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Pod_Together 2014, OPodfics_GaloreO
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2014-08-15
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Acquired Tastes

,

Summary:

It became their ritual after terrible ops: weirdly named local dishes and small talk.

Notes:

cinaea: Working with silkylustre was the best thing that could have happened to this Pod_Together fic! She inspired me to turn a one-off joke about meatloaf into... well, you'll see. I hope her recording charms you even half as much as it does me.

silkylustre: I love working with cinaea! She's charming, funny, flexible and incredibly supportive! Not to mention, a lot better with words than I am. I can only say: Really enjoyed the experience, would work with her again! I ruined quite a few takes due to cackling.
Also, thanks to working on her fic, I now know a lot more about the pronounciation of Tagalog. ; )

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Download the mp3 here!

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“Are you sure this asshole is even going to show, McAlpin? The only thing I’ve seen pass by has been my precious youth.”

“At least you still have your hair,” an unexpected voice answers over the comms.

Clint grins; he loves ops with Coulson around. But he keeps the smile out of his voice when he replies, “What are you doing out in Bumfuck, Nowhere, sir? I thought you were in Moscow.”

“That’s on hold until the Kremlin learns to pull up its training diapers and share. I need you in Chile instead.”

“What about the target?”

“Plan B. McAlpin’s team will take him at the meet. Let’s go. I’m out back.”

It takes Clint a few minutes to exit his perch in the church steeple; he has to be careful to stay below the level of the roofline and simultaneously keep his bare skin from touching the hot tar. He slides into the passenger seat of the black sedan in the alley, grateful for the air conditioning and the cold bottle Coulson hands him.

“Fart?” he reads off the label, amused.

Coulson doesn’t spare him a glance, eyes on the road, but there’s a smile lurking at the corner of his mouth.

Clint takes a gulp.

 

The Santiago op is well planned, like all of Coulson’s ops. But like most of Clint’s ops, it’s somehow still a shit-show.

The last couple years, Coulson’s been letting junior agents practice handling in the field. Clint doesn’t particularly like following the orders of a newbie, but he knows Coulson’s standing by in case anything goes too badly. And, he reminds himself, the lack of one-on-one time is a good thing. Less temptation this way.

Today’s baby handler shows promise, Clint thinks. Magritte’s voice stays calm despite the havoc around him as she talks him through the second redundant backup exit route—when Clint’s missions go to shit, they do so spectacularly. Clint recognizes Coulson’s meticulous preparations in the series of disabled security cameras and unlocked doors that he barrels through. He finds himself in a travel agency after hours and spots a candy dish on one of the desks.

The highlight of the Santiago op is the flicker of humor on Coulson’s face when Clint tosses him the candy bar. Coulson’s brow furrows as he reads the pink wrapper, “Happy Strawberry Crunky.” After a pause he sighs and says, “Next time, get me the chocolate flavor.”

Clint catches himself beaming. He covers with a put-upon scowl and starts cleaning his gear. Clint has maybe been making a list of things that Coulson likes. He’s maybe a little pathetic.

 

A List of Things Phil Coulson Likes (in no particular order):

  1. Chewing out incompetent junior agents
  2. Captain America memorabilia
  3. Classic movies starring Robert Redford or Warren Beatty
  4. Most forms of candy (preferably chocolate)
  5. Dubiously named food

 

Clint became aware of the food thing several years ago, back when they’d only worked a few missions together.

Clint was still testing his SHIELD handlers’ patience in those days, making jokes over the comms and mouthing off in briefings. Most of his supervisors had ignored or scolded him, but Coulson had laughed at his jokes and heard him out, even agreed with some of his suggestions.

The op in Deggendorf had gone completely tits-up when the target spooked, and putting the woman down had incurred more collateral damage than either he or Coulson was comfortable with. Afterward, all Clint had wanted was to go off grid and bury his head for a week. (He knows wallowing isn’t the healthiest coping mechanism, but he has his comfortable patterns, and they work for him, okay?)

But Coulson had dragged him to an imbiss two blocks away and proceeded to order something called Falscher Hase.

“Fake Rabbit?” Clint had reluctantly asked after ordering a pizza. He still wasn't sure how to relate to Coulson between ops. "What the hell is that?"

Coulson had shrugged. “The mystery is half the fun.”

Falscher Hase turned out to be some kind of meatloaf in cream sauce. Clint ate his pizza absently and watched Coulson devour the mystery meat, which had a hardboiled egg in the middle (eww, why?), while Coulson explained his tradition of trying inexplicably named foods whenever he was on missions. Eventually their food talk turned into a discussion of classic movies, and Clint hadn’t felt quite so wretched when they made it back to the safe house that night.

 

It became their ritual after terrible ops: weirdly named local dishes and small talk.

Coulson’s dismayed reaction to Stargazy Pie is one of Clint’s favorite memories. He can still recall how Coulson pulled himself together and manfully attempted to eat one of the fish heads.

Eventually Clint had joined in the fun, engaging in a game of one-upmanship at every mom-and-pop joint they came across. He’d nearly pissed himself laughing as Coulson took a spoon to Candle Salad, and he still hasn’t forgiven Coulson for daring him to try the disturbingly fishy Eskimo Ice Cream.

It hasn’t been all bad, though. Clint has discovered that Devils on Horseback are bacon-wrapped magic and that Loco Moco is the breakfast of champions. Thousands of Midwestern potlucks aren’t wrong, because Watergate Salad tastes better than it looks. And Fried Eggs on Toast is a surprisingly good dessert.

Clint only tried the same ritual with Natasha once. The moment he said “Rocky Mountain Oysters,” she’d punched him in his (already bruised) kidney and left him moaning on the sidewalk.

 

Their current mission is a two-man op in Manila, and Clint’s nervous before they even ship out. They’re going to be embedded for a couple days before anything happens, and Clint hasn’t spent this much time alone with Coulson since…. Well.

He looks out the window and sighs in frustration. There’s a turu-turò joint just one block away that he’s planning to take Coulson to, but for now they’re on a tight lockdown, subsisting on MREs in a derelict apartment with no electricity or running water. They ate all the candy yesterday, it’s not like Clint packed any valuable collector’s items, and it turns out there’s only so long you can debate the performances in Bonnie and Clyde before robbing banks sounds like a promising career change. (Clint has maybe brushed up on the roles of Redford and Beatty.)

He actually gives serious thought to deliberately pissing Coulson off just so the man can lecture him. But since that would defeat the purpose of his list, he bites his tongue and wishes again that the list were longer.

The next day finds Coulson cursing a truly impressive blue streak and cornering like a Formula One driver on their way out of Intramuros.

“Sorry you didn’t get to try Sisig. … know you … hate MREs,” Clint gasps, trying to brace himself in the jouncing vehicle without moving his left side.

Coulson snorts. “The food was hardly the worst thing about this clusterfuck, Barton.” He spares a glance from the road, and his hand lands on top of Clint’s, bearing down on the blood-drenched fabric wadded around the jagged piece of slag that’s sticking out of Clint’s thigh.

“Gotta let me make you … breakfast someday,” Clint hears himself saying out of nowhere, and he blames the blood loss and the fucking cobblestones for overriding his verbal filter. Phil's hand on his has nothing to do with it. “I make a mean … Toad in the Hole.” Oh my god, why is he still talking?

Phil’s grip tightens.

The next turn knocks Clint mercifully unconscious.

 

Coulson is not hovering at his bedside when Clint regains consciousness in SHIELD Medical the next day, but there's a thick envelope and a small, wrapped package on the tray table.

Clint perks up, distracted from his sulk before it begins. When he unwraps a can labeled Spotted Dick, he laughs so hard and so long that the nurses come running.

They threaten to sedate him if he can't restrain himself, and they don't offer any painkillers when they leave, which is a pity, because Clint's thigh is starting to throb. But he's got his eye on the packet now, and he thinks he’ll need his wits about him.

The envelope is labeled "Plan G" in Coulson's neat handwriting. Inside he finds several sheets of paper; scissors, tape, and a few other items Coulson might have had in his own desk; and a stack of tongue depressors. One of the papers is a printout titled, "How to Make a Paper Crossbow Out of Office Supplies."

Coulson is his favorite. Clint grins and gets to work.

 

A List of Reasons Why Phil Coulson Is Clint's Favorite Handler (in no particular order):

  1. He lets Clint use his bow when the situation allows it.
  2. He's the only handler to joke along with him over the comms.
  3. He curses worse than a carnie when an op goes to shit.
  4. He knows exactly how much Clint hates being stuck in Medical and always does his best to get him sprung early.
  5. His forearms when he rolls up his sleeves. (Clint has only seen them once, on a stairwell in Ottawa, bullet-proof vest over his dress shirt, high-caliber pistol in his large hands, preparing to kick down a door. Clint had stopped dead in his tracks and gaped like a goldfish for a solid five-count. He's still trying to figure out how to orchestrate a repeat showing.)
  6. Clint has maybe been in love with Coulson for the past two years.

 

Two years ago, a black SHIELD sedan had pulled up below the nest where Clint had spent the last 12 hours freezing his ass off. He was a professional—he knew how to keep circulation going in his fingers and stay ready to pull the trigger—but he’d slowly been losing feeling in his toes. Coulson had stepped out in his perfect, dark suit and called him down.

"Blizzard's been interfering with the comms," Coulson had explained while he piled electric blankets on Clint in the passenger seat, the vents blowing hot air at his feet. "The target's changed his plans. He won't come through here for another few hours."

Clint had nodded, teeth chattering too hard to crack wise.

Coulson held out a thermos of something steaming, and Clint had clutched it gladly, wrapping his fingers tight for warmth.

"Shimamura was supposed to call the op hours ago, but the comms situation must've flustered him," Coulson explained, referring to the latest junior handler. He wrapped his own warm fingers around Clint's and urged the thermos to his lips. "Sorry I didn't realize sooner."

As he sipped the broth, Clint had felt warmth spreading in his chest and a tingling in his fingers and toes.

So that's what love feels like, he'd marveled.

 

The doctors discharge Clint less than three hours after he finishes the crossbow—a new personal best.

Sitwell catches up with him on the way to Coulson's office, ranting about the paperwork he's going to have to fill out, and does SHIELD even have a form for Toy-Related Destruction of Property?

The only part Clint pays attention to is the bit about Coulson being gone on an op in LA. He swallows his disappointment and shuffles off to Natasha's quarters instead.

She takes one look and pushes him into a chair. “Coulson got you out of Medical,” she observes disapprovingly.

“He’s in LA,” he protests.

“Well I know you didn’t get yourself out.” She stares him down until he pulls out the toy crossbow. “Am I supposed to believe you scavenged the materials from your sickbed?”

He smiles ruefully and shakes his head. “Naww, that was all Coulson. It’s a pretty sweet crossbow, though. Check this out!”

She catches the pencil easily, and he pouts when she breaks it. "Try that again, and I'll break you next. You’re out of Medical early; why are you moping?"

Clint sighs, at a loss to explain it.

She rolls her eyes. "You could call him, you know. Or text. Texting is a thing."

Clint just shakes his head. They're not really friends; they don't keep in touch between missions.

Natasha gives him a look, so he quickly changes the subject. "Hey, wanna try this shit he left me?"

She wrinkles her nose when he puts the can on the table. "I don't need to taste Coulson's dick, Clint. He's not my boyfriend."

Natasha refuses to take her comment back, and Clint is too injured to make her (not that he would attempt it even on his best day; she literally has a knife with his name on it—she’s shown him). She leaves on a job a couple days later, abandoning Clint to sulk in his quarters for the rest of the week.

The can taunts him from the shelf. Clint picks up the toy crossbow (Mark 2—there’s always room for improvement) and shoots pencils at it for hours.

Phil Coulson had been the first person at SHIELD to believe in Clint when he was a stupid punk with a chip the size of a helicarrier on his shoulder. He hadn’t known what to do with that kindness at first—the man was a superior officer, and Clint had something to prove—but Coulson’d continued to be friendly and encouraging.

As the months went by, Clint realized he was becoming overinvested in Coulson’s attention, knew he was lighting up like a goddamn light bulb in the man’s presence. He’d tried to school his features and act casual, but then he’d had to go and fall in love with the senior agent.

Clint’s been feigning indifference for years, because the truth is that Coulson doesn’t like him that way. They’re just colleagues, is all. Colleagues with a long-running inside joke. —“Colleagues with dinner dates,” Nat had pointed out as though speaking to an especially stupid child.

Yeah, he and Coulson eat dinner together sometimes, but only ever on missions. They don’t hang out.

Eventually he picks up the original envelope. “Plan G.” Coulson’s always been looking after him, pulling his ass out of the fire (or the freezer). Clint thinks about Coulson’s hand on his in the careening car, how he’d said too much in the blur of pain. He’s pretty sure he’d hit on Coulson—“Breakfast”? Really? —but his handler had still busted him out of Medical from across the country.

“Shit,” Clint finally groans, eyeing the can of Spotted Dick again. He’s going to have to risk it.

 

Coulson gets back from attempting to ride herd on Tony "I am Iron Man" Stark a few days later. Clint had seen the disastrous press conference. He’s never known one of Coulson’s ops to blow up so spectacularly without him being involved.

He swings by Coulson's office that evening and offers to take him for some commiseration Garbage Plate. It’s an upstate specialty, but Clint’s found a late-night place in Brooklyn that dabbles.

Coulson scowls, looking exhausted behind his desk, and god, Clint's missed his ornery face. “That sounds awful.”

Clint fumbles, taken aback. "But uh...I thought you liked trying that stuff...."

"Clint," Coulson says significantly, "I like you."

All the blood rushes to Clint’s cheeks, and his poker face is usually amazing, but this is Coulson.

“And I’ve been stuck in Los Angeles for the past week playing Harmless Suit #2, trying to catch up to Stark, and apologizing to Fury. Right now I just want to sit on the couch, eat real New York pizza, and watch The Sting.”

Clint says nothing, still trying to figure out what happened to his half-assed attempt to ask his boss out. Did…Coulson just say he likes him?

When the silence grows awkward, Coulson raises an eyebrow. “You were offering to pay for dinner, right?”

“Um, yeah,” Clint chokes out, suave as ever. “Is Ray’s okay, or…?”

“Make it Valentino’s and you’ve got yourself a date.”

“Really?” he blurts before he can catch himself. “I mean, yes. Yes, sir. Valentino’s it is.”

"Call me Phil," he says with a fond smile.

Clint gapes at him. But Coulson—Phil—is standing up and coming closer. And rumpled or not he still looks amazing in his suit, and Clint has to yank his eyes up to the ceiling or he’s going to be completely obvious.

“You know, I hear it’s called Tomato Pie in Trenton,” he babbles. “So, I mean, it’s still traditional—”

“We’re not going to Jersey,” Phil says, and his voice is much closer now. “We’re going back to my place.”

“Oh thank god,” Clint blurts, then bites his lip in embarrassment. He risks a glance and finds Phil much closer, just inches away, and suddenly Clint can’t hide his smile anymore.

 

When Clint checks Phil’s fridge in the morning, he finds it fully stocked. He shoots a suspicious glance at the bedroom where he left Phil snoring quietly. Just back from a mission, his refrigerator should be empty. Is this his usual meticulous planning or just wishful thinking?

Eventually Clint shrugs. He’s trusted Phil’s plans for years and done his own share of wishful thinking. Whatever finally got them here is fine with him.

“Two Toads in the Hole, coming right up,” he says, and hums as he cracks the eggs.

Notes:

Make your own crossbow just like Clint here!

The world of food names is vast and mysterious. Here are the foods Clint came across on this journey with Coulson:

(Thank you, Spaceknights, for some of these suggestions!)