Contingency Plans - Clint/Phil
PROMPT: Phil actually snorts. “We’ve had sex in an elevator to maintain cover, and this is where you draw the line?”
DISCLAIMER: The line is not mine, it is from this wonderful fic here.
SUMMARY: Due to circumstances fascilitated by the Goddess of Slash, Phil and Clint are forced to get hot and heavy in an elevator.
Contingency Plans
Phil was a traditionalist and it’s not that he didn’t like technology, he just didn’t trust it. What he did trust were agents with intuition, guts and an ability to think on their feet. He needed to know that if the comms went down, or the guns jammed or the get-away vehicle spontaneously combusted (which, granted, had only happened once) then his agent would have an emergency plan in place. It was the main reason he’d agreed to take on Barton in the first place. The archer may have had a perfect track record of driving his previous handlers up the walls, but he made contingency plans.
They were perhaps a little conventional, but they were finally tuned and when a handle turned unexpected during their first mission together, Phil had been pleased to note that Barton’s first reaction hadn’t been to stare at it in horror. Instead, he’d shoved Phil into the nearest available wall space and tried to crawl inside him via his mouth. After that performance, it had been relatively easy to convince their intruder that they were just a couple of misguided revellers from the office party blaring away downstairs.
He’d agreed to take the Black Widow more reluctantly. She was unpredictable, ambiguous and unbelievably dangerous, but Barton had dragged her home like she was a lost kitten he’d found by the roadside and had steadfastly refused to ask if they could keep her. Instead he had feigned indifference and had then camped out in the air ducts above the secure infirmary ward she was held in until Phil gave in and pleaded her case to Fury. It turned out to be the best decision he’d ever made.
(Although, it had greatly increased the number of edits of tactical snog to evasive manoeuvres he’d been forced to make to Barton’s mission reports)
Phil could hear Romanov now, scuffling on top of the elevator and swearing creatively in Russian at the bomb that had been installed there. She sounded almost impressed, which was never a good sign.
An electronic chime signalled the elevator doors sliding opened for the fourth time and Phil sighed. He slipped one hand into Barton’s hair and curved another around his waist as their mouths slotted together. There were a few seconds of stunned silence before the doors closed again.
“Surely there must be better ways of dissuading people from using an elevator.” Phil commented mildly, his fingers tensing as Barton rolled their hips together.
“Name one as quick.” Barton replied between pressing warm, open kisses along his jaw.
“An out-of-order sign.”
“Carry one of those on you, do you?”
Phil conceded his point with a small shrug, “Someone will report us eventually.”
“And then the staff will just check the elevator camera, see Stark’s little hackbot doing its job and assume that we’ve made it to our floor. Besides, we might die Coulson; might as well go out with a bang.” Barton snickered and Phil resisted the unprofessional urge to roll his eyes.
Romanov snorted, the sound muffled through the ceiling, “That is one of the worst chat-up lines I’ve heard in a long time.”
“You’ve clearly not been listening to yourself,” Barton retorted, not missing a beat as he shoved Phil’s jacket down his arms. It joined his tie on the floor.
“I don’t need chat-up lines.”
Barton laughed, “Is that your excuse for Argentina?”
“My Spanish was a little rusty, so sue me. It worked out.”
“The mark thought you were there to do a prostate exam.” Barton crowed gleefully. It was one of his favourite stories and Phil had no desire to hear it again, or to hear it devolve into elaborate Russian insults, which was the outcome more often than not. (Although, the insults were better than the one time that the two of them ended up in medical with cracked ribs and bloody noses.) Barton chuckled against his mouth as Phil dragged him back into a kiss.
“If you were feeling neglected, you could have just said,” Barton murmured when they broke apart.
“It’s difficult to look particularly amorous when there’s an argument going on above my head.” Phil replied dryly as Barton nipped at his earlobe. Phil turned his head to the side to give him better access and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror next to them. He rapidly redirected his gaze to the ceiling.
The elevator lurched, trying to react to someone calling it, but the temporary brakes Romanov had installed held it steady. The doors slid open again in retaliation, and by the time they had slid back into place, Barton’s t-shirt was halfway up his back, Phil’s belt had joined the pile of clothing pooling around their feet, and one of Phil’s hands had wormed down the back of Barton’s pants.
“Well, Coulson, who would’ve guessed you’re an ass man?” Barton grinned. Phil rolled his eyes, already working his hand out from under Barton’s belt. He’d managed to cut off the circulation to his fingers and they tingled as he finally pulled them free. Barton pouted, “I kinda liked that there.”
“Take your belt off then,” Phil replied, even though he was pretty sure he’d meant to ignore the comment completely. Fighting to maintain his professionalism, he turned his attention back to the ceiling, “Romanov, what’s happening?”
A particularly drawn-out string of Slavic profanity answered him and there was a slight twinge to the end that made Phil dramatically lower their odds of survival.
The same thought must have crossed Barton’s mind too, because when he looked back, Barton shot him a grin just this side of too sharp and unbuckled his belt as he’d been ordered. Then he stripped off his shirt for good measure.
Phil swallowed dryly.
“Better?” Barton asked, but the levity in his voice was a little forced. He crowded Phil against the elevator wall and turned away to study the mirror beside them intently.
“Look at that.” He murmured into his ear, too low for anyone but Phil to hear. “That’d fuel a few fantasies for a while, hmm?” Barton chuckled and rubbed the rough sandpaper of his emerging stubble against Phil skin.
Phil stared determinedly at the ceiling and thought about risk assessment forms, bomb defusal debriefs, public management reports and how exactly he was going to explain this to Fury. “I know it might be difficult to grasp, Barton, but not everyone fantasises about you.”
Barton laughed and snapped his hips forward, seriously hindering Phil’s attempts to compartmentalise, “I was talking about you.”
Phil’s eyes flicked down in surprise, his eyes connecting with his reflection in the mirror for half a second (eyes wide, cheeks flushed and his clothes rumpled beyond repair) before his gaze inevitably slid sideways. Later, he would try to forget the glimpse of amused grey eyes, powerful biceps and jeans slung dangerously low on slim hips, but the image will be indelibly inked into his memory.
“Romanov?” He prompted, desperate to step back from where things had suddenly gotten too close. Too personal.
“I’ve got it, sir.” She responded, calmly, and Phil exhaled quietly in relief. He honestly couldn’t tell if it was relief for his continued survival or for the impending end to this mission.
“How are we doing on time?” Barton asked.
“Eleven minutes.”
Barton smirked slowly, rocking his hips again as he slipped his hands under Phil’s thighs. Several alarm bells went off in Phil’s head at once.
“Don’t even think about it, Barton.” Phil warned him but his traitorous hands were already sliding over Barton’s broad shoulders for better purchase.
“Trust me, sir, you’ll like this angle better,” Barton replied, still grinning. And then he heaved, grunting with effort as he settled Phil’s legs over his hips. Phil curled around him instinctively, his legs locking around Barton’s waist and hands gripping his shoulders tightly as an unpleasant wave of disconcertion crashed over him.
Barton pressed him hard against the wall, his mouth curved into a delicious smirk that Phil wanted to lean forward and taste, and the elevator doors opening again gave him the perfect excuse to do just that.
Their sixth visitor yelped in surprise and Phil idly wondered how much paperwork he’d have to fill out for accidently giving an old lady a heart attack. Then Barton ground his hips up and his mind stuttered to a stop for a few seconds.
He winced as his head banged against the elevator wall.
Romanov growled something about the incompatibility of loud noises and delicate procedures and threatened to personally kill them both should they survive. Phil opened his mouth to reply but was distracted by Barton taking advantage of the expanse of neck that was suddenly in front of him. There was a quip there about opportunities and resources if Phil could concentrate long enough to form it.
Barton’s muscles strained against him, pushing him harder into the wall as his mouth made patterns that Phil was sure would bruise a livid purple. He tugged Barton away from his neck before he could do any more damage and he licked back into Barton’s mouth instead, rocking down just to hear Barton groan. The phrase ‘above and beyond the call of duty’ came somewhat dryly to the fore of his mind, but a slow, sweet pressure beginning to curl in his lower abdomen and his fingers dug into the back of Barton’s neck as his focus narrowed to the roll of Barton’s hips.
Which, of course, is when they started sliding down the wall.
Barton tried to regain his grip, pushing Phil harder into the wall and evening out his weight along his forearms, but Phil could feel his muscles trembling with the effort.
“Barton, put me down.” He said quietly, his breath hitching as Barton efforts to stabilise them pushed them together.
“Nah, I’m good,” Barton huffed against his skin, stubborn as ever.
“Barton.” Phil put the full weight of a command behind the word and Barton finally lowered Phil with a care that was impressive considering the way his arms were shaking.
“I could have kept going, you know.” He groused, his hands already starting to trail over Phil’s backside, squeezing and kneading gently.
“I’d rather avoid the chance of a broken coccyx.” Phil replied sardonically.
Barton opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by Romanov suddenly dropping from the ceiling and pulling the hatch closed behind her in one fluid motion. “I’m done,” she declared, smirking at them knowingly. Phil may have been embarrassed had his long stint at SHIELD (and, particularly, as Barton and Romanov’s handler) not rid him of the capacity.
Barton turned around to stare at her, “Seriously? You couldn’t have waited another five minutes?”
“I’m surprised you lasted this long.” She replied coolly. Phil couldn’t see his face, but he knew Barton would be glaring at her. He sighed and dropped his arms from their somewhat emasculating position around Barton’s neck, rubbing the circulation back into his tingling palms.
“How about you wait over there and we’ll see how long I can draw this out?” Barton drawled, still glowering over his shoulder.
“I think I’ve had enough public humiliation for one day.” Phil interjected, which earned him a pout. He stared back at Barton impassively as Romanov slipped the defused bomb into a waiting satchel.
“That cuts me deep, Coulson. You saying you’re ashamed of me?”
Phil ignored him, turning to Romanov to ask if she had disengaged the brakes and bending down to reclaim the clothes Barton had so considerably scattered over the floor.
“Yes, sir.” She replied before walking over to the camera in the corner and asking Barton to give her a lift up so she could grab the small bug Stark had provided them with. Barton sighed but obliged and Phil deliberately ignored the sight of Barton’s back rippling with the effort. Romanov raised an eyebrow at Barton’s soft grunt and shaking limbs. “You really did go all-out, huh?” she smirked.
“Shut up.”
“You really need to get over your wall kink.” She added and Phil deliberately ignored that too. Not so much for the fraternisation it implied, but for the fear of what the imagery would do to the last of his sanity.
“I like my wall kink.” Barton replied, dropping Romanov to the floor with a lot less care than he’d given Phil. She landed gracefully all the same. The two of them seemed to share a silent conversation, the kind that had people at SHEILD convinced that they could read each other’s minds, whilst Phil tried to smooth out some of the wrinkles on his jacket and straightened his tie. Eventually, Romanov smirked and stalked over to push the button for the ground floor, which probably meant that she’d come out on top of their psychic dispute.
Phil quietly stepped over to join her, readjusting his collar in an attempt to hide some of the mess Barton had no doubt made of his neck. From the sound of Barton’s snickers and Romanov’s snort, he gathered he was unsuccessful. He gave up and pulled his phone from his pocket instead, punching in Fury’s number for the day. Fury answered on the second ring, his voice angry and severe as he informed them that the bomb had been a distraction and that they were needed on the other side of town five minutes ago. Phil resisted the urge to sigh as his hopes for an early night were viciously stamped out of existence.