out_there | Avengers/AoS Fic: The Ongoing Christmas Wars

Title: The Ongoing Christmas Wars
Fandom: Agents of SHIELD/Avengers
Pairing: Clint/Coulson
Word Count: 920
Summary: "You know, I'm always going to be the guy who tries to peek at his Christmas presents." (Post AoS 1.03, but no spoilers.)

Notes: Unbeta'd post-episode snippet. All errors are mine. Encouraged by

celli so clearly her fault.
Crossposted to AO3.

The package comes, brown cardboard box addressed in Phil's neat, block capitals. Clint doesn't hesitate to rip the tape off and open it. Then he stares inside.

Of course he recognises it.

He blinks for a moment. Then Clint finds his phone. "I got a suit as a care package?" he asks, as soon as the call connects.

"No," Phil replies.

"It's not a suit? Because from here, it looks a lot like a suit. And..." Clint reaches out, runs a hand over the fine wool blend, "Yep, feels like one too."

"It's not a care package."

Other than his aim, Clint is known for two things: his ability to talk about anything and everything -- especially over comms, especially when it's getting on everyone else's last nerve -- and for his ability to silently stare down every other agent in SHIELD. The staring trick doesn't work quite as well over the phone -- and it's usually hit and miss with Phil anyway because if Phil needs to keep a secret, he'll keep it -- but Clint tries his hardest.

Phil sighs. "I don't know when I'll be in New York next." There's another pause, the fake-casual that Phil wears so well. "It needs a tailor."

"Bullet hole?" Clint asks, pulling the fabric out carefully. He looks it over, finding the torn threads a hands-width from the jacket's left side seam. There's a two inch long tear, but no blood stains.

"It only grazed the fabric," Phil says sounding... a little sheepish. "Honestly, it shouldn't have hit at all. I used to be better at this."

"Feeling your age?" Clint teases, and Phil's replying, "No," is icy sharp. It probably shouldn't make Clint laugh. "Want me to get it fixed?" Clint offers as an apology.

"I'll do it when I get back."

"I do know where your tailor is."

"No, you don't," Phil replies easily and Clint doesn't know if he's telling the truth. Phil is protective about his tailor; when he takes a suit in, Phil takes care to ditch all possible tails. He switches cabs, takes the subway and doubles back on his own trail through Central Park. Clint knows because it took him three attempts to follow Phil to the narrow staircase in that tiny little alleyway.

It's a little crazy, but Clint hangs out on rooftops and shoots a bow for a living. Who's he to judge?

"Did he move from Little Italy?"

"Please don't," Phil says, fondly resigned. It's the same tone Clint gets when he's caught rummaging through Phil's apartment in November, searching for Christmas presents. (He never finds them, but one year he did find the Captain America bed sheets hidden behind a fake wall in Phil's linen closet. He didn't bring it up and Phil didn't mention it, but those sheets magically disappeared the next time Clint looked.)

At this stage, it's an annual tradition. Phil buys presents ridiculously early and Clint tries his hardest to find them before Christmas Day. "You know, I'm always going to be the guy who tries to peek at his Christmas presents."

To Phil's credit, he gives a short, thoughtful hum but doesn't ask what the hell Clint's talking about. "At this stage, I'm well aware of that."

"But every year, you buy presents early and hide them."

"Hide them successfully," Phil amends and Clint has to give him that. There was one Christmas, four years ago, when Clint managed to find the gift two weeks early but he'd been digging through the rubble of their safehouse at the time. It doesn't count.

Clint runs a finger down the jacket. The material's smooth and sophisticated, classy in a way that suits Phil even if it makes people overlook him. "Ever think it's a lost cause?"

"Hide them successfully," Phil repeats. "I'm not losing."

"Hmmm."

"And you're hardly a lost cause."

"No, not--" Clint starts and then shrugs. "Yeah. It can wait until you get home."

Clint is a world-renowned assassin (or "specialist" as SHIELD terms it). He doesn't need to be coddled. He doesn't need Phil's soft "Clint," to make him feel better.

It does make him feel better. But he doesn't need it.

Rolling his eyes at himself, Clint sighs. "It's been a long day. Green sentient goo. That retains a telepathic link to the hive mind after being blown into smithereen-sized pieces. It's not right."

"Sentient blobs usually aren't."

"I looked down, and small bits of Jell-O were trying to climb up my boots. Creepy."

"And it made you think of Christmas?"

"It was a very festive green," Clint says, grinning. "Besides, I got a present in the mail today."

"Not a present."

"A nice suit, complete with bullet holes. Just what I always wanted."

"Definitely not a present," Phil says, and Clint can hear the smile in his voice.

"Perfect gift for the Avenger who has everything."

"Stark is the Avenger who has everything," Phil replies, not missing a beat. "I'm not buying Stark Christmas presents."

"But you're buying me Christmas presents?" Clint's only teasing but Phil's silence is telling. "Seriously? You realise Christmas is months away, right?"

"Not all of us like to shop on Christmas Eve." That defensive tone? That is all the proof Clint needs. There are Christmas presents neatly wrapped and addressed to him. Somewhere.

Somewhere Phil must feel very confident about if he's giving Clint weeks to search for it. "You're hiding it on the Bus? That is totally unfair."

"Hiding it successfully," Phil replies, sounding far too pleased with himself.

(That's fine, Clint thinks. Between him and Natasha, they can totally find a way to sneak onboard and find it.)