Work Text:
Phil Coulson’s tongue was going to kill Clint. He was going to die from it. It would be a slow, delicious death.
Maybe he should calm down. Maybe Coulson should get a clue and realize the ongoing problem he was causing people. Well, maybe not all people. Maybe just Clint. But damn it, that tongue.
Coulson had a habit of unconsciously licking his lips. Not usually when he was in charge and all Agent-y, but during quiet times when he was concentrating. Times that made it so much easier for Clint to notice.
Clint hadn’t noticed until they’d somehow developed a routine of decompressing at trashy old roadside diners. When they could afford the time, old greasy spoons provided comfort food and coffee as they scribbled preliminary mission reports or just needed to sit still for a while.
Clint admitted to himself he had a thing for Coulson long ago. He was dealing with it. Just because he was harboring a giant crush did not mean he was unprofessional. Hell, he was more professional with Coulson as handler than any of the others thrown his way before. He was an adult. He could work with people he was attracted to and not mess it up.
Clint only noticed the tongue thing by happenstance. It was at one of those greasy diners after a relief of an easy mission. Clint began to offer a little plastic container of creamer (the good liquid kind - French vanilla) to Coulson, and froze. Taking his coffee black wasn’t unusual, but the minute pink flick of Coulson’s tongue over his bottom lip to unconsciously catch the leftover liquid…Clint was self-aware enough to hear his own hormones.
Clint could bluff with the best of them, but he suddenly had a new focus to disguise. The rest of that trip had him almost hyper aware of Coulson’s mouth. The lips were an obvious draw, but a glimpse of teeth, of glorious cursed tongue, was torturous. There was no pattern. Coulson might flick that tongue out before speaking, while thinking, or for no reason. Except that the universe was taunting Clint.
It wasn’t better in the office, either. Of course if Clint tried the sensible thing and avoided temptation, that would be suspicious. So he still camped out on Coulson’s small office couch for the friendly proximity. Sometimes Natasha would too, but she was hardly a buffer. She would send Clint these smug looks. Why Natasha was so fucking smug was an issue in itself.
So. Coulson’s tongue. Everyone had a tongue, it wasn’t even…but it was. That glimpse of pink moisture. It has to be worse when he and Coulson were quietly companionable, when Coulson let himself relax with just the two of them and paperwork. When he let those human mannerisms slip through the legendary façade. It meant trust. Clint felt like a degenerate for focusing so much on an innocent habit.
Innocent. Ha. None of Clint’s daydreams on that issue were innocent. Just the way Coulson slid the tip past his teeth, the sheen of saliva caught by the florescent lights, the tiny intimate glimpse inside…
Shit. Clint smeared the current line on his report. He asked for the whiteout, hoping his somewhat dry voice could be blamed on their half hour or so of silence in the office. He was careful not to touch Coulson’s fingers as the man passed it across the desk. The last thing Clint needed in his state of mind was actual skin contact.
Diligently he watched the correction fluid dry on his paper. A sudden thought of Coulson blowing on the spot to hurry the process had Clint swallowing a groan.
“Barton?”
He didn’t jump. He glanced up at Coulson’s quiet tone. “Sir?”
“You look flushed,” Coulson said. “Anything Medical could have missed?”
Clint was warm, but not for any legitimate medical concern. “I--no, I’m good.”
Coulson considered Clint for a moment but decided to let it be. That caring was another thing that might eventually break Clint. If Coulson didn’t give a fuck about the people he worked with, he would be less appealing. But he had to be a friend. Clint just perved on him more for it.
Clint managed to write a few more sentences about the incident -- robotic platypus, really? -- before his peripheral vision caught that tongue again. Good god, could the man get some chapstick or something?
He was probably going to have to do something about this. Something other than saving the visual memory for alone time in his quarters later. He could push aside the lust. He could. It wasn’t worth offending Coulson.
Then.
Then, damn the man, Coulson went to turn a page and he fucking licked his thumb.
Clint’s very dignified “urk!” was out before he could stop it. Hand paused midair, mouth still slightly open, Coulson looked at him. Clint felt like he’d been caught ogling a dirty magazine.
“Care to elaborate?” Coulson asked, and damn it, he would tease at Clint’s lack of words.
“No, I…nothing,” Clint barely managed.
The answer wouldn’t suffice this time. Coulson had that thinky pinch between his brows. “Clearly there’s something.” Then Coulson fucking licked his lips again. “Barton, if you--”
“Your goddamn tongue!”
Coulson blinked. Aw, hell. Those blue eyes were going to do him in, too. Clint hid his face in his hands. Maybe if he didn’t see Coulson, this would just go away.
The quiet was the sort that told Clint he was not off the hook. The quiet meant Coulson was thinking.
“Barton,” Coulson said in his patient voice, “I’m going to need some elaboration.”
Clint sighed into his hands. Here it was, having to be an adult. “You have this habit of licking your lips,” he muttered. He peeked at Coulson through his fingers.
Coulson looked adorably clueless. Clint hoped silently that the man would not ask for further explanation. “Why--” Coulson met Clint’s eyes “…oh.”
“I can be professional about it,” Clint insisted. “Just…if you’re not going to use it, please put it away.”
Beautiful. Confession and come-on all in one. Clint would bang his head on the nearest hard surface if he wasn’t hiding his blush.
“Clint…”
“I’m sorry, okay, but you can’t be oblivious, can you? Half of the motor pool staff already wants you, and I--”
“Clint.”
He looked up at the sharper tone. Coulson didn’t seem offended. Maybe this wouldn’t ruin them.
“How long?” Coulson asked.
Clint’s shoulders slumped. “Years.’
Coulson processed this. The tongue didn’t come out as he thought, which Clint felt a bit disappointed about. The least he could have after ruining things was one last glimpse of tongue.
“What if I said your eyelashes had a similar effect on me?” Coulson asked.
“What?” Wow, he was eloquent.
Coulson glanced somewhere over Clint’s forehead. “Maybe your eyes instead,” he said. His eyes met Clint’s.
“Oh!”
Coulson grinned a bit. He fidgeted with his pen. “We…should both use our tongues to…talk. My place, this evening?”
Heart swelling at the invitation, Clint stood from the couch and circled Coulson’s desk. “I need one thing first, if you’re willing,” he said. He leaned over where Coulson sat in his padded chair, hands on either side of the man on the armrests. “So I know I didn’t just fantasize all of this…”
Smirking like Clint had never seen before, Coulson slowly and deliberately licked his lips. Clint may have let out a small pant. He should have guessed Coulson of all people would not play into a cliché seduction.
“I think it’s important to save my tongue until later,” Coulson said. “I wouldn’t want it tired from overuse before we talked.”
Clint outright shuddered. “Evil.”
Leaning impossibly close, Coulson flicked his tongue in a lightning move over the corner of Clint’s mouth. Clint would never admit he whimpered. Their breath mingled as Clint clenched the chair arms. He would not jump Coulson in the man’s office.
“Would it be too out of character if we left early?” Clint asked.
Coulson’s slow grin was filthy. “That suggestion was on the tip of my tongue.”