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Clint's phone beeped, rousing him out of the half-doze he'd slipped into on the couch in Coulson's office. The sound of Coulson typing and shifting in his chair was soothing in a way nothing else was, though Clint would never admit it.
It was his personal phone, and he thought about ignoring it -- anybody he wanted to talk to would get him on his work phone, so it was probably spam or a bill collector or something.
It beeped again, and he rolled lazily to his side so that he could pull it out of his pocket.
Two text messages.
Hey, Clint, how's your day going?
and
We should go out, if you're not busy this weekend. How's Friday sound?
Clint stared at his phone and sighed. Louder than he'd intended, clearly, since Coulson stopped typing.
"Something wrong, Agent Barton?"
Clint shoved his phone back into his pocket and lay back down, staring at the ceiling. "No, sir."
The typing did not start back up.
"You don't sound very certain," Coulson added, and Clint swallowed harshly at the concern in his voice.
He's just worried about his asset, Clint reminded himself. "It's nothing work-related, sir."
There was the subtle sound of fabric shifting against leather, and when Clint glanced over, Coulson was sitting with his hands folded on top of his desk, regarding Clint with a frown.
The frown made a little line appear in between Coulson's eyes, and Clint resisted the urge to squirm at being the cause of it.
"Sir?" he asked cautiously.
"Barton," Coulson started, and then he stopped, clearly considering his words. "Clint. We've worked together for a long time now, and I'd like to think we're friends. If there's anything I can do, work-related or not, I'm happy to help."
Well, crap, Clint thought in despair, caught by the troubled look in Coulson's kind blue eyes. How was he supposed to ignore that?
He sighed again, tearing his gaze away from Coulson's to thump his head against the arm of the couch. Coulson thought he had some huge problem, and really, it was just…
"It's nothing. It's dumb," he said, trying to deflect, and he realized he was only making Coulson more anxious.
"You'll laugh," he warned, and when he glanced back, Coulson was staring at him with one eyebrow raised, the expression that said, Why don't you let me be the judge of that?
"Fine," Clint said, sitting up and facing Coulson, his hands hanging between his knees.
"There's this guy," he started, and… something flickered in Coulson's eyes, too fast for even Clint to see what it was. "Brandon. He's… a friend, I guess? He's a waiter at this restaurant I go to a lot, and we got to talking, and well, he's pretty cool. We have a lot of shit in common, you know? Taste in music, movies, whatever. We started going running together a few mornings a week, and it's nice, even if the workout's a little easy on my end."
He paused, and Coulson nodded encouragingly, his let's solve this puzzle face firmly in place.
"Last week, when we finished our run, he asked me out. I deflected, said I was busy, but he just texted me to ask again."
Coulson frowned, thinking. "You're not interested in pursuing a relationship with him?"
"God, no," Clint said quickly. "He's…" Way too young, way too innocent, not you. "Not my type. But if I turn him down again with no reason, it's probably gonna be awkward when I go back to Mama Bella's, and they have amazing short rib ravioli, plus, I think I could live on their bread. I don't want to have to stop going. Told you it was dumb."
"It's not," Coulson countered. "It's perhaps not life-threatening or world-endangering, but the loss of a favorite restaurant is always distressing."
Clint glanced at Coulson to see if he was being made fun of, but there was no ridicule in Coulson's eyes. Maybe he did understand -- SHIELD agents' lives were always changing and never stable, and they all tended to cling to simple, familiar things when they could.
"I was pretty vague when I declined," Clint said, trying to think of a way out of all this. "And I'm in there all the time. It wouldn't be that weird to show up with someone, say I'm already in a relationship. Pretend I misunderstood Brandon and thought he just wanted us to go out as friends."
He gave Coulson his best clueless, confused blond expression -- eyes wide, brow furrowed -- and Coulson huffed out a laugh.
"Yes, that face is very believable, and you realize that now you'll never be able to use it on me again."
Clint rolled his eyes. "You didn't even fall for it the first time I used it, sir. Phil," he amended, since this clearly wasn't company business. He tried to ignore the way Coulson's -- Phil's -- smile in response made his heart speed up.
"So now I just need to find someone to go on a fake date with me," Clint continued. "Maybe Nat -- she could consider it practice, not that she needs it -- or maybe Jas. He's always up for free food and trying new places to eat."
"Fake date?" Coulson repeated. "There isn't anyone you're genuinely interested in taking out? A charade seems like it might needlessly complicate things."
Yes, but you're not interested in dating me, so... Clint thought sadly, and then pushed the thought away with the force of long practice.
"Not… not really," he said with a shrug. "So, fake date it is! Nat would just roll her eyes and tell me to get my shit together, but Sitwell might find it fun enough to do it, just so he can secretly laugh at me the whole time."
"Agent Sitwell is straight," Coulson pointed out, and Clint blinked at him in surprise.
"Well, I wasn't planning on going down on him under the table or anything, Jesus, Coulson."
"Nevertheless," Coulson said, and was that pink along his cheekbones? "While I'm sure Jasper would perform admirably undercover, casual intimacy with a man would not come naturally to him. There is an easier solution."
Clint stared at him, waiting for him to finish, and he unfolded his hands, spreading them like he was offering something to Clint.
"As I said, I'd be happy to help."
"You?" Clint choked out in disbelief, boggling at him. He realized too late how his response looked when Coulson -- Phil -- went pink again, ducking his head to stare at the files on his desk.
"Of course, if you'd be more comfortable with Agent Sitwell -- "
"No!" Clint cried, sitting up so fast he nearly shot up off the couch. "I mean -- you'd do that? For me?"
They stared at each other and Clint tried not to hyperventilate. This was a terrible idea. This was the worst idea ever. All it was going to do was make him want even more something that was not meant for him.
Clint was aware that Coulson was bi, but the man had never shown any interest in Clint, and the idea of going on a date with the one man he wanted but could never have sounded like torture. But if it was his one chance…
"It's not as if I'm proposing fake marriage," Phil said with a laugh that sounded a little nervous to Clint, though that could have been because his own stomach was fluttering crazily at the idea. "We've gone to dinner together before, both on missions and during downtime at home, so it isn't unfamiliar territory. We'd simply have to increase the amount of eye contact and casual physical contact we share."
Oh, is that all, Clint thought in a daze. The idea of sharing an intimate dinner with Phil Coulson, filled with lingering looks and casual affection, knowing it would all mean absolutely nothing, made his gut simultaneously cramp with longing and churn with despair.
"It was just an offer, Clint," Phil said gently, but Clint shook his head, and Phil stopped there.
"No, I… I really appreciate it, sir. Coulson. Phil. I, uh, I'm just trying to figure out when the best time would be. He asked if I was available Friday, so he's probably not working then, but I know he usually works at least one weekend evening shift, so.. what do you say, si -- Phil? Would you like to go to dinner with me Saturday night?"
He tossed in a cheeky grin, trying to pretend he hadn't imagined asking that question a hundred different ways every night for the last few years.
"I'd love to," Phil said with a warm smile, and Clint kind of wished he didn't feel like bursting into tears or a tantrum at the unfairness of it all.
They stared at each other, probably for too long, before Clint dropped his gaze, fiddling with the strap of his gear bag.
"Thanks," he mumbled.
"I meant it, Clint. I'm happy to help."
Clint nodded without looking at him, hurrying out of his office and toward the range. He needed some serious time with his bow if he was going to find his balance again.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
A couple of hours on the range settled Clint's mind, and his emotions. This was probably going to be a huge mistake, but if this was his one chance to date Phil Coulson, he was going to grab it, and take it, and remember every minute of it. And when he went to bed alone Saturday night, well, he'd be no worse off than he was now.
Clint realized he should probably respond to Brandon's texts, now that he had a plan in place.
Sorry, was in a meeting, he tapped out. Can't Friday. I should be at MB Sat night, see you then?
He shoved his phone and the rest of his gear in his locker and headed for the showers.
When he came back, he checked his phone, a little cautiously.
Oh. Okay. See you Sat!
Blowing out his breath in relief, he sent back, Sounds good, and then went off to see what the mess was serving for lunch.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Clint spent the week following his regular routine. It was only sometimes that he'd remember, holy crap, I'm going on a date with Phil Coulson this Saturday, and then he'd have to stop and breathe deeply for a minute or two.
It didn't help that Coulson kept texting him questions.
Do we need a reservation?
and
Should I pick you up? Should I bring Lola?
and
What should I wear?
It blindsided Clint every time, because it felt like Phil was preparing for a real date. He sent back, No, and it's walking distance from my place. There's nowhere to park her, and I don't know, it's nice but not fancy?
It was only when he got the latest one that his stomach sank.
What's my cover?
Phil wasn't preparing for a date. He was preparing for an op, and Clint had to remember that. This might be the date Clint had been wishing for for years, but for Phil, this was just a favor he was doing a friend. It would be bad to forget that.
Well, I was thinking real names -- we don't have to give him your last name -- and I guess you could use your backstory from that time in Medellin?
He tucked his phone back in his pocket and then swore and pulled it back out.
Except maybe without the drug trafficking? he added.
Good call, Phil sent back, almost instantly. Import/export?
Clint laughed, despite his distress. That works.
Clint decided his best strategy was to do what Phil was doing -- treat it like a mission. If he treated the planning like mission prep, he could do what he always did on ops: get through it clear-headed and objective, and wait until afterward to analyze everything and deal with the personal and emotional impact. That way he might just survive this.
That strategy got him through the rest of the week without maiming himself or causing an international incident.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
All of his careful planning fell to pieces as soon as he opened his door Saturday night.
Phil stood there in the kind of clothes Clint had never seen him in before, and Clint had to tighten his grip on the door to keep from reaching for him. Clint had mostly seen him in workout gear and his suits, but this… this was Phil Coulson on date night, and that was just unfair.
He wore trim, fitted olive trousers, and a dark grey ribbed sweater over a white button down shirt, unbuttoned at the throat. The sweater looked incredibly soft, and it was tailored perfectly to Phil's muscled form, showing off the physique he normally kept hidden under his suits. He had on the heavy-framed glasses he didn't wear at work, and Clint breathed in the cologne Phil never used in the field -- something subtle and spicy that made Clint want to bury his face in the exposed hollow of Phil's throat and just stay there.
Clint must have stared too long because Phil frowned.
"Is this okay?" he said, more uncertain than Clint could ever remember hearing him. He shifted, revealing the garment bag he was holding. "I brought several other outfits -- "
"No!" Clint exclaimed. "No, that's… you look… really nice."
In fact, let's just skip the whole restaurant thing and stay home, so I can see how fast I can get you out of all of it, he thought, and swallowed harshly.
Phil gave him a small smile, his eyes impossibly big under those glasses, and silvery blue tonight, due to the grey sweater.
"Thank you, Clint. You look very nice too."
Clint glanced down at himself. He was wearing dark jeans and a purple button down shirt, and since it was a date, he'd cleaned the mud off his boots and laced them all the way up. All he'd really done other than making sure his clothes were clean and unwrinkled was to add some silver rings and a couple of silver and leather bracelets. He had carefully spiked his hair instead of just leaving it how it looked when he rolled out of bed, and he'd shaved. He looked okay, but Phil was making his mouth water.
"Thanks," he said, figuring Phil was just settling into his cover. Something he should probably do. This wasn't a real date, and he had to keep his head in the game.
"Uh, would you like to come in and have a drink or something?" he asked, realizing Phil was still standing in the doorway, which was fitting, since he was just as terrible a host on real dates. "Or should we just go?"
"Oh, thank you, but maybe we should go? I'm anticipating having wine with dinner, so I probably shouldn't drink beforehand." Phil frowned again, and then looked at Clint with concern. "Unless you'd prefer I not order wine with dinner."
Clint flushed a little, both pleased that Phil would take such care, and ashamed, as always, that Phil knew such care might be needed, and the reasons why.
"I trust you, sir," he said, and felt like facepalming. "Phil," he said carefully. "I trust you, Phil. I should have practiced that."
"I'm sure you'll do fine when it counts. You do know that you're welcome to call me Phil when we're not working, don't you, Clint?"
Clint's flush deepened at the gesture of familiarity and friendship.
"I'll be sure to remember that, Phil," he said, doing his best to make it sound cheeky.
"When we're not working," Phil repeated dryly, but his eyes were sparkling, and he laughed when Clint shot him a mischievous grin.
He hung Phil's garment bag in his coat closet and grabbed his leather jacket, slipping it on as they headed out. They were comfortably quiet as they walked, and Clint wondered if he was imagining that Phil was walking closer to him than he normally would.
It was cool outside, but not enough to make the short walk to the restaurant uncomfortable. Clint expected Phil to stop just short of the door to settle completely into his cover, but Phil just kept walking, directly to the entrance.
He opened the door and held it for Clint, which wasn't unusual -- Clint knew from working with him that Phil had been raised to open doors for everybody. What was new was the warm hand that slid to the small of Clint's back, just under the hem of his jacket, and lingered there. Clint fought to keep from jumping like he'd been shocked.
It was early enough that the restaurant wasn't very full, and Brandon was standing by the host stand with Zach, one of the hosts, rather than serving anyone. Clint watched as Brandon's eyes lit up as he walked in, but his happy expression flickered into a frown at the sight of Phil and then slid into a smooth talking-to-customers smile.
"Clint! Hi! And who's this?"
"Um, hey, Brandon. This is Phil. Phil, this is my friend Brandon, remember I told you about him? We go running together sometimes."
"I remember," Phil said. "It's nice to meet you."
He was using a warm, friendly version of his unassuming, middle-manager voice, but the hand that slid to Clint's shoulder and gripped it as Phil leaned forward to shake Brandon's hand was subtly possessive. He straightened up, resting his hand at the small of Clint's back again, but Clint had no doubt a message had been sent and received.
"...why don't I show you two to a table?" Zach said warily, clearly sensing the tension in the air.
"I've got them," Brandon said, grabbing a couple of menus and leading them toward his own section. "Thanks, Zach."
"Booth please," Phil asked, gaze roaming over the layout of the restaurant. He glanced back at Clint, a warm smile curving his lips. "If that's okay with you?"
"Sure," Clint got out, hoping he didn't sound as stupefied as he felt after being hit by that smile.
Phil stood to the side of the booth to let Clint in first, and then slid in after him. Thankfully, it was a semi-circle booth, so Clint didn't feel trapped between Phil and the wall. Phil moved until their shoulders were brushing, and when Clint would have shifted a little to give Phil more room, Phil stopped him with a hand on his knee.
Right. Date.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The meal was torture. Clint tried to pretend it was just another casual meal with Phil, his handler -- and friend -- but it really, really wasn't. Phil's gaze lingered on Clint's face, affection clear in his eyes, and there were soft touches on Clint's hands, his arm, his shoulder.
Phil told incredibly funny stories about his friends, Marie, Melissa, and Jason, and his old army buddy Marc, who were very clearly younger versions of Hill, May, Sitwell, and amazingly enough, Fury. He told Clint about places he'd been, both in the army and after, and Clint knew he'd been there with Phil sometimes, but Phil apparently saw and remembered things in a way Clint had never learned how to do. He talked about architecture and local customs and cultural traditions, every gesture of his hands punctuating his words, and it made Clint long to go back and see it all again, with Phil this time.
Clint tried to keep up, telling his own stories and flirting recklessly, and he assumed he did pretty well, judging by the way Phil laughed, occasionally ducking his head to grin at the table when Clint smiled at him. His cheeks would go light pink when he did that, and it made Clint want to make it happen again and again.
It was everything Clint had ever wanted in a date with Phil Coulson, right down to stealing bites of each other's desserts. And all of it was fake.
After they finished dessert, Phil excused himself and slid out of the booth, heading for the restroom. Clint dragged his fork through the remains of the caramel sauce on his plate, taking a gulp from his water glass as he remembered Phil licking at the corner of his mouth with a laugh when he'd taken a bite of brownie off Clint's fork. He looked up, smiling as Brandon approached the table.
Here we go.
"I want you to know I never would've asked you out like that if I knew you were already seeing someone," Brandon told him, with a glance toward the alcove that held the restrooms.
Clint widened his eyes. "What? Oh, shit, I thought you just wanted to hang out, I didn't realize -- I'm sorry, man, I would've made it clearer if I'd known that's what you meant! And wow, we just kind of ambushed you with it by coming in here tonight. I really am sorry, Brandon, I just wanted to show Phil my favorite place to eat, and have him meet you."
"You've never even mentioned him."
Clint thought of the fond looks Phil had been giving him all night, letting the heat into his cheeks.
"We've, um, we've known each other forever, but this is all new, and we haven't even really told our friends or anything yet. I guess I'm just used to not saying anything. Damn, Brandon, I'm really sorry for the misunderstanding."
"It's cool," Brandon said with a smile. "Not a big deal, I just thought maybe we could have some fun together."
Clint could see disappointment in Brandon's eyes, even though he was smiling, but it didn't look like heartbreak, so he gave an internal sigh of relief.
It was possible this whole ridiculous plan wasn't necessary after all. Brandon might've been okay with things if Clint had just said he wasn't interested, but Clint was glad he hadn't taken the chance, and as painfully perfect as this whole night had been, Clint couldn't regret any of it.
Movement drew Clint's attention across the restaurant, and he looked up to see Phil making his way back toward the table. He smiled warmly at Clint, and Clint couldn't help smiling back.
"You guys look really happy together," Brandon said quietly, and then, in a louder voice, "I'll just grab your check."
"Thanks, Brandon."
Phil slid back into the booth, taking Clint's hand in both of his.
"Just about ready to go?" Phil asked. He nodded toward the dregs of caramel on Clint's dessert plate. "Want a box for that?"
Clint rolled his eyes. "Like you're any better," he shot back. "It looks like they brought you an empty plate."
Phil laughed as Brandon returned to the table to drop off the check.
"Are you still up for a run on Monday?" Brandon asked, and Clint blinked in surprise. Was it possible he could get out of this whole mess and still keep Brandon as a friend and running buddy? That was the best case scenario he hadn't bothered hoping for.
"Sure. 7?"
"Sounds good. I'll just take that whenever you're ready -- oh, great," he amended as Phil handed him the check back.
Clint realized Phil taken the opportunity while he was distracted with Brandon to pay the check.
"Hey!" he protested, reaching for it, but Brandon already had it in his hands. "I asked you!"
"Let me," Phil said. "I don't get to treat you very often."
"I'll get the next one," Clint said impulsively, and then wished he hadn't. All it did was make him remember there wouldn't be a next one.
"I'll hold you to that," Phil replied, and Clint bit back a sigh. If only.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The walk back to Clint's apartment seemed to take longer than the walk to the restaurant had. It was cooler, but they both seemed to be lingering anyway, by unspoken agreement. Clint was full of good food and a glass of good wine, but mostly, he just didn't want the night to end.
He expected Phil to do a debrief as they walked, asking him how he thought it had gone, and what Brandon's reaction had been like when he'd left them alone, but Phil stayed quiet. His hand brushed Clint's as they walked, and Clint fought not to grab it and tangle their fingers together.
They reached Clint's building, and Clint turned to Phil, dreading saying good night. Then he remembered: Phil's garment bag, upstairs in the coat closet.
"Your bag," he said, but it came out as a dry croak, and he tried again. "It's upstairs."
Phil nodded. "Mind if I come up and grab it?"
"Yeah, sure. of course. You… it's early still, you -- I mean, if you want to come in for coffee or something."
"...that sounds good," Phil said with a small smile.
Phil wandered around Clint's apartment as Clint made coffee, making Clint a little self-conscious that he hadn't cleaned up better earlier, but Phil didn't seem to mind.
Clint brought him his coffee, and Phil took it, but he only took one sip of it before he set it down on Clint's end table.
"Clint," he started, but Clint didn't let him finish.
"I just wanted… thank you," he said, setting his own cup down at almost the same time Phil had. "I -- Phil… just, thank you," Clint repeated, hoping Phil would think he meant for helping out with Brandon. It wasn't like he could say, thank you for taking me out on the best date I've ever had, it was better than I ever let myself dream.
He looked up, his breath catching as he realized how close Phil was standing. Phil reached up, brushing some coffee grounds off Clint's chest, and then his hand just kind of… stayed there as he stepped even closer.
"Phil?" Clint whispered.
"Please," Phil murmured. "Just…"
He leaned in, and Clint bit back a gasp as Phil kissed him. Clint's hands found Phil's shoulders as he fought not to cling. Phil's lips were soft, and he tasted like caramel and cinnamon and coffee, and Clint didn't understand what was going on, but he wanted it to last forever.
One of Phil's hands slid to the small of Clint's back and the other curled around the back of his neck, and Clint hummed in happiness and then bit back a startled cry as Phil suddenly pulled back, swearing.
"Phil -- "
"Shit. Clint. Fuck, I'm so sorry."
Clint got a quick glimpse of his flushed cheeks and wide eyes before he turned away, one hand sliding into his hair in agitation.
"Phil… I… what just happened?" Clint asked, still dazed and now pretty much suffering from whiplash.
"I… I was so focused on being the perfect date, on being what you needed me to be, and I just got carried away. I… I'm sorry."
Clint swallowed, stomach sinking. That made sense. Too much sense.
"It -- " he started, and his voice came out shaky and harsh. He cleared his throat, running his hand through his hair and leaving it on the back of his neck. "It's okay, boss. Not the first time an operative got lost in his cover."
"What?" Phil whirled around, eyes, wide. "No, I…"
He sighed and stepped closer, looking away before glancing back at Clint, his eyes… resigned. "It was my one chance," he said, so softly Clint could barely hear him. "It was my one chance to take you out, one night to have everything I've thought about, and make a memory to keep, and I… I just ruined everything."
Clint sat heavily on the sofa, staring up at Phil. "You… you wanted it to be real."
Phil sat next to him, pulling his glasses off and running a hand over his face. "I'm sorry," he said as he put his glasses back on. "I never meant for you to find out -- "
Clint choked out a laugh, and Phil flinched and went quiet.
"I spent the entire night wishing you would look at me that way, smile at me that way, for real, just once," Clint said, his voice thin and trembling, and Phil turned to stare at him. "I've been going crazy the whole damn week, thinking that this was the worst idea ever and knowing I'd be doing my best to remember every minute of it."
"You… why didn't you ever -- "
"Because I thought you'd laugh in my face! Worse, I knew you wouldn't. You'd be nice about it! Jesus, Phil, I've wanted this for years. Years. Why didn't you say anything?"
"I'm your boss, Clint! There's protocol and regs to consider, and I didn't… I'm just… I didn't think you'd ever want any of this!" Phil snapped back, pushing back to his feet. He paced away, and Clint panicked, not sure if he was going to just walk out the door.
"Hey!" he yelped, standing too and hurrying to where Phil stood, facing the wall, his arms crossed over his chest.
"I... " Clint took a deep breath. "Can we… can we do this again? I mean… if we both want this, can we do this for real this time?"
Phil turned, and Clint stepped closer, not stopping until his hands were on the sinfully soft sweater covering Phil's broad shoulders. Phil's hands curled around his waist as he studied Clint's face. His eyes were wide, and wary, and hopeful behind his glasses.
"Please?" Clint laughed, and it came out a little watery. "It's my turn to buy, remember?"
Phil smiled then, slow and sweet, and just as warm as any of the smiles he'd aimed Clint's way all night, only better. This one was real, and they both knew it.
"I'm holding you to that," Phil murmured, and then his grin turned wicked. "Maybe we should find some way to thank Brandon. Bottle of wine, maybe?"
Clint was still laughing when Phil kissed him again.
END