Fic: Cease The Privilege
Title: Cease The Privilege | AO3
Author: meloenijs
Pairings: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1.726
Disclaimer: None of the characters are mine, I’m merely borrowing them.
Summary: Phil and Clint's first kiss is at Stark's famous Christmas party after both are found to be standing under the mistletoe.
Everywhere he looks are people, and he recognises none of them. He smoothes his hands over his fitted suit, self-consciously. It’s not that he looks bad, in fact, he look great and he knows it, but it’s not what he usually wears, and he knows people will comment on it.
He’d rather not be here - he’s heard what happens at Stark parties, and even though Stark has cleaned up his act, he’d rather not chance it. But, seeing as he lives with Stark and the man has tried everything from bribing him - and everyone else - till practically begging to attend, he gave in. He’d made Natasha promise him not to abandon him.
Clint walks over to the bar, ordering a simple beer to start the evening. Taking a long drink, he turns around and scans the crowd, looking for a familiar figure. The fiery red of Natasha’s hair catches his eye; she’s seated at the back, occupying one of the few tables. She’s not alone, the seats next to her taken by Coulson and Cap.
He finishes the beer, orders a new one, and makes his way over. He’d like to get this over with as soon as possible, especially now Coulson’s here too. It’s only been a few months since Loki attacked, and Clint hadn’t handled the few weeks they believed Coulson to be dead very well. Most of his days had been spent on the range, drawing arrow after arrow until his hands bled, interspersed with days where he sparred with anyone willing, to keep himself busy and his mind off the topic of the death of the best man he knew. The fact that Clint had nursed a crush on him for several years didn’t matter, because Coulson was worth so much more.
And then Coulson came back from the dead, bringing back the light in Clint’s life, and for several days everything was right again and the world made sense. Clint carefully didn’t spend the whole day at Coulson’s bedside, no matter how much he longed for it. No, he came only when one of the others was present and left with them, not willing to risk himself doing something stupid like kiss the man if they were alone. Pepper had reminded Tony about a cellist, Clint had heard, and Tony had started a wild goose chase to find her, ended only when Fury caught wind of it and told him it was taken care of already.
But after that first week, when Coulson was released from the hospital and allowed back to work on light duty, a tension crept into Clint’s interactions with Coulson. It stumped him, to see how their natural balance suddenly seemed so off. Any silences turned awkward after a few minutes, and it seemed they only ever made eye contact when it was accidental; Coulson’s gaze slid away immediately. Clint was sure one of the other Avengers had told Coulson about how Clint had reacted at his death, and the man knew him well enough to be able to draw his own conclusions. It broke his heart, the current status quo, but he’d always known Coulson was meant for someone better.
He arrives at the table, quickly nods his greetings at both Cap and Coulson, and takes the chair across Natasha, placing the full beer on top of the table. He can feel the curious looks aimed at him, probably amazed at the suit, but he ignores them in favour of asking Natasha for a dance.
She accepts, and he rises to offer her his hand. Taking it gracefully, she stands to reveal a beautiful gala dress, coloured along the same hue of colour he wore himself. It wasn’t the first time that had happened, it seemed as if they had a sixth sense for this. It was entirely accidental every time and did nothing to dissuade the rumours they were dating.
They step into the middle of the dance floor, falling into the steps of a hustle flawlessly. The quick moves take a lot of room, and soon they’ve gathered a crowd, watching them spin around. Clint sees Tony moving away from where he was watching them when the song nears the end. Apparently he went to talk to the band, because suddenly the music changes and it’s perfect for a salsa. Natasha rolls her eyes, and they change styles.
After the song ends the crowd dissipates a bit, enough that Clint can see Coulson watching them from the table. He squats down the urge to go over and ask him for a dance, because it’s stupid and Coulson still tires easily anyway.
The night goes on, his jacket gets discarded somewhere during his fifth dance, and Clint loses track of time. Natasha switched partners long ago, and he keeps on dancing with random people. Dancing was another skill no one ever assumed he’d possess, but Natasha had taught him after he’d explained to her how envious he was of how in control good dancers are of their body, yet also able to completely let go.
At one point, Natasha switches with his current dance partner. “You can’t avoid him forever.”
Clint glances over to the table, where Coulson is currently talking to Sitwell. He’d kept an eye on it the whole night, and there had been a steady stream of visitors. No need for him to go bother the man, as he told Natasha.
She steps onto his foot and makes him stumble. “It’s been Christmas for a few hours already. At least wish him happy holidays.”
Clint sighs. “Can’t I just write him a card?”
Natasha lifts her eyebrow.
“Fine,” he grumbles. As soon as the song ends, Natasha pushes him in the correct direction and swirls away. Clint turns to watch her for a moment, before giving up and moving over to Coulson.
Sitwell is just leaving, and Clint gets a feeling of dread mixed with excitement. He’s not sure he can handle talking to Coulson alone, not with the current tension between them.
“Hey,” Clint says as he slips into the same chair he’d occupied hours ago.
“Hello, Clint,” Coulson responds. “I was just about to leave.”
Clint struggles to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “Oh, yeah. I won’t keep you, then.”
Coulson gives him the same bland smile he gives everyone, nothing special, and stands. He draws away a bit pale, and before Clint knows what he’s doing, he stands and offers his support. “Are you alright?”
A sharp nod follows. “It’s nothing. I shouldn’t have gotten up so quickly after sitting down for so long.”
“Let me help you,” Clint offers. He figures he has nothing to lose here, anyway.
Coulson stiffens briefly under his hands, then nods again.
Together they make their way to one of the private elevators, Clint hovering close to Coulson. Tony had cajoled Coulson into living in the tower along with the rest of them, taking advantage of the fact that Coulson was still recovering from getting stabbed through the chest. The private floors in the tower were situated entirely at the top, leaving plenty of awkward standing around time.
Coulson leans against one wall, staring straight forward. Clint pretends to admire the décor as if he hasn’t seen it every day already. He lets his head thump back against the wall, looking up.
“Oh,” it slips out before he can censor himself, and he barely resists the urge to facepalm. Coulson’s eyes slide towards him, then up. Back to Clint, once he realises what exactly is hanging from the ceiling.
Clint chuckles nervously, pretends nothing’s wrong, as if his stomach isn’t making loops and doing jumps in that same mix of dread and excitement. He tells himself it’d be for the best if Coulson just ignored the tradition involved with mistletoe, because he’s not sure he could handle having one kiss and nothing more.
“We don’t have to, you know, if it makes you uncomfortable,” he rushes to placate Coulson.
For a few terrifying moments, Coulson says nothing and just calmly watches Clint. Then he suddenly pushes himself off the wall, crosses the three feet between them, and leans in towards Clint, hovering right in front of Clint’s face.
Coulson’s obviously letting Clint call the shots here, and it’s surprisingly considerate enough that Clint just gives in to temptation, closes his eyes and leans in. Their lips connect softly, and they could keep it at that, except neither is pulling away, and then Coulson opens his lips, runs his tongue slowly across Clint’s bottom lip, and oh. Clint reciprocates fully, opening his mouth to pull Coulson - Phil? - in, and suddenly they’re making out like a couple of teenagers. Clint’s hands migrate to Coulson’s back, slipping in under his jacket; his own hips rapidly being framed by two warm hands.
Eventually, they have to pull back to breathe, still standing close.
“I hadn’t excepted that reaction,” Coulson breathes out.
“Are you kidding me? I thought you knew about how I felt and that was why…” Clint trails off, unsure.
“Why everything went all awkward between us?” Clint nods. “I thought you were avoiding me, after I healed. You never visited me alone,” Coulson says with a straight face, but Clint can finally see how much it affected him.
“I didn’t want to blurt out something stupid, or start kissing you. And Pepper said there was a cellist.”
“Ah. I’m learning how to play,” Coulson admits with a bashful smile. “We’re both idiots.”
The elevator pings, alerting them they’ve arrived at Coulson’s floor. “Think you could use a hand getting to bed?” Clint leers.
“I’m sure I could find some use for you,” Coulson smirks in that special way of his, unnoticeable to the untrained eye.
Clint slides his arm around Coulson’s waist, pulling him close, and they make their way over to the bedroom. They change into their sleepwear, Coulson wearing soft pyjama bottoms and a worn t-shirt, Clint in just his boxers.
“Phil?” Clint whispers as they lie in bed, Clint curled into Phil’s side, one arm slung over Phil’s waist.
“Hmm?”
“Happy holidays.”
Phil tightens his arms around him in response. It’s the best Christmas Clint’s ever had, and he owes it all to Stark’s crazy idea of hanging mistletoe in the elevator.
He makes a note to thank him later.
Just a quick word about the title (since I did actual research for this and want you all to know):
Washington Irving, in Christmas Eve, relates the typical festivities surrounding the Twelve Days of Christmas, including kissing under the mistletoe (Washington Irving, The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent). Irving continues his Christmas passage with a footnote:
"The mistletoe is still hung up in farm-houses and kitchens at Christmas, and the young men have the privilege of kissing the girls under it, plucking each time a berry from the bush. When the berries are all plucked the privilege ceases."
Source
And so the title is supposed to mean that the privilege to kiss Clint and Phil has ceased.