He was wrestling with Natasha and finally had her pinned. Or so he thought, until she poked her pinkie finger into the hollow of his cheek. "Barton," she said. "Let me up."
"No way, Tasha," he replied, grinning into her warm hair. "Not until you give. For real."
She poked his cheek again, hard enough to hurt. "I'm serious. Let me up. I need to pee."
OK, that was not how Natasha cried uncle, and since when had she started using Coulson's shampoo to wash her hair?
"Barton," she said again, her voice higher this time. "I can't get loose. Let me go."
Clint startled awake, suddenly realizing that he had Coulson snugged close to his chest in a grip tight enough to rival an anaconda's. Coulson had reached his hand over his shoulder to poke Clint's face with a chubby forefinger. "Shoot, sir, I'm sorry," he said, opening his arms so Coulson could squirm free.
Coulson tossed him a quick smile over his shoulder as he hurried to the bathroom. Clint sat up and rubbed his face, yawning, as he checked the time.
"Sir?" he called over the sound of the flushing toilet. "There's still some hours left in the afternoon. Any ideas?"
There was no response while Coulson washed his hands, and then he walked back into the room, still drying his hands on a towel that was longer than he was tall. He was also frowning.
"Maybe we could get some things from my place? There are a few books I wouldn't mind finishing or re-reading while I'm on enforced stand-down." Clint winced, and Coulson correctly interpreted it because he said, "Right. Confined to headquarters." He sighed. "Maybe we can ask Stark to send some things over. Who's on watch tonight?"
"Uh, I don't know," Clint confessed. "We should've talked about it at the briefing but..." He spread his hands, not adding "nature called."
"Maybe you should see what the others have come up with," Coulson suggested.
Clint pulled out his phone to obey the implied order, but paused. "Did you want to do this, sir?" he asked.
"You go ahead Barton," he said calmly. "They haven't returned my phone to me, yet."
And Clint hadn't even noticed. That was -1 for Hawkeye for today's observation scores. He tightened his grip on the phone as anger at Coulson's treatment flared in his chest. "Sonova—" Clint swallowed the rest of the swear.
"It's all right, Barton," Coulson said, amused. "I'm not actually four, you know. I have heard those words before."
"You say that now," Clint muttered. "It's all fun and games until someone hears the four-year-old cuss a blue streak and calls Child Protective Services." He dialed Natasha. "Anyway, sir, I have an idea for today."
Understandably, in light of the morning's confessions, Natasha begged off any further night watches, and Clint couldn't blame her. Sure, Tasha could play the role of doting mother/aunt/other adult, but putting on that deep cover mask in order to care for Coulson? It made Clint's skin itch just to think about it.
Coulson himself vetoed Captain Rogers, as much for his super strength as for his discomfort at being a child under his childhood hero's care. They agreed together that Thor might not be an ideal guardian figure for an Earth child. Clint might be willing to trust Banner with child-Coulson, but there was no way that Bruce would trust himself to guard a child, and they decided together that it would be best not to ask. That just left—
"No," Coulson said firmly, adult persona solidly in place. "I will not have a man who cannot remember to feed and water himself as my 'guardian', no matter for how short a time."
"Looks like you're stuck with me, then, sir," Clint said cheerfully. "I'll see about getting some of my things sent over along with your books, OK?"
When Coulson nodded, Clint rose to his feet, creaking a bit. "Ready for a bit of fun, boss?"
Clint's idea of fun, in this case, was the SHIELD on-site day care for children of employees. Initially, Coulson was one of the older children there, and he kept close to Clint's side. After only a bit, though, there was an influx of children as schools let out for the day. Coulson was drawn into a game of four-square. Then there was free coloring time. And then story time.
Clint hung back initially, wanting Phil to be able to mix with the other children without a looming adult presence. By the time story time rolled around, though, he was more than willing to sit when Phil sought him out and pulled him by the hand to sit on the carpet with the other children.
Clint sat down cross-legged and Phil sat immediately in front of him. After a few minutes, though, Phil scooted back into Clint's lap and leaned back on his chest with a contented sigh. Clint rested his chin on Phil's head and marveled again at just how small Phil was now. When all the children began shouting "No!" to the silly pigeon in the book, Phil chimed in. The thrumming of his yells and laughter transferred directly to Clint's chest, and for a moment he found it hard to breathe. When the picture book was finished, the children all scrambled up and over to new playthings — puzzles, a sand table, building materials, and even dress-up clothes. Phil went running with them, and Clint had a moment to wonder what "Agent Coulson" thought of his child self going native.
When the SHIELD parents started filtering in to pick up their children, Clint sought Coulson out. "You about ready to call it, sir?"
Coulson nodded, hesitated, and then turned back to the day care worker, tugging on her sleeve to get her attention. When she crouched down to meet his eyes, he whispered his question urgently in her ear. Clint wasn't sure what happened next, but he was pretty sure that enormous, liquid blue puppy-eyes were deployed, because she gave him a book from the day care's collection without a quibble. She smiled as she handed him the large picture book, similar to the one she had read earlier, and patted his arm gently. He tucked the book under his arm and turned back to Clint, reaching his other hand up to be held.
Clint nodded approvingly. "Way to commandeer civilian assets, sir," he teased as they walked back to Coulson's quarters. "And may I just say, it was an honor to watch a senior agent exercise his skills in blending so seamlessly with the locals." Where adult-Coulson's lips might have turned up in a faint smile, Coulson's child-self grinned up at Clint openly, completely unselfconscious. Clint grinned back, a wave of fondness rising through his chest, and realized he was squeezing Coulson's hand rhythmically, like a heartbeat.
"So, what did you think, boss? How was your walk on the kid side?"
"It was good," Coulson returned. "Easier than I had expected. And," he held up the book, "I got you some homework so you can practice your child-interaction skills."
Clint looked askance at the thin, blue book. "Don't let the Pigeon Stay Up Late, sir?"
"It'll be good for you. You can practice your acting skills with the different voices." And, yeah, that was a crock and a half, but if Coulson was up for story time, Clint was all for it, too. "Maybe next time I can get Pigeon Finds a Hot Dog and get Sitwell to read it to me," Coulson deadpanned.
"That might take a direct order from Fury, sir," Clint replied.
"I think I can make him see it my way," Coulson assured him. "The director owes me a few."
They stored the book in Coulson's quarters, the royal blue cover one of the few splashes of color in the dreary room. Clint's purple duffel bag made another, and Phil's books made one more. It still wasn't enough to cut the overwhelming gray theme, however.
"Glad your books made it, at least, sir," Clint said with deliberate cheer. "Maybe we can read a bit tonight."
"After dinner, maybe," Coulson agreed.
What followed was another surreal experience of watching Coulson choose whatever he wanted for dinner, regardless of nutritional value or anything Clint knew of his adult tastes. And dessert. A lot of dessert. More dessert than really should have fit in a four-year-old's stomach. Clint could neither confirm nor deny that he assisted in dispatching some of the desserts.
They got ready for bed and settled on the mattress, half-propped against the wall on pillows. Coulson opened one of his paperbacks to his bookmark and Clint took out his StarkPad to check for anything he had missed during the day. The fftttpppp sound of of a large book snapping closed had Clint focusing his peripheral vision on Coulson's novel. Coulson's lips firmed in determination and he re-opened the book, small hands straining to hold almost 200 pages each. The book slipped out of his hands.
Coulson's eyebrows drew down, and Clint knew that look. That look said that today was about to get very difficult for someone or something. As Coulson reached for the book again, murder in his young eyes, Clint turned to him, placing one hand on the thick paperback.
"Sir?" he said. "Maybe tomorrow we can look at getting you back your StarkPad. And maybe getting some e-books on it." He took the book and set it gently on Coulson's side of the mattress. "For tonight, though, how about if I read to you?"
Coulson looked from Barton to the discarded novel and back, raising his eyebrows.
Clint rolled until he could reach the book they'd "liberated" from the day care, and then rolled fluidly back to a seated position. "If you sit on my lap, you'll be able to see the pictures," he teased gently.
Coulson huffed a tiny laugh and shook his head but scooted into Clint's lap anyway. "I could read it myself," he grumbled.
"Of course you could, sir. But being read to is a lot of the fun, isn't it?" He wrapped his arms outside of Coulson's and opened the book across Coulson's knees. "Besides, I have it on good authority that I need to practice my acting skills." He pushed the pillow slightly further up behind his back. "'Oh, good, it's you'," he read. "'Listen, it's getting late, and I need to brush my teeth'..."