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Tuesday morning, SHIELD New York offices
Cups of coffee consumed: 2
Phil Coulson squinted down the corridor. It was suspiciously empty and quiet. Too quiet.
The junior agents were up to some kind of fuckery, he could just tell. Whatever it was, he wasn’t dealing with it. He had too much shit to do, and besides, it was 11am on a Tuesday. Surely the junior agent shenanigans were someone else’s responsibility on Tuesdays.
With a heavy sigh, Phil retreated back to his office with his now refilled coffee mug. He steadily made his way through three After Action Reports -- despite the horrific spelling and numerous grammatical errors -- and six updates to ongoing analysis reports, because the world was still going to Hell in a handbasket even with SHIELD trying their hardest to stop it.
“Coulson,” Jasper Sitwell said, sticking his head around Phil’s office door. “Have you seen the dendrotoxin rifle prototype those two rookies in R&D have been designing?”
Phil blinked. His brain took a moment to change tracks from Browning’s atrocious use of Russian colloquialisms in a supposedly-professional memo to Jasper’s complaint. He frowned. “Someone’s stolen the night-night gun?” he said.
“ Stolen is a very strong word,” Jasper replied. “It’s probably more like ‘aggressively misplaced’. Or maybe ‘location obscured’.”
Arching an eyebrow, Phil sighed. “No, I haven’t seen the night-night gun or any junior agents running around with suspicious gun-shaped objects,” he said. “But you have my permission to eviscerate anyone responsible when you find them.”
Jasper gave a frustrated sigh. “Now I’m going to have to tell Fury. Why do I always have to be the one to tell Fury about this stuff?”
For the first time in about twelve hours, Phil’s lips curved up into a small smile. Out of all the people he’d met during his own time as a junior agent, Jasper was the best. He was definitely Phil’s favourite of all SHIELD’s non-bow wielding or red-headed agents. Jasper might complain when disaster inevitably struck, but only ever in a dryly sarcastic way that was actually funny , and his practical and helpful solutions were the stuff of legend.
The fact that Jasper also terrorized the more stupid of the junior agents within an inch of their lives was just an added bonus, really.
“Because Nick’s a sucker for your big brown eyes?” Phil suggested.
When Jasper scowled, Phil just shrugged. Nick had a crush the size of Jupiter on Jasper, and really could anyone object at Phil taking tactical advantage?
Phil arched another eyebrow when Jasper continued to hover in his doorway. “Well, feel free to hunt down the culprits and wreak your terrifying vengeance,” he said, hoping Jasper would take the hint and leave him alone again. “If anyone else around here does something that inevitably results in grievous bodily harm or a report to our benevolent Director, you’ll no doubt find out via the screaming.”
The entire office was incapable of doing anything quietly.
With a final huff, Jasper disappeared as abruptly as he’d appeared. Phil pulled up his email, because Nick probably deserved some fore-warning, if only so he could pull the surveillance footage and watch Jasper in action while sighing dreamily. While he thought about it, Phil also sent a copy to Maria, because Maria hated it when things interfered with her running things at optimum efficiency levels, and Phil wasn’t getting back on her shit-list.
(He’d experienced the sheer pervasive torture of that in 2001 and once was way more than enough for one lifetime. Possibly several.)
Emails sent, Phil reached for his coffee mug, determined to get at least three more intelligence briefings read and verified before lunch. Except his coffee was disgustingly cold and gross.
Ugh .
Tuesday lunchtime, SHIELD New York offices
Cups of coffee consumed: 4
Phil stared at his computer screen, because he was 85% convinced it was the source of most of the evil in the world. Or maybe just Phil’s life. Possibly that distinction could also be applied to the smug bastard who sent back his mission analysis of Operation Silverback, but that could also be because Nick liked riling him. Particularly before lunch.
(Seriously, what did Nick mean, “ Cheese, remove the biting sarcasm, would you? It’s bad for morale. ” Phil had been nice . He hadn’t even brought up half the protocol issues.)
“Yo, A.C. Looking good,” Agent Daisy Johnson called out cheerfully as she sauntered into Phil’s office with little regard for Phil’s continuing train of thought.
Along with her customary Stark-tab, Daisy was carrying a still steaming mug of coffee, which she placed on the desk right in front of Phil, so Phil was willing to forgive her for the interruption. That, and she was one of the best agents he’d ever helped train. She might not have much experience yet -- particularly with the bat-shit weird SHIELD was prone to deal with -- but when she got it, she’d be phenomenal .
Today, Daisy was wearing a sleek black skirt and a loose spotted blouse -- except when Phil got a closer look, the spots were actually tiny Captain America shields.
(Phil approved. Jasper might have some competition for the title of Phil’s Favourite Agent.)
Despite their status as an international espionage agency that out-operated most US and allied three-letter alternates, SHIELD had a surprisingly relaxed dress code. Undercover assignments aside, the office was usually a mix of business wear (like Phil’s prefered tailored suits) and SHIELD issue tac gear and catsuits. Nick usually claimed he’d changed the rules because he prefered individuality in his agents, and not because half his wardrobe was black leather and he liked wearing it.
Of course, when Phil hadn’t requested her presence on his operations, Daisy lived near the R&D facility, and the less stringent dress code might also have something to do with the numerous times things tended to get set on fire, blown up and otherwise destroyed. Maria said that if they couldn't even keep the walls standing on a regular basis, who cared what the agents wore?
(Considering the way Maria always wore her catsuit, Phil had resigned himself to working with people that had a disturbing lack of appreciation of good clothing.)
“What can I do for you, Daisy?” Phil asked.
“You haven’t seen the Big Brain around, have you?” Daisy said. “I need him for something.”
Oh Nine Realms, Stark was in the building? Maybe he needed to send another strongly worded memo to Nick about the benefits of working with Wakanda if they needed to develop tech.
“ No ,” Phil said. “And I absolutely don’t want to .”
Daisy sighed. “Dammit. Do you think Agent Carter would know where he is?”
Grimacing, Phil took a large swallow of coffee because if Stark was here, he was going to need it. “Make sure you run a sweep for J.A.R.V.I.S in our systems ASAP,” he said. “And whatever you do, don’t tell him you know where I am.”
“Okay,” Daisy said with a grin. “I’ll tell him you’re running a routine inspection on our Luna Base.” She made a considering face. “I can probably make him believe it.”
Phil was immediately seized with horror at Stark building a secret base on the moon just to beat SHIELD to it after he found out SHIELD didn’t actually have one. “ No! ” he hissed. “Don’t give him ideas .”
Daisy pouted. “Awww. A base on the moon would be cool, though.”
It really would . Except, Stark was terrifyingly intelligent enough on one planet. Phil wasn’t even willing to let him visit Asgard .
“Who are we not giving ideas to now?” Melinda May drawled, dryly familiar, and dammit , Phil hated it when she ninjaed into his office without him noticing.
His situational awareness was supposed to be better than that. Of course, it was also Melinda May .
“Stark,” Phil said flatly, keeping all indications of the swooping lurch his heart had made at Melinda’s abrupt appearance off his face.
Melinda shrugged. She was already on record of how much not giving Stark ideas was a lost cause. The man generated infinite ideas just by breathing, and Melinda hated wasting energy on anything futile.
“You’ve got a mission,” Melinda said, fixing Phil with narrowed dark eyes.
Phil groaned. “It’s not more surveillance, is it?”
Melinda rolled her eyes. “Turn up at the briefing and find out.”
Tuesday early afternoon, SHIELD, New York offices
Cups of coffee consumed: 5
Fresh cup of coffee in hand, Phil stalked into Briefing Room 2A. Naturally, it was empty , because no one bothered to turn up to a mission briefing on time. Except Maria, and Phil had always liked Maria. He should work with Maria more.
Sighing, Phil took a seat and pulled up the latest political analysis on Northern Africa on his Stark-tab. He might as well get some work done while he waited, although not swinging by the cafeteria for a sandwich on his way was possibly a bad idea. Going to briefings hungry always made him cranky, and no matter how hard he tried, Phil couldn’t survive on coffee alone.
The other part making Phil cranky was how he had absolutely no idea what this briefing -- and therefore the following mission -- was about. The fact that Strike Team Delta had been sent on their own mission without him two weeks ago had nothing to do with it. Phil was absolutely not missing his assets, because that would imply he actually liked the sheer amount of chaos they brought to his life.
(Phil might be so far up the Nile on that one he could build his own pyramid.)
Whatever .
Phil was allowed to miss his husband. They’d only been married three months, and really the regulations that said married couples couldn’t go out into the field with their spouse on every single mission were ridiculous. Phil was going to remind Nick of that when Nick finally sucked up the courage to ask Jasper out, because everyone could see those two were headed for domestic, marital bliss. You know, eventually . When they learned to communicate, and Phil had managed it, so Nick could, too.
Anyway, the point was that Phil was cranky and missed Clint.
That always turned Phil into a bastard, even if all in all, SHIELD was the best place Phil had ever worked. Despite the misfits, the way paperwork was somehow sucked into a giant black hole located in the basement and the meetings Blake always scheduled for last thing before a long weekend. Phil could have lived without a few of the stupider junior agents and the subsequent accidental shootings, but the rest of the job wasn’t bad. He had the freedom to plan and execute missions on his own terms and Nick only got a little cranky when he caused explosions that levelled entire enemy compounds.
So, naturally , that was when the whirlwind of human stubbornness that was Clinton F. Barton stormed into the briefing room. Phil blinked. He hadn’t had enough caffeine yet to hallucinate, and he’d gotten the coffee from the break room far away from R&D. So unless Stark was somehow responsible, Phil’s husband really was right in front of him.
A wide grin split Clint’s face, his eyes bright and crinkling at the corners. “Hey there, Hot Stuff,” he greeted with a wink.
Phil blinked again.
As usual, Clint was decorated with random bruises, and a few white bandages standing out against his golden skin. Thankfully, none of the injuries appeared serious, although Phil would be making his own examination later, being well aware of what exactly Clint termed ‘just a scratch , Phil’.
Clint’s hair was still damp, suggesting he’d only just got back, although there was no sign of Natasha yet which didn’t entirely bode well. Also no one had bothered to notify Phil, which might mean there was a 50% chance Clint was here without official approval. It wouldn’t be the first time, not that Phil would be complaining. Well, too loudly anyway.
(He did have a reputation to maintain.)
Clint was dressed in black cargo pants, combat boots and a worn SHIELD hoodie, because of course a secret intelligence organisation had merchandise with its name emblazoned all over it. And, of course , Clint would attempt to wear as much of it as possible.
Clint snorted. “Oh, come on. Not even a frown?”
A lock of Clint’s hair, now getting quite long, had fallen over his forehead, and Phil’s fingers itched to brush it back, but they were stuck, frozen, around the edges of his Stark-tab. “You’re here,” he rasped.
Clint’s eyes widened a fraction, some of the humour fading from his face. Embarrassed by the amount of emotions he was leaking all over the place at work , Phil cleared his throat and arched an eyebrow. “I presume your mission was concluded and you didn’t just abscond again?”
Clint rolled his eyes, huffed and thumped down in the chair closest to Phil, making sure to wheel it close enough that he could lean over and peer at Phil’s Stark-tab. Somehow this also involved one of Phil’s hands, but considering how Clint was only using it to lace their fingers together, Phil would let it slide. Plus, it was kind of nice.
(The gooey warmth spreading through Phil’s stomach was irrelevant and completely impractical, but he was in love. Hopelessly, head over heels in love.)
“This briefing isn't your fault, is it?” Phil asked to distract himself.
Sighing, Clint looked up at him, and it was hard for Phil not to get lost in the flecks of green and gold in his blue eyes when they were this close. “And to think I even missed you,” Clint muttered, but he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Phil’s in a gentle kiss.
Phil sagged into it, ignoring his professionalism for the next thirty seconds, because Clint was warm and solid and right there . He tightened his grip on Clint’s hand and cursed the briefing, because all he wanted to do was drag his husband home to their apartment and snuggle on the couch. Maybe eat some pizza.
“Okay, do I have to make you both sit at opposite corners of the table again?” a very amused voice interrupted, ruining the moment.
Phil pulled back to scowl at Isabelle Hartley. Izzy smirked back, sauntering in to sit down and throw her booted feet up onto the conference table. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail for once, but the jeans and t-shirt were actually rather tame as Izzy’s outfits went. A habit she’d picked up from all the undercover work, she said, but Phil was pretty sure Izzy just liked t-shirts with dirty jokes on them.
Clearing his throat, Phil glanced between Izzy and the door, but no one else seemed to be forthcoming. “Any idea what this briefing is about?” he asked.
“Remember that operation in Bucharest? The one with the secret tunnel and the morons in the yellow uniforms?” Izzy said. “Well, I’m pretty sure it’s not as bad as that.”
“Wonderful,” Phil said dryly.
“Umm,” Clint said. “I hate to interrupt, but what operation in Bucharest?”
Before anyone could answer, the door slammed open and Deputy Director Victoria Hand stalked in, dark eyes flashing behind her glasses and the red in her hair particularly aggressive. Her file said that Hand was completely human, but Phil had his doubts. Her hair definitely had a personality. And possibly sentience.
“It’s okay, babe, we can shoot whoever it is later,” Izzy said, unconcerned by the anger crackling in the air surrounding Hand. Then again, Izzy and Victoria had been married for almost a decade now, so this wasn’t the first time Izzy had seen her wife in such a temper.
Hand frowned. “We cannot assassinate an entire Congressional Subcommittee, no matter how near-sighted and bigoted they might be,” she said.
Phil blinked. “We have an operation involving a Congressional Subcommittee?”
That didn’t sound good.
Hand sank down into the chair at the head of the table, as elegant as ever. “No,” she said. “That’s a separate matter. I apologize. The Chairman’s call delayed me. I called this briefing about a potential sighting of an 084.” She glanced between Izzy and Clint. “Although, I was under the impression I’d only asked Coulson to be here.”
Clint shrugged. He was still holding Phil’s hand. “I wanted to see my husband,” he said.
Hand nodded as if that made perfect sense. “Very well,” she replied. “Let’s begin.”
An hour later, SHIELD Quinjet hangar
Cups of coffee consumed: 8
Apparently, the 084 was in Pittsburgh. Phil wasn’t sure how or why , but that’s what intel said, so here they were. At least it was only a short flight from New York, even if Hand had made him take far too many agents for a simple fact finding mission. The junior agents Phil could understand -- Strike Team Delta was another question entirely. Yet, somehow, Clint and Natasha had both sweet talked their way onto the quinjet.
Phil scowled as something bounced off the side of his head.
He looked down at the brown m&m in his lap and then back up at the man responsible. He wasn’t fooled by the all too innocent expression and hadn’t been for years . When mischief was afoot, Clint Barton was not just involved, he was one of the masterminds. Phil sighed, glaring as best as he could through his sunglasses. “Is there something you needed, Barton?” he said.
Clint scowled back, although whether it was from Phil’s tone or his use of Clint’s now less official surname was anyone’s guess. He threw another m&m at Phil. This time it was blue, one of the ones Clint actually liked.
“Hawk,” Melinda warned, glaring her ‘ I will render you unconscious if you keep annoying me ’ glare.
Clint sighed. “I’m just bored,” he muttered, because it was a well known fact that Clint was only sitting in the copilot’s chair for protocol and in case Melinda was incapacitated in some sort of freakishly rare event.
“Besides,” Clint added, narrowing his eyes at Phil. “Our glorious leader here hasn’t eaten since breakfast , so I’m trying to trick him into it.”
Daisy snorted, not even looking up from her Stark-tab. “By throwing m&ms at him?”
Beside her, Agent Antoine Triplett grinned and Phil mentally sighed. Trip was the grandson of a Howling Commando in addition to being an exceptional agent, and Phil would have preferred to retain a little authority. And dignity. It was hard to do when he was being pelted with candy.
“You know, Melinda doesn’t need you to help her fly,” Phil grumbled.
Clint huffed loudly and tossed another m&m at Phil’s head, this one much harder than the last. He smirked when Phil scowled at him again. Thankfully, Natasha snatched the next m&m Clint threw at him right out of the air, her grin shark-like. Phil rolled his eyes -- carefully hidden behind his sunglasses -- at the resultant fight, which ended with Clint wincing and holding his arm and Natasha victoriously shoving a handful of candy into her mouth.
Daisy blinked, eyeing Phil over her Stark-tab. “Are they always like this?” she asked. She was probably also trying to be discreet, but that was mostly impossible with the way the ‘jet’s engine vibrated.
Also, probably completely unnecessary considering his assets.
Phil sighed. “No, most of the time they’re worse .”
“Hey!” Clint protested. “I resemble that remark.”
“You’re not funny,” Phil told him. “Neither are your antics.”
Trip grinned as Daisy raised her eyebrows. Inwardly, Phil groaned. Both junior agents were impossibly curious about Strike Team Delta, because they hadn’t spent thirty-six hours sneaking their way across Latvia with Clint bleeding and singing 99 Bottles of Beer with increasingly dirty lyrics. In Phil’s ear. As a result, Daisy and Trip considered them slightly mysterious and competent legends, rather than trouble-making, irrepressible five year olds in adult bodies.
Bobbi Morse gave a loud groan, giving up from where she’d been attempting to nap in the back corner. She pushed up her sunglasses into her dishevelled blonde hair, and fixed Daisy and Trip with a vaguely manic grin and bright eyes. Maria had pulled Bobbi out of the last stages of a debriefing on another operation, but perhaps Phil should have protested more.
“Well,” Bobbi said. “There was the time Clint shot a visiting Army General by ‘accident’ with a paint gun, or the underwear up the flagpole -- always a classic -- or, ooooh , the time Natasha propositioned a Swedish prince.” She shot Phil a look. “And don’t let Coulson fool you. When Natasha stuck out, he propositioned the prince instead.”
Well, there were reasons Clint had married him.
“And?” Daisy said breathlessly, her eyes wide.
Clint frowned. “The prince accepted, of course. It was before Carl married that model or whatever, though,” he said. He smirked and waved a hand at Phil. “I mean, who wouldn’t want to tap that?”
“Lots of people, Barton,” Bobbi said dryly. She slid Phil a sidelong glance. “Uh, no offense, sir.”
The best course of action was probably just to ignore everyone. Phil wished he had more coffee.
Natasha snorted. “Hawkeye’s biased, anyway,” she told Daisy, much like the way an older sister would impart a secret. “He wanted to tap that since about two hours after they met.”
Clint squawked. “It wasn’t two hours , Tash! It was…” He scowled when Natasha levelled him with a flat glare. “It was a really beautiful explosion, okay? You can’t blame me for admiring its creator!”
Yep. Phil was definitely ignoring them.
He tuned out the bickering, and thankfully Melinda put the ‘jet into a smooth landing sequence about ten minutes later. The ‘jet landed with barely a bump, and Melinda turned to Phil with a raised eyebrow. “Yet more Weird Shit, Floor One,” she said dryly. “Please watch your step, and thank you for flying Air SHIELD.”
“You’re hilarious,” Phil told her, rolling his eyes.
“Good luck,” Melinda called out as Phil started herding everyone off the ‘jet. “Don’t let the kids touch any 084s and get turned into something creepy!”
Phil didn’t bother to reply.
Late afternoon, outskirts of Pittsburgh
Cups of coffee consumed: 12
Right now, the only nice things Phil could say about Pittsburgh were that it had a decent hockey team and made good coffee. Which wasn’t Pittsburgh’s fault. Phil’s opinion was mostly coloured by the maniacs he had to supervise, and they weren’t making it easy. With a little more experience, Daisy and Trip would be phenomenal, and when combined with Bobbi’s skills, they were all suitable successors to Strike Team Delta. Which was probably why Deputy Director Hand had sent them all out with Phil.
Phil didn’t like to think about his retirement -- just in case he jinxed it -- but when he did, it was nice to imagine the next generation taking over to kick ass, take names and blow things up in a dramatic fashion.
What wasn’t nice was being on this mission. The rumours about a suspicious 084 seemed to be exactly that -- rumours . They’d tracked the potential artifact as far as a suspicious warehouse, because these things were always in suspicious warehouses, and his assets were now helping keep watch while Trip and Bobbi investigated nearby and Daisy searched through recent satellite images.
At least, Phil hoped that’s what they were all doing.
Ugh, he needed more coffee.
Sighing, Phil lowered his binoculars. The building was the same ugly grey it had been ten minutes ago. He glanced over to where Daisy was fortified behind a wall of electronic devices. “Anything yet?” he asked.
“Sorry, Boss,” Daisy said, not even looking up. “I got nothing.”
Phil frowned. His instincts were telling him that this was a dead end.
“So…” Clint drawled over the comms. “Pepper Potts, the Lady Sif or the infamous Falcon, aka Sam Wilson?”
“Uh… what?” Trip said, confused.
There was a beat of silence. “ Really ?” Natasha said flatly. “We’re doing this again?”
“You know the rules of ‘Marry, Fuck or Throw off a Cliff’ are sacred, Tash,” Clint said, his smirk distinctly audible.
Sadly, Clint was convinced, even though Natasha and Phil disagreed loudly. The game was one Strike Team Delta used to play on missions to stop themselves succumbing to the focus-draining boredom of waiting for their target to show up where they were supposed to. Of course, the last time they’d played the game the choices had been ‘Hill, Sitwell or Coulson’, and Phil wasn’t sure he wanted to have that kind of debate on open comms while junior agents listened in. For his reputation’s sake.
“You guys do this a lot?” Daisy asked, amused, and Phil carefully didn’t look over at her, instead choosing to stare at the warehouse through his binoculars again.
Bobbi snorted. “ All the time,” she muttered.
“Is this what you people really talk about on missions?” a new -- and thoroughly unwelcome -- voice echoed over the comms. “I don’t know whether I’m appalled or grudgingly impressed.”
“ Stark ?” Clint hissed. “What the…?”
“Oh, don’t get your feathers in a twist, Legolas,” Stark interrupted, and Phil absolutely did not grind his teeth. “I overheard your gossip circle while I was running a test flight for the new Mark 42 armour.”
Phil snorted. That meant he’d had J.A.R.V.I.S. hack their comms and followed them from New York.
“Doubtful,” Natasha told Stark, and that was why she was one of Phil’s favourites.
“Please, you love me,” Stark replied, and Phil immediately started scanning the skies with his binoculars. “Also: does Agent Agent approve of you being so distracted on a mission? He’s being suspiciously silent. Did you accidentally kill him?”
“ Please ,” Clint drawled. “Phil plays it with us.”
“He does not ,” Stark shot back.
“Oh, he does ,” Bobbi said.
Was that dark spot in the east growing larger? Phil frowned, biting back the urge to demand answers from Stark. That would only encourage everyone involved.
Natasha hummed. “He did. He’d rather sleep with Sitwell than throw him off a cliff, which I always thought was rather sweet.”
Stark made a slight choking sound. “Coulson would sleep with Sitwell?”
“Yeah, but he’d marry Fury,” Clint said, because the smirking bastard couldn’t help himself.
Phil sighed, and waited for the eruption. He should definitely have snuck out for more coffee earlier.
Daisy snorted. “You mean theoretically, because the Boss is already marr…”
“That’s it,” Phil said, interrupting sharply and lowering the binoculars. It was for the best that Daisy didn’t finish that sentence. “I'm calling the mission. There’s nothing here. If Hand is still worried, she can send a long-term surveillance team.”
“Wait, Super Agent is married ?” Stark said and the obvious incredulity was a little insulting. Phil was a catch , thank you.
Daisy’s eyes went wide and her face paled. She opened her mouth, but Phil waved a hand before she could apologize. He and Clint hadn’t been keeping their marriage a secret -- everyone at SHIELD knew -- but Phil had wanted time to brace himself for Stark’s invasive version of friendliness. At least until the honeymoon period was over.
(Phil preferred privacy for some things and that would be much more difficult if Stark was wandering around after them all the time.)
“He is ,” Clint told Stark gleefully.
“Seriously?” Stark shot back, and Phil was offended that Stark immediately asked J.A.R.V.I.S. to search NYC City Cleark records.
“And why not? Phil would make anyone an excellent spouse!” Clint snapped.
He was irritated, which was slightly better than when Clint was being smug. Both responses sent warm tingles through Phil’s chest, and he was probably awful at discouraging Clint from picking fights with fellow agents and now eccentric billionaires over Phil.
(Phil also considered that Clint made an excellent spouse.)
“Is that bitterness I hear, Feathers? Are you jealous because all our dear Besuited Robot wants to do is throw you off a cliff?” Stark teased.
Natasha snorted loudly.
Phil pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache starting to pound at his temples. “Has anyone contacted Melinda about exfil?” he asked.
“She’s en route,” Daisy reported. “ETA, five minutes.”
Phil blinked, because since when was Melinda on standby for such a low priority mission?
“Also, Boss, I have a message for on an encrypted channel. It’s from someone named Marcus, who says you owe him some, uh... cheese?” Daisy added, confused.
Oh . Phil would have to thank Nick for the save later. Maybe he’d stop teasing Nick about his Epic Crush for a while. Like, a week. Phil wasn’t sure he could restrain himself longer than that.
“Thanks, Daisy,” Phil said.
“Coulson, you are one deeply weird man,” Stark said.
The whine of repulsors behind him, combined with a weird electronic echo, made Phil sigh. He turned to find Stark in his red and gold Iron Man suit hovering outside the large window opposite. Since they were on the third floor, that was hardly inconspicuous .
“Perhaps,” Phil said, because it never got old to fuck with Stark. “But really, who’s weirder: me, or the person who married me?”
Phil allowed himself a small smirk as Stark spluttered.
“Still you, Coulson,” Melinda said over the comms, a quinjet smoothly landing in the small parking lot outside the warehouse.
Phil rolled his eyes. Maybe he could get coffee back in New York.
Evening, SHIELD, New York offices
Cups of coffee consumed: 16
After a debrief, Phil retreated to his office to finish his mission report. The intelligence on the 084 had some merit, but Phil highly doubted anything that powerful was hiding in an ugly grey warehouse in Pittsburgh. Mostly, because it was more likely that some asshole would have been causing trouble with it instead, probably in the busiest part of Pittsburgh. Either way, it would be something to keep an ongoing eye on, just in case.
Because the corridors of SHIELD were still ominously quiet, Phil couldn’t avoid the loud chatter of Stark’s imminent approach. He sighed and reached for his coffee mug.
“...telling me that Coulson, the Minion of Order, admitted -- out loud and in front of witnesses -- that he wants to fuck you, Bird Brain?” Stark said, and shit, he was closing in on Phil’s office fast .
Phil grimaced, and not just because his coffee mug was empty.
“ Please ,” Natasha said, and oh goody , she was here, too. “What Barton is saying is that Phil has also wanted to throw him off cliffs. Many, many cliffs.”
“Hey!” Clint protested. “I can’t help it if I’m so awesome, I get the trifecta.”
“Only you are proud of that fact,” Natasha said dryly.
Stark wandered straight in to Phil’s office without bothering to knock, and slumped down into one of Phil’s guest chairs. Natasha and Clint were swept inside in his wake, both dressed in jeans and leather jackets and ready to head out.
“Can I help you, Mr Stark?” Phil asked in his driest voice, barely glancing up long enough to arch an eyebrow at Stark.
“Yes,” Stark said, firm and determined. He waved a hand to presumably encompass Phil, or perhaps his desk. “You can tell me who you married so I can send them an edible arrangement for having to deal with such a boring workaholic as you.”
Phil put his pen down and leaned back. “Insulting me is hardly going to get me to cooperate.”
Stark scowled. “Oh, come on, Coulson. That’s hardly an insult. You are a workaholic, and I would know: I’m the guy who forgets to eat for days when I’m lost in my workshop.”
That was true enough. Phil scowled on principle, though. “I’m not boring ,” he muttered.
“No,” Stark said, his dark eyes lighting up. “You’re married .”
Meanwhile, Clint had wandered over to perch on the corner of Phil’s desk and was now peering suspiciously at Phil’s empty coffee mug. He glanced up with narrowed eyes. “Do I have to switch you over to decaf again, Phil?” he asked.
Phil shuddered and glared back. “ No ,” he snapped, because that had been one of the worst weeks of Phil’s life .
Clint raised both his eyebrows. “So that means you actually ate something that required chewing?” he replied.
Phil huffed. “ Yes . I had a sandwich and an apple, and half a box of some sort of noodles that Jasper handed me.”
Brightening, Clint grinned. “Awesome. Dinner?” he suggested.
“Oh my God,” Stark interrupted, his voice rising in volume. “ Oh my God .”
Really, it had been inevitable that Stark would work things out. Phil slid another glance towards Clint, who shrugged slightly. Wordlessly, Phil and Clint held up their left hands to show Stark the platinum rings they both wore on important fingers.
“Holy shit !” Stark breathed.
Natasha held up her phone, clearly pointed at Stark, and Phil arched another eyebrow. “Tash, what are you doing?” he asked.
Natasha grinned. “Filming this so I can send it to Steve,” she replied.
Wonderful . Phil always loved it when people made him look ridiculous in front of his childhood hero. Or, you know, recorded it for prosperity. Stark wouldn’t care, but Stark was shameless.
“Yes,” Phil said in an attempt to forestall Stark’s next barrage of questions. “Clint and I are married. It’s a recent development. And no we didn’t announce it dramatically, because really, it’s so tacky to buy out the entire front page of the Times .”
Stark narrowed his eyes. “You’re deadpanning,” he said. “Is this marriage for realsies, forever and no take backsies?”
Clint snorted. “It took me a long time to put a ring on that,” he told Stark. “I’m not stupid enough to let him get away now .”
Grinning, Stark held out a fist and Clint leaned over to bump it. Phil rolled his eyes, because really . Clint might think he lured Phil into matrimony, but Phil didn’t go anywhere he didn’t want to.
“Has it occured to you that I’m not going anywhere?” Phil said to Clint.
“Not even to dinner , Phil?” Clint asked, eyes wide and with a large dose of feigned disappointment. “You promised .”
Phil frowned. There was a very, very large chance Clint wasn’t going to let him have anymore coffee, so he probably should go home. “I’m going to order a pizza,” he said, “and I’m not going to offer you any .”
Stark gave a low whistle. “Damn, you married a hardass, Hawk.”
“Nah,” Clint drawled. He turned soft blue eyes on Phil and smiled sweetly, and ugh . Fine. Phil would share his pizza. “I married a superhero.”
Natasha made retching sounds. Clint ignored her to keep staring at Phil with a besotted look that was probably only half feigned, and behind him, Stark raised both eyebrows. “Wow,” he muttered. A smirk blossomed across his face. “You know, you spies are tricksy things. We still don’t entirely believe you.”
He waved a hand to indicate both himself and Natasha. Phil frowned. Natasha had been at their wedding . “Stark,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Are you using the royal ‘we’ ?”
Stark rolled his eyes. “No, I meant Cap,” he said, and oh . Natasha was still videoing everything.
Phil rolled his eyes. “It’s not my problem what you do and do not believe, Mr Stark.”
“I think you should kiss,” Stark interrupted.
“Stark…” Phil started.
“Aww, come on, honey ,” Clint said, leaning in. His eyes were dancing which sparked an answering mischievousness in Phil’s chest. “Don’t you want to kiss me?”
Phil arched an eyebrow and Clint shrugged minutely. It wasn’t exactly how Phil had wanted to announce his marriage to the Avengers (except Natasha), but Stark would hardly leave them alone now .
Smiling, Clint leaned in further, one strong arm braced on the desk in front of Phil, and kissed him. Phil pressed into it, warmth spreading through him, and his fingers almost immediately itching to drag Clint off the desk and into his lap. His hand settled instead on Clint’s muscular thigh, and Clint hummed, nipping at Phil’s lower lip. He let Clint deepen the kiss, because he was always up for trolling Stark with tongue, and then he got a little lost in the the press of Clint’s lips and the brush of his thumb along Phil’s jaw.
(Clint had always been good at finding Phil’s weaknesses and exploiting them.)
When Clint finally pulled back, Phil returned his gentle smile. Yeah, okay. It was definitely time to go home.
“Holy shit, he melted . Barton, you made him melt!” Stark accused, breaking the moment. “I didn’t even know he could do that.”
“So,” Clint said, ignoring Stark. “Dinner?”
“Dinner,” Phil agreed.
Clint grinned. “Awesome. And Phil? If you play your cards right, I’ll even let you get another coffee afterwards.”
Phil laughed.
The End