Clint woke up, and started to stretch, but froze. It took him a minute to remember everything, like why his eyesight was gray.
That didn't explain why an arm was tight around his waist. He could smell Phil though, and remember his plea for company. They must have moved around in the middle of the night. Phil still wasn't awake and Clint could relax. He did, shuffling over a bit so he could nuzzle into Phil's neck. He breathed deeply for a few moments, peaceful.
"What are you doing?" Phil murmured. Clint stiffened slightly, before relaxing.
"Sleeping." He muttered back cheekily. He felt Phil's chuckle. Phil yawned, releasing his waist and rolling over and away.
"Come on. Get up. I'll make breakfast." Clint pretended not to notice how domestic that was and how good that made him feel. Clint finished stretching, carefully making his way to his feet. Phil slung an arm around his waist, setting him up in the living room.
As he waited for breakfast, Clint idly wondered when Coulson had become Phil. When his handler had become his protector. He still didn't like or even accept his eyesight problem, but with Phil here, it was…bearable. Clint shook his head. Nope. Not even going to think about that.
"Come on! I'm hungry! Just pour some milk and cereal!" he whined. He heard the snort.
"Would you prefer that or the German waffles I'm in the midst of making?" Clint's eyebrow popped up.
"How the hell do you know how to cook? Mini calzones? German waffles?" he questioned.
"I watch things other than Super Nanny you know. The cooking channel is only to stations over." Clint attempted to imagine Coulson at home in footy pajamas, watching Chef Fancyfrenchman roast a duck.
"I don't wear footy pajamas when I watch the cooking channel. As a matter of fact, I don't wear footy pajamas at all." Clint blinked. Had he said that aloud? "I know how you think. I've worked with you for eight years." Okay then.
After a whole hearty breakfast, Clint reached for the remote, turning on the TV.
Oh, right.
Clint silently handed the remote control over to Coulson, who clicked off the TV.
"It's okay. You can watch it. I don't care." Clint assured him.
"Liar." Phil stood up, doing what Clint wasn't sure. When he came back, a radio that Clint didn't even know he owned was playing music in the background and he had placed something on the table in front of them. "Supernanny usually doesn't come on until after seven, when we're off from work."
That's when it hit Clint.
"Phil, you know it's probably like ten, right? I never get up early enough for work, especially when I don't even have to." Clint waited for the muffled curse and rush to leave. Nothing. If anything, Phil relaxed further into his couch.
"Eleven thirty actually." Was the only reply. Clint sat there, puzzled.
"Well, don't you have work?" Clint finally decided to ask, not figuring it out on his own.
"No." Clint paused, and then stiffed.
"Oh. I see. Fury put you on watch the blind man duty." Clint nodded, "I understand." He crossed his arms, tense and feeling a rising anger fill him.
"I used my vacation time to take an unspecified amount of time off from work." Phil gave no more explanation and yet reasons still raced through Clint's head. If he didn't have to be here, then why was he?
"You hate missing work." Clint pointed out.
"I do. Tell me, have you ever used clay before?" Clint gaped at the abrupt subject change.
"For…art?" he questioned.
"Yes." Coulson agreed. Clint could hear his coffee table screech against the floor as it was pulled closer. "It is amazing what your hands can do when you're visually impaired. When I was a field agent, I once lost my sight for about three months. My handler, Maria Hill, made me create clay sculptures and then when I got my sight back, I could marvel at my work."
"Maria Hill was your handler?!" Clint blurted, probably the only thing he could pull from the sentence, "And you were blind?!" Okay, so two things registered. He heard Coulson's amused sigh.
"Yes Clint. To both. Now come on." He placed Clint's hand on what felt like wet mush.
"Ew!" Clint groaned, jumping back. He could almost feel Coulson' rolling his eyes.
"Clay Clint. It's just clay." He forced his hands back on to the lump. "Just try it, once. And you can see what you made when your sight is back." Clint unwillingly started molding.
The whole day continued like this, with Phil pulling activities out of thin air and forcing Clint to complete them. About half way through the day though, Clint started to notice things.
His sense of touch improved to the point where he could tell different types of clays apart using only his hands.
He could hear the radio from his bathroom, through four walls.
He could smell what Coulson was cooking before he was even told.
At the end of the day, Clint determined that Coulson was not only trying to distract him from his vision loss, but also improving his other skills. Sneaky bastard.
He tumbled into his bed again, whooped from the game of vision-impaired friendly tag (which Clint had no idea how that worked). Without even being prompted, he felt Phil slip onto the other side of the bed.
"You know…" Clint started sleepily, "You don't have to take off from work for me. I mean, you are just my handler…"
"Clint, I was never just your handler…"
Before Clint could puzzle out what he meant by that, he slipped into a deep sleep.
R & R.