All Good Things Come With Ganache

The fire alarm went off. Again. It was the seventh time since Tuesday.

Phil sighed, glared at the smoke slowly rising from the baking tray, and dumped the remains of what should’ve been a sponge cake into the trash. He felt the slow throbbing of a migraine lodged somewhere in the back of his head and tried to get rid of it by rubbing the base of his nose. Point at tried, as he forgot he was still wearing an oven mitt, and hence proceeded to smack himself in the eye with it.

It was Thursday, and Christmas Eve was just around the corner. After a grueling couple of months, Phil’s team was spending the Christmas in the Tower, by courtesy of Tony and due to Clint’s nagging, although in all honesty it had really been Phil who had pushed and nagged until Fury had granted a full two weeks off for Phil and his team. Phil wanted to spend time with Clint so sue him — not that he would admit to anyone even under the threat of torture.

After they had arrived to the Tower, his team had scattered in a flash. Skye had started following Tony around like a starstruck puppy, and everyone was appropriately horrified about the implications of the friendship. Trip and Steve had taken off to share stories of the Howling Commandos, and Jemma and Leo had instantly latched on Bruce like newly hatched ducklings, while Pepper, Melinda, and Natasha had formed an unholy trinity of pure awesomeness that unnerved everyone with half a brain.

Phil, on the other hand, had dedicated a couple of very enthusiastic hours to reacquainting himself with Clint in every way possible and impossible, just because.

Afterwards, he had holed himself in the communal kitchen, determined to bake Clint a French yule log. They had once spent a Christmas in France, and Clint had waxed poetic about the traditional Christmas treat. He had eaten three logs all by himself during that op, regardless of the price of a hideous stomach ache. Phil had rolled his eyes, but he had never quite forgotten about the blissed out look on Clint’s face when he had stuffed his mouth full of the pastry.

That was the reason why, after he had gotten the permission for downtime, he had been determined to bake Clint his very own log.

Thing was, he really couldn’t bake shit.

Phil was a badass Agent who had looked death in the eye, offered a polite finger, and returned back to life with relatively minor scrapes. Nevertheless, he was man enough to admit defeat in front of yet another partially runny, partially charred tray of… whatever.

He needed help.

”I need help,” he said to Pepper later that day, respectfully from the door of the spa room, watching the three women relaxing on their lounge chairs.

Pepper was having a manicure, Natasha was in the middle of a pedicure, and Melinda was busy with something that looked like medieval Chinese torture, but what most likely was some ancient Far-Eastern foot massage. In the safety of Phil’s mind, they often were the one and the same.

Pepper looked at him, cocked her head, and nodded. ”I agree. On which part, exactly?”

Beside her, Melinda snorted from behind her gardening magazine, and Natasha raised one trimmed eyebrow. Phil ignored them.

”I want to bake Clint a French yule log for Christmas.”

”I thought you had a log of your own?” Natasha murmured.

Phil shot her a glare, but received a completely innocent look back.

”Phil, sweetheart, you can’t bake,” Pepper reminded him gently.

”He can’t even cook, but he’s never let it stop him,” Melinda said flatly and turned a page. ”Clint thinks it’s adorable, but our team is already traumatized by the attempts.”

”Oh come on, Melinda! It’s not that bad,” Phil scoffed.

Melinda lowered her magazine to give him an unamused look. ”Your meatballs were solid enough to play baseball with, and FitzSimmons adopted your casserole for scientific experiments. Yes, it’s exactly that bad.”

Phil gave a half-shrug. ”Minor setbacks,” he said mildly.

”I don’t really understand why you’re trying so hard,” Natasha mused. ”Clint is already completely in love with you, so there’s no need to try to charm your way into his pants with food. All you need to do is look at him sternly and he’s on his knees.” She paused and shot a meaningful look at Pepper and Melinda. ”I know. I was there.”

The three women turned to look at Phil, who straightened his back. ”Anyway,” he said. ”Help.”

Pepper pursed her lips thoughtfully. ”I’ll get back to you,” she said with an air of finality.

Phil nodded and turned to leave. He knew when he was being dismissed.

If he was being honest, Phil loved puttering around the kitchen, even though he usually burned or otherwise maimed the foodstuff he was touching. It was relaxing (the puttering, not the burning), something he could do to get his mind out of the strangeness and craziness of his day job. He was self-aware enough to understand he was mostly dangerous in the kitchen, and not in any sexy or useful way, unless his ability to use cheese grater as a lethal weapon counted. But he loved it anyway.

The fact that Clint liked to hang around while Phil cooked was a definitive pro. It made Phil feel all warm and gooey inside, the way how Clint sat at the table or perched on the counter, just looking at him with a small smile.

Like now.

Phil was trying his luck with a lasagna, even though Tony had not-so-subtly mentioned that Luciano’s delivered even on Christmas. So far, everything looked okay-ish: the tomato sauce was red (by the grace of extra ketchup), and the cheese sauce didn’t resemble clumpy glue like the last time.

He was about to start assembling (ha!) the lasagna, when JARVIS interrupted him.

”Excuse me, Agent Coulson, but Miss Potts is requesting your presence.”

Tony frowned. ”Why’s Pepper asking for Agent Agent?”

”Miss Potts didn’t elaborate, Sir, but…” There was a slight pause. ”She wishes to inform you that you are welcome to join Agent Coulson to discuss the best way to phrase the subclause on the Barclay, Steward, and Sons deal.”

Tony let out an unimpressed sound. ”Or not,” he retorted and waved his hand into Phil’s general direction. ”Run along, Agent. Pepper doesn’t like to wait.”

Phil blinked and spared a glance at the half-made lasagna.

”Go on,” Clint huffed with a smile. ”I’ll take care of the food.”

Phil nodded, took off his apron, pecked a kiss on Clint’s lips ignoring Tony’s catcalls, and went to see Pepper.

As it turned out, Pepper was a cunning lady. She didn’t need Phil’s help on anything, but whisked him down the private elevator and into her personal car.

”Where are we going?” Phil asked when it became obvious Pepper’s business had nothing to do with the SI.

”To Chez Dominique,” Pepper answered with a smile.

Phil blinked. ”Oh.”

”Jacques is an old friend. He agreed to help you with your little… problem.”

Phil’s jaw dropped. ”Really?”

Chez Dominique was a highly appreciated restaurant with two Michelin stars. To have its head chef help with Phil’s sorry state of baking was…

”Pepper, it’s too much,” he said, a bit thickly.

”Nonsense, ” Pepper said airily, brushing his protests aside. ”Besides, you and Clint are so good together. Consider this an early Christmas gift for you both.”

Phil swallowed and smiled wanly, hoping he wouldn’t embarrass said Jacques too much.

Phil returned late, his head spinning with the new information and newly found confidence in his own skills. After checking in on JARVIS and asking not to be disturbed, he set to work. He succeeded in making — if not a perfect, at least adequate and not-burned — sponge cake, and even managed to roll it almost evenly and with only minor cracks. He reasoned that natural logs were hardly smooth and even, and a bit of crookedness just added the cake’s charm. He wrapped the filled and rolled log into a parchment paper and put it into the fridge to set.

After taking a quick shower, he crawled under the blankets to spoon Clint, who was soundly asleep, but instinctively curled into Phil’s side as soon as he was close enough. Phil pressed a light kiss on Clint’s temple and smiled before he fell asleep.

The next morning, he woke up before Clint, determined to finish the log in time. When allowed, Clint liked to sleep in, and when Phil had the chance, he liked to spoil Clint.

He was done with covering and decorating the log and about to turn to put it back into the fridge, when one of Tony’s ’bots whirred right into him, causing him to stumble. He didn’t fall, but with horror, he watched as the tray with the log slipped from his hands in slow motion, ending up in a heap on the floor.

The clatter of the tray sounded thunderous in the empty kitchen.

It only took a moment before the kitchen was full of people, ready to jump into action. Obviously, no-one expected to see Phil with a cake on the floor. Tony’s ’bot, DUM-E, whirred around in an agitated circle, clearly understanding something had gone horribly wrong.

Mortified, Phil stared at the mess. It had been so close!

”Phil?” Clint asked carefully, coming hesitantly closer. ”Babe? Are you okay?”

With a huff, Phil deflated and sat heavily on the chair.

”I wanted to bake you a yule log,” he muttered.

”You what?” Clint asked.

”A yule log,” Phil repeated looking up at Clint’s wide eyes. ”Remember that Christmas in France? You loved those cakes, and I wanted to make you one.”

Clint blinked. ”You… you baked me a cake?” He asked in a small voice, eyes wide with wonder.

Phil nodded and pointed at the floor. ”It fell.”

Clint glanced at the mush of a cake, cocked his head, and knelt to scoop a handful of the soft cake/ganache mix. Looking at Phil, he took a mouthful and his eyes fluttered closed.

”This is amazing,” he said behind the cake and licked his fingers clean.

Phil stared at the way Clint sucked and licked his fingers and swallowed at his suddenly dry throat.

Clint blinked, then blinked again, and his expression turned into another kind of a smile. He took another handful of the cake, stepped into the V of Phil’s legs, and smeared a bit of the cake on Phil’s lips, before kissing him hungrily.

”As unfortunate as the incident with the yule log was,” Clint purred in between kisses, ”there’s another kind of a log you still can feed me.”

”Not in my kitchen!” Tony yelled from behind them.

Phil didn’t listen to him as he drew Clint closer to kiss the cake off his lips.

The French yule log turned out to be success after all. As it was, ganache proved to be handy in other things than glazing a cake.