Morning Ag Report
Author: Milady Dragon
Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers or Agents of SHIELD. This disappoints me.
Author's Note: Yet another story written a while back and I never got around to posting here. This one is an AU, with Clint as a farmer and Coulson as the sexy radio announcer who reads the morning agricultural report Clint develops a crush on. Yes, this is Clint/Coulson. It's also Mack/Fitz, and Steve/Bucky. Skye makes an adorable teenager, too. At least I think so. *laughs*
Hope you enjoy!
The alarm on the bedside table clicked on, and Clint Barton didn't bother to turn it off.
Instead, he lay there in the dark, the sun not yet up, and listened as the radio announced the early agriculture report.
"– brought to you by Stark Ag Services, bringing you the latest in farm technology," the live DJ said, her voice unbelievably chirpy this soon in the day. There must have been some really good coffee at the community college radio station for her to be in that good a mood.
"Good morning," came the smooth tones of the news reader, and Clint let out an unintentional sigh as he snuggled back down in bed to listen.
If anyone had told him that he'd develop a crush on the anonymous announcer who read the early morning Ag report every weekday, Clint would have laughed. Yes, the farm news was important – he used to listen at some point during the day, usually while he was out working his own place – but this guy…he didn't know who he was, but that voice was like sex over the airwaves, and he always set his alarm to it so he wouldn't miss a thing.
Yes, he was just that pitiful. He couldn't help it if he'd been too busy lately to get laid.
"Welcome to the Shieldsville Community College morning Ag report," the voice went on. "Corn is currently opening at 361 and a quarter, up two from yesterday's final of 359 and a quarter."
That was good news, since Clint was growing corn this year. See, his time wasn't wasted.
"Soybeans are opening at 340 and a half, holding steady from yesterday's totals. Wheat is down five from close of business, opening at 539 and a half. Moving over to livestock futures, live cattle is…"
Clint tuned the rest out, just letting his imagination ride with the words coming from the slightly tinny-sounding speaker. He had no idea how the man looked, but he honestly didn't care. Just that voice alone was made for sin, and he'd spent plenty of pleasurable early mornings wondering just how it would sound breathless, and in the throes of sex…
The bed shook, and he found the wind knocked out of him by a paw trampling on his chest. He gasped out an, "oof!" as another paw landed squarely on his kidney, forcing Clint to surge upward to stare into a single, mischievous eye.
"Aw, dog," he groaned as he pushed the mutt off him. Lucky planted his ass right down on the bed, his tongue lolling in what Clint swore was the doggy form of laughter. He reached over and ruffled the fur on Lucky's head playfully. "C'mon, let's get you fed and then I can get started for the day."
Lucky woofed at him, jumping down from the bed and bouncing toward the door. Once there, the dog turned and glared at Clint with his single eye, as if telling him off for being too slow.
Clint rolled his eyes. "Impatient," he accused, and Lucky sent him back an expression that Clint took to say, 'But I'm starving to death!" He climbed out of bed, shutting the radio off, having missed the rest of the report due to Lucky's distraction.
Oh well…there was always tomorrow. And he'd remember to shut the bedroom door.
"Damn, Barton," Alphonso Mackenzie whistled, looking at the broken shank in surprised awe. "How the hell did you get it twisted into this shape?"
Clint rubbed the back of his neck in sheer embarrassment. The cultivator had been fine when he'd taken it out that morning, but sometime after lunch he'd managed to break it. Just his luck. "Sorry, Mack," he answered. "No clue. I was out taking care of some weeds when there was this really ugly screeching sound, and then this…" He waved his hand toward the broken cultivator shank in the bed of his pick-up. "Can you help me out here?"
Mack blew out a long sigh. "I don't know, man," he answered honestly, poking the metal cutter blade with a large finger. "This looks wrecked."
That was what Clint was afraid of. The cultivator had been kept together with spit and bailing wire and it really had only been a matter of time…
"Let me get Turbo to look at it," Mack went on. "It's not his usual cup of coffee, but he might be able to pull something out of the hat."
Clint nodded. Leo Fitz was a former engineer with Stark Industries, but had come to Shieldsville after a lab accident left him with permanent brain damage. Fitz never really explained what had brought him to this particular farming community, but everyone adored him…especially Mack, who didn't look the type able to be gentle with anyone although everyone in town knew he was really just a giant walking marshmallow. He and Fitz had hit it off, and they were just about the most adorable couple in town.
It really was way too cute for words.
"C'mon in," Mack invited, waving his arm toward the garage where he did most of his repair work. He'd built up quite the reputation for being able to fix pretty much any sort of machinery, as well as running the local hardware store. He led Clint inside, into the shade of the garage, the smell of grease, rubber, and ozone nearly overwhelming. Clint blinked to adjust his vision to the change in brightness. "Hey, Turbo!" Mack called out, his powerful voice echoing throughout the space.
Fitz popped up from behind one of the bays, where a cherry-red Corvette had been parked, hood up. It had Clint's mouth watering, and his fingers itched to touch that gorgeous convertible. He slid his hands into his pockets in order to fend off temptation. "Mack," he greeted, his left hand fluttering slightly as if he'd aborted a wave. Clint recognized the movement and ignored it, knowing it was involuntary. "Clint," he added, giving him a smile.
"Hey, Fitz," Clint returned the smile.
"Barton's screwed up one of the shanks on his cultivator," Mack said. "Think you can see what you can do with it?"
"Sure," Fitz answered, wiping his hands on a rag. He hurried out of the garage as Mack watched him leave, smiling happily.
"You are both so adorable," Clint couldn't help himself.
Mack scowled, jabbing a finger in his direction. "Don't even think it."
Clint would have taken the threat seriously if it weren't for the bright gleam in Mack's eyes. "Who's the car belong to?" he changed the subject, hooking his thumb toward the convertible.
"Ah…Lola," the mechanic answered, a somewhat besotted expression on his face. "She's the pride and joy of one of the professors up at the community college. He's so in love with that car it took me three years to finally convince him to let me work on her."
Clint's eyebrows rose. Mack was the best mechanic in the tri-county area. For someone to hold out that long on letting him work on their car…
"Yeah, I know," Mack answered the unspoken question. "But Professor Coulson is really picky about who touches Lola. Can't blame him really…she's a real sweet ride."
Clint had to agree with him. That Corvette looked beautiful, and if she's been a real woman she'd have been an old-style Hollywood bombshell. No wonder her owner had named her Lola; it certainly fit.
Mack ushered him into the hardware store that was connected to the garage. The store itself was enormous, one of the largest structures in town, aisles of merchandise stretching from the front to the rear of the building. "In case we can't do anything with the shank, you wanna take a look at some of the books? Something like that we'll have to order in special."
Clint grimaced. His cultivator was old; he'd been afraid of something like that.
It wasn't that he didn't have the money. He wasn't exactly hurting in the bank account, but he always believed in having a cushion in there in case of a bad year. Still, he needed that cultivator, and if he had to special order a replacement shank, then he'd do it.
The front counter was where the catalogues were, and it was currently being manned by Antoine Triplett, and he grinned at them as they approached. "Mess something up big time?" he teased as he leaned against the counter, the light streaming in from the large window behind him at nearly the perfect angle to almost blind Clint, and he found himself blinking again and turning away slightly.
"Fuck you very much, Trip," Clint snarked back, making the other man laugh.
Mack joined Trip behind the counter, pulling out several catalogues from under the register. "Yeah, he murdered his cultivator."
Trip flinched. "Ouch."
"You're not kidding," Clint sighed. He was going to lose how much time with it down? If Fitz and Mack could somehow bend it back into shape, then perhaps he'd be out only a couple of days; but if he had to order a brand new shank, then it could be weeks.
As Mack began flipping through the catalogues, Clint let his eyes wander away from the brightness outside and into the cool interior of the hardware store.
He wasn't alone. He saw Steve Rogers, picking through the bins of nails that nearly made up one entire side of the aisle he was down. Down another, he saw one of the members of his archery club out at the high school, Skye Coulson, and even from where he was standing he could tell she looked bored out of her mind. She did notice him, however, and waved at him. Clint waved back.
It was the man browsing among the fishing poles that really caught Clint's attention, though.
He had his back to Clint, which gave him a very nice view of the man's fine ass clad in black trousers. He was wearing a pale blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms. He had brown hair with what appeared to be a small area of thinning at the crown. Just from the back, he looked good enough to eat.
And then he turned around.
The front was just as gorgeous as the back. Even from where he was standing Clint could tell that the man's eyes were blue behind the black-rimmed glasses he wore. He had a slightly receding hairline, but that just made him more appealing. The shirt was a button down, open at the throat, and Clint could see that there was actual muscle under that material.
Thank God he didn't notice Clint staring, let alone drooling.
"Clint?"
He spun around to Mack's calling his name, hoping that he wasn't blushing too badly at having been caught staring. His friend was looking at him knowingly, and Clint knew then he wasn't getting away with anything. "Yes?" he asked innocently.
Trip shook his head, and Mack snorted. Nope, neither one of them was obviously buying it. "Are you interested in the catalogues, or is something else more you'd like to…browse?"
Clint wasn't about to rise to the bait. He knew better than that.
Ah…morning wood. What a wonderful way for Clint to start his day.
He woke up a couple of minutes before his alarm was scheduled to go off, just enough time to shuck off his boxers and prepare himself for his favorite voice. He glanced toward the door, making certain he'd shut it before bed last night, not wanting a repeat of the one time he'd tried to jerk off and Lucky had jumped up onto the bed and stepped on a very delicate part of his anatomy.
His dick had ached for fucking days.
The exasperatingly chipper female DJ was the first thing he heard, but as she announced the morning Ag report, Clint took himself in hand, closing his eyes.
"Good morning," the reader began as he did every morning, "welcome to the Shieldsville Community College morning Ag report."
Clint breathed out, as the voice on the radio crooned the commodities and the current market numbers, not paying attention to the actual words and instead concentrating on the tone, the sound of that dead sexy voice as Clint stroked himself. Already, the coiling of his arousal was building, and he began to stroke a little faster, farm and archery made callouses rough on his cock.
But, instead of just letting that voice bring him to completion as usual, in his mind's eye the man from the hardware store appeared, and Clint let it happen, imagining how that guy would look if he was naked, the radio announcer's words coming from his mouth. Clint gasped as he came, arching up slightly in surprise at just how strong his orgasm was, cum staining his chest and belly.
Damn, he was so screwed.
Clint lay there, sighing, the voice now finished and the morning DJ taking over. He rolled over and slapped the alarm clock, shutting off that overly snarky female voice as it talked about offering free tickets to some sort of concert that was going on over in the next town to the first person who named the Song of the Day.
Then he sighed and climbed out of bed, using his boxers to wipe most of semen away. He padded naked toward the door; Lucky was sitting on the other side, giving Clint the stink-eye the best way he knew how.
"Not one word," he admonished, shaking his finger at his judgmental dog, "or else we'll be discussing those mysterious puppies that Jasper Sitwell's chihuahua ended up with two years ago." Lucky whined, going down onto his belly and covering his one good eye with his paws. "Yeah, you understand me." Clint passed his perturbed animal, letting a grin settle over his face as he made it to the bathroom.
He was screwed, but he was gonna enjoy himself on the road to hell.
"Mister Barton!"
Clint grinned as Skye Coulson approached, holding her bow. He volunteered twice a week at the Shieldsville High School, running the archery club. It had gotten more popular because of The Hunger Games, but he'd quickly winnowed out the ones who were only there because they thought the bow and arrow were cool and believed they were something to play with and didn't take the art of it seriously.
Skye had turned out to be one of the serious ones. She listened to everything he said, and had improved tremendously over the school year. She'd never be quite as good as Kate Bishop, but then Kate wasn't natural. She'd probably been hatched in a lab somewhere, where mad scientists were growing budding Olympic-caliber archers.
"Hey," he greeted her as Skye came to stand in front of him. "What's up?"
She had a grin on her face that Clint didn't hesitate to call "shit-eating". "You were totally checking out my Dad at the hardware store yesterday!"
"I…what?" Clint stammered. Well, this was embarrassing. "I don't know what you mean."
Skye rolled her eyes in the way only a teenager could. "Sure you do! He was the one looking at the fishing poles." She sighed. "He swears he's gonna take up fishing one day, but then he gets too busy and forgets about it until someone reminds him, usually Uncle Nick." She grinned once more. "You were scoping out my Dad, which is gross by the way, 'cause he's my Dad and all. But he's completely single, so you should feel free to go for it." She held up her free hand. "But I just don't want to know about you two doing the nasty, okay? As far as I'm concerned he doesn't have a sex life, since that's just wrong and no child should know what their parent does with their private parts, even though it's obvious because I was born. And the world couldn't handle not having my awesomeness in it."
Clint listened to her running on and on, his jaw dropping lower and lower. He knew he had to be as red as a tomato, because this was just so…unbelievable! He hadn't even met this guy, and his daughter was giving him permission to do…what, exactly? Date him? Have sex with him?
God, how was this his life that a teenager was trying to set him up with her own father?
"And you don't have to worry about him not liking guys, because of me and my Mom and all," Skye rushed on. "He's really into both, and it's weird because he totally critiqued my last boyfriend over his bone structure, of all things! I mean, it's not my fault Grant Ward had cheekbones sharp enough to cut steel –"
"Skye!" Clint exclaimed, forcing back the urge to put his fingers in his ears and hum at the top of his voice in order to block her out. "I'm certain this is bordering on TMI country here…"
"Oh, sorry!" the teenager apologized. The thing was, she didn't look all that upset about the oversharing. This was, in fact, the first time she'd gone motor-mouth on him; Skye was usually pretty serious when it came to archery and he'd assumed she was usually like that all the time.
How could he have been so wrong?
"Look," she carried on, after taking a deep breath in order to replenish the oxygen in her lungs, "my Dad's a great guy. I just want him to be happy, okay? He's only dated a couple of times since Mom died because he's worried about me coping with someone new in his life. I keep telling him that I'm an adult now –"
"You're fifteen!" he squawked.
"- and that I get it," she went on as if he hadn't interrupted. "So, I'm giving you permission to ask him out. Even if you don't hit it off, I just know you could be friends." She gave him a pitiful look, one that Clint had only previously seen on Lucky's face when the pizza box was empty.
Truth be told, it had been ages since Clint himself had dated anyone. The farm took up a majority of his time, and it had proven really hard to find someone who would even attempt to understand the love he had for his homestead. Sure, it wasn't much, but it was his, and he'd put sweat, blood, and tears into making the place work. It had ended up costing him his relationship with Bobbi, but then she'd been more of a townie than anything else, and had found the peace and quiet all sorts of boring. He just didn't think he would ever find someone who would actually get what he was doing, and that included gorgeous men in hardware stores.
"Skye," he began, "I'm just not looking for anyone right now. And, while I do admit that I did…" he cleared his throat self-consciously, "check your Dad out down at Mack's, it was just because I hadn't seen him around before and yes…he's attractive."
He wasn't about to admit to a teenage girl that he'd masturbated using her father as a fantasy subject…oh, shit no. He was already going to some form of hell over his obsession with the Ag reporter on the radio; he wasn't about to slide down that slippery slope further by compounding his stupidity. He fully owned up to the title of "creeper", he didn't need to add "pervert" to that.
And then he realized it was far too late for that sort of deniability, and barely managed to keep himself from face-planting into his own palm in shame.
Skye pouted, and Clint had to accept that it was deadly and should have been registered with the police as a weapon. Still, he didn't let himself knuckle under the pressure, and withstood it as best he could.
Damnit, but it was giving him ideas…
"You should just go ahead and ask this Professor Coulson out."
Clint let his head fall back until it thumped into the back of the couch. He side-eyed Natasha as she calmly painted her toenails candy-apple red.
It was almost the same shade as Lola, the car. He'd nearly swallowed his tongue when he put two and two together and realized that the man of his fantasies was also the owner of that fabulous car that had been in Mack's auto bay, because there were only two Coulsons in Shieldsville and Skye wasn't, in fact, old enough to have a driver's license, let alone be a professor anywhere.
That just wasn't fair.
"I come to you for commiseration and vodka –"
"Mostly the vodka," Natasha corrected, wiggling her toes in order to check the shine on the newly-red nails.
She was right; he just didn't want to admit it. But she knew, because she'd been his best friend for years and could read him like a cheap novel.
"And that's the best you could do?" he finished plaintively without admitting that Natasha wouldn't do a damned thing to help him in this situation. She was very much a "sink or swim" sort of person. And he was a glutton for punishment apparently.
"You are, and always shall be, an idiot," she replied calmly as she began the second coat.
"And now you're paraphrasing The Wrath of Khan? Really, Tasha?"
She glanced over at him. "I'm just saying, maybe this is a good thing. You might actually stop pining over the guy on the radio if you had someone else to occupy your time, and you're too much of a coward to call the station and find out his name so you could, I don't know…ask him out instead?"
Once again, she was right. It wasn't as if Clint couldn't find out the identity of the mystery Ag reporter; it was that he was certain that would be jumping over the fine line between appreciating how someone spoke the words "pork belly futures" and stalking.
"I'm not pining," he denied.
Of course Natasha called him on his bullshit, because she'd figured him out ages ago. "You are definitely pining."
"If by pining you mean 'jerking off to' then you'd be right," he countered before he could activate his brain/mouth interface.
Natasha simply smiled, as if he'd just gone and proven her point.
Oh crap…he had.
She smiled even wider, so Clint figured out that she'd read his mind once more and had seen that he'd gotten it.
"Look," he tried pointing out, "it's not like I can just walk up to him, introduce myself, and then offer to suck his cock."
"And your problem with that is…?"
"Jesus Christ, Tasha! Will you please be serious?" Why had he come here anyway? Clint should have known he'd get zero sympathy.
She shook her head, putting the lacquer brush back into the bottle of nail polish she was using, and then turned to look him in the once the bottle was sealed. "Clint, you have been my best friend since high school."
This was true. Clint had met Natasha Romanoff on her first day at Shieldsville High School, where she'd been the total stranger that he'd taken under his wing. She'd had that atrocious Russian accent back then, and the perpetual look of someone who'd wanted to commit homicide on the first available victim. He'd been the only one not intimidated by that horrifically wonderful bitch-face of hers. Hell, he'd been charmed by it and had asked her to teach him how to accomplish just such an expression.
They'd been the scariest gang of two by junior year. It had been marvelous.
"I think I know you better than anyone else does," she went on.
This was also true. Natasha was the one Clint always went to when things turned to shit. Not that she did give him any sort of hand holding, but her insights were mostly right on the money.
"You always put yourself through more grief than is absolutely necessary. I've seen this over and over again, and it's getting tiresome. Get out there and go after your man…either one, it doesn't matter. Just get off your self-flagellating backside and do something about it!"
In his head Clint knew she was only looking out for him, but at the same time this verbal ass-kicking was something he felt he didn't actually need. Although, if he'd wanted someone to coddle him he wouldn't have come to Natasha.
Still, he couldn't help but feel hard done by, and took another shot of vodka out of spite.
The sunglasses did nothing to negate the headache Clint had the next morning.
Damn, that vodka was good stuff, but it did absolutely nothing for him the day after.
He stood at the front counter at Mack's Hardware, listening to Fitz as he chattered on about how he and Mack had managed to finally get the cultivator shank bent back into some semblance of shape, but how he might want to consider getting a new one because of…it was too bright and too early for Clint to comprehend just what the younger man was saying, although there was something about metal fatigue and stress points.
Mack, though, seemed to realize that Clint was "under the weather" and was enjoying his pain way too much by making certain noises louder than they really needed to be.
Some friend Mack was.
"Okay," Clint finally managed to get a word in edgewise. "What kinda money are we dealing with here?"
Fitz pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket without taking any offense at all at being interrupted. That was one of the things about him that people liked: he might have been smarter than a good majority of the townsfolk, but he was never bothered when someone stopped him in mid-flow. He also didn't flaunt his intelligence nor did he put on airs about it.
Everyone pretty much loved Leo Fitz. There were many good reasons why.
The bell over the main door jingled, making Clint flinch slightly. Mack looked amused, and Clint pushed his sunglasses up using his middle finger in a vague attempt to flip him off.
"Hey, Mack," whoever had come in greeted cheerfully. "I was wondering if you could help me out with the fishing rods today."
Clint froze, his heart feeling as if it had stopped completely.
He knew that voice.
Mack was smirking, the bastard. "Sure, Prof. Finally gonna take that fishing trip you keep threatening?"
"Yep. I've got time off during the summer this year and my friend Nick finally talked me into it."
Someone appeared in Clint's peripheral vision, and he just couldn't help himself. He turned to regard the newcomer, and for a second time his heart lurched to what felt like a full stop.
This was just his luck.
The radio voice and the man he'd been busily ogling the other day – Skye's dad – were one in the same.
Just shoot him now.
"Oh," Mack went on, "have you met Clint Barton? Clint, this is Professor Phil Coulson, he teaches Communications out at the community college. Prof, Clint has the farm out past I-17 down near the river."
Professor Coulson smiled at Clint, and he felt a strange, uncomfortable fluttering in the pit of his stomach, kinda like motion sickness. "Not yet," the gorgeous person answered, "but I keep meaning to since he's the one responsible for Skye trying to drain my bank account on archery gear." He said it with a laugh in his voice, but honestly, there was no way in hell that Clint was going to take offense at it, because his mind was too busy reconciling the fact that his two crushes were, in fact, the same man.
Clint had no idea what he managed to babble in reply, but it had to have been something potentially embarrassing before beating a hasty retreat.
"God, what have I done?"
Clint wanted to slam his head into the Formica counter, but refrained out of the deference to the remains of the hangover still thumping within his brain. How could he have been such an idiot? He was an adult, damnit, and he should have been able to deal with the knowledge that he was being smiled at by his two secret crushes that just happened to have been the same man all along.
He'd managed to make his way down to the All-American Diner before coming back to his right mind. Honestly, what had he been thinking when he'd run off?
That was the point. He hadn't been thinking at all, because the only time he'd ever considered that the radio guy and Skye's hot dad were the same person was when he'd been jacking off. Never in real life had that thought even crossed his mind.
He could tell that Steve was trying really hard to stifle a sigh. His friend pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "Clint," he began. "I don't even know that you're talking about."
"So what else is new?" Bucky Barnes, Steve's partner in every way, called out from the grill area where he was working. "This is Barton we're talking about, here."
Clint would have rolled his eyes at the sarcasm but for the two facts that, one: he was still wearing his sunglasses and no one would know; and two: with the hangover he was concerned that his eyeballs might fall out.
Steve poured Clint a cup of coffee, sliding it across the counter. Clint took a long swig in order to avoid sharing his humiliation, burning his tongue in the process. He stuck the thing out and waved his hand over it, but that didn't do a bit of good.
Honestly Clint didn't want to talk about it. The only person he'd ever shared his radio announcer crush with was Natasha, and he'd suffered from her sharpness ever since. But then, this was nothing new on his best friend's part, because she was awesome like that.
"I don't want to talk about it," he muttered out loud.
"Then can I get you something to eat?" Steve offered, his expression relieved.
"I think what Barton needs," Bucky snorted, "is to grow a pair."
Of course…Natasha and Bucky had once dated, and were still close. Although he doubted that she'd told him everything, Clint was willing to bet that she'd at least mentioned his romantic troubles in the broadest terms possible.
"Fuck you, Barnes," Clint returned. Bucky laughed and went back to flipping the eggs he was in the middle of cooking.
"How about your usual?" Steve suggested, barely hiding his grin.
Clint nodded, slumping down a bit on the stool he was currently occupying. Natasha was right; he really was an idiot. If he'd only called up the college and found out the radio announcer's name in the first place, he wouldn't have been so completely blindsided by what had happened in the hardware store. Mister Professor Hottie Coulson's sudden appearance wouldn't have turned him into a babbling mess.
"How're things going out at your place?" Steve asked, and Clint was grateful for the change of subject.
He talked about the broken cultivator, which reminded him that he'd left Fitz high and dry about the work he and Mack had done for him. He'd have to go back to the store and get that cleared up, and to order the new shank before he headed home, maybe even apologize for his running out on the young man.
"Crop's going well, though," Clint replied. "I should definitely be in the black again this year."
"Great news," Steven said. "The Ward place isn't doing so well, though…"
Clint was so caught up in the gossip – and Steve had some of the best because everyone came to eat at the diner at some point – that he didn't notice the door of the diner opening until someone was sitting next to him.
"Hey, Leo," Steve greeted the newcomer. He was just about the only person in town who called Fitz by his first name; Clint got the impression that Fitz didn't care for it very much. Hell, he'd have been pissed off if his parents had saddled him with 'Leopold'. 'Francis' was bad enough.
"Hello, Steve." The engineer's voice was soft, and there was something about his accent that made him seem even younger than he actually was.
"What can I get you?"
Clint glanced over as Fitz considered. "I think pancakes," he decided.
Steve gave him a warm smile. "Coming right up." He moved over to speak to Bucky, who was busily cooking Clint's cheeseburger.
Fitz's eyes looked away from Clint for a split second, and then returned. "Well, that was just a bit mortifying."
He knew exactly what Fitz was talking about, and Clint wasn't sure if 'mortifying' was quite a strong enough word. "Yeah, I'm sorry about bugging out like that."
"I hope you're not upset with Mack," Fitz said, far too earnestly for his own good. "It's just that he and Trip noticed the other day –"
"Oh God no," Clint reassured him. "I'm more upset with myself for being a dick and running out on you."
Steve came back over, putting down a cup of coffee for Fitz. He nodded his thanks then doctored it up with so much sugar Clint began wondering if some of the small physical tics that Fitz was known for wasn't actually him being hyped up on sugar and not from the original injury he'd suffered.
"Did I ever tell you why I left Stark Industries?" Fitz asked, after taking a sip.
"Nope, you haven't." Clint was intrigued. As far as he was aware, Fitz hadn't shared that story with anyone, except for most likely Mack.
"There was this girl I worked with back in the lab," he began, wrapping his hands around his coffee mug. "I…really liked her. I told her how I felt, and then the accident happened, and she left while I was still in the coma because she couldn't handle it." He paused, frowning. "That really doesn't apply to your situation though, does it?"
"Afraid not. But it was her loss, man." It was. Fitz was a good person and Clint knew for a fact that he made Mack very happy.
"Yeah, but I met Mack out of it, so that came out all right." Fitz took another sip. "But wait…I know what I was trying to say…" He waved his left hand vaguely. "You can tell someone how you feel, and the worst that can happen is that they say is 'no thanks'. Well, not the worst, because there's always anger or acrimony or name-calling or even the whole running away thing –"
"I get it!" Clint couldn't help but chuckle. Fitz did have a point, but then he didn't have the entire story, and the reason why Clint was just so fucking embarrassed about the situation.
Steve put the plate with Clint's cheeseburger and fries down in front of him. The wonderful smell made his stomach growl loudly, causing Fitz to snort into his drink.
"Yours'll be up in a minute, Leo," Steve said, laughing. Fitz nodded in acknowledgement, and then Steve headed back toward the grill where Bucky was obviously trying not to get caught eavesdropping.
Clint grabbed the ketchup bottle and liberally dumped it all over his fries.
"Wait," Bucky crowed, "is this a conversation about Barton's love life?"
Fitz tapped his fingers absently on the counter. "Um…maybe?"
Bucky chortled and in retaliation Clint launched one of his fries with the most ketchup on it under the food warmers and hit Barnes square in the nose.
Yeah, at least he still had the aim. He hadn't completely lost it.
As happened every morning, Ms. Way-too-Chipper greeted Clint into the wonderful world of wakefulness.
He slammed his hand into the off button before his favorite voice even began the Ag report.
Another day, another archery club meeting.
How Clint believed he was going to get through it without some sort of commentary from Skye, he didn't know. Maybe it was because she'd been her normal, serious self all throughout the meeting and it had lulled him into a false sense of security.
Anyway, he wasn't prepared for the ambush he got outside the gymnasium.
"Hey, Mr. Barton."
He flatly refused to admit that the unexpected calling of his name made him jump. "Hey, Skye," he said warily, not quite sure what she was gonna say to him after happened the last time.
"Look, I just wanted to apologize for what I said at the last meeting," she said, almost shyly. Her foot scuffed the ground, as if she'd been caught out with her hand in the cookie jar. "It really wasn't my place to say stuff like that, and I'm sorry."
Clint tried not to show his relief, although it took a lot of effort. "That's okay," he accepted. "There's really no need – "
"Skye?"
Well, shit.
"Hi, Dad," she said cheerfully as she skipped past Clint. A huge grin had replaced the penitent expression.
He felt distinctly set up.
Clint couldn't help but turn around, bowing to the inevitable.
Skye approached her father, standing on her tiptoes in order to kiss him on the cheek. "I'll just wait by the car," she replied, sounding and looking unbelievably smug. The teenager headed over to where Lola was parked, her ponytail swinging jauntily back and forth, her bow case bouncing around her legs as she moved.
Clint had been had. He wondered if she'd somehow discovered about his retreat from the hardware store, and just who would have told her.
He would have bet good money that it was Mack.
Professor Coulson was smiling, but it wasn't the friendly thing that he'd worn at the hardware store. This expression was cautious, and how could Clint blame him? He had no idea about Clint's personal hang-ups and face it, he'd behaved like a crazy asshole. Of course the professor was going to hold it against him!
"Good evening, Mr. Barton," Professor Coulson greeted warily. He looked as if he wanted to bolt at any moment, which Clint could get behind very easily.
"Um…"
Come on! This was his chance! He had to put all the unwanted advice he'd gotten over the last several days into play and just ask the guy out already!
There was a chance that he'd be turned down, but as long as he didn't admit to his creepy behavior over the whole radio thing, he should be fine, right?
Clint had no idea what expression he had on his face, but Professor Coulson had just taken a step back…
"Wait, um…" Clint scrambled for something to keep the professor from leaving, and suddenly he was speaking without censoring himself, which really was par for the course with him. "Look, I'm sorry about what happened at the hardware store, it was rude of me to just take off like that but really, I was kinda intimidated, okay? You're hot and it didn't help that I've listened to your agriculture reports for nearly a year and your voice is sexy as anything I've ever heard and I set my alarm just to hear it, and then you were there and I was checking you out…and I found out that you're the voice on the radio…" Clint took a deep breath, realizing that his brain/mouth filter had completely cut out on him once again. He really shouldn't be astonished at that anymore.
As he'd rambled on, the professor's eyes had gotten bigger and bigger behind those black-rimmed glasses, and Clint felt his chance slipping away.
"I swear I'm not some sort of crazy weirdo stalker," he hastened to say, suddenly not able to meet the other man's eye. "My friend Tasha kept telling me I should call the radio station and just ask who you were, but that's just wrong, you know? But damnit, then I saw you and Mack introduced us…I should have asked you out then and there, but I was just kinda shocked! It didn't help that it I'd just found out you were that radio guy…" His shoulders slumped, and his eyes found the pavement very interesting in that moment. "Yeah, I'm a sad sort of person. Just put me out of my misery right now, okay?"
There was silence, and Clint dared to look up through his eyelashes, just to check that Professor Coulson hadn't escaped to avoid being drowned under the verbal flood that had just occurred. He hadn't been like this for any other person he'd asked out, but really…this was a different circumstance entirely.
Surprisingly, Professor Coulson – did he dare call him Phil in his own head? – hadn't taken off running for the hills, as his shoes were still visible. Clint reluctantly dragged his eyes up to the other man's face, and found…
The professor looked utterly charmed.
What the hell? Did he actually have a chance after all?
Clint's heart rose out of his stomach and back into place in his chest as he met Professor Coulson's gaze. Those blue eyes were smiling, fine crinkles at the corners, and Clint couldn't help but return the smile.
"You are," the professor said, shaking his head, "without a doubt, the strangest man I have ever met. What are you doing Friday night?"
Oh, it was a struggle not to jump up and down and make more of a fool out of himself in his absolute happiness, but Clint managed to keep both feet on the ground although it was a close call. "I am totally free," he answered, trying to sound serious but failing horribly.
It was just possible that this would turn out okay.
And maybe he wouldn't have to wake up so early in the mornings anymore.
But boy, was Natasha gonna to rub it in…he was never going to live it down.