Phil Coulson was sleeping soundly -- quite soundly, thank you! -- when a series of awkward shuffling noises pulled him back into the world. At first, he tried to ignore them. He was sharing a crappy hotel room, but he was sharing it with a trained assassin and a deadly sniper; if it was anything to be truly worried about, they’d call him. Right?
When the noises continued, accompanied by an oddly familiar crinkling sound, Phil started to get really annoyed. Were they pulling some kind of weird prank on him? It wouldn’t be the first time. He wouldn’t put it past them, and he’d pin Natasha as the mastermind. Barton slept far too soundly to pull something like this off on his own. Yeah, he was betting on Romanov’s devious influence.
Suddenly, there was a jarring crash, and hell with it, Phil was going to murder something if he didn’t get a solid eight hours tonight. He rolled over, hit the light switch and came up into a sitting position with a 9mm in his hand aiming steadily towards the sound of the crash. “Oh, for the love of all things holy --” He stopped. Blinked. Blinked again. You have got to be kidding me.
The lamplight had illuminated Clint and Natasha, alright. They were standing in the middle of the room, eyes wide, guilty as hell. The ironing board was on the floor between them, and okay, Phil didn’t even want to ask. Each one had a large, grease-stained paper bag clutched in one fist. Barton’s cheeks were bulging with...oh, Phil was going to go with an entire hamburger. Or, like, six chicken nuggets.
What in the actual hell. “Agents, what in the actual hell?”
They both flinched back, which Phil found odd because he thought that under the circumstances he was being exceptionally calm.
“...We were hungry?” Barton tried, which took some translating because of the wall of half-chewed food blocking the way.
“We brought you a salad and some fries?” Natasha offered him a slightly less grease-stained bag, looking hopeful and innocent in all the ways that Phil knew meant she had orchestrated the whole thing. As per usual.
With a sigh, Phil set his gun back on the bedside table. “You know I don’t eat fries,” he deadpanned. “They go straight to my hips.”
Clint perked up hopefully. “Then can I…?”
Looking entirely too excited about the whole thing, Clint claimed his prize before Natasha handed the remainder of the bag over. Phil pinched the bridge of his nose. They had probably planned for that, too, naturally. Sometimes he wondered what Fury was punishing him for when he made these two his responsibility.
...But Nat had managed to find his favorite dressing. Huh.
They chewed in silence for a moment.
“So,” he asked after about a third of the salad. He was kind of starting to forgive them for the heart attack. “The ironing board, huh?”
Natasha shrugged. “We didn’t want to eat on the bed.”
“Yeah, and we didn’t want to wake you,” Clint put in helpfully through a mouthful of french fries. Phil’s french fries.
Aw, what the hell. “I’ll take the rest of my fries, back, Barton. I’m in great shape.”
Nat grinned mischievously. “If it helps, Phil, your hips don’t lie.” Clint hummed out of tune in agreement.
“I hate you both."