nervous, but only to someone who knew her as well as he did. Otherwise she looked just as composed as usual.
Phil had to laugh a little. He looked at Natasha with mischief, that wasn't usually present in his eyes, sparkling in his dark eyes, “Natasha, the least of my worries is having a snuggly Clint in my bed. Trust me.”
His statement surprised a laugh out of the stoic assassin. He smiled and the soft laughter from a woman who hadn't laughed near as much as she should. Hell, none of them laughed as much as they should.
He should have known that Natasha would say something that would knock him completely off-kilter, “At least you acknowledge it.”
“W-What?” Phil was slightly scared of the gleam in Natasha's eyes. Smug satisfaction was something that people didn't like to see on Natasha's face because it usually meant death or worse.
Natasha relished in the scared and nervous look on Coulson’s face. He eyes were widened only a fraction of an inch, but Natasha knew him well.
“At least you acknowledge the fact that you're head over heels for him and have been pathetically pining for years.”
Phil groaned, “Natasha I'm not head over- wait! I am not pathetically pining over him!”
Nat just raised a brow and stared at him. She watched as the realisation dawned on his face. It nearly startled a laugh out of her when he turned a stricken expression towards her, “I'm really pathetically pining, aren't I?”
“Yes.”
Coulson let out a string of explicits that impressed her, “Who else knows?”
“Everyone but him.” Coulson choked.
“Oh god,” He turns a truly terrified face towards her, “Fury.”
She gives him a sharp grin, “Runs the pools.”
Coulson makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. Natasha's body was shaking in silent laughter. Coulson tried to glare at her, but failed about as hard as Clint fails at resisting sweets.
Coulson rakes a hand down his face. He mumbles some semblance of a “goodnight” before shuffling down the hall. Natasha grinned. She hadn't had this much fun since Budapest.
Phil’s not sure how much time had passed between when he made his hasty retreat from a certain redhead and when tiny paws made their way up onto his bed.
He didn't open his eyes when Clint tapped a paw gently on his cheek. Or when his cold nose nudged his jaw. He barely concealed a smile at the frustrated huff the cat puffed out.
He knew Clint knew he was awake, but he was having fun annoying the archer.
“Mreow!” Clint's faux offended meow finally got Phil to open his eyes. He knew Clint could see the laughter in his eyes, even in the dark of his room.
“Mrrp.” Phil could see Clint pouting and giving him pathetic eyes, which he'd mastered in his human form as well, and Phil was only human, he couldn't resist. With an eye roll and an exaggerated sigh, he lifted the comforter and let Clint crawl under it. The black and silver cat curled right up against his chest and began purring. The rumble of Clint’s purr was something Phil could feel all through his chest. He doesn't think he's ever fallen asleep that quickly.
When he wakes up to his alarm the next morning, Clint is gone, but the spot where he was curled up is still warm. He hadn't been gone long.
Phil rushes through his morning routine, slightly desperate to have more of this quiet happiness he got a taste of last night.
When he exits his room, freshly showered and in his customary suit, he smells something mouthwatering coming from his kitchen.
Clint is standing shirtless in his kitchen with a two skillets on the stove and something in the oven. Natasha is cutting up vegetables close by.
The first thing he notices after he's able to tear his eyes from the expanse of Clint's back, is that they're quiet. He knows from experience, when Clint and Nat cook together, there's some kind of noise. Quiet banter, mumbled singing, there's always some kind of noise between the two. It cues Phil into Clint's headspace.
He's either uncomfortable, or not ready to be back to Clint the human.
Phil walks in silently and snags a cup of coffee. Natasha turns a disapproving look to him.
“You have got to stop living on frozen dinners and coffee, Coulson. You're going to die via processing poison,” Nat sniffs disdainfully as he opens he mouth to argue he doesn't always eat frozen dinners, “That includes the million of take out containers you have in your refrigerator.”
Phil flushes. He sees Clint smile. He flushes harder. The tips of his ears are bright red and he's scowling at Natasha.
The Russian just smiles.
He scarfs down the egg, sausage, bell peppers, onions, and a million and ten other things that are laid on his plate before he has to leave. Natasha and Clint stay at his apartment.
Nat texts him about lunchtime to tell him that she'll be dropping by with a healthy lunch for him and that Clint is back to terrorising her on four paws.
Phil wonders why he shifted back this morning if he wasn't ready to be on two feet. The mysteries of Clint Barton never failed to surprise him.
Nat shows up in his office at about 1300 hours. They eat some sort of chicken parmesan with vegetables and other shit he would have never eaten at his own device.
He's kind of pissed when she has to leave because almost as soon as she closes his door, Jasper Sitwell bursts through and informs him that he's needed in the command centre immediately and to get there as fast as humanly possible with direct orders from the Director to make it faster.
He makes it to the command centre and is greeted with complete chaos. Fury is screaming at all the agents, Hill is trying to get everything back under control, agents are running around like chickens with their head cut off. He hits the button for the overhead sprinklers as he walks in. Everyone goes quiet and still. He's pretty sure he has murder written on his face.
He takes a deep breath before turning to one of the Level 5 Agents who he'd trained, “Agent Samuel, report.”
“Agents Tamarin and Fletcher have been captured by unknown hostiles in Egypt on their latest mission. Their junior agents are scattered and disorganised with three that could be fatally injured and one dead. We're attempting to assemble an emergency medical rescue. Tamarin was able to deploy her distress beacon before they went dark. We think it's HYDRA, Sir.”
Phil nods, “Agents Davidson, Justice, Wu, and Gibson you'll go to medical and assemble a Ned team immediately. Carter, Reyes, Ire, and Hutch prep the jets. Winston, Que, Andrews track that beacon as far as you can. I want all the coordinates it's landed on for more that fifteen minutes. Vesquez, Zachery, Michaels, I want reports on those baby agents within the next fifteen minutes. Jacob, Alexander get strike teams ready.” Everyone replied with a “Yes, Sir!” And scattered into a more organised chaos.
Hill just looked at him with a disbelieving expression as her hair dripped and stuck to her cheeks and forehead. Fury just scowled.
“This. This is why I hired you.” The Director said. Phil just stared at his longest friend.
“I need you to contact the baby agents. They're in complete disarray.” Fury said a moment. Phil wanted to sigh. Of course. And he was going to go home early.
Phil scowls at the Director for all of half a second before shooing the nearest comm agent out of his station and picking up the headset. He bypasses the Jr. Agent’s comm firewall with practiced ease and patches himself into their com units.
“Distress Team Sierra. This is Base Command Agent Coulson. Do you copy?” Phil heard static before a voice patched through
“Agent Coulson! This is Agent Raina Palova. We need back up immediately. Our SOs have been captured by unknown hostiles and our safe house is surrounded. We have three agents in critical condition and one dead. We need help and fast.”
Phil was vaguely impressed with the crisp report from the junior. Most of them couldn't keep their cool.
“Copy that Agent Palova. We have a medical team and reinforcements en route as we speak. Injury assessments?” He could hear her sigh of slight relief.
“Agent Cameron Yew is our fatality. Agent Garrett Strong is our most critical with three bullets through the stomach. One exit wound in the right side of the lower back and internal bleeding. We have him on oxygen and have removed the two other bullets. We believe his large intestine and right kidney have been nicked. Broken ribs and a shattered collarbone. Agent Kelly Fosters is in critical condition with a stab wound and a partially collapsed right lung. Broken hand and ankle. Agent Ryan Dexter is the least critical with a bullet through the leg. It clipped an artery and bleeding profusely, though we've been able to contain it slightly.”
Phil breathed through his nose. He'd known Cameron Yew. Helped the kid advance on his hand to hand. The kid had been smart and resilient. Outcasted, but extremely resourceful. Phil had always thought that Natasha would like him.
“Thank you, Agent Palova. Keep them alive. Medical will be there in four hours. Keep pressure on Dexter’s leg, reinforcements are on their way. How many other agents are there?”
“Just two besides myself, sir. We're all okay. Minor injuries and a couple broken fingers. We'll hold down here until medical is here.” Phil made a note to promote Raina Palova. She'd shown some pretty impressive composure and control over a dangerous situation. Most baby agents would lose their minds.
“Copy that, Agent Palova. Stay composed. You've been promoted to a temporary mission officer. You're in charge. Keep those agents alive. I'll contact you when medical and reinforcements are ready to land.”
Phil heard her sharp breath on the other end, “Yes, sir. Copy that, sir. We await your word.”
Phil disconnected from the radio and rose from the station. Agent Winston handed him a sheet of paper with coordinates that he'd asked for with a quiet, “Sir.”
Phil reset the connection to the Strike Team November frequency, “Strike Team November. This is Base Command’s Strike Team Delta. Do you copy?”
“Strike Team November, what's going on, Delta Prime?”
“You are en route for a rescue mission from what we assumed to be HYDRA. Your objective is to rescue Agents Tamarin and Fletcher with the aid of Strike Team Bravo. You're to attempt to achieve the objective in any way you can without unnecessary loss. Regardless of if the objective is completed, upon retreat, blow the base.” It was an order he hated to give. Knowing that if November could get out Tamarin and Fletcher, he'd be killing he own agents, but if HYDRA in Egypt, they had bigger issues.
“Roger that, sir. Permission to take out any and all hostiles previous to that?”
“Permission denied. Get in, get out, as quickly and quietly as possible. Take out only who you need. You'll take the rest of them with the explosive. Permission to take out any stragglers, granted.”
Phil could hear the disappointed sigh of Agent Walters on the other end. The man had a personal grudge against HYDRA and usually any goons he found, died pretty slowly and painfully.
“Copy that, Delta Prime. Not happy about it though.” Walters quipped. Phil resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
“Funny. I don't recall asking,” Phil deadpans, “Keep this clean, Walters. I want this wrapped up with a neat bow and nine agents back here alive. I already have one in a body bag. I don't want anymore. The paperwork is a nightmare. Clear?”
“Crystal, sir.”
“Good.” With that, Phil disconnected and watched the camera footage on the big screen. The jets had reached the baby agents’ safe house and were currently disposing of the surrounding hostiles. The medical team wouldn't be far behind them. He got the ETA for the strike teams and read through the reports.
“Get out of here, Coulson.” Fury said ten hours later. Phil glanced up at him before going back to his reports.
“I mean it, asshole. Get out of here. We've got this under our control. Go home before I shoot you.” Phil just raised a brow.
Fury glared. Phil sighed and drug himself from the chair he'd been plastered in for hours, “Fine.”
Phil spent the drive back to Bed Stuy trying to reset his mind. Sometime work tried to get rid of Phil. The constant death and destruction he faced tried to destroy the open, carefree, kind person that he used to be. Only when he was in the confines of his shitty apartment could he drop the stone cold robot mask that made his job easier.
He was so absorbed in trying to right his head, he completely forgot that Natasha and Clint were still at his apartment. The bundle of silver and black fur that launched itself at Phil’s legs when he walked in made him flinch.
Clint drew back immediately, looking up at Phil's face with a look of worry in his eyes. Phil sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face.
“Sorry, Clint.” He mumbled. He toed off his shoes and hung his jacket. He yanked his tie off and threw it on the hall bench and rolled up his sleeves. He didn't even have the energy to go put on comfy clothes.
He was vaguely confused as to why he felt like this. How many of these mission recoveries had he done in the years he worked for SHIELD? How many agents had he lost? How many more would he lose? Immediately he thought of Clint and Natasha and his chest seized. He sat down on the couch and dropped his head into his hands.
What would he do if he lost one or both of them? He couldn't fathom it. Losing the two constants in his life? They weren't just his specialists. They were his friends. He couldn't imagine losing them. Well, he could imagine losing them, he just prayed it wouldn't happen. He startled when a small hand laid itself on his shoulder. Clint must have gotten Natasha.
“Come, Семья.” She says softly. She guides him to his room where she sits him on the end of his bed and unbuttons his shirt carefully. She's careful not to touch him.
She slides a soft tee over his head and commands him to put his arms through the sleeves with gentle tones. She somehow slips off his slacks and doesn't bother with sweats. She guides him into bed and tucks the comforter around him.
He has a feeling he whimpers when she goes to leave.
She gently brushes cool fingers over his forehead and murmurs to him in quiet Russian. Clint curls up on his chest and tucks his nose against Phil’s collarbone. He purrs gently.
Phil doesn't remember falling asleep, but boy does he remember waking up.
His head was pounding and he could feel dried tear tracks on his face. His chest felt heavy, but it wasn't with anxiety or sadness. When he opened his eyes, he was met with two, multi coloured eyes clouded in worry and concern looking back at him. He vaguely remembered Clint curling up on his chest, but the cat was currently sitting on Phil’s chest with eyes full of worry. Phil tried to smile, but he's pretty sure it was more a grimace. Clint rubbed the side of his face against Phil’s cheek.
Phil just lied there for a while, absently scratching Clint's ears and running his hand down the expanse of his furry body. Clint just purred and didn't seem keen on leaving anytime soon.
Phil noticed that Natasha was lying asleep on Phil's right and he felt guilty. He'd come home at two or three in the morning. He hadn't even thought about Natasha sleeping. She probably didn't sleep most the night, then. Keeping an eye on him. Shit, he was an asshole.
As if sensing his thoughts, Clint popped him on the nose with a paw. Phil arched an amused brow at the cat. Clint just pointedly stared at him.
“Come on, let's go make breakfast.” Phil whispered quietly. Clint bounded to the end of the bed and waited while Phil carefully extracted himself from his bed, trying not to jostle or wake Natasha. The fact that she didn't stir was proof enough that she needed sleep.
He scooped Clint into his arms without even thinking about it until a surprised meow sounded. Phil just chuckled and lifted Clint higher so he could sit on Phil’s shoulder.
Phil was actually a decent cook, but he just didn't bother most days. But today he needed the distraction. He pulled out everything he'd need to make pancakes.
He grabbed a large bowl, flour, baking powder, salt, and sugar. He set all those on the counter before grabbing a smaller bowl and dropping three tablespoons of butter in there. He put the butter in the microwave to melt and grabbed eggs.
He made his batter from scratch and poured it onto the griddle he'd grabbed earlier. He got lost in the process of pour, wait, flip, wait, remove. It helped keep his head clear for a little while. He fed Clint a few pieces of hot cake he ripped off. The cat purred gently in thanks each time.
He plated up the hot cakes for the three of them, Clint's in cat sized pieces, before he noticed Natasha sitting at the bar.
“Hot cakes?” He asked, softly. He still felt guilty for waking her last night. She gave him a smile and nodded. He set the plate down in front of her before grabbing a fork and knife for her. He poured both himself and Natasha a glass of orange juice. He looked at Clint and then to the open refrigerator. The cat jumped off the counter, walked across the kitchen and jumped into the fridge.
Phil laughed out loud. He watched Clint bat at the milk jug and meow at Phil as he just stood there shaking his head.
“Clinton Francis Barton, get out of the refrigerator.” He was still laughing as he pulled out the milk and a bowl for Clint.
They ate breakfast in relative silence. That was until Clint decided that he wanted some of Natasha's orange juice which was not in a bowl but rather a tall, narrow glass. Naturally, Clint drank some of Nat’s juice, but when he tried to pull his head out of said glass, he found himself quite stuck.
Phil and Natasha both laughed at the archer's misfortune. He was back-pedalling with the glass still stuck on his head and nearly fell off the counter. Phil scooped him up and removed the glass from Clint's head with a gentle twist, and grabbed a towel to try and clean the the orange juice off of a struggling cat’s face.
“Clint, keep trying to pull away and I'm going to dump you in the bathtub.” Phil threatened. Clint stopped struggling immediately and instead released an offended yowl. Phil didn't need to speak cat to know Clint was accusing him of being a traitor.
“You know, I could let you just walk around with orange juice on your face and when you come back with your whiskers stuck together, I'll just laugh.” The cat in his arms pouts, but lets Phil continue to scrub his face.
When Phil lets Clint down, he immediately begins to soothe his ruffled fur. Phil watches with a bemused expression as Clint lifts his paw, licks it, and pushes his head underneath it. Everything is quiet until the shrill tone of his cell phone breaks it. Both Phil and Clint start. Natasha's face is crossed with a dark look.
Phil retrieves his phone from his suit jacket and sighs at the caller id, “Coulson,” He answers.
“Where the fuck are you, Phil? No Maria, he's not dead, cancel the search and rescue teams.”
Phil sighs again, “No, I'm not dead. What can I do for you, Director?”
“I don't know, show up to your fucking job?”
“I'm not coming in today, Nick. Take it out of my pay or vacation days or whatever.” Phil hears the line go quiet for a moment. Then a small click. Fury entered his office. The voice that replied was no longer Director Fury of SHIELD, wasn't even Nicholas Fury. The voice was of his longest friend, Marcus Johnson.
“What's going on, Cheese?”
“I'm tired, Marcus. I'll be there tomorrow. I'm fine. Just tired.” He knew it wouldn't cut it, but he said it anyway.
“Cheese…” Marcus was quiet for a moment, “Where are Barton and Romanov?”
“With me.”
“Alright. Why don't you take the rest of the week off, Cheese? You sound like you need it.”
“I'm fine, I'll be there in the morning.”
He heard Marcus’ exaggerated sigh, “Take the rest of the week, Phil. I'm not going to have you break down in the middle of a mission. If I need you or Barton or Romanov, I'll call you all in. Take the rest of the week.”
Phil rolled his eyes, “Nick, I'm fine. I'm not going to break down in the middle of a mission, I'm more professional than that. I'll save it for afterwards.”
He heard Nick’s short bark of laughter and saw both of Clint and Natasha's sharp glares.
“Yeah, you would, wouldn't you? Stupid motherfucker. Take the rest of the week, asshole, or I'll shoot you in the knee cap for stepping foot on my base.”
Phil huffed a quiet laugh, “I’d really rather we not repeat that experience again, Nick.”
Clint and Natasha's eyes widened to a comical degree.
“Well, maybe if you actually listened and did what I say for once in your life, you wouldn't have ended up with a bullet through each knee, now would you?”
“At least I didn't end up with a bullet through my shoulder.”
“Test me and I can make that happen.”
Both Phil and Nick are quiet for a moment before they chuckle at the long standing joke, “Go fuck your archer and trade poker faces with the Russian terror. I'll mark you out unless serious emergency.”
Phil chokes on air, “Nicholas Joseph Fury Jr.”
His face is flaming. Nick is laughing. Clint looks mortified. Natasha looks like the cat who caught the canary.
“Philip Jeremy Coulson.”
Phil groaned, “You are the worst person I have ever met.”
“Phil. I'm the Director of the world's only competent intelligence agency that protects people from the weird, the wacky, and literally everything else. It's my fucking job to be the worst person you've ever met. But on that note, I'm still in the game for the pools.”
“I hope you get shot in the kneecaps and the head, Nick.”
“Ha. Don't you all?”
Nick hangs up without any other word. Phil dropped his phone back into his suit jacket’s pocket. He turned to Natasha and Clint with a sheepish look.
“Sorry?” He meant sorry to Clint, but Natasha was the one who replied.
“Sorry? Honestly Phil,” she grabbed a slinking away cat by the scruff of his neck and completely ignoring his yowl of protest, “If you asked him, he'd say yes. To fucking you or to a date. I am so sick of you two pining over each other. It's making me sick. Clint, go shift and put on clothes, and if you sneak out the window I will actually maim you. You two need to use grown up words and stop being pathetic children.”
As Clint slunk away down the hall, Phil tried to edge towards the door, Natasha levelled her icy glare towards him, “Try it and I'll raise the Director by putting a knife through your hand and sticking you to the table.”
Phil glared back, “You will not, Natasha Romanov. That is my grandmother's table. I will not have you scratching it or getting blood all over it.”
Natasha shook her head and mumbled words that curiously sounded like “stupid motherfucker”.
Clint shyly edged out of the hallway in a purple hoodie and sweats, “Hi.”
His voice was rough and deep from disuse. Phil repressed a shiver. Natasha rolled her eyes.
“I'll be back. If you two haven't gotten your shit together by then I'm shooting the both of you.”
Clint and Phil watch the redhead saunter out the door and then look back to each other.
Neither of them say anything for a moment, but then Clint shrugs in a “fuck it” gesture, strides across the room, grabs Phil’s t-shirt, yanks him forward and crashes his lips to Phil's.
As a general rule, Phil Coulson wasn't surprised anymore.
As a general rule, Clint Barton is an exception to all of Phil Coulson’s general rules.