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Clint hurried into The Grind, juggling his bag and his phone and nodding his thanks at the young woman who held the door for him. The coffee shop was halfway between his apartment and campus, and he only had a short time before he was irredeemably late for class. He stopped short, frowning as he registered the guy standing behind the counter.
It wasn't the guy with the shaved head and the glasses, the guy who knew his order and always had it ready quickly with a smile and a nod. This was someone new.
Clint waited impatiently in the short line, eyeing the new guy. He wasn't short, or tall, or skinny, or fat -- he was all around average, from his short, mousy brown hair all the way down. Except for his eyes. They were a beautiful blue, full of calm kindness as he smiled. His nametag said Phil.
With a sigh, Clint pulled his notepad out of his pocket and quickly wrote his order on it. The person in front of him finished ordering just as he finished writing, and he stepped forward, his eyes focusing on Phil's lips just in time to read him say, "What can I get for you?"
He smiled and handed Phil the paper with his order on it. The barista blinked at it, and Clint fought not to let his shoulders hunch defensively, but Phil only smiled and punched the order into the register.
"Four eighty," he said clearly, pointing at the total on the register for good measure, and Clint smiled and handed him a five dollar bill, dropping the change Phil gave him and another single into the tip jar.
"Thanks," Phil said with a grin. "Have a nice day. Your coffee should be up soon."
Clint nodded his thanks and moved aside with a glance at his phone to check the time. So far, so good.
He found his gaze continually straying to the new barista as he waited for his coffee. The man was quick, efficient, and polite to everyone, but Clint didn't think he smiled as widely at everyone else as he had at Clint.
Their eyes caught and held for a moment before Phil ducked his head briefly, a shy smile on his lips, and Clint's grin widened as the tips of Phil's ears went pink.
Clint was already familiar with Christine, the female barista preparing the drinks, and she wasn't one of his favorite employees. His attention shifted back to her as she melodramatically waved an impatient hand in his direction. Her lips said, "Your order is ready," but judging by Phil's wince, which he saw out of the corner of his eye -- there was absolutely nothing wrong with his vision -- her voice was overly loud.
Clint took his coffee with a nod of thanks, ignoring the curious looks of students and businesspeople alike, and he glanced once more at Phil.
The look the other man was giving him now was apologetic, and Clint just smiled and shook his head slightly. He was used to it. He headed for the door, but he couldn't help looking back one last time.
Phil was watching him, and he did that adorable little duck-his-head-and-smile thing again.
Clint was grinning as he hurried toward class, and if there was an extra spring in his step, well, it had to be the coffee.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The second time he came in and Phil was there, he varied his order slightly, and after he handed Phil his order and the other man rang it up, Phil gave him a nervous little smile and asked, "Can I have your name?"
Clint glanced curiously at him, and his cheeks went pink as he added, "Um, for -- for the cup. For your drink."
He pointed awkwardly at the cup on display on top of the register, and Clint smirked a little at what seemed like an obvious ploy -- it wasn't like he was going to hear anyone call his name -- but he supposed it could be store policy, so he took the slip of paper with his order on it and wrote his name in his clear, blocky capitals under it.
Phil took it with another shy grin. "Thank you, Clint," he said, clear and unhurried as always, making it easy for Clint to read him. "Your order will be ready soon."
From then on, he greeted Clint by name, and Clint tried not to stare at the way Phil's mouth moved around his name.
A couple of weeks passed, and Clint found himself at The Grind much more often than he'd been before.
He tried to tell himself that it was because the place was less crowded than the Starbucks on campus and served better coffee, but his logic quickly fell apart when hit with the disappointment he always felt whenever he walked in and Phil wasn't behind the counter. He never stayed long those days.
It was a good thing he was already acing most of his classes, because he didn't get a whole lot of studying done on the days Phil was there. He spent hours watching Phil through his lashes while trying to work, watching him talk and laugh with customers and his coworkers behind the counter, or tucked away at a corner table on his breaks, doing studying of his own.
Clint learned a lot about the other man in the snatches of conversation he caught between Phil and his coworkers and the friends that sometimes came in to talk to him.
He was a senior, double majoring in business and history, and he was graduating at the end of the semester. He was from Chicago, a lifelong Cubs fan, and he had a younger sister who seemed to be 14 going on 35.
Clint saw Phil on campus, only once, when Clint was lounging on the grass of the quad with Natasha and some friends, laughing and being stupid as his friends often were. Phil had gone striding by, his steps sure and confident, battered backpack over one shoulder, large coffee clutched in the opposite hand. Clint's laughter had dried up as he'd stared after Phil, wondering what it would be like to have Phil stride up to him like that, with purpose, that little smile on his lips and affection in his eyes. The strength of his own longing surprised him and kept him still long enough that his friends noticed and remarked on it, and Clint forced himself back into the conversation.
He tried to gather up the nerve to ask Phil out -- maybe for coffee, ha! -- but every time he thought it might be the day for it, he had a dark day, where someone treated him like an idiot, or like he was helpless, or worse, looked at him with pity and a sad little pat on the shoulder, and he just couldn't bring himself to do it. Couldn't bring himself to risk seeing rejection or scorn or pity in Phil's gorgeous blue eyes, unlikely as he knew it might be, so he kept his wishes to himself, drank way too much coffee, and watched from afar.
The semester ramped up as finals loomed, and Clint had no time for daydreams or pathetic spying, too busy trying to keep afloat.
He made it through finals, clinging to the Dean's List by his teeth and damn proud of himself, only to startle awake the morning after the semester ended, bouncing out of his bed in horror.
Phil was a senior. Phil was graduating -- had just graduated, in fact -- and Clint was probably never going to see him again if he didn't man up and at least give the guy his email address or something.
Clint stumbled through a shower and a shave and hurried to the Grind, hoping he wasn't too late, hoping he had one more chance.
He was too late.
"He went home to Chicago," Maria told him when he slipped her a note asking if Phil might be coming in soon. Of all of Phil's coworkers, she seemed to be the closest to him, judging by the way they'd talked and laughed behind the counter during slow times. "He has an internship starting soon, and he wanted time to prepare for it. I can text him your email address, if you want."
He shook his head. Phil was done here. He was finished, and starting his life, and he wasn't gonna have time to email back and forth with a stupid deaf kid who couldn't even find the balls to give him a damn email address.
"You sure?" she asked. "I think he'd like that."
He shook his head. No sense awkwardly dragging out what was barely even an acquaintance.
"Okay," she said after a moment. "Well, what can I get for you?"
His stomach was churning with disappointment, and the last thing he wanted was coffee. He shook his head once more and gave her a weak smile before he turned and left, regret weighing heavily on him.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Summer passed slowly. Clint studied his ass off, working hard to pass the graduate level physics class he'd been invited to join -- the only incoming junior ever to earn an invitation, a fact that never failed to make him smile proudly.
He spent the rest of his break teaching archery at a summer camp for deaf kids, enjoying every minute of it.
It was the same camp his foster parents had sent him to at fourteen, and it had changed his life. It had shown him that he was good at something other than acting out and starting fights, taught him control and self-discipline, and that he was smart and could pick things up quickly when someone gave him a chance. He'd finally realized he wasn't the ignorant, unteachable waste of space he'd spent his whole life believing he was.
He'd come alive at camp, and he would never, ever tire of watching other kids do the same. He tried not to let the ghost of missed opportunity bother him or mar the experience, but it was tough.
When camp was over, Clint hugged all his campers goodbye, exchanged email addresses and phone numbers with a few of them and some of the other counselors and instructors, and headed back to campus to prepare for the new semester.
He tried to study at the Starbucks on campus, he really did, but it was crowded and the employees were rude to his face and laughed and talked shit about him when they thought he couldn't tell. Like he couldn't see them point and laugh, or read their lips. Disgusted, he left half his coffee and went to the library instead.
The next day he sucked it up and went to The Grind. It was gonna hurt, he knew, being surrounded by the ghosts of kind smiles and beautiful blue eyes, but he was never going back to that Starbucks.
He pushed through the door and stopped in shock.
Phil was behind the counter laughing with Maria, eyes crinkled with amusement, his apron neat and crisp as always. Clint's breath caught in his throat, and he wondered how he'd ever thought the man was just average.
Phil caught sight of Clint and his face lit up, eyes sparkling.
"Hi!" he said, lips curved in a grin, and Clint could only stare. And then, just when he thought he might be hallucinating, things got even more unbelievable.
Hello, Clint, Phil signed, carefully fingerspelling his name. Would you like your usual order?
Clint gaped at him, and Phil faltered, his smile dimming as he blushed furiously. He looked away and lowered his hands, fingers gripping anxiously at the edge of the counter, and Clint realized Phil thought he was angry or something.
He surged toward the counter, the movement startling Phil into looking back up, and Clint quickly signed, Yes, please. The usual.
Phil's smile reappeared, and he nodded as he rang up Clint's order.
Clint waited until Phil was looking at him again, and then, using every ounce of courage he could draw together, he signed, Do you have a break coming up soon?
Phil's brow furrowed in confusion as he tried to follow along, and Clint fumbled for his notepad and a pen, ignoring his shaking hands as he repeated the question in writing.
The other man read it, ducking his head with a grin in the way Clint loved, and he barely resisted the urge to reach over the counter and haul Phil into a kiss.
Glancing at the clock, Phil said, "I, uh, I have a break in fifteen minutes."
He signed the last part -- apparently whatever lessons or classes he was taking had already included telling time. Clint thought his grin might split his face completely open.
Smiling, Maria waved to get his attention. "He's going on break as soon as I finish making your drink," she said, laughing as they both blushed.
Clint signed, Thank you, snickering when Phil told Maria seriously, "That means 'thank you.'"
Tone of voice was often difficult for him to interpret, but the sarcasm was clear on her face when she replied, "Yeah, I got that. Thank you," and sardonically signed it back at him.
Clint laughed, and Phil grinned sheepishly at him.
Sensing someone behind him, Clint stepped aside so Phil could help another customer, and when Phil's gaze kept straying to him, he realized he was being a distraction.
Not wanting Phil to get in trouble, he stepped away from the register and toward the pickup counter. After a minute or two, Maria handed him his coffee with a grin and a wink, and then shooed Phil away from the register.
They sat at a tiny table in a quiet corner of the store and then just looked at each other. Phil was gripping the apron he'd taken off in nervous fingers, probably wrinkling the hell out of it, and Clint spun his coffee cup in his hands on the tabletop.
Clint stared. He couldn't help it. He still had no idea what Phil was doing here.
I thought you graduated, he wrote, and then he pointed at the paper and repeated it in sign.
Phil looked pleased, maybe at the realization that Clint had been interested enough to learn what he could about him.
"Graduate school," he said, spelling, MBA.
His fingers were a little clumsy, still accustoming themselves to being used that way, and the notion made something start to ache deep in Clint's chest.
You're learning ASL, he signed, without writing it down, to see if Phil could pick it up.
Phil blushed again, hesitantly signing, Yes.
Clint kept watching him to see if he'd offer any sort of explanation.
He bit the corner of his lip anxiously, and Clint shifted in his seat to keep himself from climbing into Phil's lap and just staying there forever.
"I saw you one day," Phil said after a moment. "On campus, with your friends, and I..."
He ducked his head again, and as adorable as it was, it also meant that Clint lost the rest of what he said. He reached out and gently lifted Phil's chin, thrilling at the feel of the other man's skin against his fingertips.
Phil looked at him quizzically, and Clint pointed at his own eyes and then at Phil's lips, stifling a groan when the tip of Phil's tongue slipped out to nervously wet his lips as he nodded.
"I just... I wanted to be able to talk to you."
Clint took a shaky breath. His heart felt like it might pound its way out of his chest, and he blinked rapidly, desperately hoping he wasn't going to embarrass the hell out of himself by bursting into tears.
No one had ever learned sign for him before. His parents had mostly yelled at him and gotten angry and frustrated when he didn't understand what they wanted, and while he and Barney had sort of created their own form of sign, it had been out of necessity. And Barney had often told him that things would be a whole lot easier if he could just try to talk, like a normal person.
Even the Russells, who had gone from foster parents to adoptive parents two years after that first summer they'd sent him to camp, had already known sign when he'd come along, since their daughter Brenda had been deaf from birth.
Phil bit his lip again, his brow furrowed in concern, and Clint realized he was just staring at Phil. He wondered what was on his face, because Phil's eyes were full of affection and anxiety.
"I'm sorry," Phil said, and Clint could see the way he fought to keep himself from looking away. "It's probably presumptuous -- "
He stilled when Clint reached across the table and rested a hand on both of his, which were mangling his apron.
Would you like to have dinner with me, Phil? he signed slowly, fascinated by the look of utter concentration on Phil's face.
"Dinner?" Phil asked, confirming his knowledge, and Clint nodded.
Phil's smile was brilliant.
Yes, he signed, and then, Please, and then, Thank you, and Clint laughed at his enthusiasm.
"I don't know how to sign, 'I'd love to,'" Phil said, still grinning, and Clint couldn't help but grin in return.
I'll teach you, he thought giddily. I'll teach you everything you want to know.
END