"I have a new respect for that woman," said Clint.
"Aye, Lady Potts is a formidable friend as well as a formidable enemy," agreed Thor.
"So Pepper was your first long-term alpha," mused Clint.
"Was Natasha yours?" asked Tony. "I wondered about you two."
"Yeah. She was the only one I trusted for a long time," Clint admitted. "She was a weird alpha, you know? She doesn't do caring and shit. But the first time I knew she was my best shot at an alpha, I told her I was due, and she just said, "Tell me what you need," and I did. And she never did the cuddle thing much, but if you start having sex as soon as you wake up with it, you can spend the whole cycle feeling like a normal human being, just a normal human being that has sex three, four times a day for two days straight, as long as you feel wanted enough. And she couldn't really say mushy stuff about how important I was, she's just not wired for that anymore if she ever was, but there was something in the way she touched me, looked at me…" He shrugged. "It was enough."
"Probably helps that the Black Widow doesn't sleep with people for their sake. You had to know she cared about you just from that on some level," Tony said, uncharacteristically serious.
"Phil became my alpha after she was injured on an op," said Clint. "She was hurt, and I wasn't, not badly, but I was overdue for heat and I was panicking because I knew as soon as the adrenaline left my system, it would be there, ready to eat me up, and I'd never done heat without an alpha in some capacity."
"Some capacity?"
"I did it over the phone once. Didn't get any touch, but just having someone on the line telling me it would go away the next day, that the things I was thinking weren't true, that was enough to keep me alive."
"Has this ever happened on a mission?" asked Thor with some concern. "It would seem to severely impede your ability to perform them."
"No shit it would," said Clint, "but the kind of adrenaline level you have in your system when you're doing something stressful, even when you're not in combat? Keeps it away. As soon as your situation calms down, your adrenaline and cortisol levels drop, it's back on top of you. So I'm not going to go into heat on a mission unless it's a total milk run and I'm actually relaxed. I still try to avoid it. But the first heat with Phil, that mission ran longer than expected, right through when my heat was supposed to be, and so I get released from medical, and she doesn't, and I have no idea what to do when Phil calls me in for a debrief."
"Agent." Clint jumped. He knew he hadn't been listening to whatever Coulson was saying, which would be suicide if he wasn't concerned about, y'know, actually committing suicide in two days or so.
"Something is wrong," said Coulson. It wasn't a question. Clint sighed. SHIELD was a progressive organization in many ways. The little Clint'd heard about omegas in SHIELD was positive, and he knew they had good policies for other, less-marginalized groups. He knew he was a valuable asset, and he figured Coulson wouldn't throw him under the bus. It was still personal as hell, so he kept it short.
"I'm an omega, sir. My heat was due to begin yesterday, and is delayed, probably due to the heightened adrenaline. Natasha is my alpha."
Coulson, bless him, put together the pieces without a second's thought. A range of emotions flickered across his face, and Clint mentally congratulated himself on being the first person in known SHIELD history to make Phil Coulson look like he didn't know what to do.
"Clint…" said Coulson, "Do you trust me?"
"I allow you to send me into danger on a regular basis, sir," said Clint, because there was no way Coulson was offering what it sounded like he was offering.
"Yes, but it's one thing to trust me with your life, Agent, and quite another to trust me with your mind," said Coulson softly. "Do you trust me to share your heat?"
"Do you know what you're offering, sir?" asked Clint boldly.
"Comfort," said Phil promptly, not sounding offended. "Care. Physical and mental. Not sex, unless you want it, in which case I'm offering that too."
"Yes," Clint breathed, "I trust you." Because he did trust Phil, and as long as Phil knew that what he was getting wasn't a clingy, hyper-horny sex slave for a two-day orgy like the movies said, well, if he was honest with himself, he really liked the idea of Phil sharing his heat.
"Then let's finish this debrief," said Phil promptly. "And afterwards, do you want to come to my place or do you want me to come to yours?"
"My place," said Clint after a moment's hesitation. The added comfort of being in a familiar environment outweighed the embarrassment of having his boss see his apartment.
The panic dealt with, Clint was able to concentrate on the debrief. They dropped by Medical long enough for him to leave Tasha a note: In heat, found alpha, will be fine. Get better. CB. Clint drove them back to his apartment. He dug his key out of his rucksack, opened the door, and tried to ignore the surrealness of Phil Coulson following himself in.
"Make yourself comfortable," said Clint. "Can I get you anything?"
"Water?" said Phil, and Clint got him one, as well as a water for himself.
It was weird to hand Phil a glass of water while Phil was sitting on Clint's couch. It was even weirder to sit down across from him and stare at a point on the wall.
"Well…how do you want to do this?" asked Clint, feeling monumentally stupid, because how would Phil know how he wants to do this, Clint was the one who lived this. And yet, how could he just, well, take what he wants? Cuddle up to his boss on the couch, curl up under his arm? He didn't need the contact yet, the heat hadn't yet hit, and Phil knew it. Suddenly, Clint wasn't even sure what he had been offered. It was possible Phil only meant to hang out and watch television until Clint couldn't hide the symptoms anymore, and then give him a cuddle and some praise on his latest op.
"Can I start by telling you that you're amazing?" asked Phil, and Clint's heart skipped a beat. Phil's tone was hesitant, but it sounded like nervousness, not unsurety. What did Phil have to be nervous about? He was the one in control, he was the one doing Clint a favor. He was Phil Coulson, the one that made junior officers quiver at the very sound of his name. The rational part of his brain reminded Clint that Phil had offered to help him through heat, which carried more than a few sexual connotations, and he could probably get in trouble for this. But the unquenchable corner of optimism of Clint's mind couldn't stop thinking there was more to that statement, that it was too oddly worded to be merely 'is this how I help you'. He nodded.
And Phil began to talk, meeting Clint's eyes brazenly. And he told him things Clint had never noticed about himself, things Clint had noticed but hadn't thought anyone else had. Things about everything from his brain—tactical ability, intelligence—to his heart—kind—to things he didn't even know how to categorize: "When you're faced with a villain, you stare him down as though he has no business being on your turf."
Phil finished with, "I care about you, Barton. I care that this condition makes you see yourself as nothing, because it's not true."
Clint couldn't look at him. Everything Phil was saying to him sounded like more than ordinary alpha comfort. You just think that because Tasha was your alpha for so long, his brain informed him, and He'd do this for any of his agents. And that small speck of doubt kept his eyes glued to the floor. There was silence for a few seconds.
"Too much?" asked Phil quietly, and that's what made Clint glance up at him. He hoped his expression conveyed the war of Yes and No going on in his head, because he sure as hell didn't have words to answer. Phil's expression softened from nervousness (again, nervousness?) to understanding. "Come here?" he asked, motioning to the spot beside him on the couch. Clint got up and crossed to the couch, sitting down close to, but not touching Phil. Phil draped an arm around him and oh-so-tentatively began to run his fingers up and down Clint's arm.
"This okay?"
Clint shifted. "Yeah, but you know, you don't have to do this yet. I mean, my heat hasn't started yet."
"But it will, and faster than you expect, and the earlier the better," Coulson said, abruptly all efficiency once more. "Is this making you uncomfortable?"
Honesty was always the best policy when it came to Coulson, so Clint stared at the floor and blurted, "Yeah, a little. But because I can't figure where you're coming from. Like, you'd do this for any of your agents, wouldn't you? So I'm not special. But you're talking to me like I am. So I'm trying to figure out how far you mean everything you're saying, which isn't how this is supposed to go."
"Look at me?" asked Phil, and it was a request, not an order, so Clint did. "I'd offer to any agent on my watch who needed my help, who didn't have a better source of comfort—but I'm glad it's you who asked. Because I want to be the one to hold you through it. Because you are special. Because heat isn't a reason for me to come up with things to tell you about how much I admire and respect you, it's a reason for me to tell you all the things I already came up with. It's a reason to stop holding my tongue, to stop letting fear and professionalism get in the way of me telling you I care about you."
Clint forced himself to resume breathing and leaned into Phil.
"I'm glad it's you, too," he answered, the best he could come up with.
Phil's fingers became more sure, moving up to stroke through Clint's hair.
"D'you wanna watch a movie?" Clint asked, and immediately felt stupid.
But Phil said, "Sure. Any preference?"
Clint shook his head—he didn't have strong preferences at any rate, and he figured he'd pushed his luck enough.
"I have a soft spot for Die Hard," said Phil, going to the bookshelf and pulling one of the more visible movies from the shelf.
"Really?" asked Clint, interested. "I like it for all the inaccuracies."
"Oh, me too—pointing them all out never gets old," said Phil, popping it in.
So they cuddled on the sofa, taking turns calling out everything less than completely accurate and intelligently decided.
"Ready for bed?" Phil asked when it was over, and when Clint stiffened, added, "I'm fine with sleeping on the couch. Or if you've changed your mind, I can still go home."
Clint thought about it for a few seconds, then said, "No, come to bed. But to sleep, yeah?"
"Of course," said Phil, and proceeded to get changed in the bathroom.
Clint had a reasonably-sized bed—perks of a SHIELD paycheck and warranted by being an omega—so they were able to fall asleep without being completely pressed up against each other.
Clint had to admit it was worth starting early when he woke somewhat less depressed than he usually did on day 1. Phil had beaten him out of bed and was making breakfast, judging by the noise and the smells. He only had to wait a little longer for Phil to come back in the room, in jeans and a t-shirt, freshly showered, and carrying a plate with waffles and eggs and a glass of orange juice.
"Breakfast in bed?" asked Clint.
"You deserve it," was all Phil said before setting down the plate and glass by Clint and heading back to the kitchen for his own. They ate mostly in silence. Clint complimented Phil's waffle skills. Phil looked pleased.
When Phil took the dishes back to the kitchen, Clint dragged himself out of bed for a shower and a change of clothes—into a t-shirt and sweats, but somehow he didn't think Coulson would judge him for dressing down in heat. It was more than he usually managed. When he got out, Phil'd done the dishes and tidied up the kitchen, and he climbed back in bed with Clint, curling around him tentatively.
"This okay?"
In answer, Clint slipped his arms around Phil. This close, out of his suit, Phil didn't look like badass Agent Coulson. He'd dropped the stoic nothing-fazes-me mask—in fact, he dropped it the second Clint told him, Clint realized. He looked hopeful, tentative, caring, focused on Clint in a way he wasn't used to. Phil stroked Clint's still-wet hair, running a hand down his neck and over the fabric of his t-shirt, picking out individual muscles.
"May I kiss you?" whispered Phil, and there was still a part of Clint's brain telling him Phil Coulson didn't want him like that, couldn't possibly want him like that, but the look in Phil's eyes and the desire buzzing behind Clint's lips made him whisper,
"Yes."
The kiss was soft and slow and sweet and nothing like Clint had ever been kissed. They broke apart eventually, just because you can only just kiss for so long.
"Answer me something straight," said Clint, cursing himself in his head for the pun but knowing Phil wouldn't say anything. "Do you want something out of this?" No, that came out wrong. "Something more?"
"I haven't already ruined my chances of letting you think this is a two-night stand?" asked Phil, smiling softly. "I wasn't going to ask outright in case it made you too uncomfortable. You need an alpha more than I need an answer tonight. But yes, Clint. I care about you. I'm attracted to you. I'd love to take you out sometime. You're not obligated to do anything, of course—I'm here until the heat's done, as long as you still want me to share it. You don't owe me anything for that."
Clint kissed him again. "What do you say to just making out, then?" he asked after they broke apart. "And you can take me out after heat. Just—people use omegas for sex sometimes, and if this is going to be real, I just wanna be sure you're really in it. I don't want to rush into things."
"That sounds good to me," replied Phil, and they alternated kissing like teenagers and cuddling like an old married couple until the heat was through. Clint hardly felt the depression at all.