Fanfiction: Slow and Steady Steps (Complete, Phil/Clint, 2/2)
Title: Slow and Steady Steps
Writer: Sporadic_Writer
Status of work: Complete.
Disclaimer: I don't own this.
Fandom: The Avengers movie.
Characters and/or pairings: Phil/Clint, Natasha, Hill, Sitwell
Rating: Mature.
Warnings, kinks & contents: Sexual situations near the end. Mild swearing.
Length: 10,345 words.
A/N: I have a weakness for romance and fluff, but lately, I've been getting tired of stories in which the two characters meant to be together have a smooth, automatic soulmate-type connection. I suppose it's because relationships usually aren't so easy in real life. So, I decided to write a story in which the falling in love part ties into trust issues and takes its time.
Summary: Phil's not sure why Barton thinks they could have a relationship, and it's exasperating.
Part 1
The Black Widow-Romanov-walked through the hallways of SHIELD like she expected a bullet in her back at any moment. Barton stayed at her side, but she remained a suspicious figure in Phil's mind for long weeks until Fury gave the final okay. Then the SHIELD agents who had been keeping their distance for various reasons began to thaw and even gravitate towards her. After all, the Black Widow might be a nightmare for various figures in the underground, but as far as many in SHIELD were concerned, she was on the same side of the moral line as they. Sitwell, in particular, seemed to go out of his way to be friendly, and Phil wondered if Romanov could appreciate his juvenile sense of humor, or whether he'd one day find his friend skewered with stainless steel.
Phil expected Hill to have an affinity for Romanov, but to his surprise, Hill seemed to regard the Black Widow with more reservations than anyone else.
“I thought you two would get along,” Phil remarked in the car, on their way to an intelligence-gathering mission that required two senior agents.
“Why?” Hill asked, eyes narrowed threateningly.
Phil studied the uncanny resemblance. “You two have a lot of superficial similarities, and I think you'd find that you have a lot in common deep down too. You're both strong willed, intimidating, strangely tolerant of Barton's antics, obsessed with oranges...I'm starting to think the only difference is that she doesn't like coffee.”
Hill was the one driving, but she still managed to free a hand to hit him on the shoulder. “You know why I don't like Romanov? Yeah, I see the resemblance too, and I know what I'm capable of doing. I'm not giving her my trust until I know for sure that she's not waltzing into SHIELD like a Trojan Horse.”
Phil made a thoughtful humming sound. Hill gave him a meaningful sidelong look. “Look, Phil, I know she's apparently best buds with Barton, but don't let your romance cloud your judgment; for all we know, the Widow planned on using Barton's affection for her right from the beginning.
“I'm not in a romance with Barton,” Phil said exasperatedly. “We went out once. That was it. The second time he canceled on me because he didn't want me picking up on the fact that he had a little something with Romanov years ago.”
Hill was quiet for a while. Then she grinned meanly at him. “Oh, so, we're jealous, are we?”
Phil would hit her on the shoulder, but he didn't want to die in a humiliating car crash. No, that came later when they were returning from their mission and had the bad luck to be on the road with a drunk driver.
“Maria!” Phil yelled into the darkness. “Maria! Where are you?” He was about to shout again when a hand landed on his shoulder, and he woke up with a heart thumping gasp. He pushed himself up and nearly collided heads with the man sitting by his bed.
“Whoa, Coulson. Coulson, calm down!” Barton held his hands up harmlessly and waited for Phil to recognize him.
Phil fell back against the bed when severe pain lanced across his right side. “Ahh, that hurts,” he gritted out, barely aware that Barton was adjusting his IV line until the increase in analgesic took the edge off his discomfort.
“Bad luck, Coulson,” Barton said, resting a hand gently on his chest. “Three broken ribs; all on the right. The analysts think you got nailed by the car door when it got dented.”
“How's Mari-Agent Hill?”
“Agent Hill's got a broken arm to match her broken leg from February,” Barton reported. “She said she'll come visit and taunt you with coffee later this afternoon.”
“Joy,” Phil said hoarsely. His throat felt drier than dust, but he wasn't ready to ask Barton to feed him ice chips. “Is there a sip cup around?”
“Yeah, but-” Barton leaned out of view for a moment and brought up a bag of apples. “I have apples if you want something with glucose in it. Sorry, I didn't get a chance to peel them. I can do one now though, if you don't mind waiting.”
Phil smirked tiredly. “Can you peel it with a knife?”
Barton slid a penknife from his pocket. “That was the plan. I don't believe in those new-fangled objects like fruit peelers.”
Phil wanted to laugh, but he'd suffered a broken rib before, and he knew better. “So, impress me then.”
Barton showed himself to be a champion peeler: within a minute, the apple was completely peeled and cored and cut into bite-sized chunks. Barton hesitated for a moment, fingers hovering over the apple pieces. He sounded almost diffident when he asked, “Do you want a fork, or I could-?”
Phil heated up underneath his blanket. Barton's feeding him apple chunks wasn't much different from Barton's feeding him ice chips; it was all too intimate. On the other hand, he was right-handed, and it would be even more embarrassing to drop chunks of apple over his bedsheets.
He nodded stiffly. “If you don't mind.”
Barton just shrugged and pressed the first apple piece to Phil's lips. It should have been horribly awkward, but Barton seemed to get over his earlier shyness. Matter-of-factly, he just waited for Phil to finish chewing and then reached for another piece. Barton's calm was soothing, and Phil stopped feeling antsy at his vulnerable state; instead he ate in comfortable silence for a while.
“How is Romanov settling in?” Phil asked finally, shaking his head when Barton offered him another piece of apple.
“Nat's always going to be paranoid,” Barton said affectionately. “But I think she's starting to feel safe here. It's great that everyone's treating her like a regular agent. I'll see if she wants to start looking for her own apartment this weekend, unless she wants to keep sharing mine.”
“That's good,” Phil said neutrally. “And it looks like you're less lonely with her around.”
Barton looked thoughtful. “Yeah, I guess that's true.”
Phil nodded politely, still smiling blandly, and he was about to fake falling asleep, but Barton seemed to sense that he'd worn out his welcome and left with a pat to Phil's shoulder.
Phil stared at the paperwork-no little portion was due to Tony Stark-that had built up on his desk during his medical leave. He wanted to weep; instead he buried his head in his hands, feeling like a nap. He really needed to talk to Fury about streamlining the bureaucracy's paperwork system. That would save the world too.
“Hey, Coulson,” Barton popped his head around Phil's door, and Phil wondered when Barton had stopped knocking before entering. “You're out of the hospital.”
“I wish I was still there,” Phil mumbled into his palms. He didn't know if Barton could hear him, but judging by the man's sympathetic grin, he probably did.
“You know, we never did get that bowl of pho, and I want you and Nat to get to know each other outside of work. Maybe we can all go out this Saturday.”
That jolted Phil out of his pseudo-sleepy state. “Why?”
Barton had the nerve to look surprised. “Why what?”
“Why do you want me to spend time with Romanov?” Phil clarified, a little annoyed that he sounded like a teenager from a sitcom.
Barton now looked confused, but he had a tolerant smile. “It's traditional, isn't it? We're dating, and she's my best friend. Well, I guess Sitwell sort of fits, but you're already friends with him, so that doesn't really count.”
“This isn't fair, Barton,” Phil said as evenly as he could. He hadn't made Barton any promises, and he didn't want Barton to make any to him. This thing with Barton was getting out of control. How did an offhand agreement to go out once in a while transform into going steady? When they only went out once? There wasn't even any sex to confuse the issue.
“Okay,” Barton laughed. “I guess it isn't.” Phil was about to relax now that Barton had acknowledged that they didn't have a relationship.
“I'll spend time with Hill, even though she gives me the heebie-jeebies. Fair's fair. You can name the time and place,” Barton decided, completely misinterpreting Phil's complaint. Phil opened and closed his mouth a bit in flustered annoyance. Barton was being incredibly obtuse for an assassin who had once evaded SHIELD's forces for over a month.
“Look, Barton,” Phil tried again, exasperation finally making its way into his voice, and the man looked at him with attentive concern.
But, of course, the universe always hated Phil; Barton's cell phone went off, and before Phil could say anything, the other man left with a mouthed 'see you' as he answered his phone and pulled the office door shut.
At the little pho shop, Romanov ordered a large bowl with rare beef brisket, tendon, and tripe. Phil couldn't tell if she really did like those toppings, or if it was somehow meant to be an intimidating gesture. Not interested in courting food poisoning, Phil chose a large bowl with medium well done steak; he wasn't interested in having a pissing contest over Barton either. Barton asked for a large combination bowl with no apparent ulterior motives.
After the waitress left, the silence at their table was dampening. Romanov just looked straight ahead at Phil, and he returned her gaze composedly. Barton had been looking around the restaurant, eyes lingering on the colorful posters of the jelly drinks; then he sensed the tension and started to break it, but Romanov spoke first.
“You and Clint have been dating for several months now?” she asked curiously, no overt hostility in her voice.
“If you can call it that. We've only been on one date,” Phil gave the most honest answer he could without hurting Barton's feelings before they cleared things up alone. He wondered if he needed a contingency plan or two in case Romanov tried to break his legs afterward.
Romanov nodded understandingly. “It can be very difficult to find time for intimacy in vocations like ours.” Too late, Phil realized that he had sounded like he was complaining that they didn't go on enough dates.
Barton looked a little embarrassed. “I guess we really only did have one proper date, and missions together definitely don't count, but we eat at the cafeteria together almost every day, and I hang out in your office sometimes.”
Phil realized that Barton was right, and he stared at the man with some surprise. “I take that back then,” Phil said softly, as he thought the past couple weeks over. “I guess we've had a lot of dates.”
Clint gave him a brilliant smile, and Phil's heart began to thump harder. When their appetizers came, Phil bit into a fried egg roll and wondered how he could have been so dense. Even as he brushed the crispy crumbs from his fingers, Phil felt an inexorable pull to the other man, and he couldn't help but gaze at Clint in bewilderment.
The other man licked the hot oil from his lips, and Phil preoccupied himself with stirring his newly arrived noodles and breaking the huge clump into loose strands. Clint said something, leaning close enough for their faces to almost touch, and Phil tried not to think about brushing their lips together.
He startled when Clint grabbed his hand, pulling the wooden chopsticks away and rubbing each one hard against the other, the friction leaving dust on the table edge. “Careful,” Clint warned. “I could see you going for a splinter there.”
When Clint finished, he handed them back, and their hands touched. This time Phil didn't pull away.
Fury looked tense as usual, hands clasped on the conference table, as they reviewed the files. “Dr. James Harvin was a member of the scientific team that worked on the project that led to the Hulk. General Ross assured us that all the scientists were in custody, with the exception of those few thought to have perished during the initial shutdown. Dr. Harvin was one of those until a SHIELD agent brought this back from her mission.”
Fury moved a finger across his tablet, and a poorly developed picture of a middle-aged dark haired man appeared on all their screens. “It seems Harvin took the distraction to start a new life for himself; he's made contact with several different bio-terrorist groups who are willing to pay a lot for the information that he can give them.
“We've identified Harvin's most likely location, but we also need agents to watch the terrorist groups and ensure that they do not make final contact with him. Hill, you and Romanov will be taking A-1 agents to babysit the Sons of Anarchy. Sitwell, you'll take Hernandez and B-2 agents to babysit Data Phreaks. Coulson, you're with Barton and C-1. It will be your responsibility to decide whether you can take the good doctor alive if he makes a move.”
When the meeting ended, Phil was already thinking about the packing he would have to do once he got home. Since Fury hadn't specified an end time for the mission, it was likely going to be a few weeks while SHIELD and the World Security Council debated over James Harvin's fate.
“You know, when I first joined SHIELD, I though the alphabet labeling was a nice way to keep track of ranking without really rubbing it into people's faces.”
Phil glanced over. “You thought you were a third-rate agent?”
“It was a blow to my pride, Coulson, but I was new, so I wasn't expecting seniority or anything other than grunt work for a while.” Clint tossed his apple from lunch up and down, found another apple in another pocket, and began juggling them. “Then I figured that the labeling had to do with skill set or personality. Something like that.”
Phil raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think that?”
Clint gave him a pointed look. “A-1 has the smartest, most perfectionist of the already pedantic people working here, so probably 'A' for 'anal.' B-1 has the class clowns-but the scary ones who grin while they try to disembowel you, like Bozo. C-1 is probably a joke about C-4, so we're the explosive (cute, huh?) personalities, the mavericks.”
“'We'?” Phil couldn't help but point out. “If your hypothesis is true, then I would think I fit A-1 a lot better.”
“Yeah, no, Coulson, you're one of us all right.” Clint looked satisfied. “I only date exciting people.”
Phil had to scoff at that. “I am not 'exciting,' Barton.” I'm boring and emotionally absent, and I'm not sure why you keep trying to date me. And I'm pretty sure you're going to give up and go after someone better any day now.
“So, you didn't sneak into Cuba to go after a rumored mint condition Captain America card?” Clint grinned at Phil's surprise and chagrin.
“...Who told you about that?”
Phil fully expected the mission to go badly. No one was going to die. They weren't going to fuck up the mission either. But he and Clint just wouldn't be able to interact professionally, and everything would be tense and strained.
When Phil gave his first orders, he waited to hear some grumbling, overt or not, but Clint acted as he always did, acknowledging Phil with a crisp, “Got it,” or a quick salute of the fingers when talking was ill-advised.
“It's eight o'clock, Hawkeye,” Phil finally said the third night. “Our cameras are set up, and his phone line's been bugged. Harvin's not going anywhere, so you might as well sleep in an actual bed tonight. Leung and Durand can take over the surveillance.”
Clint yawned loudly and cracked his back a few times as he shoveled down the Alfredo pasta mix that Phil had made with advice from Agent Moretti. “It's kind of sad that safe house pasta is better than what we get in the cafeteria.”
“Quality control,” Phil said absently, scraping the rest of the pasta from the pot into a plastic bowl and tucking it into the refrigerator. “SHIELD's cafeteria needs to feed more than 400 people every day, and that's not counting the agents and techs out on missions, so it's rather difficult to prepare the food consistently well.”
Clint was quiet for a moment. “Really? I just thought Fury was too cheap to hire the good chefs.”
Phil smirked. “That too.”
Clint cleared his plate and soaked it in the scummy sink before raising his arms and making a few noises of real discomfort. “I think I really messed up my shoulder. Must have rested on it wrong.”
Phil watched in concern. Hawkeye could shoot with either hand, but he preferred his left for a reason. “I should have insisted that you take more frequent breaks.” He knew that having a relationship with a subordinate agent would unduly affect his judgment in the field.
Clint's head snapped up. “Hey, none of that. I should have known my limits. Anyway, it's not a big deal; it'll be fine after I take a hot shower.”
Phil's fingers itched to feel the contours of Clint's shoulders; they looked solid and well-shaped. “I could work the knots out,” he offered hesitantly.
Clint grew still, and his eyes searched Phil's. “We're on a mission; you're okay with crossing that boundary?”
Phil did want to take his offer back, but it seemed a bit foolish to deny Clint his help. “It's just a back rub, Barton,” he said dryly. “I'm not offering anything else.”
Clint chuckled and then groaned softly in appreciation, as Phil began massaging the muscles in his neck and shoulders. He concentrated on the left shoulder and curled his fingers tight around the ball of the shoulder and eased the tension from the sore limb. Pressing harder into the warm flesh beneath his hands, he soothed the strained tendons and ligaments with welcome pressure. He kept massaging until Clint looked limber and relaxed; then he just rested his fingers against Clint's shoulder, feeling the up and down of Clint breathing softly.
When Clint abruptly turned around and kissed him, it felt completely natural.
“Hey, stranger,” the voice drawled the vowels out. “Going my way?” Clint grinned flirtatiously at him, and Phil unlocked the side door.
“I thought you were hitching a ride with Jasper to visit the Turquoise Trail.”
Clint shrugged his shoulders lazily, slumping against the passenger seat. “I don't think he's very happy with his new ringtone. Can't blame me if he's got no taste.”
Phil's lips twitched. “Which song was it?”
“'Who Let the Dogs Out',” Clint answered solemnly, mouth already turning into a smirk. “I need to nap, and I don't think I'd be safe with him.”
“Good call.”
Phil drove down the long winding roads while Clint slept, and amused himself by counting the gas stations and convenience stores that they passed. Every so often, he glanced at Clint's sleeping face; Clint didn't stir, his sleep deep and peaceful, so he looked his fill. They were half-way to the airport when Clint woke up and rubbed a hand over his tired face.
“I needed that, but now my head's all fuzzy. I hate it when that happens,” Clint sighed, as he chugged some water.
Phil kept one eye on the road and tossed the leftover packet of donuts into the other man's lap. Clint picked it up and eyed the sugary goods dubiously. “Half the pack's gone. How'd you eat them without getting powdered sugar all over your suit?”
“I used a napkin,” Phil responded sensibly. “There are some in the glove compartment. There.”
Clint ate a few donuts before wetting a napkin and wiping his hands fastidiously. “Want me to drive the rest of the way?”
“Sure.”
They switched seats, and Phil was about to lean back for his doze when Clint tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, Phil.”
He opened his eyes and got a mouthful of powdered sugar as Clint pressed their lips together, grinning, right hand still holding the other donut half. Phil should have been annoyed, but all he could do was laugh and lean in for another kiss.
Phil yawned as he balanced his cup of coffee and breakfast bagel in one hand and opened his office door with his free one. As soon as his laptop booted up, the screen flashed with a message about Agents Barton and Romanov's early access of the gym.
Phil watched Clint and Natasha spar, exchanging quick blows, leaping out of reach, whipping kicks at each other's limbs. They looked involved with their practice, but they were probably just blowing off steam before starting their day. He knew Clint, and he was getting to know Natasha pretty well too, and it didn't look like either of them had suffered one of their insomnia-filled nights. He had warmed up to Natasha in the past couple of months since she'd made SHIELD her home, but he had to admit that he felt a bit jealous of the way she connected with Clint, the common memories they had created before SHIELD, the way they knew each other's moods so intimately.
Clint and Natasha followed through on a few more jabs at each other before finishing up. Phil started clapping, partly to show genuine appreciation and partly to be obnoxious. Clint waved him off with an affectionate roll of the eyes, and Natasha acknowledged him with a sardonic touch to her heart.
“Nat and I are going to jog to Jamba Juice. You want to come with?” Clint offered.
Phil was still feeling full from his bagel-and-coffee mixture. “No, I already had a cup of coffee; I'll be fine.”
A few hours later, Phil wiped the sweat from his forehead and fiddled with the temperature control panel on the wall behind his desk. The day was getting hotter than he'd expected; he wondered whether to blame global warming or the weather forecast. A tall white cup glistening in condensation landed on his desk, followed by a straw still in its paper wrap. “Ta dah,” Clint announced. “I hope you like Peach Perfection.”
“Thank you,” Phil said gratefully, decorum curtailing his urge to lunge unbecomingly for the chilled smoothie.
“You know, I think Natasha and I are single-handedly keeping the Jamba Juice on King and Fourth in business. We had a smoothie drinking contest, and we each had about five before we had to stop.”
Phil shook his head, taking another long, luxurious sip of his drink. “I wouldn't believe the Black Widow would participate in a smoothie contest before I saw how Natasha relaxes around you.”
“We bring out the best in each other,” Clint said nonchalantly. “It was all her idea to ambush Jasper with the web blasters last week.”
Phil put his drink down on the desk. “You made the right call, bringing her into SHIELD.”
Clint raised an eyebrow. “It wasn't a one-man operation. You caught me before I could run off, remember? Then you made Fury and me talk.”
“I meant that you were right about giving Natasha a chance to change her path. Sometimes SHIELD gets too focused on preemptive measures, and it would have been the wrong decision that time, even though we might not ever have known it.”
“Well, got to give you props for prodding the truth out of me.” Clint's smile was a soft glow.
“I was pretty annoyed at being dropped so suddenly,” Phil admitted sheepishly. “Mostly I did want to see what was going on with you, but I was also feeling a little disgruntled about the cancellation.”
“Is it mean of me to be happy that it bothered you?” Clint brushed his hands over his t-shirt and jogging pants cursorily before picking up the gym bag he'd left by the door. “Come over tonight?”
“Of course.” Phil watched Clint leave before opening the next report on his screen; this one needed to be unlocked. Huh, that was interesting: an update on Dr. Selvig's work on the Tessarect.
Natasha was kind: she didn't sneak up on him. Her footsteps echoed clearly through the hall before she stopped right beside his head as he dutifully followed the stretching routine his physical therapist had designed. “He wants to see you,” she said simply.
Breathing heavily, Phil pulled his aching arm back to his chest and rested against the mat. He resisted the urge to touch the tender spot on his chest. “I'm not getting that feeling. Maybe it's because he walks the other way every time he sees me. But maybe I'm misinterpreting things.” Natasha doesn't deserve his ire, but he's tired and stressed, and he thinks he was right to be wary about loving Clint.
“He thinks he helped Loki stab you,” Natasha countered a bit impatiently. “You know he's an overly responsible idiot sometimes. He needs to know you don't blame him.”
Phil lay there quietly.
“Do you blame him?” Natasha asked suddenly, eyes widening in dismay.
“No, of course not. I just-” Phil sighed, wishing he could outrun Natasha and avoid her probing questions. “You're not our couples counselor. We both need to think some things over.”
Natasha sat on the edge of the matting. “You're an overly responsible idiot sometimes too. I could tell right from the beginning when Clint told me about you.”
“What do you mean?” Phil asked warily.
“He told me he was trying to date a man from work, and that it wasn't going too well. He said that you were the cautious type, and he was worried that you wouldn't ever open up to him.”
Phil closed his eyes. It just figured that the Black Widow would poke him right in the vulnerability. “I don't think it's a good idea for two people in the same high-risk job to care too much for each other,” he said weakly.
Natasha's voice was soft. “I know you were afraid that he wouldn't come back from Loki. I know that you searched the CCTV camera footage for him every night. And I know that you would have punched Loki in the face if he hadn't stabbed you first.
Natasha didn't wait for Phil to work out his conflicting feelings. “I'll send you the schedule for his counseling sessions. He's been showing up consistently for those, and he wants to get clearance as soon as possible, so he won't try to miss any on purpose.”
After she left, Phil finished the last rep for his exercises and took a long shower, remembering the way he had followed Clint into the changing rooms for a vital confrontation. When he was newly suited up in his usual tie and coat, he finally decided what to do.
Clint didn't look particularly pleased to see him, but he thanked Dr. Yoon politely and waited for Phil to rise from the padded bench before walking towards the garages. He already had his motorcycle keys in hand and was swinging them restlessly in the air. “You look a lot better, less drawn,” Clint finally said, as they waited in the elevator.
“You look like you've been getting more sleep,” Phil returned neutrally. “I had a friendly visit from Natasha yesterday. She told me that I was acting like an idiot.”
Clint's lips pressed together. He didn't laugh, but the darkness in his eyes lifted a bit. “Funny, I had a visit from Natasha too. She said a lot more than that to me.”
“Well, she's your best friend, not mine. She has the right to give you a hard time and call you names and make you wonder why you're friends with her.”
Clint shoved his jacket into the little hatch and then grabbed one of the helmets hanging from the handlebars. He hesitated before offering it to Phil. “I'll take you home.”
Phil kept a tight grip around Clint's waist as they sped through the city streets to his apartment; he felt Clint's stiffness beneath his hands, but he felt no sympathy. Clint shouldn't have offered the ride if he wanted to keep his distance; after all, Phil wasn't about to risk falling backwards into the street.
When they stopped for a traffic light, Phil raised his head and remembered the last time Clint had taken him on the motorcycle. They had just found Captain America, and Phil had been too thrilled with the news to sleep, so Clint had suggested a midnight run to the late night diner open near the docks. They had eaten pancakes smothered with syrup and butter before sitting on a pier to digest their meal and talk about random topics. Later, he had almost fallen asleep against Clint's back as they made their way to Clint's apartment, and Phil had slept there in the same bed for the first time. It had been the most romantic night of Phil's life to date.
Phil climbed off the motorcycle and handed back the helmet. “Come inside for a moment,” he said, turning to his door and fumbling for the lock.
As always, Clint's presence seemed to at once dim and brighten his small apartment. His living room and kitchen, cosy but cheap, seemed all the more special having an Avenger there; but Clint seemed somehow to out-size the walls, making them seem confining and oddly grim.
Clint had reluctantly followed him inside, but he didn't sit down on the couch or at the kitchen stools. “It's late; I need to get back to my place.”
“You should stay here,” Phil argued calmly, and he pulled Clint close to him, their heartbeats thudding together in tandem, and he pressed a kiss to the firm lips that hadn't seen a smile in days. “Stay with me, Clint.”
He meant to sound seductive, maybe a little teasing, but a note of desperation entered his voice, and his kiss turned hard and hungry. His body grew painfully hot as Clint returned the kiss, deepening it to include tongue, and pushed him onto the couch, the knitted cover twisting askew underneath their bodies.
Clint cupped the back of his neck with one hand, and the other dipped down to wander up his shirt and appreciate the play of muscles tensing. When the hand reached the sensitive scarring, Phil held his breath, and Clint stopped there, and his fingers lay there gently, passively feeling the rough flesh and newly generated skin. “Does it hurt?” Clint breathed into his neck.
“A little,” Phil admitted reluctantly. “But I'm sure you know how to distract me.” He lay more fully on the couch and let his legs fall open, inviting Clint to fill up the open space. The pressure of Clint's body lit the burning fires in his sparking nerves, and he gasped loudly as Clint slid a hand slowly down his stomach and finally began fiddling with his pants, undoing the catch and pushing the cloth down his thighs.
He reached hurriedly for Clint's jeans, and soon they were pressing together, sweaty and hot, and with no barriers between them. With a heavy groan, Clint wrapped a strong arm around his waist and started thrusting against him. Phil tilted his hips to better match Clint's movements, and the intense pleasure of their bodies working and pushing together itched intensely down his spine.
Phil knew he was leaving painful bruises and tearing nail marks on Clint's back and biceps, but he'd never before felt the consuming desire to pull someone into his body or to completely devour theirs. His breathing quickened and rasped harshly into the air, as his body filled with tension to be released, yet he couldn't quite reach the end, not yet.
Clint mouthed his shoulder hard, tongue flicking out to taste his skin, and Phil pulled his head up and ordered hoarsely, “Look at me.” Clint's darkened eyes came up, and Phil searched his eyes urgently, finding the man he knew, before satisfaction finally hit, and he saw Clint's eyes turn half hooded as he finished after pushing once last time against Phil's stomach.
“Too bad that didn't fix everything,” Clint joked, voice a bit muffled as he lay a few more affectionate kisses on Phil's neck. Satiated, Phil still didn't loosen his hold on Clint's back, but the man didn't seem to mind, and he stayed where Phil wanted him.
“I was afraid,” Phil whispered in the hush of their quiet breathing. “I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't come back, and I felt like such an idiot for holding you at arm's length. I regretted it even though you did come back.”
Clint pulled back a little and studied him contemplatively. “You know what you can do? You can reassure me by asking me out. It's only fair since I did the hard work the first time.”
“That's ridiculous,” Phil protested half-heartedly, shifting under Clint's weight. “This isn't an after school special.”
“Come on, Coulson,” Clint grinned, eyes playful underneath his lashes. “I want to feel special. I'm waiting for you to make my day here.”
“Night.”
“No, it's not even 6 yet. It's day. Now, say it.”
Clint was heavy, and pushing him away didn't work, so Phil gave an exaggerated sigh before drawing Clint closer. “Clint Barton,” he murmured against Clint's lips. “I'm surprised to find that I really like you, and I want you to go out with me. And I want a commitment.”
“Okay,” Clint responded simply, his eyes tender and his lips soft and loving. “Okay,” he said again, and that was really all Phil needed to hear right then.
A/N: I have another Phil/Clint story in the works, but I feel that a lot of my better ideas went into this story, and I'm not sure if the second story can work that well as a complete story. I guess I'll see how the brainstorming plays out. Anyway, it was great to get back into the Hawkeye fandom.
Writer: Sporadic_Writer
Status of work: Complete.
Disclaimer: I don't own this.
Fandom: The Avengers movie.
Characters and/or pairings: Phil/Clint, Natasha, Hill, Sitwell
Rating: Mature.
Warnings, kinks & contents: Sexual situations near the end. Mild swearing.
Length: 10,345 words.
A/N: I have a weakness for romance and fluff, but lately, I've been getting tired of stories in which the two characters meant to be together have a smooth, automatic soulmate-type connection. I suppose it's because relationships usually aren't so easy in real life. So, I decided to write a story in which the falling in love part ties into trust issues and takes its time.
Summary: Phil's not sure why Barton thinks they could have a relationship, and it's exasperating.
Part 1
The Black Widow-Romanov-walked through the hallways of SHIELD like she expected a bullet in her back at any moment. Barton stayed at her side, but she remained a suspicious figure in Phil's mind for long weeks until Fury gave the final okay. Then the SHIELD agents who had been keeping their distance for various reasons began to thaw and even gravitate towards her. After all, the Black Widow might be a nightmare for various figures in the underground, but as far as many in SHIELD were concerned, she was on the same side of the moral line as they. Sitwell, in particular, seemed to go out of his way to be friendly, and Phil wondered if Romanov could appreciate his juvenile sense of humor, or whether he'd one day find his friend skewered with stainless steel.
Phil expected Hill to have an affinity for Romanov, but to his surprise, Hill seemed to regard the Black Widow with more reservations than anyone else.
“I thought you two would get along,” Phil remarked in the car, on their way to an intelligence-gathering mission that required two senior agents.
“Why?” Hill asked, eyes narrowed threateningly.
Phil studied the uncanny resemblance. “You two have a lot of superficial similarities, and I think you'd find that you have a lot in common deep down too. You're both strong willed, intimidating, strangely tolerant of Barton's antics, obsessed with oranges...I'm starting to think the only difference is that she doesn't like coffee.”
Hill was the one driving, but she still managed to free a hand to hit him on the shoulder. “You know why I don't like Romanov? Yeah, I see the resemblance too, and I know what I'm capable of doing. I'm not giving her my trust until I know for sure that she's not waltzing into SHIELD like a Trojan Horse.”
Phil made a thoughtful humming sound. Hill gave him a meaningful sidelong look. “Look, Phil, I know she's apparently best buds with Barton, but don't let your romance cloud your judgment; for all we know, the Widow planned on using Barton's affection for her right from the beginning.
“I'm not in a romance with Barton,” Phil said exasperatedly. “We went out once. That was it. The second time he canceled on me because he didn't want me picking up on the fact that he had a little something with Romanov years ago.”
Hill was quiet for a while. Then she grinned meanly at him. “Oh, so, we're jealous, are we?”
Phil would hit her on the shoulder, but he didn't want to die in a humiliating car crash. No, that came later when they were returning from their mission and had the bad luck to be on the road with a drunk driver.
“Maria!” Phil yelled into the darkness. “Maria! Where are you?” He was about to shout again when a hand landed on his shoulder, and he woke up with a heart thumping gasp. He pushed himself up and nearly collided heads with the man sitting by his bed.
“Whoa, Coulson. Coulson, calm down!” Barton held his hands up harmlessly and waited for Phil to recognize him.
Phil fell back against the bed when severe pain lanced across his right side. “Ahh, that hurts,” he gritted out, barely aware that Barton was adjusting his IV line until the increase in analgesic took the edge off his discomfort.
“Bad luck, Coulson,” Barton said, resting a hand gently on his chest. “Three broken ribs; all on the right. The analysts think you got nailed by the car door when it got dented.”
“How's Mari-Agent Hill?”
“Agent Hill's got a broken arm to match her broken leg from February,” Barton reported. “She said she'll come visit and taunt you with coffee later this afternoon.”
“Joy,” Phil said hoarsely. His throat felt drier than dust, but he wasn't ready to ask Barton to feed him ice chips. “Is there a sip cup around?”
“Yeah, but-” Barton leaned out of view for a moment and brought up a bag of apples. “I have apples if you want something with glucose in it. Sorry, I didn't get a chance to peel them. I can do one now though, if you don't mind waiting.”
Phil smirked tiredly. “Can you peel it with a knife?”
Barton slid a penknife from his pocket. “That was the plan. I don't believe in those new-fangled objects like fruit peelers.”
Phil wanted to laugh, but he'd suffered a broken rib before, and he knew better. “So, impress me then.”
Barton showed himself to be a champion peeler: within a minute, the apple was completely peeled and cored and cut into bite-sized chunks. Barton hesitated for a moment, fingers hovering over the apple pieces. He sounded almost diffident when he asked, “Do you want a fork, or I could-?”
Phil heated up underneath his blanket. Barton's feeding him apple chunks wasn't much different from Barton's feeding him ice chips; it was all too intimate. On the other hand, he was right-handed, and it would be even more embarrassing to drop chunks of apple over his bedsheets.
He nodded stiffly. “If you don't mind.”
Barton just shrugged and pressed the first apple piece to Phil's lips. It should have been horribly awkward, but Barton seemed to get over his earlier shyness. Matter-of-factly, he just waited for Phil to finish chewing and then reached for another piece. Barton's calm was soothing, and Phil stopped feeling antsy at his vulnerable state; instead he ate in comfortable silence for a while.
“How is Romanov settling in?” Phil asked finally, shaking his head when Barton offered him another piece of apple.
“Nat's always going to be paranoid,” Barton said affectionately. “But I think she's starting to feel safe here. It's great that everyone's treating her like a regular agent. I'll see if she wants to start looking for her own apartment this weekend, unless she wants to keep sharing mine.”
“That's good,” Phil said neutrally. “And it looks like you're less lonely with her around.”
Barton looked thoughtful. “Yeah, I guess that's true.”
Phil nodded politely, still smiling blandly, and he was about to fake falling asleep, but Barton seemed to sense that he'd worn out his welcome and left with a pat to Phil's shoulder.
Phil stared at the paperwork-no little portion was due to Tony Stark-that had built up on his desk during his medical leave. He wanted to weep; instead he buried his head in his hands, feeling like a nap. He really needed to talk to Fury about streamlining the bureaucracy's paperwork system. That would save the world too.
“Hey, Coulson,” Barton popped his head around Phil's door, and Phil wondered when Barton had stopped knocking before entering. “You're out of the hospital.”
“I wish I was still there,” Phil mumbled into his palms. He didn't know if Barton could hear him, but judging by the man's sympathetic grin, he probably did.
“You know, we never did get that bowl of pho, and I want you and Nat to get to know each other outside of work. Maybe we can all go out this Saturday.”
That jolted Phil out of his pseudo-sleepy state. “Why?”
Barton had the nerve to look surprised. “Why what?”
“Why do you want me to spend time with Romanov?” Phil clarified, a little annoyed that he sounded like a teenager from a sitcom.
Barton now looked confused, but he had a tolerant smile. “It's traditional, isn't it? We're dating, and she's my best friend. Well, I guess Sitwell sort of fits, but you're already friends with him, so that doesn't really count.”
“This isn't fair, Barton,” Phil said as evenly as he could. He hadn't made Barton any promises, and he didn't want Barton to make any to him. This thing with Barton was getting out of control. How did an offhand agreement to go out once in a while transform into going steady? When they only went out once? There wasn't even any sex to confuse the issue.
“Okay,” Barton laughed. “I guess it isn't.” Phil was about to relax now that Barton had acknowledged that they didn't have a relationship.
“I'll spend time with Hill, even though she gives me the heebie-jeebies. Fair's fair. You can name the time and place,” Barton decided, completely misinterpreting Phil's complaint. Phil opened and closed his mouth a bit in flustered annoyance. Barton was being incredibly obtuse for an assassin who had once evaded SHIELD's forces for over a month.
“Look, Barton,” Phil tried again, exasperation finally making its way into his voice, and the man looked at him with attentive concern.
But, of course, the universe always hated Phil; Barton's cell phone went off, and before Phil could say anything, the other man left with a mouthed 'see you' as he answered his phone and pulled the office door shut.
At the little pho shop, Romanov ordered a large bowl with rare beef brisket, tendon, and tripe. Phil couldn't tell if she really did like those toppings, or if it was somehow meant to be an intimidating gesture. Not interested in courting food poisoning, Phil chose a large bowl with medium well done steak; he wasn't interested in having a pissing contest over Barton either. Barton asked for a large combination bowl with no apparent ulterior motives.
After the waitress left, the silence at their table was dampening. Romanov just looked straight ahead at Phil, and he returned her gaze composedly. Barton had been looking around the restaurant, eyes lingering on the colorful posters of the jelly drinks; then he sensed the tension and started to break it, but Romanov spoke first.
“You and Clint have been dating for several months now?” she asked curiously, no overt hostility in her voice.
“If you can call it that. We've only been on one date,” Phil gave the most honest answer he could without hurting Barton's feelings before they cleared things up alone. He wondered if he needed a contingency plan or two in case Romanov tried to break his legs afterward.
Romanov nodded understandingly. “It can be very difficult to find time for intimacy in vocations like ours.” Too late, Phil realized that he had sounded like he was complaining that they didn't go on enough dates.
Barton looked a little embarrassed. “I guess we really only did have one proper date, and missions together definitely don't count, but we eat at the cafeteria together almost every day, and I hang out in your office sometimes.”
Phil realized that Barton was right, and he stared at the man with some surprise. “I take that back then,” Phil said softly, as he thought the past couple weeks over. “I guess we've had a lot of dates.”
Clint gave him a brilliant smile, and Phil's heart began to thump harder. When their appetizers came, Phil bit into a fried egg roll and wondered how he could have been so dense. Even as he brushed the crispy crumbs from his fingers, Phil felt an inexorable pull to the other man, and he couldn't help but gaze at Clint in bewilderment.
The other man licked the hot oil from his lips, and Phil preoccupied himself with stirring his newly arrived noodles and breaking the huge clump into loose strands. Clint said something, leaning close enough for their faces to almost touch, and Phil tried not to think about brushing their lips together.
He startled when Clint grabbed his hand, pulling the wooden chopsticks away and rubbing each one hard against the other, the friction leaving dust on the table edge. “Careful,” Clint warned. “I could see you going for a splinter there.”
When Clint finished, he handed them back, and their hands touched. This time Phil didn't pull away.
Fury looked tense as usual, hands clasped on the conference table, as they reviewed the files. “Dr. James Harvin was a member of the scientific team that worked on the project that led to the Hulk. General Ross assured us that all the scientists were in custody, with the exception of those few thought to have perished during the initial shutdown. Dr. Harvin was one of those until a SHIELD agent brought this back from her mission.”
Fury moved a finger across his tablet, and a poorly developed picture of a middle-aged dark haired man appeared on all their screens. “It seems Harvin took the distraction to start a new life for himself; he's made contact with several different bio-terrorist groups who are willing to pay a lot for the information that he can give them.
“We've identified Harvin's most likely location, but we also need agents to watch the terrorist groups and ensure that they do not make final contact with him. Hill, you and Romanov will be taking A-1 agents to babysit the Sons of Anarchy. Sitwell, you'll take Hernandez and B-2 agents to babysit Data Phreaks. Coulson, you're with Barton and C-1. It will be your responsibility to decide whether you can take the good doctor alive if he makes a move.”
When the meeting ended, Phil was already thinking about the packing he would have to do once he got home. Since Fury hadn't specified an end time for the mission, it was likely going to be a few weeks while SHIELD and the World Security Council debated over James Harvin's fate.
“You know, when I first joined SHIELD, I though the alphabet labeling was a nice way to keep track of ranking without really rubbing it into people's faces.”
Phil glanced over. “You thought you were a third-rate agent?”
“It was a blow to my pride, Coulson, but I was new, so I wasn't expecting seniority or anything other than grunt work for a while.” Clint tossed his apple from lunch up and down, found another apple in another pocket, and began juggling them. “Then I figured that the labeling had to do with skill set or personality. Something like that.”
Phil raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think that?”
Clint gave him a pointed look. “A-1 has the smartest, most perfectionist of the already pedantic people working here, so probably 'A' for 'anal.' B-1 has the class clowns-but the scary ones who grin while they try to disembowel you, like Bozo. C-1 is probably a joke about C-4, so we're the explosive (cute, huh?) personalities, the mavericks.”
“'We'?” Phil couldn't help but point out. “If your hypothesis is true, then I would think I fit A-1 a lot better.”
“Yeah, no, Coulson, you're one of us all right.” Clint looked satisfied. “I only date exciting people.”
Phil had to scoff at that. “I am not 'exciting,' Barton.” I'm boring and emotionally absent, and I'm not sure why you keep trying to date me. And I'm pretty sure you're going to give up and go after someone better any day now.
“So, you didn't sneak into Cuba to go after a rumored mint condition Captain America card?” Clint grinned at Phil's surprise and chagrin.
“...Who told you about that?”
Phil fully expected the mission to go badly. No one was going to die. They weren't going to fuck up the mission either. But he and Clint just wouldn't be able to interact professionally, and everything would be tense and strained.
When Phil gave his first orders, he waited to hear some grumbling, overt or not, but Clint acted as he always did, acknowledging Phil with a crisp, “Got it,” or a quick salute of the fingers when talking was ill-advised.
“It's eight o'clock, Hawkeye,” Phil finally said the third night. “Our cameras are set up, and his phone line's been bugged. Harvin's not going anywhere, so you might as well sleep in an actual bed tonight. Leung and Durand can take over the surveillance.”
Clint yawned loudly and cracked his back a few times as he shoveled down the Alfredo pasta mix that Phil had made with advice from Agent Moretti. “It's kind of sad that safe house pasta is better than what we get in the cafeteria.”
“Quality control,” Phil said absently, scraping the rest of the pasta from the pot into a plastic bowl and tucking it into the refrigerator. “SHIELD's cafeteria needs to feed more than 400 people every day, and that's not counting the agents and techs out on missions, so it's rather difficult to prepare the food consistently well.”
Clint was quiet for a moment. “Really? I just thought Fury was too cheap to hire the good chefs.”
Phil smirked. “That too.”
Clint cleared his plate and soaked it in the scummy sink before raising his arms and making a few noises of real discomfort. “I think I really messed up my shoulder. Must have rested on it wrong.”
Phil watched in concern. Hawkeye could shoot with either hand, but he preferred his left for a reason. “I should have insisted that you take more frequent breaks.” He knew that having a relationship with a subordinate agent would unduly affect his judgment in the field.
Clint's head snapped up. “Hey, none of that. I should have known my limits. Anyway, it's not a big deal; it'll be fine after I take a hot shower.”
Phil's fingers itched to feel the contours of Clint's shoulders; they looked solid and well-shaped. “I could work the knots out,” he offered hesitantly.
Clint grew still, and his eyes searched Phil's. “We're on a mission; you're okay with crossing that boundary?”
Phil did want to take his offer back, but it seemed a bit foolish to deny Clint his help. “It's just a back rub, Barton,” he said dryly. “I'm not offering anything else.”
Clint chuckled and then groaned softly in appreciation, as Phil began massaging the muscles in his neck and shoulders. He concentrated on the left shoulder and curled his fingers tight around the ball of the shoulder and eased the tension from the sore limb. Pressing harder into the warm flesh beneath his hands, he soothed the strained tendons and ligaments with welcome pressure. He kept massaging until Clint looked limber and relaxed; then he just rested his fingers against Clint's shoulder, feeling the up and down of Clint breathing softly.
When Clint abruptly turned around and kissed him, it felt completely natural.
“Hey, stranger,” the voice drawled the vowels out. “Going my way?” Clint grinned flirtatiously at him, and Phil unlocked the side door.
“I thought you were hitching a ride with Jasper to visit the Turquoise Trail.”
Clint shrugged his shoulders lazily, slumping against the passenger seat. “I don't think he's very happy with his new ringtone. Can't blame me if he's got no taste.”
Phil's lips twitched. “Which song was it?”
“'Who Let the Dogs Out',” Clint answered solemnly, mouth already turning into a smirk. “I need to nap, and I don't think I'd be safe with him.”
“Good call.”
Phil drove down the long winding roads while Clint slept, and amused himself by counting the gas stations and convenience stores that they passed. Every so often, he glanced at Clint's sleeping face; Clint didn't stir, his sleep deep and peaceful, so he looked his fill. They were half-way to the airport when Clint woke up and rubbed a hand over his tired face.
“I needed that, but now my head's all fuzzy. I hate it when that happens,” Clint sighed, as he chugged some water.
Phil kept one eye on the road and tossed the leftover packet of donuts into the other man's lap. Clint picked it up and eyed the sugary goods dubiously. “Half the pack's gone. How'd you eat them without getting powdered sugar all over your suit?”
“I used a napkin,” Phil responded sensibly. “There are some in the glove compartment. There.”
Clint ate a few donuts before wetting a napkin and wiping his hands fastidiously. “Want me to drive the rest of the way?”
“Sure.”
They switched seats, and Phil was about to lean back for his doze when Clint tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, Phil.”
He opened his eyes and got a mouthful of powdered sugar as Clint pressed their lips together, grinning, right hand still holding the other donut half. Phil should have been annoyed, but all he could do was laugh and lean in for another kiss.
Phil yawned as he balanced his cup of coffee and breakfast bagel in one hand and opened his office door with his free one. As soon as his laptop booted up, the screen flashed with a message about Agents Barton and Romanov's early access of the gym.
Phil watched Clint and Natasha spar, exchanging quick blows, leaping out of reach, whipping kicks at each other's limbs. They looked involved with their practice, but they were probably just blowing off steam before starting their day. He knew Clint, and he was getting to know Natasha pretty well too, and it didn't look like either of them had suffered one of their insomnia-filled nights. He had warmed up to Natasha in the past couple of months since she'd made SHIELD her home, but he had to admit that he felt a bit jealous of the way she connected with Clint, the common memories they had created before SHIELD, the way they knew each other's moods so intimately.
Clint and Natasha followed through on a few more jabs at each other before finishing up. Phil started clapping, partly to show genuine appreciation and partly to be obnoxious. Clint waved him off with an affectionate roll of the eyes, and Natasha acknowledged him with a sardonic touch to her heart.
“Nat and I are going to jog to Jamba Juice. You want to come with?” Clint offered.
Phil was still feeling full from his bagel-and-coffee mixture. “No, I already had a cup of coffee; I'll be fine.”
A few hours later, Phil wiped the sweat from his forehead and fiddled with the temperature control panel on the wall behind his desk. The day was getting hotter than he'd expected; he wondered whether to blame global warming or the weather forecast. A tall white cup glistening in condensation landed on his desk, followed by a straw still in its paper wrap. “Ta dah,” Clint announced. “I hope you like Peach Perfection.”
“Thank you,” Phil said gratefully, decorum curtailing his urge to lunge unbecomingly for the chilled smoothie.
“You know, I think Natasha and I are single-handedly keeping the Jamba Juice on King and Fourth in business. We had a smoothie drinking contest, and we each had about five before we had to stop.”
Phil shook his head, taking another long, luxurious sip of his drink. “I wouldn't believe the Black Widow would participate in a smoothie contest before I saw how Natasha relaxes around you.”
“We bring out the best in each other,” Clint said nonchalantly. “It was all her idea to ambush Jasper with the web blasters last week.”
Phil put his drink down on the desk. “You made the right call, bringing her into SHIELD.”
Clint raised an eyebrow. “It wasn't a one-man operation. You caught me before I could run off, remember? Then you made Fury and me talk.”
“I meant that you were right about giving Natasha a chance to change her path. Sometimes SHIELD gets too focused on preemptive measures, and it would have been the wrong decision that time, even though we might not ever have known it.”
“Well, got to give you props for prodding the truth out of me.” Clint's smile was a soft glow.
“I was pretty annoyed at being dropped so suddenly,” Phil admitted sheepishly. “Mostly I did want to see what was going on with you, but I was also feeling a little disgruntled about the cancellation.”
“Is it mean of me to be happy that it bothered you?” Clint brushed his hands over his t-shirt and jogging pants cursorily before picking up the gym bag he'd left by the door. “Come over tonight?”
“Of course.” Phil watched Clint leave before opening the next report on his screen; this one needed to be unlocked. Huh, that was interesting: an update on Dr. Selvig's work on the Tessarect.
Natasha was kind: she didn't sneak up on him. Her footsteps echoed clearly through the hall before she stopped right beside his head as he dutifully followed the stretching routine his physical therapist had designed. “He wants to see you,” she said simply.
Breathing heavily, Phil pulled his aching arm back to his chest and rested against the mat. He resisted the urge to touch the tender spot on his chest. “I'm not getting that feeling. Maybe it's because he walks the other way every time he sees me. But maybe I'm misinterpreting things.” Natasha doesn't deserve his ire, but he's tired and stressed, and he thinks he was right to be wary about loving Clint.
“He thinks he helped Loki stab you,” Natasha countered a bit impatiently. “You know he's an overly responsible idiot sometimes. He needs to know you don't blame him.”
Phil lay there quietly.
“Do you blame him?” Natasha asked suddenly, eyes widening in dismay.
“No, of course not. I just-” Phil sighed, wishing he could outrun Natasha and avoid her probing questions. “You're not our couples counselor. We both need to think some things over.”
Natasha sat on the edge of the matting. “You're an overly responsible idiot sometimes too. I could tell right from the beginning when Clint told me about you.”
“What do you mean?” Phil asked warily.
“He told me he was trying to date a man from work, and that it wasn't going too well. He said that you were the cautious type, and he was worried that you wouldn't ever open up to him.”
Phil closed his eyes. It just figured that the Black Widow would poke him right in the vulnerability. “I don't think it's a good idea for two people in the same high-risk job to care too much for each other,” he said weakly.
Natasha's voice was soft. “I know you were afraid that he wouldn't come back from Loki. I know that you searched the CCTV camera footage for him every night. And I know that you would have punched Loki in the face if he hadn't stabbed you first.
Natasha didn't wait for Phil to work out his conflicting feelings. “I'll send you the schedule for his counseling sessions. He's been showing up consistently for those, and he wants to get clearance as soon as possible, so he won't try to miss any on purpose.”
After she left, Phil finished the last rep for his exercises and took a long shower, remembering the way he had followed Clint into the changing rooms for a vital confrontation. When he was newly suited up in his usual tie and coat, he finally decided what to do.
Clint didn't look particularly pleased to see him, but he thanked Dr. Yoon politely and waited for Phil to rise from the padded bench before walking towards the garages. He already had his motorcycle keys in hand and was swinging them restlessly in the air. “You look a lot better, less drawn,” Clint finally said, as they waited in the elevator.
“You look like you've been getting more sleep,” Phil returned neutrally. “I had a friendly visit from Natasha yesterday. She told me that I was acting like an idiot.”
Clint's lips pressed together. He didn't laugh, but the darkness in his eyes lifted a bit. “Funny, I had a visit from Natasha too. She said a lot more than that to me.”
“Well, she's your best friend, not mine. She has the right to give you a hard time and call you names and make you wonder why you're friends with her.”
Clint shoved his jacket into the little hatch and then grabbed one of the helmets hanging from the handlebars. He hesitated before offering it to Phil. “I'll take you home.”
Phil kept a tight grip around Clint's waist as they sped through the city streets to his apartment; he felt Clint's stiffness beneath his hands, but he felt no sympathy. Clint shouldn't have offered the ride if he wanted to keep his distance; after all, Phil wasn't about to risk falling backwards into the street.
When they stopped for a traffic light, Phil raised his head and remembered the last time Clint had taken him on the motorcycle. They had just found Captain America, and Phil had been too thrilled with the news to sleep, so Clint had suggested a midnight run to the late night diner open near the docks. They had eaten pancakes smothered with syrup and butter before sitting on a pier to digest their meal and talk about random topics. Later, he had almost fallen asleep against Clint's back as they made their way to Clint's apartment, and Phil had slept there in the same bed for the first time. It had been the most romantic night of Phil's life to date.
Phil climbed off the motorcycle and handed back the helmet. “Come inside for a moment,” he said, turning to his door and fumbling for the lock.
As always, Clint's presence seemed to at once dim and brighten his small apartment. His living room and kitchen, cosy but cheap, seemed all the more special having an Avenger there; but Clint seemed somehow to out-size the walls, making them seem confining and oddly grim.
Clint had reluctantly followed him inside, but he didn't sit down on the couch or at the kitchen stools. “It's late; I need to get back to my place.”
“You should stay here,” Phil argued calmly, and he pulled Clint close to him, their heartbeats thudding together in tandem, and he pressed a kiss to the firm lips that hadn't seen a smile in days. “Stay with me, Clint.”
He meant to sound seductive, maybe a little teasing, but a note of desperation entered his voice, and his kiss turned hard and hungry. His body grew painfully hot as Clint returned the kiss, deepening it to include tongue, and pushed him onto the couch, the knitted cover twisting askew underneath their bodies.
Clint cupped the back of his neck with one hand, and the other dipped down to wander up his shirt and appreciate the play of muscles tensing. When the hand reached the sensitive scarring, Phil held his breath, and Clint stopped there, and his fingers lay there gently, passively feeling the rough flesh and newly generated skin. “Does it hurt?” Clint breathed into his neck.
“A little,” Phil admitted reluctantly. “But I'm sure you know how to distract me.” He lay more fully on the couch and let his legs fall open, inviting Clint to fill up the open space. The pressure of Clint's body lit the burning fires in his sparking nerves, and he gasped loudly as Clint slid a hand slowly down his stomach and finally began fiddling with his pants, undoing the catch and pushing the cloth down his thighs.
He reached hurriedly for Clint's jeans, and soon they were pressing together, sweaty and hot, and with no barriers between them. With a heavy groan, Clint wrapped a strong arm around his waist and started thrusting against him. Phil tilted his hips to better match Clint's movements, and the intense pleasure of their bodies working and pushing together itched intensely down his spine.
Phil knew he was leaving painful bruises and tearing nail marks on Clint's back and biceps, but he'd never before felt the consuming desire to pull someone into his body or to completely devour theirs. His breathing quickened and rasped harshly into the air, as his body filled with tension to be released, yet he couldn't quite reach the end, not yet.
Clint mouthed his shoulder hard, tongue flicking out to taste his skin, and Phil pulled his head up and ordered hoarsely, “Look at me.” Clint's darkened eyes came up, and Phil searched his eyes urgently, finding the man he knew, before satisfaction finally hit, and he saw Clint's eyes turn half hooded as he finished after pushing once last time against Phil's stomach.
“Too bad that didn't fix everything,” Clint joked, voice a bit muffled as he lay a few more affectionate kisses on Phil's neck. Satiated, Phil still didn't loosen his hold on Clint's back, but the man didn't seem to mind, and he stayed where Phil wanted him.
“I was afraid,” Phil whispered in the hush of their quiet breathing. “I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't come back, and I felt like such an idiot for holding you at arm's length. I regretted it even though you did come back.”
Clint pulled back a little and studied him contemplatively. “You know what you can do? You can reassure me by asking me out. It's only fair since I did the hard work the first time.”
“That's ridiculous,” Phil protested half-heartedly, shifting under Clint's weight. “This isn't an after school special.”
“Come on, Coulson,” Clint grinned, eyes playful underneath his lashes. “I want to feel special. I'm waiting for you to make my day here.”
“Night.”
“No, it's not even 6 yet. It's day. Now, say it.”
Clint was heavy, and pushing him away didn't work, so Phil gave an exaggerated sigh before drawing Clint closer. “Clint Barton,” he murmured against Clint's lips. “I'm surprised to find that I really like you, and I want you to go out with me. And I want a commitment.”
“Okay,” Clint responded simply, his eyes tender and his lips soft and loving. “Okay,” he said again, and that was really all Phil needed to hear right then.
A/N: I have another Phil/Clint story in the works, but I feel that a lot of my better ideas went into this story, and I'm not sure if the second story can work that well as a complete story. I guess I'll see how the brainstorming plays out. Anyway, it was great to get back into the Hawkeye fandom.