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Clint didn’t buy shoes all that often.
It mostly came down to the fact that he didn’t like buying shoes. Or clothes, for that matter. To be cramped inside a stuffy store with overenthusiastic teenagers and determined women who couldn’t care less who they elbowed out of the way once they’d spotted something they wanted, and small children who really didn’t want to be there either and had no qualms about voicing their opinions, loudly, with vigour?
No thanks.
Another fairly good reason was that, as an orphan college student, money could definitely be described as ‘tight’. Today’s trip to the amusement park for example had been preceded by three extra shifts at the coffee shop and would still be followed by a week of eating mostly noodles. But it was a sacrifice he was willing to make, because, well, amusement park.
But yeah, the point of it all being, Clint didn’t buy shoes all that often. So when the end finally did come for his well-worn, hole-ridden and frankly quite smelly shoes, he wasn’t not all that surprised.
He was just pissed it had to happen during a fucking roller coaster ride.
“I told you this would happen,” Natasha said when the coaster car came to an abrupt stop at the end of the ride.
“The hell you did?” Clint wiggled his toes, contemplating the significant lack of shoe on his right foot. He was not sure how it’d happened, just that something had been flying past his head in the last loop and now he was 50% shoeless.
“I said your shoes would literally fall off one day if you kept wearing them.” She shrugged. “Though I have to admit that the circumstances is a bit of a surprise. You should probably run if you want it back, before they pass it off as hazardous waste and have it torched.”
“Ha ha, so funny.” He rolled his eyes at her, but when the restraint popped open he was the first one out the door. Natasha yelled something after him about wanting to look at the in-ride photos and meeting him later. Clint waved a dismissive hand at her and kept jogging.
It was the first really warm, sunny day in weeks, and the amusement park was literally overflowing with people. He worked his way back to the loop, zigzagging between families and groups of friends, eyes fixed on the ground in search for his shoe. It must have been a sight to see, this guy with only one shoe walking around in circles watching the asphalt, but Clint couldn’t bring himself to care about that. What he did care about was the fact that he couldn’t find his shoe. It could only have been a couple of minutes since he dropped it, it wasn’t like anyone could have picked it up and thrown it away already, right? Maybe it simply evaporated in the air on its way down. Considering the state it had been in he wouldn’t be all that surprised.
That was when he noticed the crowd of people. It wasn’t a big crowd by any means, but enough to catch Clint’s attention. He couldn’t really see what they were doing, but they seemed to be watching something on the ground. They couldn’t honestly be standing around his shoe, could they? He was so glad Natasha wasn’t there to see that, because she would never have let him forget it.
He walked up to them, because slightly embarrassing situation or not, he wanted his shoe back, and peeked over a shoulder.
They were not standing around his shoe. In the middle of the circle was a man sitting on the ground. Clint was so busy being relived it wasn’t his shoe that it took him a moment realise it was someone he recognised.
“Coulson?”
Clint didn’t exactly know Phil Coulson. That is, Clint couldn’t remember if they’d actually talked; he knew Natasha had classes with him, and he and Clint nodded to each other in the hallway sometimes, but not much more than that. But he knew of him.
The thing with working in a 24-hour coffee shop on college grounds is that it’s often filled with overworked, sleep-deprived, stressed out students, who don’t mind escaping reality for a few moments with a quadruple shot latte and some shameless, relentless gossip.
The theories about Phil Coulson were sometimes funny, sometimes outrageous, and sometimes downright worrying. You know, from a national security standpoint. Personally Clint had never really understood how someone could look at the guy and go “oh, he’s probably a secret agent” but this was clearly not the case for the rest of the student body.
For example: Phil Coulson had top grades only because he’d blackmailed the college president. Phil Coulson is the college president’s undercover bodyguard. Phil Coulson used to play drums in an international boy band. If you break into the college archive and try to look up Phil Coulson’s file it all says “classified”. Someone tried to sneak up on Phil Coulson once and ended up in the ICU. Or Clint’s favourite; if you pull out the right book in Phil Coulson’s bookcase it reveals a secret room filled with unreleased video games.
By now Clint was just waiting for someone to tell him that Phil Coulson’s hair was insured for 10,000 dollars and that he did car commercials in Japan.
So yeah, he didn’t know know Phil Coulson. But he knew of him, and saying his name had been a reflex. Mistake number one.
The people before Clint parted like the fucking red sea, and a gangly, nervous looking guy dressed in the park’s uniform looked up at him like he was the Lord and Saviour.
“Oh, you know him? Good, that’s good, really good, I was worried he was here alone.”
Clint blinked.
“Well, I-”
The guy – Peter, his nametag stated - stood up, and shifted his weight from foot to foot.
“I think he’s all right, he’s just really groggy right now. Something fell, hit him straight in the head! Uh, I mean,” His eyes flickered nervously toward the gathered crowd. “It’s not- not a part of the roller coaster or anything, because we check them regularly to make sure they are hundred percent safe, of course. So, uh, it must have been something else. I didn’t see, I just saw something flash by and then poof, down he went.”
Clint looked up, and studied the roller coaster above them. Yeah, that was kind of a perfect angle from the loop.
Fucking hell, he’d accidentally hit Phil Coulson in the head with his shoe. Accidentally, was the key word here; it had been a complete and utter one-in-a-million-chance accident, but still. This, this was something Natasha would never let him forget.
“Uh, I-”
“’m fine,” Coulson interrupted in a voice that didn’t make it sound fine at all. He was sitting hunched over, and yeah, groggy was a way to describe him. But even as they watched, he struggled up on his knees and tried to get up.
“Uh, hey, buddy? You should- yeah, probably sit down for a while longer?”
"I’m fine!” He managed to get his feet under himself, before starting to tilt backward. It was pure instinct when Clint grabbed after his arm and pulled him back up again. Probably mistake number two.
“There’s a room, uh, like a resting room? Just over there.” Peter pointed at a building to their left. “You can stay there until he feels better. If you just... like this? So we can help him?” He put Coulson’s right arm over his shoulder and nodded for Clint to do the same with the other. Clint looked at him, then at Coulson and back again. Then he sighed and did as he was told. This was kind of his fault; the least he could do was help Coulson out of the sun and staring spectators, right?
They half dragged, half carried Coulson toward the building. He kept mumbling something that sounded like ‘I’m fine’ and Clint wondered how he had gotten himself into this mess. He’d never go on a roller coaster with shoes on again, that’s for damn sure.
Peter somehow managed to kick the door open and they manoeuvred themselves inside. The room was nondescript and sparsely furnished with only a sofa with a coffee table on one side and a bigger plastic table with mismatched chairs on the other. There also seemed to be a dusty, sad-looking office coffee machine in the corner.
With combined effort they lowered Coulson onto the sofa and then proceeded to stand side by side and watch in silence as he put his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his hands with a very long, very heavy sigh. It all felt very awkward and Clint did not know how to deal, dammit.
“Soooo, I have to go back to work, otherwise my boss will have my ass handed to me like you wouldn’t believe,” Peter said just as the silence was turning agonisingly uncomfortable. He shifted back and forth on his heels a few times before spinning around toward the door. “You’ll be all right here? I think the- the coffee machine works, if you want that. Uh, I’ll be back, I mean, I’ll try to come back here in like ten-fifteen minutes to check on you. Unless you’re already gone by then, but yeah. Just- You can stay here as long as you like and if he gets worse just poke your head out and grab the first employee you see, all right?”
He slipped out the door before Clint had time to protest. Great. He spent a couple of moments wondering exactly how rude it would be to excuse himself now and slip away. Probably very rude. Ruder than Clint liked to think he was.
Coulson interrupted his line of thought before he could decide on what to do, his words muffled by his hands:
“I am fine.”
Clint couldn’t help but smile a little at that.
“Excuse me for saying so, but you really don’t look it.” That earned him a scoff. “Seriously though. You feeling sick? Do you know where you are? Who you are? How many fingers am I holding up?” He held up three fingers. Coulson very slowly, very carefully lifted his head to stare at him with a blank expression that still somehow felt judging.
“Come on man, give me something to work with,” Clint said, wiggling his fingers.
“Yes, yes, yes, three. Why are you here?” Coulson responded so deadpan it took Clint a moment to catch up.
“I- uh... We go to the same college? Dunno if you remember me, but he-,” he waved toward the door, “that guy thought we were here together. I- uh...”
“I remember you. Clint.”
“Clint Barton,” Clint nodded.
“So, Clint Barton,” Coulson said, pushing himself up a little further and wincing at the movement. “Could you maybe fill me in on what happened? I know who I am and where I am, but I have to admit why is bit of a blur.”
Clint blinked. Shifted a little. Blinked again.
“Ah. Well, it seems like you were hit on the head by something.”
Coulson raised an eyebrow. Waited. Clint flexed his fingers at his sides.
“Yes, I figured as much,” Coulson said eventually, and Clint shifted his weight back on his heels and hummed, admittedly stalling quite a lot. Didn’t work though, because the motion made Coulson look down, and as he did a double take of Clint’s feet, Clint once again ran the level of rudeness of running hell for leather out the door against the current rising level of fucking awkward. It came pretty damn close.
The silence stretched for another moment, then Coulson looked up at him again, and Clint fought very hard not to fiddle under his gaze. This felt weirdly like being called out on having stolen from the cookie jar before dinner.
“I can't help but notice you’re only wearing one shoe,” Coulson pointed out eventually. Clint nodded.
“So it seems.”
“Why are you only wearing one shoe?”
“It’s actually quite a funny story.”
“I have a sinking feeling I won’t agree.”
Yep, definitely felt like being caught with his hand down the cookie jar. Ridiculous. Clint was utterly ridiculous.
“Okay, can I just point out that it was an accident? Like, the most accidental accident I’ve ever had the displeasure to accidentally cause? Totally think we should establish that point before I say anything else. Accident.”
Coulson looked completely unimpressed, but Clint could swear there was an amused glint in his eyes, or maybe that was just wishful thinking. Could one get sued for accidentally dropping a shoe on someone’s head? If Coulson actually was a secret agent/body guard he probably could. Clint squared his shoulders and steeled himself for whatever reaction his next words would cause. At least Coulson didn’t seem fit to get up and punch him. Unless the secret agent rumours were true of course. But Clint hadn’t spotted a service weapon yet so he decided to risk it.
“My shoe fell off during a roller coaster ride. I am fairly sure that’s what hit you in the head. Accidentally. Sorry.”
Several moments passed in unbearably awkward silence.
“Your shoe?” Coulson asked eventually, and Clint decided to take the lack of anger in his voice as a good sign.
“My shoe, yes,” Clint nodded.
“You shoe fell off your foot while riding in a roller coaster.”
“Yes.”
“And landed on my head.”
“It seems so, yes. Sorry.”
Coulson sat quiet for a moment, before giving a slow, careful nod.
“Well that was... unfortunate,” he mumbled and settled deeper into the couch, leaning against the armrest. Clint wasn’t really sure how to react to that.
“You’re... uh, not mad?”
Coulson actually smiled at that.
“I might be too concussed to know for sure but no, I’m not mad. I’m not pleased, but I’m not going to press charges if that’s what you’re worried about. You could always plead force majeure, though I wouldn’t be opposed to Murphy's law if that’s more your taste. Because I’m assuming you didn’t aim.”
Clint nodded quickly.
“No, of course not. I wouldn’t have been able to do that even if I had wanted to. Well,” he paused, thinking about it, “Maybe? I have a really good aim. I might-” Coulson raised an eyebrow at him and Clint swallowed whatever he’d been about to say. Time and place. “Uh, what I mean is, yes, an accident. It could go wrong, it went wrong.”
“Uh-huh,” Coulson mumbled, and it looked a little like he’d stopped paying attention. He also looked a little in pain. Actually quite a lot in pain.
“You sure you’re okay?” Clint asked. Coulson simply ignored the question.
“I’m fairly sure I heard something about there being coffee in here,” he said instead, looking around until he spotted the coffee machine in the corner.
“You’re not really supposed to drink coffee when you’ve got a concussion,” Clint pointed out. Coulson sighed.
“Only a little concussion. One cup won’t kill me.”
Clint eyed the machine with suspicion. It was old, and looked to have been pretty simple and cheap to begin with. Clint didn’t have trouble imagining the burnt, rubbery taste of whatever liquid it would produce and claim to be coffee.
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“Your shoe landed on my head. Least you can do is give me a cup of coffee.”
Who could argue with that logic?
There was a stack of cups as mismatched as the table chairs next to the coffee machine, and Clint picked one up and put it under the muzzle. Studied the buttons for a second. Frowned.
“Milk?” he asked, even though he cringed at the mere thought. Probably some kind of water mixed powder milk crap. “Or sugar? There’s some option for lattes here but I’d personally wouldn’t touch that shit with a ten feet pole and a hazmat suit.”
Clint had never meant to become a coffee snob, it’d just sort of happened when he wasn’t paying attention.
“Black,” Coulson responded, and once again Clint could swear there was a hint of humour in his voice.
The machine worked slowly, spitting out what looked more like lumps than drops of coffee followed by a gush of hot water. Yuck.
“Just for the record, I am only doing this because I kind of owe you and you asked for this coffee. Coffee isn’t good for someone with a concussion to begin with, and this crap isn’t good for anyone. I’m actually only about 40% sure this even is coffee.” He studied the content of the cup before handing it over.
Coulson cupped his hand around the cup and gave a short nod.
“So, I’m guessing you’re into coffee?”
Clint raised an eyebrow.
“Dude. College student. I think most of us would love a way to just deliver coffee into our bloodstream by this point.”
“No,” Coulson rolled his eyes. “I mean you’re into coffee.”
“Oh... Uh, well I guess? I had a, uh, foster home few years back, they ran a coffee shop. Learned a lot. Now I work in, uh, College Grounds. Y’know? The coffee shop on, uh... college... grounds...”
Oh, he was on a roll today. He’d never been very good at social small talk. Chatting with costumers, sure, but anything above that usually had him making a fool out of himself.
Coulson just hummed and took a sip of his coffee. The grimace that spread across his face was priceless.
“Told you,” Clint said, and he did a poor job of hiding his laughter. Coulson glared at him.
“All right, I can admit defeat. This is exceptionally bad-”
He was interrupted as Clint’s phone beeped with a text, and Clint gave an apologetic shrug and pulled his phone out of his pocket. It was from Natasha.
‘where are you??’
While he considered how he was supposed to explain the situation, he received another.
‘if you’ve ditched me Barton very bad things will happen to you when I find you’
He grinned, and Coulson cleared his throat.
“Am I keeping you from anything? Not that I’ve had much say in whether or not you should be here. Didn’t have much say in whether or not I should be here.” He took another sip of his coffee and coughed.
“Nah, just my friend wondering where I disappeared to,” Clint said as he typed out an answer.
‘sorry I’ll be out soon got caught up in something explain later’
The answer came just a few seconds later.
‘what have you done???’, followed by, ‘I swear to god, if you’ve been arrested I will actually punch your face’
He could hear her accusing tone as clearly as if she’d been standing beside him screaming in his ear.
‘you have no trust Nat. I’ll be out soon promise’
“Speaking of,” he said as he put the phone back in his pocket, “are you here with anyone?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.” Coulson let out sigh and put the coffee down on the table. “Should probably text them, before they think I’ve been abducted.”
“Yeah, I’d prefer to not be charged with kidnapping as well as physical assault, thank you.”
It couldn’t be good for someone with a concussion to roll his eyes like that.
“I said I wouldn’t press charges, didn’t I?”
Clint just shrugged. For all he knew there was still a chance he’d be woken up one night by half a dozen men in tactical gear dragging him off to some remote underground bunker, but he wasn’t about to point that out.
Instead he waited in silence while Coulson took his phone out from a pocket of his jacket and started tapping out a text. It seemed a slow process, and he squinted a lot, brow creased in a frown. It was kind of adorable.
“Headache?” Clint asked, and got a slightly pained hum in response.
“Certainly felt better.”
There was a knock on the door, and before either of them had time to do anything another uniformed man poked his head inside.
“Huh, you’re still here,” he said, stepping inside completely and giving both of them a once over. He was a big, broad shouldered and somewhat menacing-looking man despite the grin he was giving them. Or maybe because of the grin he was giving them. Clint glanced at Coulson, who raised an eyebrow.
“Peter got hold up, asked me to check on you, make sure you’re still alive an’ all, which you seem to be,” he continued; nodding at Coulson, grin turning even wider. “I’m Luke. Nice meeting ya. Need anythin’?”
“Ah… No, thank you, it’s... fine,” Coulson said. “I... We were just leaving.”
“Oh, don’t rush it for our sake, we don’t use this room anyway so stay as long as ya need. Peter told me you got hit in the head by somethin’?”
Clint suddenly got very interested in the ceiling.
“Yes,” Coulson said, and Clint was pretty sure he was smiling again, “something. But I’m all right, just a bit dizzy.”
“You might have gotten a concussion, y’know. Should probably take it easy for a bit. And maybe stay off the coffee,” Luke pointed out, and Clint dared a glance at the exact moment Coulson looked up at him, and yeah at least he was smiling. Enough to take the edge of his exasperated sigh anyway.
“I’m fine. I’ll... We’ll go find the rest of our group now. Thank you for your help, and tell... Peter? Thank you as well, if I don’t see him myself.”
“All right, man,” Luke said, holding his hands up, “you watch yourself now, yeah? Try to avoid fallin’ objects.”
With that, and another grin, he backed out the door and closed it behind him. Coulson leaned forward on his elbows again, massaging one temple with his hand. Clint was just about to say something when the phone in his pocket beeped again.
“Oh, don’t let me hold you up,” Coulson said, waving a hand at Clint as if he was shooing off a cat. “You can go now, it’s fine, really.”
Clint shifted his weight back on his heels, one half of him wanting to take that advice and scramble, and the other still feeling way too shitty about what he’d (accidentally) done to do that.
“You sure you will be okay?” He asked, and Coulson sighed again. It was almost impressive just how much half tired, half amused exasperation he could put in a single sigh.
“I’m not exactly a damsel in distress, Barton,” he muttered, and Clint bit back a laugh. “I’ll be okay. A friend is on his way; he’ll be here any minute. I’ll go home, have a sleep, and stay off the coffee for a few days. How’s that?”
He levelled Clint with a pointed look that somehow settled Clint’s internal argument over what he should do now. His fault or not, this was as much awkward embarrassment he could take in one day. They weren’t friends, after all. Hell, they didn’t even know each other. Being helped out of the sun to a place you could sit down and rest was about as much kindness you could expect from a virtual stranger, wasn’t it? Time to stop fussing and get out while he still had some dignity left.
“Sounds like a plan,” he said, and Coulson almost-smiled again. “All right, I’ll get going. But I really am sorry about all this.”
“So you’ve said.”
Silence. Clint hated the universe a little bit.
“Sooo, okay, I’ll... see you around, I guess. Uh. Bye.”
“Goodbye Clint.”
It took most of his willpower not to bang his head against the wall as soon as he closed the door. He didn’t really dare to either; in case the universe wasn’t done fucking him over and he’d accidentally cause the building to topple over or some shit. So instead he set off back toward the roller coaster entrance, checking his phone as he went for the text he’d received. From Natasha, unsurprisingly.
‘you sure I don’t have to bail you out from somewhere? Cus I won’t, just letting you know that now’
He smiled, because there wasn’t really much else to do, and typed out a quick reply.
‘no bail but you won’t believe what just happen. meet me by the popcorn stand’
Her answer came immediately.
‘ominous... did you at least find your shoe?’
…dammit.