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"I'm not 'out of hand'," Clint says, when Phil gets into the car and just rests his forehead against his hand, elbow on the steering wheel, careful not to lean on the horn by accident. He doesn't need to glance at the rear-view mirror to know that Clint's got his head obediently down--pissed-off expression notwithstanding--and is probably not fussing with the cuffs security had slapped on him and Phil had left on. "I'm entitled to defend my personal space."
It's really not the way Phil had wanted to start his Tuesday.
"Clint," he says, tiredly, because really do they have to go through this so often, "There are ways to deal with this sort of thing." By which he means, be professional, but that seems like too much of an insult. Seems unfair, when the dom Clint had knocked out hadn't exactly been behaving professionally himself, and when, yes, Clint had a right to not be touched by people he didn't want touching him.
"I didn't have three copies of form M5-B-keep-your-hands-to-your-fucking-self on me just then," Clint says, starting to look up. Phil can tell it from his tone.
"Head down, Barton," he snaps, "Unless you want to make more trouble for yourself."
He can tell Clint's considering it, because he can't refuse a dare, or to see what would happen, or just to be an ass, but he lets his breath out in a frustrated huff and settles. Says, "What? You wanted me to just go down for anybody? Sorry I misread the situation then, sir."
This really isn't how he'd wanted to start his Tuesday. "No, Clint. Of course not. But you didn't have to break his nose." Clint snorts like he thinks that's exactly what he had to do. "Or that other guy's arm last week. Or nearly concuss that guy on the carrier."
"He was patting me," Clint sounds incensed.
"Clint," Phil lifts his head and turns to look at Clint, cuffed in the backseat, head down. There's a slight defensive hunch to his shoulders, to his back, like he thinks Phil's not in his corner and that hurts a little. Because of course he's in Clint's corner, but Clint's utterly unrepentant of his violent overreaction to what is, admittedly, doms taking liberties--or trying to, at least--where they shouldn't. Enough of it goes on that a report or two comes across Phil's desk every few months. Someone requesting a transfer because they're uncomfortable, or lodging complaint against doms who are too handsy with subs who aren't theirs. The tip of the iceberg that means there's a constant undercurrent of doms who just think too fucking highly of themselves and think they're entitled to touch any sub they feel like. And of course Phil doesn't think Clint should stand for it, but for god's sake, the man is one of their best. He can put an end to anything he doesn't want without this level of violence.
"He was patting me," Clint says again, like that sin is somehow equal to slamming a man's head into a steel door. Then, quieter, "You're going to punish me." It's not a question. Phil reaches to stroke his head, and Clint leans into a bit, despite himself.
"Yes, I am, Barton," he says, and lets the regret into his voice, "and then you're going to fill in the paperwork that explains why my sub is responsible for yet another unnecessary, relatively serious injury."
Clint slumps a bit. "Are you going to make me apologize, too?" he grumbles sarcastically.
"No," Coulson says, turning away to start the car, "he deserved it."
----
He puts Clint on his knees in his office, with the cuffs still on him, on the other side of the room and with his back to the door, and watches him struggle not to turn every time someone knocks.
Sitwell comes in at one point, to share his lunch because Sitwell has a new girl who seems to think Sitwell is starving to death at work. She packs him huge meals and Phil hasn't met her, but he likes her already. She makes a mean carbonara.
"It's not the same once I've nuked it," Sitwell says, making himself at home on the other side of Phil's desk, slouching comfortably. He grins, in the all-the-world-is-rainbows phase, then sobers a bit, like he thinks it's rude to be in a happy, trouble free relationship when Clint's going around unleashing violence at the drop of a hat. He gestures with his fork, gives Phil a questioning look.
"Ignore him," Phil says, digging into his share of Sitwell's good fortune, "he's thinking about what he's done."
"The guy was patting me," Clint informs Sitwell, not moving a muscle but sounding quarrelous, clearly stewing rather than re-thinking his actions, "I told him no."
Sitwell raises an eyebrow, looking amused, and Phil rolls his eyes. "Didn't I tell you to be quiet?"
"No. You said 'Don't move'." Because of course Clint would suddenly care about the letter of the law instead of the spirit of it.
"To be fair," Sitwell says, coiling noodles around his fork, "I'd have tried to punch the guy, too." Phil can't tell if he's being sarcastic. If that 'tried' is the key to the joke or not.
"It's okay for you," Clint says, sounding angry and sulky and a little bitter, "You're a dom."
Phil says, "That's not why you're in trouble, Clint."
"I'm not going to just let them," Clint snarls at the wall.
Sitwell shoves pasta into his mouth, happily, the asshole, "You're a sweetheart, Barton. I can see what Phil sees in you."
----
"You don't have to let people touch you who you don't want," Phil explains later, patiently, "I just don't want you injuring people over petty infractions of--"
"It's not petty," Clint snaps. He looks angry still, but also hurt and on guard, and Phil sighs again.
"Okay," he says, "You're right," and Clint looks up from the report he's filling, detailing his own bad behavior. He looks surprised, and Phil almost feels bad for him, because Clint is right. It is totally within his right to rebuff unwelcome advances. In fact, he damn well better rebuff anyone Phil hasn't given the go-ahead to lay hands on him. Medical and other emergencies excepted.
It's really more a matter of proportion than the black and white that Clint's making it out to be, but Phil can't tell if Clint actually doesn't see that, or if he's just being stubborn.
Clint frowns. Goes back to writing. Then, as he finishes the section and turns the page over, reads, "Disciplinary action?" and looks up again, questioningly, but with a set to his jaw that says nothing Phil can do to him will change his mind.
Phil sighs.
----
He decides to come at it from a different angle, fishing a collar from the back of a drawer. It's heavy and dark, fitted with a couple of D-rings. It's not really made to be worn regularly, and Clint hasn't liked it on the rare occasions when Phil's put it on him, not to mention it's not exactly regulation.
"A bit obvious, isn't it?" Clint asks, and Phil kicks his knees out from under him. Clint drops without any real impact and says, "oh," softly and then goes quiet. Lifts his chin without being asked, even though he hates the collar, his eyes sliding shut as Phil fastens it snugly around his throat.
"Good?" he asks.
Clint shivers. Shakes his head. "Phil--" his hand is half-raised, and Phil smiles.
"You can touch it, but don't take it off." There's a space for a lock, but there's also the chance that Clint might have to remove it for safety reasons--neck constriction not exactly being to his advantage if he gets into trouble--and it's best to make sure he can do it quickly and on his own.
Besides, Clint won't remove it without permission if he doesn't need to, no matter how uncomfortable it makes him, and the knowledge makes Phil feel warm and somehow choked. He wants to kiss Clint, all of a sudden, but this is discipline.
Well, partly, anyway. It's also because if he can't stop Clint from taking doms down left right and center, maybe he can deter them from starting anything with him to begin with.
Clint's fingers feel their way over the leather, testing the give. Then he lets out a shaky breath and drops his hands and peers up. "You're gonna make me wear this?" he sounds breathy and incredulous. A little scared. Like he can't believe Phil would do this to him, and Phil strokes his hair a bit to calm him. Feels Clint lean against him.
"Shh," he says, "It'll be okay. Plenty of subs wear collars on base."
"But. It's huge." Clint complains, touching it again. His eyes are blown, and Phil feels a twinge of worry, but then they're home and safe and he's pretty sure Clint won't be effected this way once he's on the job.
----
As it turns out, Clint is affected. He's quiet and polite and even Sitwell is charmed enough to make lunch a three way deal instead of splitting it in the usual halves. "Wow," he says, talking like Clint's not sitting right there, "I can't decide if I'm confused about why you don't keep him collared all the time, or totally getting why you don't."
Clint makes a soft sound, and Phil smiles at him. Says, "I won't, Clint," and pats his arm, friendly and reassuring. Sitwell grins at how soft Clint's face goes, at the way his head dips, just a little.
He says, "Would you mind if I--?"
Phil says, "I thought you had pasta girl now?" but gestures a go-ahead.
"She makes more than pasta," Sitwell says, "She's just on an Italian kick right now. Are you seriously complaining?"
"I'm not," Clint murmurs, but he goes quiet when Sitwell's hand touches his head, the back of his neck. His eyes drift closed.
Sitwell shakes his head, "Wouldn't have thought," he says and looks at Phil in something like admiration. Then, "Kinda thought he'd take my head off. You have what they like to call a reputation, Barton."
Clint blinks, "Coulson said it was fine," he says, and Sitwell laughs, but it's not mean, and the note of approval in it makes Clint grin a little in something like his regular humor.
His regular humor when he's not pissed off, at least, Phil thinks, because while the collar deters the majority of doms, there's always the one who hasn't got a sense of self preservation. Or maybe whose sense of bravado just outweighs his brains. Either way, Clint's back in his office before the day is out, ruffled and angry and with blood on his knuckles.
"How much of that is yours?" Phil asks tiredly, nodding at the damage, and Clint scowls.
"None. A bit, maybe. I might have hit a tooth." Clint's face is set in stubborn lines, all but daring Phil to put him in his place. Phil sighs. Gestures for Clint to come over so he can take a closer look at his hand.
"And what was it this time?"
Clint's hand goes to the collar, restlessly fussing at it, then falls away.
"Clint."
The corner of Clint's mouth twitches. "He wanted me to kneel. In the mess."
"And you said, 'no' and walked away," Phil says, but without much hope. Clint's eyes flash.
"I did," he says, and goes to his knees next to Phil's chair, but mostly so he won't have to reach for Phil to examine his split knuckles. "Turned out, it wasn't the answer he was 'looking for'." He swallows, and it might the pressure of the collar against the motion of his throat that reminds him he's wearing it. The rebellion melts out of him, and he lets Phil wrap his hand, even though it's not that bad. "What do you want me to do?"
He wants Clint to learn the difference between reasonable resistance and wildly lashing out, but that's not what Clint's asking. "Nothing. This time, nothing. You're wearing a collar, for god's sake. And even if you weren't. He was way out of line." Phil brushes a hand over his face. Touches his jaw. Says, "C'mon. Head up," and Clint jerks, a full body twitch.
"Don't tighten it," he blurts, "Coulson. Sir. Please."
It always takes Coulson aback, when Clint's past rears it's ugly head all of a sudden. Mostly because it tends to happen when he's got Clint trusting and pliable under his hands. He shushes, tipping Clint's head back gently. "No, Clint. Of course not. I'm taking it off." No point in making Clint bear the discomfort--and the head trip--if the collar isn't a preventative. He slides the leather through the buckle, then tugs it carefully free of Clint's neck. Shoves it into his desk.
"Better?"
Clint nods and leans against him. "Thanks."
"Don't thank me. It was a stupid idea."
The problem is, it was Phil's only idea.
-----
On Friday, Clint throws Morse. Just sort of trips her over in what is technically a throw, even though it looks more like a playground spat shove.
"The fuck?" Morse says, rolling and bouncing to her feet, "I was fixing your fucking uniform. Look sloppy, then. Geez."
Clint says, "Oh," and looks a little helpless as to what to do next.
Morse flips him off, "You think you're hot shit, or something, Barton? Like I can't keep my hands off the super sexy Hawkeye? Fuck right off."
"She's not even a dom," Sitwell says, amused, when they meet for lunch--Indian this time, and delicious as always. Phil really, really wants Sitwell to not mess up this relationship--"She's like. I don't even know what she is."
Clint snorts, but it's a cover for embarrassment. He's taken a weird sort of shine to Sitwell since the lunch with the collar.
"At least there's no damage report to fill out," Phil says.
-----
Of course, a spot of embarrassment isn't enough to stop Clint. Of course not. And Phil understands it, really. Clint doesn't have a lot of reasons to give doms the benefit of the doubt, and more than enough to be a little trigger happy.
"The thing with Morse was stupid," Clint admits, again slinking into Phil's office with ruffled hair and rucked up uniform, "But that was a fluke. This guy was really asking for it."
The problem, Phil thinks, is that they really are. Even if Clint wasn't his, he isn't theirs and they should keep their damn hands to themselves. Clint does have a right to decide who is allowed to touch him, or at least to decide who gets to decide that, and he's given that choice to Phil.
"It's because you're not pissed," Clint says, "They think you don't care. You should defend my honor."
Phil snorts. Clint grins. There's the hint of an apology under it. He takes a seat opposite Phil's, across the desk and holds a hand out. Phil hands him the papers.
"Disciplinary action?" Clint asks when he gets to that part, and Phil sighs.
"I don't want you to be disciplined," he snaps, "you didn't start it. But when you put an Agent through a window, it doesn't exactly look like professional behavior."
-----
It's Tuesday again, but instead of picking up Clint at a branch office for brawling, he's chasing down Sitwell's junior agents and paperwork and senior agents, who are about as recalcitrant as Phil's senior agents, because Sitwell's out sick. It also means no fantastic lunch, so Phil wanders to the mess for a quick, poor substitute.
He hopes Sitwell gets well soon, then texts him the sentiment. His amusement at contemplating what Sitwell's response will be is cut short when he walks into some kind of situation.
Whatever sparked the fight is already over, and so is most of the fight, and of course it's Clint who still has his feet, head tilted in that approximation of submission that's all threat and nastiness. Phil can tell from across the room that he's grinning wide enough to show too many teeth. Fierce. Too fierce, probably, for the situation.
"Touch me again," Clint's saying. It's a dare and a threat rolled together.
"You'd like that, huh?" the guy says, getting up and wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. Clint's probably punched him in it. "You've got an attitude on you, Barton. Everyone knows you're a lousy fucking sub. You should thank me for trying to teach you your place. Your dom clearly--" And Clint has more patience than Phil's been giving him credit for, because he doesn't slam the guy into a table until he gets up into Clint's space and puts a hand out to touch his face.
Phil lets him give the guy the better part of a thrashing before barking, "Barton," and striding over.
Without missing a beat, Clint lets go, steps back, and slides neatly to his knees, bowing his head and bringing his hands behind his back. There's something defiant about the way he does it. About the absolute deliberateness of it. Clint's a sub, but the act of submitting is his to choose. Phil wants to smile, but doesn't.
"Who'd like to explain?" he asks the room at large. Clint doesn't volunteer, but neither does the guy he'd slammed into the table. "Barton?" He doesn't have a choice but to start with Clint, or it'll look like favoritism.
"Sir," Clint says, not moving a muscle, but he doesn't elaborate.
"Fischer wanted to know how a nasty sub without any manners managed to keep any dom, let alone you, sir." It's Morse, who's sometimes ridiculous, but doesn't hold grudges. Or at least, doesn't let them get in the way of her moral compass. Phil likes her. She'll go a long way. "Then Barton declined to demonstrate."
"Fischer? Barton?"
Fischer's silence, and the silence of the rest of the mess, is confirmation enough. Clint, whose silence would seem insolent in the face of a direct question from his dom, says, "What Morse said, sir." Even his tone is polite and deferential and Phil can't decide if it's because he's been caught in the act, because he's on his knees in the middle of the mess, or because he's fucking with all of them.
"I'll deal with you in my office, Barton," and, before anyone can snigger, "And Fischer, you're assigned to Sitwell? I'll deal with you in my office, too."
Tuesdays. Phil hates them.
----
Because Fischer is Sitwell's agent, he has to send Sitwell an official brief, but he also sends him a friendly email to let him know what happened. Sitwell sends back, that guy is a fucking bonehead.
"Sitwell's on your side," Phil tells Clint, because while Phil is actually also on Clint's side, Clint has that dark look that means he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. Phil tries to mollify him by not making him do the paperwork, even though Clint offers, but the look stays.
"You're like a magnet for trouble," Phil tells him, stroking down his arms later that night, "but that doesn't mean I think all the trouble you get into is always your fault." He pulls Clint back against him, curves a hand gently around his throat. Clint lets his breath out, then inhales slowly, almost cautiously. "Today--you have a right to defend your personal space."
Clint laughs a little. Swallows against Phil's grip, then brings a hand up to grip his wrist. Not pulling Phil's hand away, but just holding on. "I liked you on your knees in front of everyone," Phil tells him, thumb stroking along Clint's jaw, and is rewarded with a soft sound from low in Clint's throat.
"Gonna tell me I'm good?" Clint asks. He's making a fair attempt at his usual sarcasm but his voice is too soft, that hint of hurt that says he needs to hear it underlying the sharp tone. Phil makes a considering sound, and feels Clint pull a bit.
"Stay," he warns, and dips his head to kiss the back of Clint's neck.
"Phil--"
Phil smiles. "Yes, Clint. You were good. You were really good." The violence, this time, was even more or less in proportion to the crime, as far as Phil could tell.
Clint sighs--a quietly happy sound that Phil rarely gets out of him--and settles back against Phil, relaxing. "You're just saying that because Sitwell's on my side," he heckles, just because he's Clint. Phil give his throat a little warning squeeze and Clint hums, cheerful and secure.
"I'm on your side too, Clint," Phil says, and kisses the back of his neck again.
----
Sitwell comes back on Wednesday, but he doesn't really look like he's been sick. Phil thinks maybe he's just called in sick so he could spend the day with his chef. Sitwell ignores the accusation.
"She made the best chicken soup I've ever tasted," he says, grinning, slouching in the visitor chair in Phil's office. And of course Sitwell gets to brag about how his sub cooks for him, while Phil gets to gripe about how his will apparently knock people's teeth out for him. Or over him. Or something. Clint hasn't exactly explained his thought processes.
Sitwell seems to be thinking along the same lines, because he says, "I'm sorry about my people harassing Barton. I'll see it never happens again." He still looks smug though, the bastard.
"It was just the one of yours." Phil thinks, anyway. Sitwell's generally pretty good at spotting the fools and trouble makers.
"Speaking of which," Sitwell says, when Phil mentions it, "Where's Barton?"
Phil shrugs. "Haven't seen him all day. Guess he's behaving himself."
Or wreaking absolute havoc. It's one or the other, but Phil chooses to err on the side of faith.
----
Clint comes back later than usual from some kind of training run, smudged and sooty, and leans in the doorway of Phil's bathroom, while Phil's brushing his teeth. He tilts his hip in a silly cocky pose, grinning. Phil spits and rinses and gives him a suspicious look. "What have you been up to now?"
Clint looks hurt, but it's exaggerated and fake. Comical. Phil smiles, but cautiously, because a pleased-with-himself Clint was a red flag for all kinds of things. "Up to?" Clint says, trying not to let the grin show through. It tugs at the corner of his mouth, pulling it into a lopsided smirk that he's not quite managing to suppress. "I haven't been up to anything. I've been minding my own business, like you said to. Who do you think I am, Phil?" Clint's eyes flash humor and Phil lets himself grin back. "It's like," Clint says, slowly, giving weight to each word, "you think I can't listen. Or something."
Phil props his hip against the sink, folding his arms over his chest. "You think you can listen, huh?" He raises his eyebrow dubiously and Clint bites his lip to kill his smirk.
"Of course I can listen," Clint scoffs, and his voice drops a bit, going softer as it does, "I'm good. You know I am."
According to the rules of snark and banter, that's Phil's cue to scoff but he knows Clint is fishing. That even a joking denial of it would cut deeper that Clint would ever let show. Instead Phil says, "Oh? And how do I know that?"
"Because," Clint says, "I stayed out of your office all day. No trouble, no paperwork."
"It was one day, Clint." Phil straightens and moves to exit the bathroom, but Clint un-leans just enough to block his path.
"I was good," he insists. "You have to kiss me."
Phil catches him by his hair, pulling his head back, and Clint goes quiet with a soft sigh. Angles his body to let Phil step past. He's about to clarify to Clint who decides the has to-s around here, then stops. Something about the way Clint's goofy pushiness had just melted away making him go warm inside. He leans in, instead, and plants a kiss on Clint's throat, the angle of his jaw, the side of his neck. Clint shifts his weight to lean against him a bit, getting handsy. Phil gives him a little shake.
"Stop that. You smell like smoke, Barton. Shower. Don't get dressed. Then you can show me how good are."
"Oh, I'll show you alright," Clint says, with that toothy fierce grin he gives when he's spoiling for a fight, but his voice is soft and he doesn't pull against Phil's grip. Doesn't move until Phil lets him go and gives permission.
-----
"Okay," Clint says, "watch this," and goes to his knees by Phil's feet. He's ridiculous and Phil smiles fondly, behind his papers, but just casts a dismissive look down at him, then goes back to his reading.
"Eh," he says and shrugs a bit.
He can tell Clint's a bit thrown, trying to figure out how to prove his good behavior if Phil's not telling him to do anything or even paying attention. Phil hears him huff in annoyance. "Are you being pushy, Barton?" he asks, like it's the last thing he'd believe. Like Clint pushing is an unbelievable concept.
Clint says, "No," softly, and shifts a bit, getting settled, then lets his head drop, to rest on Phil's thigh. The wet ends of his hair are cold, brushing against Phil's leg, and Phil looks down at him, to see if it's part of his game, but Clint's still now, hands by his sides, breath steady. He's naked as ordered, and even though patience isn't Clint's strong suit, he's making a good show of it, waiting quietly for instruction.
Phil lets him stew for a while, then puts his papers down and leans forward to run his hands over Clint's shoulders and back, to ruffle his damp hair. "Everything alright?" he asks, when Clint doesn't look up.
"Fine," Clint says, and tentatively peers up, testing the waters. He's not worried, he just doesn't want to forfeit, and Phil smiles at him. Clint props his chin on Phil's knee, grins. He's so pleased with himself that it makes Phil suspicious, but it also makes him want to take Clint apart.
"I'll wear the collar for you," Clint offers, quiet, grin gone, and Phil puts a hand over his head, gently stroking.
"It's in the office drawer, Clint," he says, and Clint smiles again.
"I brought it home." It's subdued, and Phil can't tell if it's just the anticipation, or if there's something behind it. He tilts Clint's head back to look into his face, trying to read him, but Clint's just looks somehow smug and hazy all at once.
"Ask for it."
Normally, Clint would whine around now, but this time he just twitches and his face twists into an unhappy expression. Then he ducks his head and after a moment of hesitation says, "Please, Coulson. Let me wear your collar," he glances up. Corrects himself, "The collar."
Phil grins. "My collar, Clint?"
"I--" Clint's eyes flash, "Don't make fun of me."
It makes Phil laugh, the way Clint goes from good sub to offended pride, but he keeps it to a chuckle, and smooths down Clint's hair, where it's half-dried and full of fluff and flyaways. "I'm not, Clint," he says, because he's not making fun. He's pleased and proud that Clint wants to wear a collar for him, but the request also makes him worry. "Do you want to wear it? Or is this about something?"
"I want to," Clint mumbles, not looking at him, and Phil catches him and tilts his head back until they make eye contact.
"You hate the collar."
Clint grins, "Yeah," he says, on an exhale, voice a whisper, "But I like belonging to you. I like looking like I belong to you."
Phil pulls him up and kisses him, letting his papers slide off his lap to scatter on the floor. "Go get it, then," he says when they pull apart, and loosens his hold so Clint can slide out of his grasp.
Clint goes to rummage in his bags, and comes back to kneel again, between Phil's thighs this time, and presses the heavy leather into Phil's hand, a little hitch in his breath as he does. "Good, right?" he says, even as his eyes slide shut at the touch of the collar on his throat.
Phil buckles it and checks that it's not too tight. Guides Clint to lay his head back on his thigh. "Yeah. You're good alright," he says, and Clint hums in satisfaction, "You're really good."
Clint shivers a bit. "Told'ya," he says.
-----
On Friday, Clint shoves someone into the change room lockers for absently stroking his cheek, recognizing him as a sub and acting without thinking. An innocent faux pas, really.
"I was naked," Clint says, and goes to his knees facing the wall without being told. "That makes it way more inappropriate."
"The man is from the Midwest, Clint. He's from a traditional--"
"His tradition can kiss my ass," Clint snaps, "I'm from fucking Iowa, and I know that shit's not on."
Phil sighs. "Alright," he says, because that's the problem. That Clint is in the right. "But couldn't you have just slapped him, or something?"
"Because that's so much more dignified than letting assholes pat me." Clint says.
-----
"If you look at it from a certain angle," Sitwell says, doling out large pieces of some kind of pastry-wrapped spinach thing. "It's kind of adorable." The steam rising from the food has a sharp spicy quality to it, like curry, maybe. It smells delicious.
"Adorable, huh?" Phil snorts.
"Well, I mean in a rom-com kind of way." He hands Phil a plastic fork, stolen from the cafeteria, "If you give me second, I can come up with a catchy tagline for you."
"Please don't," Phil says, and then, when Sitwell opens his mouth anyway, "I swear to god, Jasper, my taser is right here."
-----
"I think Sitwell might have a weird crush on you," Phil says, in bed with his arms wrapped around Clint's chest.
"I have a crush on Sitwell's girlfriend," Clint says, even though he's never met her. Phil feels the same way, though. "I hope she never learns portion control."
-----
"So? She loves through food," Sitwell shrugs, then smiles goofily, "Feeding me is how people know she's mine. Her words."
Phil's phone buzzes. He puts down his cookie to check the screen, and sighs.
"Barton?" Sitwell guesses, because Monday had been without incident and he's overdue.
"Barton," Phil confirms and starts digging for the appropriate form, "Apparently, people know he's mine, because everyone else gets kicked in the head."
Sitwell steals the cookie back, "See?" he says, shoving it in his mouth and talking around it as he chews, "I told you it's adorable."
Phil clicks his pen and goes to fill in the date. It is, of course, a Tuesday.