Fic: Coffee (part of the Scolding series), PG, Clint/Coulson
Title: Coffee
Rating: PG
Pairing: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Fandom: Avengers, MCU
Word Count: 1143
Summary: They can try to hide it all they want, but eventually Phil and Clint's coworkers catch on. Coffee gets scolded, needlepoint signs get made. Phil tries so hard not to be obvious. Clint couldn't care less. Part three of Scolding Inanimate Objects.
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: As always, this is set in the MCU, with Matt Fraction's Hawkeye's habit of saying, "Aw, no."
This one was inspired by this lovely sign. Thanks to Eiluned for allowing me to use it.
This was also inspired by and written for isisanubis, who sent me the link simply because it made her think of my fic. Thanks for being awesome, and so enthusiastic.
AO3 link here: desert_neon at AO3
“Aw, coffee, no.”
By the first word, Phil was already turning, and by the last, he’d identified the problem. Clint’s hand was on the side of the carafe, testing for warmth. Clearly, there wasn’t any.
Clint heaved a great sigh and moved to dump it out. “Seriously, you guys? You couldn’t make a fresh pot?”
The four other agents in the break room all shrugged. “We didn’t make it go cold, Barton,” Kressley pointed out. “That’s a byproduct of that pesky thing known as time.”
Clint scowled but wisely held his tongue. Phil knew it was a hard fought battle, given how exhausted he was. Just back from an op in Kenya, which consisted of bad intel and bad weather, and finished with three horrid military flights home. They were both tired, sore, and Clint (Phil suspected) had a couple of bruised ribs.
“I can do that, Barton,” Phil offered, careful as always to use his last name.
“M’already here, sir. It won’t take but a minute.” The look Clint flashed him read, You’re just as tired as I am. “Why don’t you go to your office, Coulson? Start the report. I’ll join you when this is done.”
Phil hesitated a second, then realized how odd that must have looked, and nodded. “Two sugars, please, and just a drop of cream.”
I know, you idiot, was the look he received then, which, when Clint spoke, matched his words. “I know how you take your coffee, sir.”
“It’s been, what?” Ramirez asked, looking between the two of them like they were nuts. “Seven years you’ve been working together?”
“Not exclusively,” Phil pointed out, afraid of where the conversation was headed.
“Still. If he doesn’t know your coffee order by now, Coulson, he doesn’t belong at SHIELD.”
Phil sighed. He’d been overly cautious, clearly. “True,” he accepted, forcing a mild tone. “My office, Barton, when you’re ready.”
“Sir,” Clint acknowledged, and Phil left.
“Can robots even drink coffee?” a voice asked. (Phil was pretty sure it Chambers. He made a mental note to confirm and, if it was, request additional facts on his next report.)
“An LMD can basically do anything we can do,” Kressley said on a laugh. “In order to pass scrutiny. But Coulson isn’t an LMD. He’s a Vogon. It’s why he loves paperwork so much.”
“You guys are idiots,” Clint snapped, and Phil actually paused in his steps. He didn’t want to have to clean up an HR mess if he didn’t have to. But the archer’s next words surprised him. “He’s more human than anyone else in this fucked up place. Also, he’s been gone for ten seconds. Do you really think he can’t hear you from the hall?”
That was met with silence, and Phil smiled and moved on.
_________
“Aw, coffee, no.”
Phil rushed to grab some paper towels as Jackson and Marsh scrambled to pick up their reports. “Barton, here.”
“Sorry, sir. Still not used to this yet.” Clint knocked on his cast with his good hand, looking sheepish. Phil privately suspected it wasn’t so much the added weight and inconvenience of the cast as it was the medication Clint was on, but he certainly wasn’t going to say that.
“It’s fine, Clint.” Clint stared at him, far too obvious in his slightly altered state, and Phil cleared his throat. “Barton. It’s fine. Accidents happen.”
“Yeah.” He was still staring, but his dilated eyes were fixed on Phil’s mouth, so Phil turned and concentrated on cleaning up the mess.
Jackson and Marsh very wisely said nothing.
_________
“Aw, coffee, no.”
There were a couple quiet chuckles throughout the briefing room, and Phil raised an eyebrow in Clint’s direction.
“Not mine,” Clint explained, holding up one of the paper cups Ngo had been kind enough to bring in. “Might be yours.”
Phil took a cautious sip of the cup he held, and yep. It was straight black coffee. He offered up his cup without a word, and Clint took it with a grin, trading it for his own.
“Much better,” Clint proclaimed with a grin. “Sorry, sir. Continue.”
“Thank you for that permission, Barton,” Phil said in a wry voice, and Clint gave a jaunty salute.
When, in the middle of the op, they both came down with severe colds, at least Phil had the coffee exchange to point to as the culprit. Though he was pretty sure almost no one believed him.
_________
Aw, coffee, no.
The handmade craft hung on the wall by the coffee maker, edged in lace and gleaming white. Phil raised an eyebrow at it, then set about fixing his drink, ignoring the expectant hush behind him. When he finally turned, the six agents scattered around the room were very studiously not looking at him. “Has he seen it yet?”
“We don’t think so? It appeared this morning, so it’s doubtful,” Jackson supplied.
Phil gave a small hum and sipped his coffee. “What makes you think he won’t get coffee by the gym? Or the range?”
There were exchanged glances all around, but it was Chambers who spoke. “Uh. Sir? No disrespect, but it’s not like we don’t know your office is his favorite hangout lately. This room has the highest odds of a Barton/coffee sighting.”
Phil said nothing and kept his expression pleasant but bland. They weren’t wrong, but assumptions and conjecture were one thing. Phil was not about to confirm anything in any way.
He didn’t have to. Clint chose that moment to stroll in, looking half asleep, his clothes and hair rumpled from the couch in Phil’s office, and made a beeline for the coffee. Only instead of pouring himself a cup, he stole Phil’s.
Given that Phil’s wasn’t black and there was a perfectly serviceable carafe right there, it was clear Clint was making a statement. With his back to the others, he offered Phil a playful wink, and stood just a touch too close. Phil also saw the moment Clint noticed the stitched sign, but a bright grin directed at Phil was the only acknowledgment Clint gave.
“Mm, coffee, yes,” he purred into Phil’s mug, and Phil narrowed his eyes at the sultry (and all too familiar) tone in his voice.
“You could get your own,” Phil said, carefully controlled.
“I like yours.”
Phil’s lips twitched in a grin, but he fought it back when someone coughed pointedly. So he took his coffee back instead, hiding the expression behind his mug. “Come on, Barton. Those ammunition requisition forms aren’t going to complete themselves.”
Clint obediently followed him out, and Phil pretended not to notice the smirk he sent his fellow agents.
He also pretended to know nothing relevant when the sign disappeared from the break room the next day. The fact that it reappeared in Phil’s own kitchen was something very few people had clearance to know.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Fandom: Avengers, MCU
Word Count: 1143
Summary: They can try to hide it all they want, but eventually Phil and Clint's coworkers catch on. Coffee gets scolded, needlepoint signs get made. Phil tries so hard not to be obvious. Clint couldn't care less. Part three of Scolding Inanimate Objects.
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: As always, this is set in the MCU, with Matt Fraction's Hawkeye's habit of saying, "Aw, no."
This one was inspired by this lovely sign. Thanks to Eiluned for allowing me to use it.
This was also inspired by and written for isisanubis, who sent me the link simply because it made her think of my fic. Thanks for being awesome, and so enthusiastic.
AO3 link here: desert_neon at AO3
“Aw, coffee, no.”
By the first word, Phil was already turning, and by the last, he’d identified the problem. Clint’s hand was on the side of the carafe, testing for warmth. Clearly, there wasn’t any.
Clint heaved a great sigh and moved to dump it out. “Seriously, you guys? You couldn’t make a fresh pot?”
The four other agents in the break room all shrugged. “We didn’t make it go cold, Barton,” Kressley pointed out. “That’s a byproduct of that pesky thing known as time.”
Clint scowled but wisely held his tongue. Phil knew it was a hard fought battle, given how exhausted he was. Just back from an op in Kenya, which consisted of bad intel and bad weather, and finished with three horrid military flights home. They were both tired, sore, and Clint (Phil suspected) had a couple of bruised ribs.
“I can do that, Barton,” Phil offered, careful as always to use his last name.
“M’already here, sir. It won’t take but a minute.” The look Clint flashed him read, You’re just as tired as I am. “Why don’t you go to your office, Coulson? Start the report. I’ll join you when this is done.”
Phil hesitated a second, then realized how odd that must have looked, and nodded. “Two sugars, please, and just a drop of cream.”
I know, you idiot, was the look he received then, which, when Clint spoke, matched his words. “I know how you take your coffee, sir.”
“It’s been, what?” Ramirez asked, looking between the two of them like they were nuts. “Seven years you’ve been working together?”
“Not exclusively,” Phil pointed out, afraid of where the conversation was headed.
“Still. If he doesn’t know your coffee order by now, Coulson, he doesn’t belong at SHIELD.”
Phil sighed. He’d been overly cautious, clearly. “True,” he accepted, forcing a mild tone. “My office, Barton, when you’re ready.”
“Sir,” Clint acknowledged, and Phil left.
“Can robots even drink coffee?” a voice asked. (Phil was pretty sure it Chambers. He made a mental note to confirm and, if it was, request additional facts on his next report.)
“An LMD can basically do anything we can do,” Kressley said on a laugh. “In order to pass scrutiny. But Coulson isn’t an LMD. He’s a Vogon. It’s why he loves paperwork so much.”
“You guys are idiots,” Clint snapped, and Phil actually paused in his steps. He didn’t want to have to clean up an HR mess if he didn’t have to. But the archer’s next words surprised him. “He’s more human than anyone else in this fucked up place. Also, he’s been gone for ten seconds. Do you really think he can’t hear you from the hall?”
That was met with silence, and Phil smiled and moved on.
_________
“Aw, coffee, no.”
Phil rushed to grab some paper towels as Jackson and Marsh scrambled to pick up their reports. “Barton, here.”
“Sorry, sir. Still not used to this yet.” Clint knocked on his cast with his good hand, looking sheepish. Phil privately suspected it wasn’t so much the added weight and inconvenience of the cast as it was the medication Clint was on, but he certainly wasn’t going to say that.
“It’s fine, Clint.” Clint stared at him, far too obvious in his slightly altered state, and Phil cleared his throat. “Barton. It’s fine. Accidents happen.”
“Yeah.” He was still staring, but his dilated eyes were fixed on Phil’s mouth, so Phil turned and concentrated on cleaning up the mess.
Jackson and Marsh very wisely said nothing.
_________
“Aw, coffee, no.”
There were a couple quiet chuckles throughout the briefing room, and Phil raised an eyebrow in Clint’s direction.
“Not mine,” Clint explained, holding up one of the paper cups Ngo had been kind enough to bring in. “Might be yours.”
Phil took a cautious sip of the cup he held, and yep. It was straight black coffee. He offered up his cup without a word, and Clint took it with a grin, trading it for his own.
“Much better,” Clint proclaimed with a grin. “Sorry, sir. Continue.”
“Thank you for that permission, Barton,” Phil said in a wry voice, and Clint gave a jaunty salute.
When, in the middle of the op, they both came down with severe colds, at least Phil had the coffee exchange to point to as the culprit. Though he was pretty sure almost no one believed him.
_________
Aw, coffee, no.
The handmade craft hung on the wall by the coffee maker, edged in lace and gleaming white. Phil raised an eyebrow at it, then set about fixing his drink, ignoring the expectant hush behind him. When he finally turned, the six agents scattered around the room were very studiously not looking at him. “Has he seen it yet?”
“We don’t think so? It appeared this morning, so it’s doubtful,” Jackson supplied.
Phil gave a small hum and sipped his coffee. “What makes you think he won’t get coffee by the gym? Or the range?”
There were exchanged glances all around, but it was Chambers who spoke. “Uh. Sir? No disrespect, but it’s not like we don’t know your office is his favorite hangout lately. This room has the highest odds of a Barton/coffee sighting.”
Phil said nothing and kept his expression pleasant but bland. They weren’t wrong, but assumptions and conjecture were one thing. Phil was not about to confirm anything in any way.
He didn’t have to. Clint chose that moment to stroll in, looking half asleep, his clothes and hair rumpled from the couch in Phil’s office, and made a beeline for the coffee. Only instead of pouring himself a cup, he stole Phil’s.
Given that Phil’s wasn’t black and there was a perfectly serviceable carafe right there, it was clear Clint was making a statement. With his back to the others, he offered Phil a playful wink, and stood just a touch too close. Phil also saw the moment Clint noticed the stitched sign, but a bright grin directed at Phil was the only acknowledgment Clint gave.
“Mm, coffee, yes,” he purred into Phil’s mug, and Phil narrowed his eyes at the sultry (and all too familiar) tone in his voice.
“You could get your own,” Phil said, carefully controlled.
“I like yours.”
Phil’s lips twitched in a grin, but he fought it back when someone coughed pointedly. So he took his coffee back instead, hiding the expression behind his mug. “Come on, Barton. Those ammunition requisition forms aren’t going to complete themselves.”
Clint obediently followed him out, and Phil pretended not to notice the smirk he sent his fellow agents.
He also pretended to know nothing relevant when the sign disappeared from the break room the next day. The fact that it reappeared in Phil’s own kitchen was something very few people had clearance to know.