Work Text:
The rustle from above was unmistakable. Silent, one wouldn't hear it if one hadn't been forced to constantly pay attention wherever there were air ducts, or one might find one self in quite a predicament. Coulson fastened his gaze on the vent, knowing he'd soon expect company. A second later a pair of eyes met his own and he tried his very best (luckily he was a very patient man) not to pull out his firearm.
"Get down from there."
"Never," Clint replied stubbornly. "This is my favorite vent."
Paying him no mind, Coulson returned focus to the stack of papers lying in wait below his hands. He felt very tired all of a sudden. Glancing upwards, he was met with a fullgrown manchild lying comfortably above, calmly watching him with his cheek squashed to the opening.
"If you won't leave your tube, at least go somewhere else," he told the man, a hint of irritation slipping from the otherwise apathetic voice.
"Then I can't watch you work," Clint replied, as if the answer should have been obvious, completely disregarding the stack of papers of at least twice the height in dire need of signing back in his own office.
"That's not creepy at all, seeing as I can barely see you."
Clint quickly flashed him a smile, before rustling with something in his pocket. After a minute of struggling to acquire something within the very limited space, he wiggled his phone through the duct.
"I can show you how lonely and devastated I would look if I crawled away from you."
The attempt Coulson made to return to work was futile. After hearing a snap and seeing a small flash in the corner of his eye, he expected his phone to buzz. A moment later it did.
"Pick it up."
"No," he replied, not even bothering with looking up.
"Pick it up pick it up pick it up!" the man whined, shaking the entire tubing like an infant in distress. Coulson rejected a sigh and opened his cell, typing in the four-digit code to find a poor-quality mugshot of the Agent. It was obvious he had made his very best effort to look as devastated and vulnerable as possible, as his face was distorted into something obnoxiously sad. It was quite endearing actually, not that he'd let that show in either his expression or voice.
"Cute."
"It's not cute, it's heartbreaking," the man insisted.
"If you say so. Now get down here if you want an adult conversation, or go do your job."
"Fine," Clint said ultimately after a moment of silence.
Coulson remained attentive to hear the shuffle of his wiggling body go silent. Finding himself in a peaceful environment again, he returned his focus to the top of the sheet, having long ago forgot what he was signing. That was when Stark barked in.
"No," Tony stated, acting like he held any form of authority between the walls, leaning over the desk as a form of intimidation. Coulson’s face stayed expressionless.
"Yes," he said patiently.
"No!"
"Yes."
"Leave Captain Tightpants out of it," he growled in frustration, baring his teeth. Coulson was not startled in the least.
"No."
"Yes!" Tony shouted impatiently. Coulson remained silent this time, and simply stared at him until he released a frustrated groan and slammed the door going out.
"Okay, what was that?" Coulson looked up, somewhat (although not visibly) startled by Clint’s sudden reappearance.
"I thought you left."
"I lied. Now spill," Clint responded, smiling.
"Stark is sent on a mission to China while Captain Rogers is shipped to South Africa. Stark requested they'd be sent to the same location. He was denied."
Clint stared at him for a second, as if he was considering something. Coulson took this as a form of finality and started sorting the papers that had gone into disorder by Stark’s outburst.
"Huh. Now explain," he said as he fell from the hatch into the strategically placed couch, "your infatuation with this Captain."
Coulson’s head snapped up, taken by surprise. Realizing he had just winced at such a calm and menial request, he collected himself.
"He was my childhood hero, nothing more than that," he said, proud of his ability to remain professional in most any case. Clint just smiled slightly at him, and if Coulson didn’t know better, he’d say he looked a little anxious.
"I've seen the posters, it's more than that. By the way, did you move the couch for my sake?" Clint asked, making himself comfortable by stretching out. Coulson avoided his eyes.
"It's better than you tearing down the bookshelf like last time. I assure you, it's nothing but platonic respect and admiration."
"Do you have a crush on him?" The way it was asked made Coulson uneasy.
"No."
"Do you have a crush on me?" Not trusting his face this time, nor the strange lump in his throat, Coulson picked up his pen.
"Working, Agent Barton," he replied, hoping his voice sounded as steady as before. If Clint noticed anything amiss, he didn't say anything.
The next time he looked at the man, he was smiling, having snatched the pen and were wiggling it teasingly.
"I have others."
"Remember what we did the day I got drunk on eggnog?" the archer asked, creeping suspiciously closer.
"That was a mistake."
"From my part, yeah. But you kissed back." Their faces were so close that their noses touched, and for the life of him, Coulson could not stop staring into those eyes, or those lips or-
"Your point being? Pen, thank you."
The distances were crossed, the boundaries were broken and the world fell silent as Clint’s lips fell onto his. All he could feel, all he knew at that moment was Clint Barton, breaking most every personal rule Coulson had told him not to, and he simply couldn’t care less. He felt the pressure go away, and when he was sober enough to pay attention, he was handed his pen back.
"We should do this more often," Clint said ultimately, climbed up into the duct and vanished.
Allowing himself a faint smile, Coulson squeezed the papers into a nearby red folder and closed it. There was no way he was going to sign them anyway.