Manueluv and I are convinced Agent K is Coulson’s father. Hell, MIB is even owned by Marvel.
Welp. Never gonna unsee this.
HEADCANON ACCEPTED SO FAST I THINK I BROKE SOMETHING
Guys - who do you think told Phil all those stories about Cap?
THIS POST IS OVER 2 YEARS OLD AND IT JUST. GOT. BETTER.
TRAGIC Shieldhusbands moment in Secret Avengers #5!! Phil is suffering from some mild PTSD, Clint tries to talk to him, Phil stonewalls him, Clint goes down to the range to work out his sadness, Phil flies around in Lola to work off his… it’s like all the best sheildhusbands fanfic!
Hehe! #SDCC #VixInMurica #PetcoPark #Coulson
(I ficced on your picture. I’m sorry?)
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Phil sighed with relief as the neverending flow of customers slowed to a steady stream, and then to a trickle.
Business was always brisk — sometimes too brisk for his little barbecue shack — before and after the games, but it eased up while the game was in progress, giving Phil and his staff a chance to restock their inventory and prepare for the second rush.
Darcy switched on the radio, and Phil snorted quietly, wiping down the counter.
"What? I want to hear if Barton keeps his hit streak going!"
"You’ll be able to hear by the way the crowd goes nuts, don’t worry."
They were right outside the stadium, and they could always hear how the game was going by the crowd noise.
A new owner and a new GM had breathed new life into the always dismal New York Avengers squad, and they were currently riding high on a combination of smart, young, homegrown talent and shrewd acquisitions. Leading the way was firstbaseman Clint Barton, a free agent signed just before the deadline, who was holding onto an eighteen game hitting streak.
There was the crack of the bat, and the roar of the crowd rose to a thunder, followed by the boom of fireworks, and much closer, a thunk off the roof just above Phil’s head.
Phil sighed, watching the ball roll toward the short, decorative iron fence that surrounded his outdoor eating area.
He’d be much happier with Barton if the man’s home runs didn’t keep damaging his property. He’d have to climb up later and see if another tile had been dislodged.
Darcy jogged out to get the ball, neatly avoiding Jasper, who was carrying in another tray of ribs.
"Barton again?" he asked.
"Who else?" Phil said as he took the tray.
"How many is that?"
"Five, so far. You think they’re ever going to learn not to let lefties pitch to him?"
"It’ll be better for your insurance premiums if they do," Jasper told him, pulling a tray of marinated chicken out of the walk-in.
"Don’t I know it," Phil said as he tossed the ball into the little bucket, to rattle around with the others.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Time passed, and Barton had his hitting streak snapped at 20 games, only to promptly start another one that was snapped at 16. He seemed to have settled happily into his new home with the team, leading the league in pretty much every offensive category — a triple crown contender, the team’s first in a decade and a half.
The managers of the league never did learn not to let lefties pitch to him.
It got to the point where the crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd, the boom of the fireworks, and the thunk over Phil’s head became kind of a soothing routine, really.
One Thursday, the team’s off day, Phil was by himself behind the counter — off days were always slow — listening to a Yankees game, when someone walked in.
Phil looked up, and blinked — the glare of the open door put the incoming customer in silhouette — and then tried not to swallow his tongue at the sight of Clint Barton in a really nice suit.
"Consorting with the enemy?" Barton asked with a grin and a nod at the radio. "I’ll have to turn you in."
"It pays to have intelligence on one’s foes," Phil answered mildly, and Barton laughed.
The raspy sound arrowed straight through Phil, and he really hoped his sudden blush wasn’t visible in the dim restaurant.
Given the man’s nickname, he doubted that was the case. “What can I do for you?”
"I’ll take a pulled pork sandwich and some sweet potato fries, to go, please."
"Okay, it’ll be just a minute."
Phil put together Barton’s food, ignoring the way the man’s piercing eyes followed him as he moved around the little open kitchen.
On a whim, Phil pulled out the little bucket of baseballs and set it on the counter with Barton’s food. Barton’s eyes widened.
"You think maybe you could try pulling the ball a little in the future? Just a couple of feet? My roof would appreciate it."
Barton laughed. “I’ll do my best. Sorry for any damage.”
"Gives the place character," Phil said wryly.
"How much do I owe you?"
"On the house for a local hero."
Barton ducked his head and grinned, and Phil sternly told himself not to find it adorable.
Barton grabbed a ball out of the bucket and slipped a pen out of his coat pocket.
"How ‘bout an autographed ball?" he asked, already signing it. "In fact, one day when I’ve got more time, I’ll come in and sign them all. You can auction ‘em off to fix your roof or something."
Phil grinned, reaching up to catch the ball Barton tossed at him. “Sounds good.”
With a nod and quick thanks, Barton strode out the door, already stuffing half the sandwich in his mouth. Phil unashamedly watched him go and then glanced down at the ball, eyes widening.
In addition to his unmistakable signature, there were seven digits and a happy face. And the words, Call me.