Work Text:
At exactly three fifteen, there was an extremely tentative knock on Phil's office door. He bit back his sigh, resigning himself to spending twenty minutes calming or placating whatever junior agent had come to see him now.
"Come in."
The door opened a crack, and one of the division's junior administrative assistants stuck her head in. Her glasses were huge on her heart-shaped face, her dark bangs messy on her forehead, and Phil briefly wondered when SHIELD had begun recruiting toddlers.
Thinking like that officially made him old, he realized, and he smoothed his face into a patient expression before the annoyed scowl could find its way onto his features.
"Can I help you?"
She tentatively approached his desk, a manila folder held before her as an offering.
"S-sorry to bother you, Agent Coulson, but Agent Barton asked if I'd m-mind giving this to you."
Phil blinked, the only sign of his surprise. Why on earth would Clint cajole -- and it had clearly been cajoling, the poor girl was still blushing -- an assistant to bring Phil his paperwork instead of bringing it to him directly?
He would be worried that there was something in it that was going to distress or anger him, but even when he knew the contents would make Phil apoplectic, Clint submitted his reports and his paperwork in person, eyes forward, shoulders straight.
He held out a hand, and the girl darted forward and handed him the folder.
"Thank you, Ms. Ortiz."
She jumped, clearly surprised that he knew her name. "You're welcome, sir," she mumbled, and then she turned and made a break for it, the door closing hard behind her.
Phil ruefully shook his head. He'd hoped his brush with death the previous May might help to show his fellow agents and the rest of the employees that he was human, mortal, flesh and blood. Instead, his survival had only cemented his status as legendary. He'd overheard one of the baby agents call him The Boy Who Lived, and he'd been too amused to be annoyed. He could only imagine what the kid would think if he saw that the scar on Phil’s back was shaped vaguely like a bolt of lightning.
Setting aside his pen and his scattered thoughts, he opened the folder in his hand, his brow furrowing as he saw the contents.
It was a photocopy of an asset intake form. Clint's asset intake form, to be exact, filed more than a dozen years previously by Assistant Director Nicholas Fury. Flummoxed, he stared at the neatly typed letters spelling out Barton, Clinton F., and at Nick's familiar signature at the bottom.
There was something else in the folder. He turned the page, and there was a photocopy of a disciplinary report, dated about eighteen months after the intake form. The charges were insubordination and disobeying a direct order. Clint's signature was sharp and angular at the bottom, and long familiarity with both the archer's handwriting and his moods told Phil how angry he'd been at having to sign this particular report.
A post-it note sat square in the center of the disciplinary report. First stop: where it all began, was all it said, in the same handwriting, much less angular and angry this time.
Phil wanted to be annoyed. He was a very busy man, and he didn't have time for games, especially games that pulled in other SHIELD employees who had their own work to do.
But it was Valentine's Day. It was Valentine's Day, and Clint had been acting... sneaky of late. Nothing to worry about, he'd been as affectionate in private and as efficient on the job as he always was, but something was clearly going on, and Phil wanted to know what.
He glanced at both his inboxes, which were overflowing -- as usual -- but there was nothing requiring his immediate attention, despite what the senders might think. Locking his computer, he secured the rest of his desk, and then he picked up the file Ms. Ortiz had brought him and took a walk.
Phil thought, as he walked, of the circumstances of the incident detailed in the disciplinary report he held. The mission had been screwed from the start and had only gotten worse from there. Clint's handler-chosen nest had been compromised, the cover of their agents on the ground had been blown, and innocents had been caught in the crossfire. Clint had taken the target out anyway and his adamant refusal to head for the extraction point when there were injured civilians he could help -- a refusal that contained some pretty creative cursing in several different languages -- had been the last straw for his handler at the time.
It had been Viltari, Phil remembered suddenly -- a spectacularly incompetent moron Fury had fired not long after anyway -- and he had washed his hands of Clint, calling him irredeemable and ungovernable and recommending immediate termination.
And that was how Clint's file -- much thicker than the two photocopied reports he'd been handed today -- had ended up on Phil's desk. He'd cursed Nick quietly for a few minutes and then gone to see his newly re-assigned asset in his quarters.
Phil wasn't surprised not to see Clint lounging in the corridor where the junior agents were quartered. That would have been too easy. He wasn't quite sure what to expect, considering Clint hadn't had quarters here for years.
Just as he was approaching the section of corridor he needed, the door to Clint's old quarters opened and a young man walked out. Phil stopped and waited to be noticed.
The man was reading something in his hand, his face clearly betraying his confusion, and when he looked up and caught sight of Phil, he stumbled to a stop, his face going slack with shock.
"S-sir."
Phil nodded amiably. "Agent."
The man moved closer, glancing down at what Phil could now see was an interdepartmental mail envelope.
"This, uh -- this was just delivered to my quarters. I was actually just going to bring it to your office, sir. I have no idea what it is or why it came to me, addressed this way."
Phil took it and quickly examined it. It was sealed, marked confidential, and addressed to Senior Agent Phil Coulson, c/o Agent Daniel Goldberg, followed by the designation of Clint's old quarters. He stifled a chuckle -- clearly, Clint had put some thought and some effort into this. He only hoped that it had been hand-delivered by a chosen messenger, and not delivered through the internal mail, or that mode of address was going to cause some vicious rumors.
He tucked the envelope into the folder he'd brought with him, nodding at the young man. "Thank you, Agent Goldberg."
"You're welcome, sir," Goldberg replied, clearly mystified. Phil could feel the man's eyes lingering on the back of his neck as he turned and departed.
He debated returning to his office to open the envelope, but decided that would be a waste of time, given that he was sure to be heading somewhere else as soon as he saw what it held.
The nearest break room was empty, so he ducked in, poured himself a cup of awful coffee, and set to work breaking the seal.
The envelope contained the first page of a mission report. The contents were heavily redacted, the whole page dark with thick black marker, leaving practically nothing but the location of the mission, but that was enough. Phil smiled as memories washed over him.
The walk was shorter this time.
He and Clint had instantly clicked, forming a seamless team that had proved Nick infallible yet again. Phil had quickly earned Clint's respect by listening to what the man actually said rather than his sarcastic tone, and Clint had impressed him with his absolute dedication to getting the job done, even at the expense of his own safety and security.
The mission to Kiev had taken place about four months after Clint's file had found its way to Phil's office. It had gone smoothly, but taken longer than expected, and they'd finished their separate debriefs at the same time, both exhausted and starving. They'd ended up next to each other in the cafeteria line, where their stomachs had growled in unison, and Clint had laughed.
Phil, a little stunned by the way his face lit up with that laugh, had impulsively asked him if he wanted to share a table. Clint had glanced at him warily, and then shrugged and nodded.
It was the first time they'd interacted in any kind of social setting outside of a mission. Their conversation over runny scrambled eggs and violently yellow macaroni and cheese had been stilted at first, but by the end of that meal, Phil had considered Clint more than just a coworker or subordinate. He'd become an acquaintance, maybe even a friend.
The fact that Clint had included that meal in whatever game he was playing told Phil for the first time that it was just as important a memory for Clint as it was for Phil.
Phil felt a rush of love so sharp and quick and deep that it cut like a knife, and he had to take a moment to settle his emotions before he pushed through the cafeteria door.
Before he could do more than glance around, he noticed Sitwell waving at him from the same corner table Phil and Clint had shared after Kiev. Phil huffed a sigh, half in fondness, half in exasperation, as he crossed the cafeteria.
"He roped you into this too?"
Jasper was looking wide-eyed and innocent in a way he probably hadn't actually been since before his age hit double digits. "I don't know what you mean, sir."
"Right. You have no idea what's going on."
Sitwell's grin was lightning quick and gone. "I just came in for a cup of coffee. Barton offered to buy me a cup and then asked if I'd mind holding onto this until you got here."
He tapped the unlabeled manila folder lying on the tabletop.
Phil stared at him. Jasper stared back.
Nobody did bland like Phil, but Jasper was clearly a worthy protégé. He didn't look away even as he sipped his coffee.
Phil's lips twitched as he fought a smile. "Just give it to me, asshole."
Jasper's answering grin was knowing as he handed over the folder, and Phil was sure then that he was right. Sitwell clearly knew what was going on, and it was just as obvious he wasn't about to tell Phil.
The other man drained his coffee and stood, patting Phil on the shoulder and giving him a sunny smile as he headed out of the cafeteria.
Phil was pretty sure what was going to be in the folder before he even opened it, and he was right.
Another asset intake form. Romanov, Natasha (NMI), and the list of aliases stretched for half a page.
Tucking the folder into the growing stack in his hands, he headed for interrogation and detention.
There were two possibilities. The first was on the least secure level of interrogation, where Clint had been held after he'd finally come back into contact with SHIELD, thirty-seven hours late, with Natasha in tow. The second was much deeper into the interrogation section, where Natasha herself had been held.
But this trip wasn't about him and Natasha -- this was about the milestones of his and Clint's relationship, so he chose the room Clint had been in.
It was empty, and Phil frowned. He moved into the room, flipping on the lights, and glanced around again. It was only when he circled the table, coming around to where he'd stood at Clint's shoulder as Clint had haltingly explained to Director Fury his reasons for bringing Natasha in, that he saw the folder on the seat of the metal chair tucked under the table.
He was curious what it might hold -- he knew Clint wouldn't leave anything classified in an open folder where anyone could stumble upon it, no matter what game he was playing.
The folder held a form he'd seen hundreds of times since he'd become Clint's handler. It was a standard requisitions form for the quartermaster, requesting arrows. These were nothing specialized -- basic broadhead, for range practice and standard use. That wasn't the important part on this form; the important part was the date.
Phil grinned briefly as he left interrogation and headed for the practice range. One of the first things he'd drummed into Clint when he'd become the archer's handler was the importance of keeping a copy of everything he submitted. One never knew when something was going to be needed in the future, after all.
It was amusing to think that this was the fruit of those labors.
He slowed as he approached the range, lost in memory. It had been a late night; Natasha, who'd blended seamlessly with him and Clint and turned the three of them into a fairly unstoppable juggernaut, had been away on a solo mission. Phil had worked late into the night, and Clint had sequestered himself on the practice range for hours. When Phil had gone to find him and order him to go to bed, he'd ambushed an astonished Phil and confessed his long-held feelings, right there on the range.
Phil stopped, his hand on the door of the range. Even with everything that had come after, every perfect night and lazy morning they'd shared, there was still nothing that compared to the staggering thrill of that first kiss, Clint's hands on his shoulders as his mouth surged against Phil's, his hot, compact body pressing Phil into the wall of the range.
He allowed himself a moment to savor the memory before he cleared his throat and pushed through the door.
He wasn't surprised to find that the last stall was reserved for Clint, and also empty. There weren't any agents waiting around for a spot at this hour of the afternoon, so Phil didn't feel too conspicuous as he moved into the empty stall and glanced around. There, propped on the floor against the wall, in the corner Clint had maneuvered Phil into on that first night, was another sealed interdepartmental envelope, marked confidential, his name on the front.
Gathering it up, he left the range, making sure to clear the reservation as he went so that it was open if someone actually wanted to get some practice in. A couple of agents entering the range looked at him curiously, since his hands were full of folders and envelopes and his service weapon was nowhere in sight. He merely nodded politely at them and kept moving.
He opened the envelope as he walked, stuttering to a halt as he slid the form it held out far enough to read the heading. He closed his eyes for a moment, his stomach churning in dismay. Sliding the page back into the envelope, he started walking again.
It was a copy of the form listing Clint as his medical proxy. He hadn't been sure if Clint would include the events of the previous year as part of this little exercise, but he couldn't deny that everything that had happened had had lasting effects on their relationship.
Nearly losing each other to Loki -- albeit in different ways -- had reinforced their dedication to each other. It had shown them how much they meant to each other, made them realize they weren't interested in hiding it from the world anymore.
Phil had been injured before, even badly injured a couple of times -- it was an unfortunate hazard of the job -- but coming back from the wounds that had very nearly killed him was the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life. Clint had been beside him every step of the way, patient and calm when Phil felt weak and helpless and raged at the world, quietly forgiving when Phil lashed out and pushed him away.
The only reason Phil could forgive himself for what he'd put Clint through in those difficult months was that he knew helping him had helped Clint. It had kept him busy when he would have turned in on himself, it had turned the terrible guilt and grief he'd felt into purpose as he'd focused on helping Phil rather than hating himself.
Neither one of them would have made it without the other.
That still didn't mean he wanted to re-live any of it.
He pushed through the doors into medical. He didn't remember being here after the attack. He remembered nothing between talking to Nick in the detention bay, agony coursing through him with every shallow breath, and waking up in the plush surroundings of the private room Stark had arranged once they'd found out Phil was alive, a subdued and grieving Clint at his bedside.
The memories of those first dark days in SHIELD medical were Clint's, not Phil's.
A passing nurse caught sight of him and did a double take. "Agent Coulson, what a coincidence."
"Good afternoon. Coincidence?"
She gestured for him to follow her as she moved toward the nurses' desk. Reaching behind it, she grabbed something as she said, "We found this on Bed 3 a few minutes ago. Nobody saw who left it there, or when. I was just about to call up and let you know it was here, see what you wanted me to do with it."
The thin folder she handed him had his name on the front, of course. He took it, murmuring his thanks. He glanced back toward the beds, which were mostly empty; medical was -- thankfully -- quiet at the moment.
"Bed 3," he began, and before he could say anything else, she nodded, her eyes full of shadows.
No one liked to think of those days.
Then, her eyes cleared as her gaze slid over him, carefully assessing him. She smiled. "It's good to see you looking so healthy, sir."
Phil thanked her, returning the smile, and after a brief moment of hesitation, she nodded a farewell and went back to her work. He took another glance around, his gaze lingering on the third bed, and then he opened the file.
The file was empty, but there was a post-it note stuck to the interior. It said, The next leg of the journey starts where paperwork is born.
Well, that was nice and cryptic. Phil frowned at it.
He was fairly sure Clint wasn't referring to the department that designed and implemented SHIELD's forms, or to Phil's departmental office, where most of his and Clint’s completed paperwork was filed and stored in either hard copy or electronic form.
A glance at his watch provided him with the answer, and he couldn't help the quick smile that curved his lips. Of course.
It was nearly five. Long before this surprise treasure hunt, he and Clint had agreed to meet at five for an evening out, barring emergencies, of course. They’d head home to shower and change before they went out, and they’d planned to meet in Phil’s office.
Immeasurable quantities of forms and paperwork had been born in Phil's office, and though there were no major milestones in their relationship that had taken place there -- as far as Phil could tell -- it was in his office that their relationship had truly grown into the strong bond it was now.
He and Clint spent so much time there, the connection between them nurtured by countless afternoons working quietly together, endless strategy meetings and pre-mission prep, quick working breakfasts and lunches, dinners Clint brought for them to share when thirty people needed Phil's attention now and it couldn't wait. Dozens of times after missions, Phil had worked away at his never ending backlog while an exhausted Clint napped soundlessly on the old, battered couch in the corner. Impromptu patch-up sessions when one or the other of them was too stubborn to go to medical, and quiet embraces they never acknowledged later, unspoken comfort that passed between them on the all-too-frequent days when the job won and they lost -- colleagues, coworkers, acquaintances, friends.
If SHIELD was the vessel, the body that contained them and everything they'd built, then Phil's office was the heart of it all. It was there that they had grown from a wary, distrustful asset and a harried, overworked handler into the men they were now, two halves of a seamless whole.
He pushed through the door of his office just before five.
"That was quite a..." Phil trailed off as he glanced around the empty office. "Clint?" he called softly. It wasn't as if he really thought Clint was hiding under the desk or something, but he hadn't expected the office to be empty.
His brow furrowed as he took a closer look at his desk. It should have been clear -- he'd secured his files, of course, before he'd left -- but there was a folder lying open on it, a couple of sheets of paper with a SHIELD logo in the corner on top. He moved in for a closer look, and then the door opened behind him.
"Wait!" Clint cried, and Phil stopped, not wanting to ruin whatever Clint's surprise was. He turned, a smile on his face.
"That was -- " He broke off again, blinking as he caught sight of Clint and drew in a sharp breath.
Clint looked amazing. His suit was black on black, expertly-tailored to highlight his broad shoulders, trim waist, and the strong muscles of his thighs and arms. His shirt was also black -- the only color in his ensemble came from the subtle, deep purple of his tie and pocket square. Phil felt, for once, distinctly underdressed.
"Hi," Clint said softly.
"You look fantastic," Phil breathed as he moved in for a kiss. Before he got close enough, Clint thrust out his hand, and Phil stopped short.
Clint held a single, perfect red rose, the delicate petals trembling as his hand shook.
Clint's hands never shook.
"Thank you," Phil said as he took the rose. He stepped closer, resting his hand on Clint's hip. Clint's face was tight and blank, his shoulders taut, and there was tension in every line of his body.
Surely he wasn't nervous about Phil's reception to the surprise treasure hunt?
"That was quite a trip down memory lane," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to Clint's lips, which twitched under his, but didn't otherwise respond. "I loved remembering everything it took to get us here."
Clint's lips quirked in a quick smile, there and gone, and Phil frowned. He stared into Clint's beautiful eyes, his frown deepening as he saw uncertainty and... fear?
"Everything all right, baby?" he asked, and Clint closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
"I love you," he mumbled as he let it out, and Phil laughed, a little uneasily.
"I love you, too. Happy Valentine's Day."
"Happy Valentine's Day," Clint said, his voice a little shaky, and Phil caught his quick glance at the desk.
He grinned. "Did you bring me more paperwork as a Valentine's gift? I swear, Clint, only you could find a way to give me paperwork and make it romantic."
Moving closer to the desk, he pulled Clint along. The archer went willingly, but before Phil could get more than a quick glimpse of the headings on the forms, Clint tugged until Phil was looking at him again.
"I love you, Phil," he said again, and though his voice started out trembling, it grew stronger as he spoke. "I love you more than I've ever loved or will ever love anyone in my whole life, and I know that you love me more than anyone has ever loved me before, and it was you that taught me that I'm worthy of that love, that I deserve it. It took us a long time and a lot of work to get here, and I don't ever want to give any of it up. I want to see where we can go from here, together. I want to spend my life with you. Will you marry me, Phil?"
Breathless, Phil stared at him, blinking in shock. Clint's eyes were a chaotic swirl of color and emotion, and as he watched, Clint looked down, looked away, biting his lip.
"Shit, I didn't kneel. I should've kneeled. Wait, let me -- I can -- "
"Don't," Phil snapped, grabbing Clint's wrist before he could back away. "You don't need to kneel and beg for my hand -- Jesus, Clint, you just -- and I -- " He laughed in disbelief. "Yes."
Clint’s gaze flew back to his as he sucked in a sharp breath and blinked several times, his eyes going bright with emotion as his whole body relaxed. "Really?"
Phil carefully set the perfect rose and all the folders and envelopes he held next to the open folder on his desk before turning back and sliding his arms around Clint, one palm spread on his well-muscled back, the other stealing up to curve around his neck and pull him closer.
They kissed long and slow and deep, tongues lazily sliding against each other, the feel and taste and scent of each other ever familiar and always new. Clint's hands tightened on Phil's hips, and Phil moaned into the kiss, surging closer at Clint's answering sigh.
"Really," he murmured as the kiss ended. He rested his forehead against Clint's, studying the other man's face. His eyes were bright and happy, his lips red and slick, freshly-shaven cheeks flushed and a little pink from Phil's five o'clock shadow. Phil shook his head, still dazed.
"Holy crap, I just proposed," Clint said, stunned. He laughed and blinked a couple times. "And you accepted."
"I did," Phil grinned, just as staggered by it all. He turned to pick up the rose Clint had given him and his gaze caught the forms on the desk, which he'd forgotten.
It was the forms they'd need to file with HR for an official change in status. Clint had painstakingly filled them out and signed them. The only thing they were missing was Phil's signature.
He pulled out his pen -- a past birthday gift from Clint, which he treasured -- and very carefully signed his name. His hand trembled, just a little, so he waited, wanting his signature to be perfect. To distract himself from the gravity of what he was doing, he teased, "Why isn't the rest of your paperwork ever this neat, Barton?"
"Nothing's ever been this important," Clint said quietly, and Phil's hand jerked. Thankfully, he'd already lifted it from the paper.
He tucked his pen away and gathered the forms up, putting them back in the folder and adding it to the stack on the desktop. He picked all of it up, and Clint took it from him, leaving him with only the rose. Completely unable to help himself, Phil leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to Clint's lips -- the man (his fiancé, and wow, that was strange) was practically glowing with happiness, and Phil imagined he looked the same.
"As important as SHIELD and this office are to our relationship -- especially now -- I think we have some major celebrating to do, and that does not belong here."
Clint's eyes flared with heat even as he grinned wickedly. "You sure about that, sir?"
Phil tossed a glance over his shoulder as he headed for the door. "Well, not today at any rate."
"Wait, what?"
Phil just laughed and led the way out.
END
