Clint would've liked a few more days to shore up their friendship after that horrible morning. Instead, he was only allowed to remain at SHIELD headquarters for another day before an assignment came up that "required" his specific skill set. It was amazing how indispensable he'd suddenly become when all he wanted to do was stay close to base. After two days in the field and another flying back, he desperately wanted a meal, a shower, a nap, and an update on Coulson, not necessarily in that order.
In fact, not at all in that order. Fury had assured him before he was sent out that the rest of the team would be keeping close tabs on Coulson, but he had worried anyway. He checked in with JARVIS as he was waiting for transport back to SHIELD HQ. Fortunately, nothing had changed.
Unfortunately, nothing had changed. Coulson was still a child and had shown no signs of aging. His quarters were still only a half-step up from a holding cell, and SHIELD had shown no signs of upgrading them. The Avengers had been assembled to address a threat in Florida, and Clint couldn't find any evidence that anyone else had visited Coulson during that time. Coulson still hadn't been allowed a phone. Or outdoor privileges. And was allotted only a minimum of gym time. "You wouldn't keep a dog confined like that," he groused to JARVIS. "Even a dog at a shelter gets yard time."
"I believe you are correct, sir," JARVIS responded. "And this state of affairs does not meet with your approval, Agent Barton?"
Was he really going to do this? Clint scrubbed his hands over his face. "I know this is the best solution, but..." He tipped his face up, eyes closed. "JARVIS, how on earth did it happen that I am the best surrogate parent for Coulson?"
Staying at SHIELD any longer was just not a viable option. It was no environment for a kid to grow up in. Natasha could make Phil disappear, but her... upbringing — he couldn't say childhood, because it was never that — in the Red Room meant that she had even less idea of how to be a child or a parent than Clint did. Stark could maybe protect him in plain sight in Avengers Tower, but could Clint really trust a man who couldn't remember to eat or sleep to take care of a growing child? Steve couldn't disappear Coulson or protect him with ridiculous wealth like Tony could; and he, Thor, and Bruce had enough trouble navigating 21st century Earth without worrying about a child, too.
What really tipped the scales for Clint, though, was when JARVIS revealed that Coulson had been banned from the SHIELD day care, something about insurance and hazard pay and child-to-caretaker ratio and Clint really didn't care because what it all came down to was that Coulson had even less time to be a kid than he'd had before, and it was getting worse, not better.
"I hoped, I really hoped that they could get it right," he said, mostly to himself. Clint rolled his shoulders to try to release the tension in them, and then nodded decisively. "I'll speak to Natasha. It may be time for me to take a vacation," he said, using the set phrase he and JARVIS had previously agreed upon.
"Very good, sir," JARVIS responded immediately. "I shall begin making arrangements for your stay in warmer climes." Files on a secure server that JARVIS had hidden from himself became available, and he began to implement Clint's escape protocols.
"JARVIS, I'm terrified." He shook his head again and ran his hands through his hair. "I'm snappish, impatient, short-tempered... What if..." He swallowed, throat so dry it clicked. "What if I parent like my parents did? What if, when push comes to shove, I..." He gripped his hair tightly. "What if I hurt him?"
"Agent Barton, if I may?" JARVIS put in delicately. "You are perhaps being much more deliberate about filling a parenting role than many who are surprised by their children. I anticipate that your awareness of any character flaws will help you to avoid inflicting them on Agent Coulson.
"And..." JARVIS hesitated, and Clint took a moment to appreciate the programming that let JARVIS communicate "gathering his thoughts" with a minute pause. "I believe many incidents of abuse or neglect occur when the caretaker is overtired or stressed. Because you intend to undertake Agent Coulson's care by yourself, may I suggest, if it is agreeable to you, that I might, in a small way... Come with you?"
See, here's how it works. It takes about a week of dropped hints, and a few days of outright pleading, but eventually Coulson is allowed out of SHIELD on a field trip. Really, it's the appeal to Fury — complete with the pleading puppy eyes (Fury still hasn't built up an immunity) — for Chicago-style deep-dish that wins the day. Clint's time in the field (translation: not bodyguarding Coulson) means that SHIELD doesn't require him to (translation: won't let him) accompany Coulson outside. Fury may have somehow gotten the idea that Clint wouldn't want Coulson to go back to his SHIELD cell. Fury would be right about that.
So Clint is logged in to the archery range while Coulson is sitting in a little hole-in-the-wall pizza place with only one overt babysitter — an easily-cowed junior who for some reason thinks that just because Coulson is in a 40-pound package he cannot end him — and several more experienced agents surveilling the restaurant and several others on the streets outside.
The server brings Coulson his slices and he falls on the food like he hasn't eaten in a week, or like he hasn't had real pizza in months, or like he expects it to be taken away at any moment. Two of those appearances are actual fact.
Coulson is just starting his second slice when a small girl at a table behind him erupts into a screaming tantrum. Her blond pigtails fly as she flings her head about in anger, and her face turns a shade of red that clashes hideously with her fluffy pink dress. Her father bends his head close to talk with her as she continues to screech incoherently.
The disturbance causes Coulson to glance over his shoulder with rounded eyes, but then he turns back to his food with a shrug. The junior agent's expression is a combination of "there but for the grace of God" and terror that "his" preschooler might explode into similar behavior later. "Somebody's tired," he says, with a nervous smile, as he watches the father pull the screaming child toward the bathrooms.
"Happens," Coulson says, and dives once more into his pizza.
When he has finished, he wipes his mouth with his paper napkin (which until now has been properly on his lap) and tells the junior agent, "I need to use the bathroom." Before the SHIELD-issue babysitter can do more than begin to rise, Coulson is spearing him with his patented "Really?" look, which really should not work so well on a four-year-old's face.
He stands as the junior agent settles back down in his seat, places his napkin politely on his chair, and walks to the restroom. A few minutes later the father walks past with his little girl, now apparently sleeping, cradled on his shoulder. Her head is snuggled into his neck, and she's all pink ruffles and blonde braids. He drops a few bills on their table and the child doesn't even stir as he opens the door and walks out.
The agent finishes his meal in peace and then checks his watch. Five minutes have passed. An agent with more experience would never have let the time go beyond three. An agent with knowledge of Coulson would never have let him out of his sight in the first place. By the time he checks the restroom and finds the open window, then shamefacedly calls in backup to start searching the alleys, Coulson has been in the wind for 15 minutes.
It is far more than he needs. Even if he had been alone.
In reality, it went much more like this:
Clint listened to the little girl scream for almost a minute before he nodded in satisfaction. He knelt down to meet her eyes and said, "That's really good. Now, do you think you can do that tomorrow with your Daddy when it's time?"
"Sure, Dr. Francis," she replied, beaming a cherubic smile like she hadn't been imitating a Nazgul moments earlier.
"Mr. Stillen," he said, rising to take her father's hand, "I can't thank you and your daughter enough for assisting us with our observation and perception project at the last minute."
"It's my pleasure, Dr. Francis," the man returned, shaking his hand.
"With the venue and the observers and all the other researchers all in place, it would have been quite a setback if we had to postpone this exercise." He reached for a clipboard and thumbed through the pages briefly before shuffling one to the top. "I'll need your signature here, where it says you consent to the experiment, and here again if you consent to being filmed."
When the man had signed, Clint presented him with a sheet with columns for names and signatures and checkmarks for "paid." Mr. Stillen filled in his information on line 11. "And you would prefer the cash stipend instead of the gift card?" At his nod, Clint continued, "And your daughter? Would she like the Colombia Junior Psychology Researcher t-shirt, or the cash stipend?"
So when Haley Stillen had a screaming meltdown in the middle of Lombardi's Pizza, resulting in her father dragging her to the restroom, "Dr. Francis" was waiting for them near the telephones with their stipends for study participation and ushered them out the rear of the building with promises to email them the study's results. When Phil Coulson, aged approximately four, arrived in the restroom a few minutes later, Clint Barton quickly changed him into a pink ruffled dress with white tights and a wig with blonde braids, and then opened the window for misdirection.
Moments later a "father" carried his exhausted "daughter" out the front door of the restaurant and into a waiting car.
"We've got them, sir." The technician sounded relieved.
"Talk to me," Fury snapped.
It had taken SHIELD the better part of an hour to retrace their agents' steps, but they had found that Phil Coulson had not shimmied his 3-foot-2 frame up a a featureless bathroom wall, forced open a window, and then dropped six feet to an alley below before taking off on size 9 feet. Nor had he waltzed through the back of the restaurant and onto a crowded New York City street. No, he had been carried out under the watchful gazes of no fewer than six SHIELD agents (who would be hearing a thing or two from Director Fury about situational awareness in the near future, make no mistake). The fact that no one had had eyes on Barton during that time was a further oversight that had several agents reaching for their TUMS bottles.
Further time had been lost scouring facial recognition software and closed-circuit TV and security footage for any hints of the pair's whereabouts. The face trace programs balked at scanning for Barton's face, and the video recordings of child-Phil were strangely degraded. They had to regress his adult-face to approximate the child version, and Fury was deeply suspicious of the results generated by the malfunctioning software.
"CCTV has a record of a pair matching the most recent description travelling to JFK and boarding a flight for ... Phnom Penh."
"How certain are we that they're on that flight?"
"We've got agents almost to the gate, sir. Cameras record that they boarded, but we'll get gate personnel to confirm."
"I want a line to that aircraft. I want to confirm that our targets are on it before any more time gets away from us. Where's it landing?"
"First stop London, sir, in another four hours."
"Confirm they're on that plane. Have it met in London. Let's tidy this up, people. This has not been SHIELD's finest hour."
Long before SHIELD could confirm absolutely that the father and daughter pair who had won tickets to Phnom Penh were not in fact Agent Barton and Agent Coulson, Agent Clint Barton helped a very sleepy Agent Phil Coulson out of his carseat and into an unassuming house in eastern Pennsylvania. They each carried in a small bag, and Coulson helped Clint sweep the house for bugs.
Clint cooked them a simple meal out of the pantry. "So, sir," he asked, as they sat down for dinner. "How would you like to start school next week? Maybe make being a kid your day job?" They discussed the options over dinner until it was time for Coulson to shower and wash off the day's accumulation of kid-stickiness and get ready for bed.
In theory, Coulson had a room of his own and an appropriately low bed. As it happened, though, after a long day of driving and eluding SHIELD, Phil curled up in the bed next to Clint. Clint wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled out a book. "So, I thought we could start a new book, kind of in honor of our new lives?"
Coulson nodded, and his eyes rounded when he saw the cover. "I loved this story when I was a kid." He paused and laughed at himself. "The first time."
"I've never read it, sir. Hope it's as good as you remember." He settled Phil closer to his side and opened the book. His eyes rounded. "Are they kidding with this? This is a kid's book?"
Phil peered owlishly over the edge of the book, and then laughed again. His childish laugh thrummed through Clint's ribs. "I'd forgotten that."
Clint squeezed Phil tight for a moment and then cleared his throat and began to read. "Where's papa going with that ax?"
End Notes:
Find me on Tumblr at Selori.
Inspired by this art by Rascal Paradyne.