Chapter Text
It was a long night
When I carried you and you carried me for a time.
--“Strange Girl,” Airborne Toxic Event
Kate awoke to the smell of French toast and coffee.
“Morning,” Phil smiled as Kate walked into the kitchen. He was wearing the “Licensed to Grill” apron that Kate and Mia had given him for Fathers’ Day. On the kitchen table, a large bowl of fresh cut fruit salad stood in place of the boxes of cereal that served as the family’s usual breakfast fare.
“Good morning,” she responded. She walked over to the refrigerator. “Where are Clint and Princess Mia?”
“They went to get orange juice.”
“But we have orange juice,” Kate said, lifting the bottle out of the fridge. It was organic and local (of course), and three-quarters full.
‘Ah, but we only have the pulpy orange juice,” Phil explained. He flipped the slices of French toast in the sizzling pan. “Which neither of them will drink. They insisted on having the wrong kind.”
Kate shook her head. “Clint's teaching her bad habits, Phil. Today it’s pulp-free orange juice; next thing you know, Mia’ll demand that the toilet paper roll hang underhanded and that forks should be prong-down in the dishwasher.”
Phil turned to face her, perfectly serious. “Kate, it’s too early in the morning to discuss doomsday scenarios. We have monthly drills for a reason.”
They both snorted. Kate poured herself a cup of coffee—fair trade, locally roasted, and worth every penny, according to each adult in the household. She decided to rip off the Band-Aid while Mia was out of the house.
“So,” Kate said, setting down her mug then hopping up to sit on the counter. “Did you and Clint talk yet?”
Phil stilled, then drummed his fingers on the countertop.
“I had my earbuds in last night,” she continued. “Couldn't hear anything. Just wanted to know if you guys talked.”
“You shouldn't sleep like that,” Phil said softly, “it might damage your hearing.”
Kate rolled her eyes. “Duly noted. Answer me.”
“We discussed the possibility of Clint seeking therapy in the next year,” Phil said, ““I was happy—for all our sakes—that he’d decided to seek out treatment for his experience sooner, but I was also curious as to what had prompted him to move up his timetable.”
“Timetable?”
“Originally I had given him until Mia started kindergarten,” Phil shrugged. He turned around, resumed poking at the French toast. "Anyway, he told me about your conversation."
“Ah,” Kate sighed. She sipped her coffee.
“Kate,” Phil said, breaking the somewhat-comfortable silence, “you know that if you ever needed anything from me, anything at all, you need only ask.”
“Mm,” Kate nodded. She sipped her very tasty, very interesting coffee.
“An accomplice, an alibi, just let me know and I will make it happen.” Phil picked up the griddle and slid its contents onto a serving plate. He reached into the spice cabinet, and pulled out cinnamon, cardamom, and confectioners’ sugar. He shook each in turn over the French toast. “I do mean anything—for instance, a wood chipper. I can requisition a wood chipper and have it delivered in less than an hour.”
Kate snorted, “Phil, I get that you’re the uber-agent, but I’m pretty sure that someone would notice a stray wood chipper.”
“Only if someone audits my requisitions,” he replied. “And no one ever audits my requisitions.”
“Really?”
Phil wiped his hands on his apron. “I’d like to think that they’d know better by now.”
Kate laughed. “Probably. They shouldn't be working at S.H.I.E.L.D. if they’re dumb enough to question the mighty Coulson.”
“Damn right,” he nodded. “Could you please help me set the table?”
“Sure.” Kate said, hopping down from the counter. “What’s the occasion, by the way?”
Phil shrugged, “I thought it’d be nice. I remembered you mentioning that Eleanor made French toast on the weekends.”
“Ah,” she nodded. She arranged the plates and forks as Phil grabbed the syrup (which was neither local nor organic because Mrs. Butterworth’s was apparently sacred to Clint). “So is this my reward for surviving a random act of violence?”
“No,” he said firmly, “If anything, this is your reward for helping a friend in pain.”
Kate nodded, smiling. “Cool. I think I have one request.”
“Name it.”
“Can we maybe do this every weekend?”
Phil practically beamed, “French toast specifically? Because I also found a recipe for Nutella waffles.”
“Just the big breakfast would be enough,” she smiled. "But I wouldn't turn down Nutella anything."
Kate walked over to Pseudad 2, wrapped her arms around him, and hugged him tightly.
Best family ever.