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Clint draws his jacket tighter around himself, the soft breeze cool on his skin, still warm from dancing for the past few hours.
He'd thought he'd found a guy to spend the night with, this blue-eyed army vet who pressed every single one of his buttons and some Clint didn't even know he had, but the guy had left a while back, mouthing a hasty "Sorry" at him before disappearing into the crowd.
His phone rings, a reminder of how he failed to even get the hot guy's phone number, and, with a resigned sigh, Clint flips it out of his pocket.
It's only when the phone is halfway to his ear that Clint realizes that no, this isn't his ringtone.
He nearly drops it at the realization, fumbling clumsily with the device until it's miraculously upright and close enough to his face that he can read the word "Mom" blinking back at him from the screen.
Yup. Definitely not his phone.
Clint lifts it to his ear, swiping his finger - he thinks it goes like this? - across the screen to answer the call, and it's only when a soft "Phillip?" sounds that he remembers that he hasn't actually thought of what he's going to say.
"Um," he replies eloquently, "No."
It only takes a moment for him to realize that maybe answering an unknwn phone with a single word isn't a good idea, and he hastily backtracks. "I mean- sorry, I mean, this is Clint. I- I think I have Phillip's phone by mistake?"
Leaning back onto a nearby streetlight, he winces at the way his voice wavers uncertainly near the end, sounding panicked and unsure even to his own ears. Sounding suspicious is obviously the best way to convince someone's parent that you've robbed their kid of his phone.
Silence is his only response, for one heartbeat, two, and suddenly-
A full bodied laugh sounds down the line, and Clint feels his eyebrows shoot upwards in surprise. "Oh, Phil," the woman's voice says - because it's a woman, obviously, what with Mom and all - and sighs contentedly. "He's going to be so embarrassed about it later."
"Does this, uh... does this happen often?" Clint asks, and only then realizes that his lips have slowly curved into a sheepish smile.
"Oh, not at all, and that's the pity," says the woman (Phil's Mom? Mother of Phillip? Progenitor of subspecies Phil?). "He's usually extremely well-organized, which is why this is going to be a great story to tell whenever we have guests over."
Clint laughs before he even realizes he's laughing, a soft chuckle undercut by a slight current of jealousy - because this Phillip has parents, this Phillip has family - but he quickly stifles both the emotion and the sound, clearing his throat to disguise it as an awkward cough.
"So, um," he says after a moment, when it becomes clear that Phil's Mom has finished talking for the time being. "I'm not sure if Phil has- if Phillip has my phone, but I'd like to return this one if possible. And I know it sounds kinda creepy but... a last name or an address or something would be really helpful right now."
"Oh, I'm so sorry, where are my manners? Peggy Coulson, at your service," says the woman (Peggy- no, Ms Coulson). "We live at 221 Bolton Street, and, since I know my son, you're probably down at Rumor, aren't you?"
Clint's cheeks heat, even though he knows he's got nothing to be ashamed of, considering how cheerfully Peggy - Ms Coulson - seems to be handling the situation. It's pretty weird to talk about gay bars with somebody's mother, but, hey, Clint has been in far weirder situations (The circus. He doesn't like to think about it much) and he can keep calm, no problem.
"Yeah," he says. His voice cracks, and Clint is struck by the sudden desire to slowly sink into the ground.
"Oh, sorry, have I offended you?" Ms Coulson asks.
"Oh, no, no! It's just- I mean..." Clint trails off, unsure he himself of what he means. "Can you just tell me how to get to your house?"
It comes out more despairing than he's intended.
"It's not something to be ashamed of, you know," Ms Coulson says, and Clint quickly glances around, searching for apparently mind-reading women in the near vicinity. There are only a few people walking around so late, and they're, understandably, all men, so Clint decides that it's just a coincidence that she's echoed his thoughts. "Phil's still quite hesitant about speaking of it himself, so I'll drop the subject. Are you familiar with the neighborhood?"
"Uh..." Clint hesitates. He's more familiar with the area around Harvard - he's a student there, so it only makes sense - but he's journeyed over to the South End a few times before. "If you give me street names, I could find my way."
"Great. Let me think..." Ms Coulson pauses. "You're probably somewhere near Arlington right now, so you'll have to turn right onto Harrison, then left on Traveller, and left again at E."
"Let me just..." Clint looks around, checking the nearby street names, until - that's the one. "Yeah, I'm right on Harrison. I'll start heading there now."
"It'll take you a while," Ms Coulson says. "Half an hour, maybe. I'd offer to drive you but Robert, my husband, took the car out to buy some aspirin."
Clint snorts, already moving, setting a steady pace. "At this hour?"
Ms Coulson chuckles. "It stands to reason Phil's going to have a hell of a headache tomorrow morning. You're welcome to pinch a few as well, since I know how difficult staying sober is when you're at a club."
It takes a moment for Clint to identify the emotion twisting around his heart and trapping his breath in his lungs as nearly overwhelming gratitude. "Thank you," he says, when he can talk again, because even though the past few years have been absolutely incredible - what with finding foster parents who actually wanted him and getting a scholarship to fucking Harvard of all places, holy shit - Clint is still unused to people giving a damn about him.
"Glad I could be of service."
The silence stretches out between them, rapidly becoming more and more umcomfortable.
Clint thinks about bidding his goodbyes and turning off the phone, but something inside him rebels at the idea, of walking to an unknown house late at night without even someone in his ear to reassure him, and before he even thinks about it, he finds himself talking. "So, Phil. Your son."
Brilliant, Clint. A+. Incredible conversation making.
Luckily, Ms Coulson seems to be impervious to awkward. "It must be uncomfortable walking those streets in the dark, right? I'd be happy to stay on the line with you. What do you want to know about him?"
Clint mentally revises his statement, since Ms Coulson seems to be both impervious to awkward and an incredibly gifted telepath to boot. "Just..." he tries to think of a question which wouldn't offend the mother of the person he's talking about. Jeeze, Clint, you can't just ask if he's cute. "So, uh, what does he do?"
"Be warned - Phil is probably my favorite subject to talk about, so if you actually want an answer to that, it's going to be quite long."
"Fair warning," Clint finds himself smiling again. "I've got time."
"So, Phil. Phil Coulson, son to Robert and Margaret." Margaret? Oh, right, Peggy, duh, "Twenty seven years old, male, army veteran."
Clint whistles, low. "Afghanistan?"
He'd seen a few vets around, all of them with the look in their eyes that Clint sometimes sees staring back at him in his own bathroom mirror, the look of someone beaten and bruised but definitely not beaten. Most of them, he's seen on campus, retired soldiers trying to find a new place in the world, but some... some, like tonight, he's met at the clubs. Damn, that guy was an incredible kisser. Why didn't you get his number?
"Afghanistan," Ms Coulson confirms. "Despite his parents' best efforts at subtle nudging and blatant matchmaking, Phil is still, as of yet, single."
Clint laughs, nearly missing his turn onto Traveller. "I'm assuming these parents are obviously well-meaning in their efforts?"
"Yes, his parents are just wonderful people to be around, when all is said and done." Ms Coulson laughs softly. "Phil only got home a few months ago, actually. He's taken a while to find his feet, but he recently found a job with S.H.I.E.L.D."
Clint blinks in surprise. S.H.I.E.L.D, the legendary government agency, was the organization which offered him a scholarship to Harvard in the first place. "I'm actually here because of S.H.I.E.L.D as well," he hazards.
Ms Coulson chuckles. "Clint Barton. I know."
Clint stops in place, resuming walking when the gears of his mind start spinning again. "How-"
"My maiden name is Carter."
It takes him an embarrassingly long time to process this new information. Possibly over a minute. "Agent Carter?" he asks, unsure.
"The very same." Ms Coulson - Agent Carter - admits. "I've been following your work ever since S.H.I.E.L.D first found you at Carson's circus. You've done very well for yourself. I'm impressed."
"I- thank you," Clint manages to say, mind reeling. Agent Carter was the current Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. He was talking to the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D on a phone that belonged to her son, a phone he somehow managed to acquire at a gay club without realizing.
A huff of bewildered laughter escapes him.
"Though I do try to keep my work life separate from my business life when possible, I'd be more than happy for you to drop by if you ever want to discuss anything with me, S.H.I.E.L.D related or personal." Ms Coulson continues, and Clint just...
"I'm turning on E now," he says, because it's impossible that the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D is actually offering to be his- his friend, or something.
Ms Coulson laughs. "It seems so long ago that I was a junior agent myself. Don't worry, Clint. S.H.I.E.L.D isn't as scary as it seems. Anyway, since you're so close, I'm walking down to the street corner to meet you. You'll probably see me in a few minutes- oh, wait, no, you're Hawkeye. You should be able to see me right about now."
"I don't-" Clint starts, unsure of how he's going to end the sentence, before his gaze alights on a middle aged woman, immaculately attired despite the late hour (or early hour, depending on how you look at it). Lowering the phone from his mouth - gosh, his arm is tired - he calls, "Ms Coulson?"
"Peggy, please," comes the immediate reply, and he speeds up, breaking into a slight jog.
When he comes to a stop before Ms Coulson- Agent Carter- Peggy, he... he doesn't really know what to do.
"Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?" Peggy asks, saving him from his dilemma, and Clint is instantly struck by how much warmer her voice is in person.
"I- Yes, thank you."
"Come on in," she motions, leading him to a modest house, the bright glow of the porch light a welcome reprieve from the dull orange gleam of the streetlamps. "I've put the kettle on. I need some caffeine in order to stay awake, since reading reports is incredibly time consuming. Make yourself comfortable."
Clint, who has been taking in the surroundings, gaze drifting from family photos to the quaint vase on the countertop, finds himself forcibly deposited onto a chair at the kitchen table.
Peggy moves around the small dining area with practiced ease, drawing sugar, honey, and a collection of teabags from a myriad of cupboards, placing them in front of Clint and an accompanying saucer and tea cup only a moment later.
"Let me just get you a spoon," Peggy says, before disappearing through another door, leaving Clint alone with only a collection of teabags as company.
He riffles through them, deliberating between a bag proudly proclaiming "Vampire Voodoo" and one labelled simply "Boo-tea", but is interrupted by the sound of a door opening behind him.
"Is there a difference between-" Clint starts, rising, just as an unfamiliar voice says, "Mom, I think I've lost my-"
Clint, turning to stare at the newcomer, freezes when he realizes, in rapid succession, that 1) the newcomer is oddly familiar, 2) he is incredibly good looking, 3) he is probably Phillip Coulson, and 4) he probably has no idea what Clint is doing in his kitchen.
He's kinda proud of his thoughts for following such a logical progression.
"Clint, this is Phil," says Peggy, from behind him, and Clint whips around to find her trying to hide a self-satisfied smile. "Phil, this is Clint. Clint is currently studying Pure Mathematics at Harvard, branching out into trajectory software development, and he's one of the most promising new recruits S.H.I.E.L.D has to offer. He's exceptionally skilled with a bow, here on an archery scholarship, in fact, and I've found he's got a good sense of humour."
"What- Mom?" Phil says, and Clint's brain finally puts two plus two together and comes up with the right answer.
"You're Phil?" he asks, turning back to face Phil, blue eyed army vet Phil, exceptionally good kisser Phil who was all over him at the club before hastily leaving... probably to search for his missing phone.
The phone Clint is still holding in his slack hand.
What.
"You're..." Phil trails off, eyes widening as he finally gets a good look at Clint.
Clint tries for a smile, adding in a wave with the hand not holding the phone for good measure. "Hi?"
"I see you've met already," Peggy says, and the tone of her voice makes it incredibly clear that yes, she knows exactly what they're thinking right now. "Clint, I personally prefer the Boo-tea, a novelty gift from Rob which turned out to be surprisingly good. I'll make you a cuppa in the morning, since you're more than welcome to spend the night. Now, I'll be in my study, so don't mind me."
Peggy - Agent Carter - is a fucking evil genius. Clint was so, so right to be terrified of S.H.I.E.L.D. He knew it all along. Government agencies - you can't trust them.
"So-" Clint starts, just as Phil says, "My mom-"
They both stop, and when their eyes meet, Clint can't help himself from laughing.
Phil's mouth curves into a wide grin. "I think my mom just set us up," he says apologetically. "She's a bit... not overbearing, I guess, but she's quite blunt. It takes some people off guard, so if you don't want to-"
"Don't want to?" Clint's mouth says, without Clint's permission. "Have you looked at yourself recently?"
Phil's smile becomes softer, a touch more self conscious.
"We've talked about you for nearly half an hour!" Peggy calls, from somewhere upstairs. "He's not shallow!"
"Mom!" Phil exclaims, flushing a violent crimson to the tips of his ears, and Clint watches, fascinated, as the blush slowly creeps down his neck. I wonder if he blushes everywhere, he finds himself thinking, before cutting the train of thought off hurriedly because he can't afford to be distracted by all the other places he could try to make Phil blush.
"So, um," Phil starts, cheeks still a bright pink, but Clint is already moving.
"Is it okay if I-" he starts, leaning in closer, and Phil is already nodding his head.
When their lips meet, Clint has enough time to think that maybe he could learn to deal with having an evil genius for his mother-in-law if it means he could have more of Phil kissing him, just like this, soft and tender and slow. When Phil deepens the kiss, Clint's thoughts are swept away by the warmth of Phil's touch, his hand grasping at Clint's side, his weight pressing against Clint's front.
Yeah. An evil genius mother-in-law wouldn't be so bad, all things considered.