PSA by the tomato aisle
”What do you think about PSA testing?”
”Hmm?” Clint asked, distracted.
It was Friday evening, and the grocery store was full of people, exhausted from their workweek and eager to have their shopping done. Clint was about make a beeline to sort out a bunch of tomatoes. After all, he was a government agent and a sniper, he knew when the perfect opportunity presented itself.
”PSA testing,” Phil answered, while frowning at the shopping list. ”Prostate-specific antigen screening test.”
Very deliberately, Clint set the tomatoes down and turned to face his husband. ”Is there a reason we are discussing prostates while grocery shopping?”
The harried-looking mother of three lively pre-schoolers blinked and retreated from the vicinity of the tomatoes. Clint couldn’t really blame her.
Phil shrugged. ”Not really, no. Did you pick the tomatoes already?”
Clint narrowed his eyes at the older man, but turned to select a bagful of tomatoes. ”Picked. Did we have any garlic left?”
”No, I don’t think we do,” Phil mused. ”And get some fresh coriander while you’re at it. Four bundles should be enough.”
Clint raised a brow. ”Four?”
”Natasha is coming over,” Phil reminded him.
Right, that explained it. The Black Widow had an unhealthy craving for fresh coriander and nobody had dared to ask her why. Clint nodded and set on the task of hunting his favorite Russian assassin some leafy greens.
They were by the bread aisles, when Phil turned to face him and cocked his head.
”You didn’t answer me.”
”About what?”
Phil sighed, like Clint was a bit slow. ”About the test?”
”What about it?” Clint was genuinely confused. ”I don’t even know what that is.”
”PSA screening test is a blood test to detect the risk for prostate cancer.”
”And?”
Phil blinked slowly. ”And I was thinking if we should take it.”
”Why?”
”To make sure.”
Clint huffed in annoyance. ”To make sure of what? That we have a risk gene to possibly getting prostate cancer in the future?”
”Well — ”
”Why would you want to know if you’d get cancer?”
”I’d like to be prepared.”
”How?”
Phil shrugged.
Clint frowned. ”I don’t understand. For all I know, prostate cancer is an old man’s illness, and — OH MY GOD!” He promptly dropped his shopping basket with a loud thump, staring wide-eyed at Phil. ”That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”
”I don’t know what you are talking about,” Phil sniffed.
”So this all—” Clint waved his hand vaguely, ”— has nothing to do with the fact that you’ve just turned sixty and are about to retire from SHIELD?”
”I’m not retiring, I’m stepping down,” Phil pointed out.
”Semantics,” Clint huffed, crossing his arms across his chest. ”Really, Phil?”
”PSA test is a valid test,” Phil said, matching his pose.
”I never said it wasn’t.”
”Then why are you so opposed to it?”
Clint sighed. ”I’m not opposed to the test, I’m worried about your motives. I mean, you turn sixty — and yes, I saw that pinched look, don’t try to hide it from me — you retire, and suddenly you’re worried about prostate cancer. So far, the times you’ve been worried about prostates haven’t actually made me think about you as an old man.”
Phil shot him an exasperated look, which Clint countered with an obnoxious kissy face.
”You’re impossible,” the older man huffed and went to search for lavender honey.
Clint shrugged, picked up his shopping basket, and winked at an elderly lady who was looking at him with something akin to horror.
”But wouldn’t it be… I don’t know… depressing?”
Phil looked at him over his glasses. ”What would?”
”Knowing that you’ll get cancer? So you’d just sit and wait for it?”
”I’ve… actually never thought about it like that,” Phil frowned. ”One pound of prosciutto, please,” he ordered from the young man from behind the meat counter.
”Make it five,” Clint corrected. ”It’s Steve, remember? This way we’ll have some left for tomorrow.”
The clerk had frozen midway measuring the meat, obviously waiting for Phil to confirm the ridiculously big order. Phil nodded absently, then turned to Clint.
”Would it be like that for you? Knowing?”
Clint shrugged.
”Clint,” Phil sighed, as he took the prosciutto package from the clerk.
”Yeah, it probably would,” Clint said and shook his head. ”In our profession, the prospect of death is something we have to deal with on a daily basis, and with all the weird stuff that we’ve been around, cancer is probably the least of our problems. Besides, I don’t want to spend my free time waiting for my prostate getting hit in a non-sexy way.”
Behind them, the young clerk choked, while Phil rolled his eyes as he started his way towards the check-out. Clint shot an apologetic smile at the young guy and hurried after his husband.
”What I don’t understand is why you are so worked up about this,” Clint said, as he unloaded the shopping basket to the conveyor belt. ”I thought that dying sorta took away the shine of it.”
”I don’t think that counts.”
”Well, what then?”
Phil grimaced. ”I feel all achy and… old.”
A bundle of coriander in each hand, Clint stopped to give Phil a flat stare. ”And that just makes you want to know if you’ll get prostate cancer, right?”
It was Phil’s turn to shrug.
”And the fact that Fury handed you your preliminary retirement package to read this morning has nothing to do with it?”
”Fury doesn’t retire,” Phil muttered, as he found the contents of his wallet suddenly very interesting.
”Fury’s an android, and that’s beside the point.” Clint shook his head. ”Phil, I didn’t care about our age difference before, and I definitely don’t care about it after eleven years of marriage. Moron,” he said fondly.
”Besides,” Clint added with a filthy grin, ”if you ’feel old’ you can only blame yourself. You’re the one who wore me out last night, remember? I’m only forty-six and you made me feel old, when I hit my limit on three hours of —”
”Clint!!” Phil hissed, red with embarrassment.
Clint blinked, glanced around, and, when facing the incredulous gaping of the fellow customers, he suddenly remembered where he was. He cleared his throat, and, without a further word, went to pack their groceries. Phil handled the bill with even more concentration than usual, offering a somewhat stilted apology to no-one in particular as he dragged Clint away.
After they had taken their leave, the clerk looked after them and silently mouthed, ”Three hours? At their age? Holy shit!”