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“Phil, you’re not busy, are you?” Director Fury’s voice sounded almost... amused, over Phil’s comm.
“Because there’s no reason at all to think I might be busy,” Phil replied, letting all the snark he felt drip into every word. If Nick was opening a conversation with ‘Phil’ and not ‘Agent Coulson’ then they must be off the record.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ve got something for you. Come and get it.”
Phil sighed. Nick had a unique perspective on the value of gifts.
“Where are--are you even on the Helicarrier?”
“No.” Nick had a way of making you feel stupid with a single syllable, but Phil could play that game, too. “Where are you?”
“On the Helicarrier. Somewhere over Sisimiut. ...Greenland.” Phil added after a pause.
“I know where Sisimiut is.” Phil realized Nick’s voice actually sounded charged with adrenaline and maybe excitement (and maybe a few shots of bourbon, if Phil knew him as well as he believed he did) but Phil didn’t think he was in danger. He’d have called for a recovery team if that were the case.
“You secure, sir?” Phil asked him, just to be sure.
“I’m fine. Get a transport to New York, alright? Meet me at the deli.”
The ‘deli’ as he and Nick called it, was actually a dimly lit alley pub that served pie and fried food that was perfect to drink with and no one asked questions. It was just after 11pm when Phil was finally dropped off on the roof of a nearby building and found Nick right where he said he’d be, a couple baskets of picked over chicken strips and onion rings on the table among a few empty glasses.
Nick had bloodied knuckles, not yet scabbed over, and a fat lip. The man slumped in the booth across from him was considerably worse off. Still, over the underlying weariness of what appeared to be a recent fight, the two of them were all grins and glossy-eyed endorphins.
“Cheese,” Nick said, sitting up, giving him as much of a smile as he ever did.
“Did you do this to each other?” Phil looked between Nick and the man. “Should I be formulating an incident cover for something we need to have not happened?”
“No, no. The incident is five by five. Put to rest. But this son of a bitch, right here...” Nick pointed across from him. “He’s a piece of work, Phil. I had to bring him in for you.”
Phil looked at the man in question; under the marks of a fresh fight, he had a ruggedly handsome enough face, though unremarkable. Forgettable, even. A convenience in their line of work that Phil used to his own advantage as well. He was in his seat hunched like he was exhausted, maybe in some pain, but it didn’t hide the fact that he also had the muscular build and sharp-eyed awareness of an expert.
He also appeared to be mildly amused by the way Nick was referring to him in the third person, so Phil followed Nick’s lead.
“Oh? Am I supposed to arrest him, kill him, or protect him?”
The stranger raised his eyebrows at that.
“See?” Nick grinned, sly and arrogant. “He doesn’t look like much but that’s one-hundred percent for real, right there. Never underestimate this man.”
Phil was less amused about being spoken about in the third person, which he demonstrated by exhaling a low inpatient sigh.
“Alright. Phil Coulson, this is your new sniper: Clint Barton.” Nick said this with a hint of ‘ta-dah!’ in the introduction.
The man cleared his throat, like he was experiencing second-hand awkwardness from the shared history and smart-assing between Nick and Phil.
“Ah. Hey?” He flexed his fingers in a sort of wave, his bloodied knuckles evidence enough for not offering a civilized handshake.
“Pleased to meet y--wait. As in Hawkeye?” He turned to Nick, interested. “You brought me the World’s Greatest Marksman?”
“That’s not really my title anymore,” Barton said quietly, scratching the back of head.
“No. I’ve read the file, but it’s still true,” Phil said. It was a simple and honest professional compliment that Phil didn’t think was out of order, but Barton still look surprised, and then his cheek twitched and he looked away.
“Thanks.”
“You haven’t asked me how I got him yet,” Nick said, and carried right on like he couldn’t resist any longer. “He was hired to assassinate me!”
“Which, I didn’t,” Barton inserted quickly, as Phil reacted with considerably less delight over the announcement than Nick was displaying. “As you can see.”
“I do see. And the state you two are in is because?...”
“Seemed the people who hired him weren’t as impressed as I was that he decided not to follow through with the job. Got tight, but we took care of business.”
Nick and Barton exchanged knowing smirks and then honest to god fist-bumped each other. Phil was grudgingly impressed, which he felt covered nobly for the distant jealousy that spiked. He had a long (and mostly secret) history with Nick Fury, which lent itself to real friendship and insider trust that few could claim. Clint Barton appeared to have earned the same in one night and a brawl.
“Well, I suppose I’m obliged to you for that, Mr. Barton.”
“Aw, man. You can just call me Clint.”
Phil wouldn’t. He used surnames as much out of professional courtesy as simple lifelong habit, from childhood sports to the Rangers and now SHIELD. First names were for close, personal relationships only.
Still, Phil looked him in the eye; they were slightly hooded and bloodshot, but felt the corner of his mouth twist into a smile mirroring Barton’s. Phil knew a little about the man called Hawkeye. His target accuracy was elevated to something of a urban myth among sharpshooters and his reputation ran from Robin Hood levels of heroism, to highly questionable vigilantism. Much of the antics that had been attributed to the assassin were indisputably illegal, but Phil had seen the integrity in the acts as well. And while he always took Nick’s sense of humor with a grain of salt, apparently Hawkeye belonged to Phil now.
“Welcome to SHIELD, Mr. Barton.”
Barton inclined his head, accepting Phil’s welcome and Phil’s decline to use his first name.
“I have a file?”
“Everyone does.”
That was nearly true. And Phil kept tabs on the files of some of the more remarkable people in the world and Clint Barton’s file was one of Phil’s favorites.
He was sure it hadn’t been any time at all, but he was still snagged out of his thoughts by Nick’s throat clearing.
“Yes. Well, I’ve got a business to run. Agent Coulson’s gonna get you squared away and ready to work with us.”
Nick slid out of the other side of the booth to Barton’s protest about not being an imposition.
“Nah, man. I don’t--I can find my own--” he started.
“We made an agreement, you and I, yes?” Nick said, leaning on the table and looking Barton hard in the face. He had a way of presenting as friendly that was actually intimidating as hell. It wasn’t Phil’s way, he was equipped with a different set of people skills, but he still admired Nick’s unique quality of being.
“We did,” Barton said evenly, not flinching from Nick’s eyeline. He didn’t look intimidated at all. Phil felt confident assuming that Nick was overlooking Barton’s transgression of an assassination attempt as the price for his allegiance. “But I don’t need to put anyone out.” Barton inclined his head toward Phil.
“Look, I don’t know if any of your previous associates are going crop up looking for you. You seem have a knack for pissing people off. And right now you’re injured and unarmed. You stick with Phil here, and I know you’ll stay alive long enough to hold up your end of the bargain.”
Barton considered this silently before nodding his acceptance.
“You’re not putting anyone out. Phil’s the best at the job, he’s my right hand for a reason.”
Phil sighed as Nick swept out of the through the back door.
“You know what it sounds like when he says that, right?” Barton said, making a jerk-off gesture with his right hand.
“I am aware.” Phil narrowly avoided rolling his eyes. “I’m certain he is, too.”
Barton laughed quietly, the gentle burr of the it making Phil look at him. He had a line of dark coagulating blood cutting across the bridge of his nose.
“Known him long, huh?” Barton asked.
“A very long time, yes.” Phil didn’t want to discuss his friendship with Nick Fury. He was already forced into a much higher level of personal familiarity with this man. Being familiar with his SHIELD file didn’t mean he wasn’t still a virtual stranger. “Do you require medical care?” He deliberately changed the subject.
“Nah. I’m just a mess.” Barton sighed. “Usually am. Point me to a bunk to crash in. I’ll be good for work tomorrow.”
All Barton wanted was some sleep. He was younger than Phil (and who wasn’t these days?) but he still had the weary look of someone who was just ...done. It was no wonder he’d come in. Working solo must be exhausting.
“Do you have belongings somewhere?”
“Got the clothes on my back. I got a few hidey-holes here and there. Uh, nothing close.”
Barton pulled the napkin away from the bridge of his nose and almost looked surprise at the fresh blood still there.
“I don’t know what Directory Fury told you. Let me explain,” Phil said. “SHIELD frequently works with civilian contractors. We can outfit you with the gear and supplies you require to do the job we ask of you. Of course we’ll cover the cost of transportation, housing while on assignment and provide you with per diem for basic amenities.”
Barton snorted out a manic sounding little laugh he cut into silence again. “Of course” he says,” Barton said. “Coulson, you might have got a different impression of what kind of job he has in mind for me. I’m just a...”
“I have the impression that you did not assassinate him when given the chance, that the two of you fought your way out of a situation, and afterwards he asked you to work for us.”
Barton laughed again. “His line was more like come work for me and I won’t kill you for that bullshit.”
Phil smiled. “The Director has his way and I have mine. It’s very late. Standard SHIELD quarters are no place for a high profile specialist such as yourself. Besides, there’d be paperwork involved.”
“Hell, don’t do any paperwork on my account.”
“I could check you into a room at a reputable hotel--”
“Don’t think I look too reputable just now.” Barton looked at the bloody napkin in his hand and licked at the corner of his mouth.
Phil agreed. Not at the moment, no, but he could envision the possibilities of just how sharp Barton would look all cleaned up, clean shaven, wearing a button-shirt and jacket.
“If you’re not averse to the idea,” Phil said. “I have an apartment here in the city. We can take a cab.”
“Ah, it’s secure, I take it? I wouldn’t want to draw any heat to your place.”
“Oh, yes. It’s secure.” Phil pulled out his phone and dialed. “The taxi will be at the end of the block.”
Barton gave him a measured look and Phil let him have the moment. Phil presented bland but friendly, which was a calculated measure and most people bought it easily, but Barton was clearly looking beyond the surface. Phil respected his insight (he was a little turned on by competence, to be honest) and realized that Hawkeye stood for more than visual acuity alone.
“Well, I’ve done crazier things. Lay on, Macduff.”
Phil didn’t react to the Shakespeare quote, but he appreciated it.
They didn’t talk during the taxi ride and when they got out in front of Phil’s building Clint said, “That wasn’t a real cabby.”
Phil smirked. “You’re not wrong. Not many people would have noticed that.” Barton wasn’t one of the best without reason. “It was a SHIELD cover.”
“Handy.”
“We try. This way?” Phil nodded to the doorway and then lead them inside. Early May weather wasn’t cold but the wind was chilly.
There were few people in the lobby at this time of night and those who were, weren’t any more interested in asking questions then having them asked. Phil could see Barton quietly taking in every nuance in the layout, each exit and elevator.
Once at Phil’s door, Barton tactfully looked aside while Phil disengaged the locks. Phil appreciated the respect for his privacy. While Phil was an expert at security, he suspected Barton was more than capable of breaking in without looking over Phil’s shoulder for the code.
“Shower’s that way.” Phil pointed, resetting the security system. “There are towels, and a med kit under the sink.”
“‘Preciate it.” Barton said, heading off slowly in the direction of the bathroom, taking in the framed posters that hung on the wall: 1937 NYC Jazz Festival above the sofa, a vintage Captain America above table. Phil felt the little inner thrill at having someone looking at his geek stuff. A collector always wants to share his stuff but he quelled the feeling. “I’ll leave a change of clothes for you.”
Phil meant that he’d leave the clothes outside the door, but Barton didn’t shut the door while he showered, giving Phil a glimpse of his silhouetted body through the grey curtain. He set the pair of SHIELD issue black sleep pants and marl grey t-shirt next to the sink.
He didn’t come to this apartment very often. He checked the kitchen for food stores, accounted for the hidden weapons, logged into the SHIELD server. By the time he’d taken off his tie and jacket, Barton had finished his shower. He could hear the clang of the med kit and the rustling of paper packets.
“Can I offer you a hand?” He knocked, taking the liberty of slowly pushing the bathroom door open. Barton was bent over the counter, wearing only the sleep pants and fighting with strips of torn bandage and paper. The adhesive tape was folding onto itself and the paper was sticking to the still bleeding knuckles.
“In spite of all evidence to the contrary, I’m usually a pretty capable guy.” Barton held up his hands in surrender, attempting to joke, but his voice was weedy and his shoulders slumped. “Okay, that’s a lie. This is about par.”
It was kind of pitiful and Phil couldn’t not help him.
“Here, let me.”
Barton sat down on the closed toilet lid and looked up at Phil with an embarrassed smile.
“Sorry.”
“Not at all.”
Barton’s hair was damp-spiky in every direction like he’d scrubbed his towel over his head and left the resulting fluff. Drops of water dotted his bare shoulders and down his chest. Observing this, Phil told himself, was done in the name first aid; Barton had bruises and abrasions but nothing that indicated internal damage.
Phil bandaged his hands in several place and removed the one from his nose that was already bleeding through afresh.
“This isn’t working. But here.” Phil grabbed the small aluminum tube from the cabinet. “I think this might do the trick.”
Barton didn’t move but his expression got wary.
“It’s just medical glue. Superglue, basically. I’ve used it. It won’t even hurt. ...Promise”
Phil waited to make any further move, just stood patiently, calmly, watching Barton think it through. He looked from the tube in Phil’s hand, to his face. Whatever he saw in Phil’s eyes must have been convincing because he nodded once and then let his eyes go unfocused, letting Phil close the cut on his forehead and the large one on the bridge of his nose.
“You’re nice,” Barton said.
That surprised Phil and it must have shown.
“Sorry, just. I don’t happen into that many nice people. I mean, I know there’s lots of good folk out there. I see ‘em. I just don’t often have anyone do for me like this.”
Phil liked to think he was a good person in general, but he’d only shown Barton some basic consideration. Not what he’d consider inordinately ‘nice’. Barton’s apparent lack of experience with standard partnership or team camaraderie was rather unfortunate.
“It’s no trouble,” Phil said, acknowledging what Barton said with a smile. “Almost done here.”
He had to brace his thumb and fingers on the bones of Barton’s brow and cheekbones while the glue set, sealing the wounds. Barton closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, whether consciously or out of sheer exhaustion Phil couldn’t tell. He wasn’t altogether sure Barton wasn’t suffering head injury.
“You didn’t get hit on the head, did you?” Phil asked. He used his gentlest voice but it still sounded loud in the bathroom.
Barton opened his eyes, watery, bloodshot, and dilated. “Don’t ...think so?”
That wasn’t nearly convincing enough for Phil’s comfort. He shifted his fingers to the edge of Barton’s hairline and very slowly, gently and methodically, finger-walked his way through Barton’s hair, feeling his skull for bumps or cuts. Barton remained still, watching Phil’s face until his eyes fluttered shut.
Phil looked at him, struck by an overwhelming attraction. Barton wasn’t beautiful, not classically; his nose had been broken, probably more than once, and there were scars and but for whatever inexplicable reasons these things happened, he was exactly the kind of man Phil wanted.
“I... I don’t feel any injury.”
Barton smiled with one side of his mouth and opened his eyes. “Hard head.”
“That, I believe.” Phil reached for the box of bandages. “Let me butterfly this one, it’ll-” Phil had to clear his throat, not realizing his mouth had gone totally dry “--it’ll, ah, heal better.”
“Thanks.” Barton blinked up at him. His fair hair was beginning to drying fluffy and silky-fine.
“I think you need to sleep.”
Barton nodded, saying nothing and looking Phil directly in the eye as he stood. There was something almost expectant in his expression, and Phil almost thought for a moment that Barton was going to kiss him. It made him feel squirmy and Phil never felt squirmy.
“I’ll take the couch. You can have the bedroom.”
“Don’t want to put you out.”
Phil shook his head. “You’re the guest here. Please.”
He stepped away from Barton then, because remaining so close no longer felt justified and whatever moment had just been developing between them was fading.
Barton nodded and crowded close as he passed. A few minutes later Phil heard him flump onto the bed and shortly after he fell into the heavy breathing pattern of exhaustion. Barton probably slept silently when in good health, as most skilled stealth professionals do, but having a swollen nose probably contributed to the slight snore.
Phil stripped out of his shoes, socks, pants and shirt, and stretched on the couch in his t-shirt and underwear. He folded his hands on his stomach and closed his eyes, letting his mind track over the day’s events, ticking them off of a mental checklist. It had already been a full shift and it ended with the unexpected detour of Nick’s call, coming to NYC, and then tending the wounds of one of the most renowned sharpshooters in the world. Not bad a day, all things considered. Phil’s days were generally chock full of unexpected events, he rolled with change just fine, but he’d developed a system to calibrate his subconscious mind with all the changes. He found it helped him rest more peacefully, remember where he was when he woke up, and to better anticipate what should come next.
Phil was just beginning to sink into the shadowy in-between space of sleep and half-formed dreams of Barton appreciating Phil’s jokes, and feeling Barton press his face into his outstretched hand, turning to kiss it, and then quiet...
His dream space went too quiet, out of place with the dreamy laughter and he became aware of the audible silence in his apartment.
“Sorry. Can’t sleep,” Barton said from the bedroom doorway. His voice was gritty and sounded very apologetic. Phil was almost surprised that the sound of it hadn’t startled him but apparently his subconscious was doing its job.
Phil opened his eyes. It was some relief to find that his hands were still folded on his stomach and not reaching out to touch dream-Barton’s face.
“Is there something wrong?” he asked, sitting up.
When his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he could see the shadow of Barton where he stood. It felt discourteous to talk to someone without the benefit of eye contact, so he got up and it wasn’t until he approached that he realized that Barton had never put on the t-shirt he’d given him. The soft cotton sleep pants were riding low on his hips. Every muscle in his torso was sharply defined and sparse hair fuzzed over the center of his chest and nipples. Phil worked among a legion of fit and attractive men; he wasn’t so base as to be turned on by a nice physique alone. No, the quirk in Phil’s brain was turned on by a sleepy, rumpled and bandaged man who looked a little lost and worn out. Not for the first time Phil wondered if it was a legitimate kink or some kind of perversion to be attracted to strong men when they were hurting and vulnerable.
“Want something to help you sleep? I’ve probably got some--”
“No. No meds. Just...” Barton started to rub at his face, felt the edge of the bandage Phil had put over the bridge of his nose and scratched behind his ear instead. “You know what it’s like, right? In an unknown place. Another person in the room.”
“I’m sorry, there’s-” Phil was going to assure him of the security in place, maybe give him a weapon if he preferred but Barton cut him off.
“It’s been a weird-ass, long, fucking day.” Barton kind of laughed. “I knew they were a bunch of clowns, the …the people who hired me take out Fury, right?” He used his hands as he talked. “As if. And then there was the set up, and then take down and fighting and then Nick fucking Fury buys me dinner and offers me a job? I don’t even…” He trailed off, shaking his head.
Phil thought about his own need to decompress after an eventful day, thought how nice it would be to have someone to unwind with. “Kind of hard to file all the information on some days, huh?”
“Yeah. Exactly. I mean, I don’t even know what’s gonna happen next. I mean, SHIELD is, like...” Barton made a bursting gesture by waggling fingers over his head with an animated verbal explosive sound, his thought process clear: mind blown.
Phil chuckled at that, giggled really, the humor of it hitting him unexpectedly.
Barton grinned, lopsided and sheepish.
“I think that’s a fair assessment of things,” Phil said, tamping down his smile and nodding. He realized that Barton’s smile was slipping, too. His eyes were focused and soft on Phil.
“And then you. Bringing me here. Doctoring me up,” Barton continued, his voice going deeper. “But I still got all this, like, energy,” Barton clenched a fist and made a snarly sound, “from earlier. Know what I’m talking about?”
Phil nodded, feeling slightly hypnotized by Barton’s ...everything.
“You know it, right?” Barton said, imperceptibly shifting closer and Phil didn’t move away, felt his own respiration increase. “That kind of, argh, deep inside you? All pent up and just needing to--”
He kissed Phil, wetter than Phil expected, and while there was urgency in his body’s tension, he still pulled back slightly, lips barely touching Phil’s, pausing. The silent offer of an out was appreciated but not necessary. Phil wasn’t going to turn him down.
He instantaneously considered conflicts of interest, but the two of them were distant colleagues, at best. And he only ever met people through work anyway. That was just the way of it.
It’s not like Phil was ever going to hook-up with a nice school teacher living a quiet life in the midwest. His life wasn’t constructed like that. No, Phil jumped at opportunities when they were made available and Phil hadn’t had an attractive man move on him in over a year.
Barton was hard, his cock pressing at Phil’s hip where it stuck out, trapped in his pajamas. He reached for Barton, putting both hands on his waist as he stepped fully into the dark bedroom and completely against his body.
“I. Jus’ wan’--” Barton tried to say, breathless and cut off between teeth and kisses.
“Yes. ’s okay,” Phil said, agreeing. He just wanted as well. He guided them forward, making it to the bed in only a couple of long strides without pulling apart.
Together they tugged off Phil’s t-shirt and Barton was already pushing at Phil’s underwear as they shifted onto the bed. The way he clung and clutched at Phil like he might disappear made Phil want to soothe him. He held Barton close, stroking his body with far more tenderness than he would have imagined himself doing for a desperate middle-of-the-night fuck between two virtual strangers. He knew there wasn’t attachment here, just adrenaline, and Barton was emotionally needy and here under Phil’s protection, and maybe that made this unethical somehow but Barton wasn’t a young man being taken advantage of. They were both adults and what Barton had tried to explain was true. The kinds of things they lived through, the fighting and death, the sudden violence and just as quick re-emergence back into civilized society, left a person uncoiled and disconnected on the inside. Shared intimacy was a time-tested method for dealing battle fatigue; Phil had no guilt.
Barton’s body was an impressive work of muscle and beauty. Phil could feel the strength in him as he moved. For all that muscle density he moved lightly like a dancer, and for all his clinging he never once attempted to strong-arm Phil in any way.
Phil lay back, revelling in the kisses and scrape of teeth along his skin and received an enthusiastic blow job for yielding. Phil was careful of the cuts on Barton’s face as he touched him, encouraging him with uncontrollable moans of his own. He was close to coming when Barton shifted back up along Phil’s body and began jerking him off. Phil reached for Barton’s cock and they stroked each other, arching and push-pulling with their bodies. It wasn’t delicate but they weren’t rough, Barton wasn’t unkind or inconsiderate.
Phil’s lips burned from stubble rash and his balls were aching, and when Barton pressed his brow to Phil’s chest, a desperate noise rattled in his throat and he started to come. He felt chills ripple along his bare skin with the pleasure of it. He squeezed Barton’s cock in response, pressing with the pad of thumb and felt Barton’s warm release land on his wrist without making a single sound.
Phil half-heartedly wiped them off with the edge of the sheet but gave it up where they lay.
Phil stared up at the ceiling, scratching gently through the short hair at the base of Barton’s skull, whose cheek was resting on Phil’s stomach. He’d been quiet and still for several minutes but Phil knew he wasn’t sleeping.
Phil was prepared. This post-coital gentleness of sharing bared skin and quiet intimacy would end soon. It always did. Soon Barton would get up, gather his clothes, muttering about having a habit of sleeping alone and wouldn’t make eye contact. Even nice men did that. Not that many had the opportunity. Phil worked with a lot of quality, attractive people, but only one every couple of years was worth Phil’s time. There was no time for commitments.
Barton raised his head, blinking up at Phil with puffy eyes. Phil couldn’t help but smile at him.
“You need to get up?” he asked.
“No.” Barton glanced around the room but didn’t shift away from Phil at all. “You armed?”
As Phil was obviously as naked as Barton was at the moment, he didn’t think he was asking about weapons on his physical person.
“The apartment’s well fortified, I give you my word on that. But, there’s a 9mm under the mattress. An armory behind a hidden panel in the second bedroom, and an escape door in the kitchen that leads to the seventh floor fire escape.”
Barton nodded and then yawned, his eyes closing and mouth widening enough that Phil could see a silver molar filling.
“S’okay if I sleep ‘ere?” Barton asked, words slurred as he slumped into Phil again. He rubbed his eyebrow into Phil’s stomach, the subtle kiss he pressed to the skin not going unnoticed by Phil and then turned his head again, arching into Phil’s fingers so he’d continue the scratching.
Phil felt Barton’s breathing deepen, felt his weight settle, heavy slack setting into the bulky muscles of his shoulders. It wasn’t convenient, to be pinned like this. He was able to shove another pillow under his head and reach the TV remote. He found an old episode of “Cheers” and let himself relax to the ebb and flow of sitcom laughter and Barton’s breathing and found that he wasn’t annoyed about being stuck so that Barton could sleep knowing where Phil was.
Phil had had men fall asleep on top of him before. One had collapsed grossly sweaty after fucking him. Phil had been younger then, had been less skilled at discerning good bed partners and trustworthy people to let into his personal space.
The other man to fall asleep on him had been cute, sweet and had a sharp mind. He’d told Phil that he loved him, but Phil hadn’t returned the feeling. He only had starry-eyes for his new career chasing the mysteries of the universe. It was like all his favorite sci-fi movies were coming true.
Barton, he knew, didn’t need Phil for anything. He was strong, and clever, and driven by his own mission in life. He also welcomed Phil’s comfort and even his humor, such as it was.
Phil stroked over Barton’s hair, ran a finger over the shell of his ear. His life was no less full of science fiction mysteries, but he had grown into a much better judge of character and he liked this character lying on him. Phil had developed a nurturing side as he’d matured and had little outlet for it in his life. Jasper would roll his eyes sometimes and ask if he should go find Phil a puppy. Jerk.
Barton was infinitely better than a puppy.
He woke hours later when Barton shifted off of him, muttering “thanks,” which he clearly didn’t intend for Phil to actually hear, but the sentiment was appreciated.
Phil dressed while Barton was in the bathroom and he knocked on the door. Not waiting for a reply, he said, “I’m going to the corner store. Take your time--just, don’t take off... please.”
He didn’t really expect Barton to take off. He had seemed honestly inclined to honor his arrangement with Nick--and Phil definitely prioritized that arrangement ahead of any possibility of Barton wanting to spend time with him. He’d contemplated the risk of leaving Barton in the apartment alone, but he’d already slept while the man was there. Any risk had already been and gone.
When he got back with bags in tow, the bathroom door was ajar, steam still clouding the edges of the mirror, and Barton was singing. It was something kind of soulful, pop-y, using female pronouns intimating the love of his life, but it could have just as easily been a car or city, as a woman. He was shaving, so his voice weakened when he extended his head back, carefully working along his neck, or when he made an elongated oval with his mouth to get around his lips, but his voice was divine; smooth and strong, with a light quality. There was a hint of grit in the deeper tones that made Phil think he could pull off a rock number with ease, but Phil wasn’t about to ask. He didn’t want to do anything but listen and did just that with his hands still on the bags. He leaned on the kitchen counter, smiling as he listened, getting momentary glimpses of Barton’s shower-pinkened arms and shoulders through the door as he swayed while he sang.
“Morning,” he said when he saw Phil and flicked off the bathroom light as he came out. He was almost naked but for a pair of underwear. He didn’t even to try pretend that he hadn’t realized Phil was back. Phil intentionally hadn’t been quiet when he returned, and he was certain that Clint was plenty alert to his surrounding. Phil was glad he wasn’t self-conscious of his singing; there was sure no reason to be.
“I used your razor. And uh, snagged a pair of drawers.” He put both thumbs into the elastic waistband and let it snap back against his stomach. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. You’re welcome to whatever you need. I took your things to the laundry on the corner, and picked up a change in your size. They always have unclaimed things and, well, actually, SHIELD has a bit of an arrangement with them.” He set the bag of clothes on the counter and set the paper claims-receipt next it. Phil would collect the clothes himself, but he felt it courteous to give Clint the option of doing it.
“Thanks--aw, yeah, these are perfect,” he said, shaking out a pair of faded jeans and stepping into them.
“You’re welcome.”
There were a few varieties of boxer-briefs to choose from in Phil’s drawer. Personally, he preferred the dark, fitted, silky-lycra blend under his suit pants and would have expected Barton to go for them. Instead he’d chosen the more airy, casual cotton boxers that Phil would wear with a pair pleated khaki trousers. They seemed to do just nicely under the loose fitting jeans Barton pulled on. He didn’t bother zipping them up or even putting on a shirt. He leaned back against the counter looking at the other bags.
Phil was self-possessed enough to not be lecherous about it but Barton was very easy to look at. Phil wanted so much to touch all that bare skin, to kiss him again. He’d spent hours stroking his shoulders and the back of his neck while Barton slept and felt like he wasn’t allowed. In spite of what they’d done in the dark of the night, Phil couldn’t assume that it would carry on into the next day.
“Right. So. Coffee,” Phil said, making himself look aside and set out the Thermos he’d had filled.
“Aw, yes,” Barton hissed, taking the stainless canister and twisting off the lid. He drank directly from it, heedless of how hot it was, and he hissed and puffed air to cool his mouth. He didn’t took any care to pour it into a separate mug.
“Also water, orange juice--I wasn’t sure what you’d want this morning.” Phil realized after he’d spoken that his words carried double meeting. “Uh, and.” He cleared his throat. “There’s muffins, too, but these breakfast burritos from Nidito’s are worth try --” He stopped talking as Barton was already tearing open the yellow parchment paper and moaning over his first bite.
“Egg and chorizo, are you kidding me?” Barton said though his mouthful. “Favorite. Ever. God, you’re like the Christmas I never had.”
That was such a sad thing to say. Phil paused, thinking that if a pair of worn jeans, hot coffee and quick breakfast foods were the equivalent of a good Christmas, then Barton has been severely deprived.
His pause seemed to make Barton uncomfortable, realizing he’d revealed too much maybe. He “mm”d over another bite and looked away.
“Glad you like it. Some people don’t care for Mexican food.”
“I’ll eat anything. Not too picky about food. And I love Mexican.”
Phil opened his burrito as well and they leaned against the counter eating silently for a few bites before Barton nudged Phil’s shoulder with his own, grinned at him, and then began to wander Phil’s apartment.
“Do you actually listen to jazz or just like this old poster?” Clint asked.
“Both. That was one of the first jazz festivals in the country that was sanctioned by the local government. There were seventeen UFO sightings reported that week and that was in 1937, a year before the ‘War of the Worlds’ radio play. Very few people had any frame of reference for flying saucers then.”
“That so?”
Phil nodded.
“Huh.”
Sometimes Phil just couldn’t keep the geekery from flying out of his mouth.
“Is that what you’re into, then? UFOs and shit?”
“Among other things. Any sort of unexplained phenomena, really.”
“Well. Now I know who to call, forget ‘Ghostbusters’.” Phil pressed his lips together to not comment of the delight of such a cheesy joke. “I see a lot of weird stuff in my line of work,” Barton continued.
“The trick is to remember things exactly as they happened.”
“Well. Yeah. Isn’t that kinda obvious?”
Phil shook his head and walked around the kitchen counter and stood near him.
“Most people, when they see something completely foreign to them, something that so defies all logic and understanding of the world they think they know, the subconscious mind will just alter the memory. It’s not intentional.”
Barton got a little frown between his brows and gave him a sceptical look.
“Get out.”
“It’s true. Rather than accept a reality that defies explanation, people will just redefine reality with whatever they can. It complicates investigations considerably.”
“You’re good at what you do, though, aren’t you? You find the truth?”
“I...” Phil was about to brush off the compliment, but Barton’s expression was so earnest that Phil flustered. He felt himself flush and promptly studied the grain in the carpet. “I enjoy my work. If aliens are really like E.T or those pretty lights from ‘Close Encounters’, I’d hate to start shooting first, you know?”
Barton chuckled. “Yeah. I bet Steven Spielberg should be expecting a visit from you, huh?”
He stopped chuckling at the unyielding expression on Phil’s face. Mr. Spielberg was definitely on the watch list.
“On the other hand,” Phil said, changing the subject, “should aliens turn up like in ‘Predator’, we’d like the human race to stand a fighting chance.”
“I appreciate that.” Barton wandered further, stopping in front of the Captain America poster.
“Was there something suspicious about this guy? Gonna tell me he was really an alien?”
“No, Captain Rogers was one hundred percent human. His Super Soldier transformation was meticulously catalogued.” Phil had even read Dr. Erskine’s actual handwritten journals. They were secured in a SHIELD vault. “He was….” Phil hesitated, feeling protective of his feelings for the Captain, beyond how geeky he was over the guy, he knew it just looked like a crush (the man had been gorgeous) trying to describe why someone was your hero was near impossible. “The only thing mysterious about the Captain was his disappearance.”
“Thought he was killed at the end of the war.”
“The war ended because he sacrificed himself, yes, but neither the aircraft or his body were ever recovered.”
“Huh.” Barton looked at the poster a moment longer before he turned and stood right in front of Phil. “So what, you think he survived?”
Phil wanted to say how much he hoped that were true. That Steve Rogers had survived and continued his good work around the world anonymously. But that was a flight of fancy he wasn’t confident sharing with Barton.
“I try not to speculate,” he said instead. “But until some kind of evidence is recovered, I at least consider his case an open investigation.”
“You do? Does that mean SHIELD doesn’t?”
“It’s been classified as a closed file. I argued for it to be reopened but I was overruled.”
“You argued? I got the impression you were a company man, Coulson.” There was no real derision in Barton’s teasing.
Phil shrugged a shoulder. “The director and I have ten dollars riding on it instead.”
Barton chuckled and stuck both thumbs in his front pockets as he looked around Phil’s apartment. He was gorgeous--shirtless, his jeans still open and barely hanging on his hips, and his feet bare.
“This is a comfortable place. You got pretty good taste. Ha, uh, present company excluded.” He made that cute one-sided smile. He looked rather a lot like an invitation.
“Thank you, but I don’t know about taste. I just like what I like. Present company included.”
Barton smiled again, dropped his gaze to the floor and then peered back up at Phil with a tilted head. He kicked one foot out playfully, his big toe just barely catching the material of Phil’s pant-leg.
“Hey, so. Thanks for patching me up. And for the threads.” He tugged the jeans up a little, making enticing movement happen in the crotch area. “And for the best damn burrito I’ve had in months. I’m good for it. I can pay you back”
“That won’t be necessary. I regularly get new SHIELD consultants set up like this.”
“Is that so?” Barton chuckled.
“Yes,” Phil answered, realizing a second too late that he might be implying that he sleeps with them all. “That is, relocating and medical care, not what you and I--what we did was--you know, how about weapons?”
Phil tried to change the gears of this fumbled conversation by leading them to the spare room. He ignored Barton’s smirking.
He released the hidden lever on the bookshelf and a panel in the wall slid open, revealing an assortment of weapons and explosives.
“Well. Damn.” Barton’s expression at the display of weapons was carefully blank and then he turned to Phil with a decidedly more sultry look in his eye. “This might be the sexiest thing anyone has ever shown me.”
Phil collapsed a little towards him, feeling ridiculously undignified and immature. “It’s just, you can select whatever you want. Because you’re working for us now.”
Barton looked at Phil’s mouth, Phil looked at his ...everything still: his shoulders and his cleanly shaven jaw and his soft lips. Phil really wanted to kiss him. He moved close and Barton closed in, too, their chests nearly touched, their eyes going from each other’s mouth to eyes and then Phil’s mobile phone rang.
They both froze, right up close where they were, in a holding a pattern. Barton smiled and Phil pulled phone from his pocket and answered without looking away from Barton.
“Coulson.”
“You still got my sniper?” Nick said.
“I thought you said he was my sniper,” Phil replied. “You gave him to me.”
Barton’s lips twitched into a grin and slowly turned to the weapons wall to leave Phil to his call.
Phil listened while Nick updated him on developments in the field and told him he had an assignment for Barton already. Not for the first time Phil wondered when, exactly, Nick ever slept.
He watched as Barton took down guns, tested their weight, looked down the sight, and made quiet remarks to himself about each as he handled them. Barton’s body language had changed. His shoulders were relaxed. His expression cleared. Phil realized that he must have been tense while talking to Phil, because now he looked at ease and competent. Aside from his half-nudity, beautifully distracting as it was, seeing Barton slip on his professional countenance was impressive.
And an iron clad turn-on. Phil casually shifted his stance and tugging on his trousers from inside the pocket to accommodate his swelling erection.
“Yes, sir. He’ll be ready,” he said, keeping his voice even.
“Phil? Everything green?” Nick asked.
“Yes. Absolutely. Two hours, sir,” he said, and then ended the call. “The serial numbers will show up on SHIELD servers on search, but the ballistics are untraceable.”
He took down the small crossbow and looked at Phil with a raised eyebrow. “You use this?”
“Not often.” Phil was confident in the quality of the crossbow, but he was talking to an expert bowman. “Seems practical to have a variety. Just in case. What do you think?”
“I prefer compound or recurve, but this is a good choice.” He looked over the display. “You know your weapons.”
“Thank you.”
In the end, Barton selected a 40 caliber and an extendable baton, and a knife. Simple, easy to conceal.
“We gotta bail soon?” he asked, nodding towards Phil’s phone, in regards to the call.
“The Director has a job for you. You up for it?”
“I’m ready.”
Knowing they had work to do changed the tone, but they got along easily. Barton felt like someone he’d know for a long time. Phil had done the awkward morning-after routine before, and this wasn’t.
Phil outfitted Barton with a mobile phone and in-ear comm link and gave him a crash course in SHIELD communications and resources. Barton didn’t bat an eye and asked intelligent questions. He would have been excellent in special forces and Phil was unabashedly smug that SHIELD had finally got him instead.
Within an hour they were walking to meet Nick at the pick-up point in mid town. He didn’t even try to blend in, standing next to the open door of the blacked out SUV.
“You look a hell of a lot better,” Nick said to Clint.
“I feel it. Good to see you, man. Or, uh... sir.” Phil tried not to smirk. He wasn’t used to being around people who had shared onion rings and shots with Nick Fury.
“You ready to get to work?”
“Sure. Let do this.” He turned to Phil. “Thank you, uh, Agent Coulson. For everything. I owe you one.”
He accepted Barton’s extended handshake. “Be safe, Barton. Remember you’re not alone anymore. You have a host of agency assets at your disposal.”
Barton smiled and gave him playful salute with two crooked fingers and climbed into the SUV.
Phil was positive that their exchange had been above board and professional, not unlike any standard courtesy Phil exchanged with other consulting specialists, but Nick glared at him, head tilted and eyebrow raised. Knowing.
Phil took a slow, measured breath, and held Nick’s glare. Phil trusted Nick, respected him, was frequently annoyed by him, but intimidated he was not.
“I’ll be in touch, Agent,” Nick said, something of an amused snort combined with a threat in his voice.
“You know where to reach me.”
Six hours later Phil was walking down SHIELD’s research corridor when his phone rang. It was from the mobile he’d given Barton. Phil immediately ran the conversation through his head. He was so sure of how it was going to go, he’d gotten enough of them; “you’re a great guy, it’s just”, and “sorry I’m just not looking for,” and “don’t take this the wrong way, but.” Phil considered not answering, not wasting two minutes of his day on this, but he wasn’t a coward either.
“Coulson,” he answered.
“I should have kissed you.”
Phil stopped walking, forcing a technician to abruptly dodge him, narrowly avoiding collision.
“Excuse me, come again?” he said.
“Yeah. I should have kissed you. I wanted to. But I was already kinda pathetic last night and you’re not the kind of guy who’s into pathetic, I know, but whatever.”
There was loud noise in the background behind Barton, like wind or engine noise. “Are you still with the Director?” Phil asked.
“Yeah, well he’s uh, over there. I asked him to give me a minute.”
“You asked the Director of SHIELD to wait so you could call me to tell me that you should have kissed me?”
“Oh, um. Yeah? Anyway, I chickened out before, but now I’m about to get on a jet to Afghanistan and I don’t know if I’ll see you again so I thought you should know.”
“I would have kissed you back,” Phil said, then remembered himself and looked around. There wasn’t anyone else in the hall and he wouldn’t be overheard unless the feed of the closed-circuit system were examined. “I thought... that is, I sensed a mutual -- just, yes. I would have kissed you back.”
“That right?”
“I just told you it was.”
Barton laughed a little.
“You should probably go,” Phil said, because while he was totally amused by the mental picture of Nick Fury checking his watch and glaring, he wanted Barton’s mission to start off on a positive note. “I won’t disturb you in the field, but contact me if you want. I mean, obviously for back up, of course, but also just ...if you want.”
“Yeah? Alright then, will do.”
~
Phil didn’t hear anything for weeks. He didn’t mention Barton to Nick because he wasn’t about to open the topic for discussion, not after that look he’d given him. Barton had been sent to Afghanistan and as that was where Tony Stark had gone missing the month before, he assumed Barton was doing what so many were; looking for him. It wasn’t until a file crossed Phil’s desk outlining the elimination of an arms dealer that had been selling suspiciously powered laser weaponry that Phil got his first update. Clint Barton’s specialty had played a key role in the op.
“Sir, I thought we agreed I was going to have a specialist on my team,” Phil said, before closing a conference call.
“If you want an adjutant specialist, take May.” Nick was avoidant at the best of times, and since at the moment Phil’s best argument amounted to ‘you stole my archer, you jerk’, he let it go.
Weeks later, in the middle of the tactical operation center, he got an SM from Barton’s number: how come things never happen where the weather is temperate and has food that actually agrees with you?
Desert or tropic? he typed.
frigid.
Knowing some of the cases SHIELD was pursuing, Phil guessed Barton was in one of the Baltic states. Or maybe Russia.
Too many cabbage foods? he asked.
aw, don’t even mention.
Phil rubbed his first knuckle over his upper lip to appear in concentration rather than amused.
Barton was probably cold and bored. Probably lonely, if he was reaching out to Phil. But just to be sure he added; You 10-8? Need pick up?
negative. just waiting for birdies to fly home again. never had it this good before
Glad to hear it. Be safe, Barton.
yeah. back to work.
Phil continued to receive closed case files that Barton had played a hand in. Intelligence gathering, threat elimination, and covert security. There were important people in the world safe and alive because The World’s Greatest Marksman had guarded them in secret and they never even knew. Phil was deeply proud of him and genuinely hoped to work with him someday. He was doing good work already; the agency was lucky to have him and Phil tried not to be selfish but he wanted to work with the best.
Phil also hadn’t slept with anyone in a long time. The one night of getting off with Barton had been four months gone. He was forgetting the details of their fumbling in the dark. He remembered Barton going down on him, distantly, but not exactly what it felt like. He could remember the feel and shape of Barton’s cock in his hand, but not of Barton’s hand on him. He hadn’t forgotten the heavy weight of him lying on his chest, or how protective he’d felt holding Barton while he’d slept. He remembered how peaceful it had been. Sometimes he wondered if his mind had supplanted a bland reality with a more romantic version of events.
He was sure that they’d got on well the morning after, the small talk had been fun and the comfortable ease of outfitting Barton with new gear.
And there was that phone call about kissing him...
~
Copenhagen was warmer for September then Phil had expected. The damp under his arms and at the small of his back made the specifically selected low budget suit he was wearing tug and constrict. It was grating on his temper but he maintained his ‘just happy to be here’ smile while he stood at the bar. He looked over the crowd of wealthy and elite dancing, drinking, casually making multi-billion dollar business deals over cocktails. Phil made effort to appear fumbling, as though he felt awkward and out of place, out of his league.
He’d already handed out a dozen business cards and shook hands with half the room. He’d committed at least five crimes against fashion by ‘accidentally’ spilling drinks on several thousands of dollars worth of suits, but only on those he wanted to remember and avoid him in the future.
Everyone knew who he was and which agency he represented, which meant he was insincerely welcomed and then avoided like the plague. It made for an easy way to spy in plain sight.
Phil’s presence had already served its purpose, he just needed to wait another hour to maintain his front before he could leave. He had two episodes of “Big Bang Theory” to catch up on and a pastry sampler box waiting in his room.
He caught the President of Bulgaria looking at him, so Phil smiled, nerdy and eager, and waved. The president turned away quickly and Phil snorted in amusement as he sipped his watered down ginger ale.
Phil sensed another set of eyes on him and he immediately looked to his right. The overhanging foliage by the marble column was swinging but there was no one at the spot. Phil was sure his periphery had detected someone a moment ago. He turned to set his glass on the bar and surreptitiously scanned 360 degrees around the room. There wasn’t any obvious threat but there was something familiar in what he thought he saw. Trap or not, he wasn’t about to let a mystery rest.
He walked around the opposite side of the marble column by the water fountain. Just as he slipped between a tuxedoed server and the German Chancellor’s wife, Clint Barton walked right past him. He made glancing eye contact with Phil, casual enough to feign mere acknowledgment of a stranger if Phil wanted to act like he didn’t know him, but clearly giving him the option to say something.
Phil reached out on instinct alone, his fingertips just catching Barton’s wrist.
“Hello.” He had excellent vocal control and didn’t sound nearly as delighted and surprised as he felt.
Barton dipped his head, a sly smile curling in the corner of his mouth.
“Hey.”
It was only a short syllable but he said it slowly and made it sound remarkably like an endearment. He also turned his hand over to clasp Phil’s.
Then, not at all what Phil was expecting, he moved right up close, hands sliding around Phil’s waist under his jacket. Phil froze, not feeling threatened so much as confused. He wasn’t shy but this was more demonstrative than he would have expected, particularly in the ballroom.
Barton nuzzled near Phil’s ear and muttered. “Not sure you should be seen with me. Wanted to give you the out. I got an act to maintain. Play along?” He wore a fine, shiny grey suit and his hair was combed sleek and Phil had glimpsed a gaudy diamond ring on his forefinger. He was playing the part of Seductive Guy as a cover. It was a tired stereotype but remarkably, people continued to buy it.
Phil never played Seductive Guy. He played Awkward Guy. And, Helpful Guy. Most of the time he was Guy-In-Charge Guy, which was closest to the truth.
“I take it you’re under cover,” Phil said, acting like he was flustered and embarrassed by the advances of the apparent stranger.
There were other same sex couples in the room, so he had no particular concern on that front. Only that while representing himself as SHIELD schlep Agent Coulson, he would definitely flounder from the attention of an attractive man.
And Barton definitely was. He was moving in a deliberately swaggering manner, confident on his feet, warm hands holding Phil as close as dancing allowed.
“It’s common knowledge who I am and who I work for,” Phil said. “If you’re under cover, maybe it’s you that shouldn’t be seen with me?”
The flowing water from the nearby fountain would cover anyone trying to listen to them.
“At the moment, I’m the kind of cocky asshole that lives dangerously.”
“Oh, so completely different than reality.”
Barton grinned.
“I’ve got maybe ten minutes before someone very powerful and very stupid realizes they’re missing something. I’d kinda like to be gone by then.”
“That’s manageable.” Phil shook his head then, taking a step back, giving the impression he was declining an offer, and then he muttered, “Make me keep dancing with you.”
Barton didn’t blink, just got up in Phil’s space again, one hand on his waist, the other up between his shoulder blades.
His manner was for the cover act, Phil knew that, but he looked stunning the way he squared his shoulders and held his head high and confident. He held Phil firm and strong as they danced and Phil found himself wanting fold himself against Barton’s body.
“So what are you doing here?” Barton asked. “Or shouldn’t I ask?”
“There’s a lot of powerful people here, the kind of thing that anyone who’s anyone is invited to. As the public face of SHIELD I’m not even under cover. The Director wants it common knowledge that we asked Hammer Industries to work with us, but we don’t actually want to work with Hammer Industries. And since not a single H.I. executive has given me the time of day--”
“Because you spilled drinks on them?” Barton laughed.
Phil shrugged, realizing just how long Barton must have been watching him.
“Justin Hammer likes to think he’s superior, I don’t mind giving him that illusion and using it to our advantage. It will put to rest any antitrust accusations when we go with another manufacturer.”
“You’re devious,” Barton said the word slow and dirty, biting his lip and curling his nose in an almost snarl. It was an act, but it was still cute, and it made it easy for Phil to huff and blush, like he was brushing aside an obscene compliment.
“I can do-si-so all right,” Phil said. “Steer us near to the balcony.”
Barton lead him in a pivot-turn to adjust their course. They moved together seamlessly, light on their feet, no pull for power, as if they’d danced together before.
The ease of their coordinated effort must have been as noticeable to Barton as it was to Phil. He looked at Phil with a tiny smile. He almost looked surprised.
“Not bad,” he said.
“Not bad at all.” Phil agreed in regards to the dancing, but he was looking at Barton’s face. He hadn’t intended to flirt but he remembered too well how Barton had been bruised and cut when he left that last morning.
“You look much better than the last time I saw you.”
Barton let out a loud, too-confident chuckle, and then lowered his voice.
“What, you mean not all beat to hell? Guess that’s true.” He turned them slightly, shifting around the French Ambassador with the pace of the dance. “You doctored me pretty good that night.” Phil didn’t miss the implication of things other than medical care. “I still mean to thank you for that.”
Phil felt his cheek muscles contracting into the awkward smile he made when he got embarrassed and he forced himself to speak instead.
“I’ve been reading your op files. The Director’s had you busy. Excellent work in Volgograd, by the way.”
“Thanks. It’s been...” He hesitated, giving Phil a wary look.
Phil shifted his hand gently where it rest against Barton’s back, encouraging him to continue.
“Tell me.”
Barton pressed his lips together, making a crinkly expression of decision making.
“It’s just... It’s good. I feel like I’m finally doing something right, you know? SHIELD is one of the best things to come along for me in a long time.” He met Phil’s gaze. “I don’t want to fuck this up.”
“We wouldn’t have wanted to work with you if we didn’t believe in both your skill and your good conscience.” Strictly speaking, there was more to it than that. Phil and Nick had long thought Barton was an exemplary talent, but unrefined, and because of that, his skill might easily exploited if he continued to operate without a safety network. “Just keep shooting straight, like you have him.”
“Yes, sir.” Barton lifted his hand gave him a sloppy salute, and half rolled his eyes, but he was smiling and the fingers of his other hand squeezed at Phil’s lower back. Barton was maybe not the greatest at accepting compliments. Phil decided to work on that.
“I hear things, you know,” Barton said, clearly trying shift the subject from himself. “About a man in a suit. That’s you, isn’t it?”
Phil looked away and chuckled under his breath. He didn't want Barton to think he was laughing at him, but the idea of ominous whispering about him taking place was always strange.
“I’m never anything but polite to people,” he protested. Even those least deserving of his courtesy. And in confrontational situations he used de-escalating force whenever possible.
“Yeah, sure. Like you’re playing cat and mouse with these people tonight, but they have no idea what you really are.”
“You think you do?”
Barton shrugged a shoulder, then turned his head so his breath was against Phil’s ear, his lips warm where they barely touched him. “Would like to know more.”
The music changed to a slower tempo and Barton led them accordingly. Phil scanned the room over his shoulder, saw nothing out of the ordinary, and looked back to Barton’s face. He was already watching Phil.
Barton took a breath like he was going to say something but then pressed his lips together and stayed silent.
“We’re nearly to the balcony,” Phil said. He was more breathless than he’d realized. He kept getting snapshots of memories of kissing Barton in the dark.
“Will I ever work for you?” Barton asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Because I thought--I mean, my memory might be fuzzy, but I thought Nick said I was, that he was, ah...”
“That he was giving you to me?”
Barton grinned.
Nick hadn’t talked to Phil about why he hadn’t assigned Barton to his team after all, and Phil hadn’t asked. It had become a game of chicken, really, and those usually remained in stalemate.
“Well, if there’s something I can do better. I can, I don’t know, get training or--”
“You think you’re not working for me because you’re not good enough? I assure you that’s not the issue.”
“Okay.” Barton didn’t sound like he believed him.
“Believe me. I’d be honored to have you on my team. And you wouldn’t be working for me. You’d be working with me.”
“Okay.”
They danced in silence for a moment, slow, barely moving. Phil rubbed a circle slowly on Barton’s shoulder blade. Not terribly unlike he’d done in bed that night.
There was a flurry of movement on the other side of the gala hall accompanied by a minute change in the buzz of voices that no one near them was aware of, but Phil and Barton picked up on it.
“I gotta jet.”
“Do you have an extraction plan in place?” Phil asked.
Barton shook his head. “Wouldn’t call it a plan, exactly. I do alright.”
“That’s not...” Phil huffed. It was difficult to continue playing Awkward Guy when he was quite ready to switch into Guy-In-Charge Guy. “I’ll be in California at the end of the week. If you need, that is, if you want, um...”
Barton chuckled then and leaned close to Phil’s ear. “Get us drinks? I’ll be gone when you come back.” Phil closed his eyes momentarily, soaking up Barton’s voice, his body’s heat, knowing the time for goodbye had already come.
“Wait,” Phil said. The opened french door to the balcony was festooned in gauzy drapery and flowers and Phil pulled him into the alcove behind it and kissed him. Barton startled at first, but returned the kiss with equal interest, his strong hands curling over Phil’s shoulders, pulling him close. There was mutual reluctance when they pulled apart. Phil’s lower lip was wet and his heart was pounding.
“Okay.” Barton took his hand, and very majestically bowed, all for show, kissed the back of Phil’s hand.
Phil’s snorted and shook his head and then walked away. He kept up the dopey smile while ordering the drinks and when he returned to the balcony, Barton was long gone.
He didn’t have to try very hard to look the part of the dejected schlep who’d been ditched by the handsome man in the fine suit. He felt nearly as pathetic as he was fronting, but he still had a job to do.
~
“I have an interesting meeting today,” Nick said and Phil could practically picture his expression over the call as he said that. He was dangling bait and Phil wasn’t going to take the hook.
“And that makes today momentous because...?”
“It’s with Natasha Romanoff.”
Phil sat up. That was unexpected. Phil was maybe going to bite after all. “Black Widow. You have a meeting with Black Widow?”
“She called. Suggested we have lunch.”
“Of course she did,” Phil said. “And this is happening where?”
“The deli. You should come.”
“I’m on my way to California right now. On your orders.”
“Orders change. Stark can wait. Have your team keep watch on him.”
“You know what would make that easier? If I had a specialist on my team with renowned visual acuity.”
“You trying to tell me something, Phil?”
“Yes. That my job would be easier if I had a specialist on my team with renowned visual acuity.”
“Uh-huh. Be at the deli.”
“Yes, sir.”
When he arrived, the place was filled with the usual suspects, which meant that Nick in his apocalyptic leather get-up and Barton (an unexpected and welcome surprise) at his side wearing black tac gear fit in better than Phil did in his business suit.
“Is she here?” Phil asked, by way of greeting. “Barton,” he added, with a nod. It had been a week since they’d danced together, since they’d kissed on the balcony. It occurred to Phil there was a Romeo and Juliet joke in there. He hoped they fared a better fate than the teens had.
“Hey, sir,” Barton said, his expression remained neutral, but his mouth quirked into a sly smile when Nick wasn’t looking.
“How was Denmark?” Nick asked, and Phil detected double meaning in the question.
“Hot,” Phil said. “And a complete success, I’d say.” Phil could play with double entendres, too.
“That’s what I gather.”
Barton coughed, interrupting them.
“Excuse me,” Barton said. “I’m just gonna...” He shifted around Nick and right past Phil and for a moment he had a wild thought that Barton was going to hug him but he continued, smiling at him when he was close by, and walked on to meet a young woman at the end of the bar.
Phil had assessed the room when he walked in and was certain she hadn’t been there before.
By the surprised look on Nick’s face, he hadn’t seen her either.
“Well, she hasn’t tried to kill us, yet,” Nick said.
“Your optimism is inspiring.”
Phil thought Barton was approaching her just because he’d seen her first, being Hawkeye and all, but then he said “Nat,” and they were embracing.
“Huh,” Fury said.
She whispered into Barton’s ear and he laughed, the happiness of it audible over the clatter of dishes and voices and the crackle of frying food in the kitchen. He put his palm right over her face and gave it a shove and then pulled one of her long red curls. She somewhat hissed but was smiling when she retaliated by jabbing him in the ribs and slipped her small hand though the side of his tac vest and pinched his nipple, making him squawk.
“Huh.” Phil said it this time, in equal surprise by this turn of events.
Barton grabbed the hand that pinched him, chuckling as he rubbed his nipple and then he lead her forward, still holding her hand.
“Sirs, this is Natasha. I think you already know her other names.”
“You know her,” Phil said, and it wasn’t a question.
“Yeah. We go a ways back.”
“You know her and you never mentioned it?” Fury said, a sharp edge to the upspeak of his words.
Barton didn’t seem fussed though.
“I know a lot of things, sir. And ah, you never asked?” He looked at Phil and shrugged. “Sorry.”
“You were never on my team, Barton, you don’t owe me any explanation.”
Nick glared at Phil for that and Phil just blinked at him pleasantly.
“What are we doing here, Ms. Romanoff?” Nick asked.
She raised her chin and met his eye.
“You need me. You’re an intelligence gathering agency. I do that better than anyone. Better than him.”
She jerked her head in Barton’s direction on that last word and he kicked her ankle. She kicked back but neither of them reacted, still looking right at Nick as though it never happened.
Nick had to turn and look at Phil, and then at the walls, rubbing his mustache and goatee. Contrary to common thought, Nick Fury wasn’t even as good at maintaining a poker face as Phil was. Humor or rage, you could usually see it on him.
“And what do you get out of this?” Nick asked.
She looked at Barton, less sure this time, and he nodded encouragingly, squeezing her hand. There was an undeniable depth of connection between them.
“Integrity,” she said at last. “The chance to do something good.”
“I vouch for her,” Barton said.
“I assumed.”
“She can be trusted, sir.”
Natasha was slight of stature and beautiful. This was a plainly evident observation without any need of physical attraction. She looked far younger than what must her true age must have been but there was an icy-distant quality in her eyes that Phil was familiar with. He was also touched by the way Barton stood by her, puffed up and protective. They were still holding hands.
“Alright, Ms. Romanoff. I’m interested,” Nick said. “We have some talking to do, but not here.”
She released Barton’s hand then squared her shoulders. The way she visibly shifted into mission-mode was impressive, almost endearing, if Phil dared apply the term to her, and Barton smiled at him with pride, like he knew Phil could see it.
“I’m ready,” she said.
“After you.” Nick gestured them ahead.
Barton met Phil’s eyes and lingered for just a moment before he followed Natasha.
“A word first, sir,” Phil said. Nick paused, waving Natasha and Barton toward the door.
When they were alone, in the lobby by the display cabinet of pies, they both exhaled.
“The Black Widow.”
Phil was barely maintaining his cool. Nick wasn’t even trying very hard to.
“The Black Widow. Just walks right in,” he said, face animated.
They were both breathing hard, failing to contain grins.
If they hadn’t been the men they were, there might have been high-fiving or fist-pumping involved. As it was, Phil had to adjust his tie and resettle his jacket and Nick ran his hands over his scalp, checking the strap of his patch.
The Black Widow had been on their watch list for years. Just as Hawkeye had been. They tried to get the best the world had to offer but it was a murky job at best. Where some people sent their co-workers pictures of cats, Phil and Nick had long traded secreted video footage of remarkable people doing remarkable things and then daydreamed about one day recruiting them to SHIELD.
Phil took out a $10 bill and handed it over. Nick smirked and pocketed it.
“You’re up one, now.”
“It’s about damn time. You usually reel ‘em all in with that bit of yours.”
Phil didn’t know exactly what ‘bit’ he meant but Nick waved his hands in Phil’s general direction that seemed to indicate all of him.
Phil smiled and rubbed his lip.
“One more thing, sir.”
“Yeah?” Nick’s eyes were glossy, no doubt full of visions of having a brand new Black Widow to wind up and set loose on the world.
“I want Barton,” Phil said, then inwardly cursed himself for the phrasing, and clarified. “I want Barton on my team. He’s the best and I want him.”
“Yeah. I know you do. Alright. Fine. The way he talks about you, he thinks you’re all that, too.”
“Spare me, sir. If you’re going to accuse me of something--”
“Hold up, now. I’m not accusing you of anything. Except that you’re a romantic.”
“Pardon me? I am a pragmatist.” On the rare occasion he found a man who was compatible, gorgeous, queer and actually into Phil as well, it never interfered with work.
“You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you? But you? The guy looking for lost heroes, believes mythology, waiting for aliens show up; that is a romantic.”
“You never had any problem with my job performance--”
“That was never the point.”
He was finally getting somewhere close to Nick actually admitting he’d kept Barton away from him. He was waiting for Nick to make some suggestion of impropriety and he’d just quit on the spot.
“Then what, sir, is the point?”
“I like Barton. He’s good man and good agent. I don’t want to have to burn him if he breaks your heart.”
Phil paused mid-rebuttal and finding none, rolled his eyes instead. “Please. You have the gall to call me the romantic.”
“I mean it, Phil. You might really fall for this guy and your dedication to the job doesn’t make that part of life easy. He’s cut from the same cloth, too. You deserve better.”
Phil was blindsided by the sentiment. “Oh. I ...oh.”
He’d experienced the world’s cruelty and prejudice, but Nick Fury of all people had never maligned Phil for his orientation. He’d always been an ally and had proven on more than one occasion to be a real friend. It didn’t hurt to be reminded of that.
Some day, in the far distant future, Phil might actually hug him.
He cleared his throat. “So...?”
Nick smirked. “Fine. Fine. He’s all yours, C.” He left the implication wide open, of course. “Assigned to your team effective immediately.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Phil tried not to, he really did, but he couldn’t keep himself from asking. “Did he really talk about me?”
Nick laughed as he walked outside.
“Barton, Coulson’s your new agent-in-charge.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Welcome aboard, Ms. Romanoff,” Phil, said, shaking her hand. “I look forward to working with you.”
“Thank you.” She took his hand between both of hers and leaned in giving him a serious look. “He said you're nice.”
It was spoken quietly enough that only Phil would hear. His cheeks warmed and he wondered how much Barton had told her. He nodded, accepting her words, which were fairly gentle as shovel talks went. He appreciated that she wasn’t overtly threatening him, he’d seen her work.
She patted his hand before letting it go.
“Nat’s more than just her training, sir.” Barton was saying to Nick. “What she said, you know?”
Nick thought for a moment. “Integrity?”
“Yep.”
“You have my word,” Nick said. Then he tilted his head toward Phil. “Speaking of which, Agent Coulson is the best man I know.”
Clint glanced at Phil, his cheek twitched and he might have flushed slightly but he still met Nick’s eye. “Me, too.”
They nodded their heads in an ever so manly mutual expression of agreement. Phil rolled his eyes and Natasha laughed openly.
Then she and Barton clasped their hands palm to palm, thumbs laced together and pulled each other close, pressing their foreheads together. They were murmuring to each other and then Barton kissed her head.
“I’ll be in touch,” Phil said, and Barton saluted toward Nick and Natasha.
Then they were alone.
“Where to now?”
“California. I need to debrief Tony Stark.”
“Good luck with that.”
“We’ll see.” Phil hadn’t succeeded in doing so yet, but he was persistent. He’d get the interview.
A black sedan stopped at the curb right next to them.
Clint opened the door and let Coulson slide into the back seat ahead of him.
“I hope you didn’t catch any grief over me,” Barton said.
“Not at all.” Barton gave him a shrewd look. “How the Director and I operate is between us. I just hope you won't regret your placement. I’ll be the first to admit it’s not easy being on my team.” He handed over a laptop and a thick manilla folder. “Research. There are gaping holes in what we know about the Stark kidnapping and S.I. going out of the weapons business. Let me know if you see anything we’ve missed.”
“You got it.”
Barton was diligent when put to task. Phil kept catching himself staring, having Barton near was driving him to distraction. Just watching him read files, the way he’d poke out the tip of his tongue when reading and the line of concentration he’d get between his brows. Even his hands were enough to conjure memories of how they’d felt on his body. His strong, rugged fingers were delicate when turning pages and affixing paper clips or navigating swipes over the monitor, but they’d been firm on Phil’s skin.
Barton caught him looking more than once. He smirked, but always returned to task with an of air of knowing he was being watched, and would peek back just to make sure.
Then he’d smile and Phil would smile back and the whole thing was ridiculous but it was the most fun Phil had known in years and the best thing was that it never interfered with work.
The only break in Barton’s confident facade came when they were approaching Coulson’s agents.
“Uh. Should I be wearing a suit?”
Phil looked him over; the military chic flattered him.
“Not generally, no. You’re a shadow. I’ll want you up high, wherever you need to get to have eyes and provide support. The others are dressed for the impact of presence. I don’t want anyone outside our team to know you even exist.”
“That I can do. Don’t want to screw things up for you.”
Phil leaned close and lowered his voice. “For the record, I consider you a perk, not a liability.
~
Dating a colleague had never been so seamless. Barton accepted orders with grace but he also spoke his mind freely, argued his points and offered insight from a perspective that Phil didn’t have.
Sitwell actually argued with Phil more than Barton ever did.
Then there was the added bonus that when no one was around, Barton would take Phil’s phone from his hand and climb into his lap and kiss him senseless.
“One of these days I want to peel you out of that suit, layer by layer.”
He loved to mess up Phil’s hair and then put him back together after.
For all the action and intrigue that came with their job, so did a lot of down time in parking garages and empty office buildings. Barton had ways of endearing himself to everyone. He told stories, showed off his shooting skills, and he brought coffee around to agents at their post. He had the freedom of a plain clothes assignment to perch wherever he saw fit and stay out of sight.
He was watching as Phil and the team escorted Ms. Potts inside the S.I. lab. He was watching when Iron Monger tore right up out of the earth and was eventually defeated by Iron Man.
~
It was nearly dawn after the Iron Man battle. Phil had been on his feet and in his element for hours, coordinating medical evac and containment and creating Tony Stark’s alibi.
“I’ve got orders, sir.”
Phil glanced up at him from the environmental assessment of the arc reactor explosion. “I don’t recall giving you any new orders, Barton.”
Phil was tired and testy and he knew none of it was Barton’s fault, but he still wasn’t in any mood for challenge.
“No, sir. My orders are from above.”
Phil squinted and turned his head until his neck cracked. There was no one else that would be other than Nick.
“If the Director wants to question my handling of this situation, he can--”
“It’s not like that. It’s just ...you need to sleep, sir.”
“Right. Well, he can either have this handled, or I can sleep, but he can’t have both.”
Phil slapped the file onto the table and intended to walk right out of the room but Barton moved in front of him. He was brawny in stature and roughly equal in height to Phil, but he made no attempt to muscle or menace. Phil also wasn’t blind to the kind of body language Barton used with him. The way he tilted his head, and let his shoulders turn in, non-threatening.
“You have handled it, Phil. Civilians have been debriefed and secured, the site has been contained, Stane has been recovered. I mean, even Stark left an hour ago.” He reached out and pulled gently at the cuff of Phil’s jacket, but he didn’t touch him. “You’ve done everything you can, boss.”
“You don’t have to avoid mentioning him to me. Agent Avilla is in critical condition. He’s probably not going to live.”
“That’s not your fault.”
“I know that.” He tried to yank his cuff from Barton’s grip in a jerk of annoyance, but Barton didn’t let go and Phil ended up turning his hand over instead, and before he knew it, their fingers were laced together . “He’s still on my team. Makes him my responsibility.”
“You not sleeping isn’t going to help him, or the team, or Stark, or SHIELD.”
There was no one else around, just the two of them in the office they’d commandeered as a center of operations and Phil suddenly felt the exhaustion slipping through the cracks of his resolve. He rubbed his eyes with his other hand and felt Barton shift closer.
“I am so angry,” he said, eyes still closed. Phil understood the psyche rationale of not repressing feelings but he wasn’t fond of the experience of expressing them either. “But not at you.” He looked up at Barton and squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry.”
Barton pressed his forehead to Phil’s temple and they just breathed like that together for a moment.
“Keys,” Barton whispered. Phil reached into his pocket and handed them over.
He passed on-site command to Agent Epps and followed Barton. There was no reason anyone would think they weren’t pursuing a work-related matter but Phil couldn’t help feeling that people knew Barton was removing him from the scene to put him to bed.
“Give me your clothes,” Clint said, once they got to his suite, and Phil blinked at the instruction. He had considered it a possibility that they might have sex, but he had honestly expected a more artful proposal than that.
Clint shook his head and held his hands in front of him, waving Phil off of that train of thought. “I’m having a runner take your stuff to the cleaners and bring us some food later.”
“Certainly. Thank you.” Phil nodded and went to the bathroom, tossing his clothes outside the door. He showered, keeping his mind on the practical aspect of it only. He wasn’t even trying to relax. While he was drying off he heard Clint talking to the runner at the front door, so he slipped out of bathroom and into bed.
He closed his eyes and tried to slow his breathing but he didn’t want to think about the day, or think about tomorrow, or mentally process a god damned thing.
“You okay?”
“I’m clean. That’s the only thing that has improved about this never ending day.”
“Definitely not your mood, then.” Clint was leaning into the room, hanging on the doorframe like he wasn’t intending to come in.
“I don’t want to talk about today.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t want to talk about Stark or the Iron Man or any of it.”
He was so exhausted he could feel it in his bones, but he was also wide awake. He felt a tremor under his skin, felt the irregularly heavy thump of his pulse. There was no logical reason for him to feel so angry, but his body was behaving as though he were.
“You don’t look like you’re ready to sleep.”
“I’m not.”
“You need anything?”
“You.” He went through the most of his life not thinking of sex as an option and remembered only now that Barton was there. Then he remembered that he wasn’t also a caveman. “Excuse me, I’m sorry. That is, if you’re--”
Barton tore off his shirt.
“You don’t ever have to ask. If you ever just said I want to fuck, I might come on the spot.”
Phil blinked. “I think that’s...not really a helpful reaction?” He was sitting ramrod straight, his back against the headboard. The sheet was pulled to his waist and he was already getting hard.
Barton watched him while he unbuttoned his pants and he shoved them down along with his underwear. Phil pressed his rising cock through the sheet. Barton was muscularly perfect, every line and curve chiselled. Phil had never desired physical perfection in a partner; he was athletic by nature himself, but he viewed his own fitness as utilitarian. Barton, however, pushed his body in training so hard that it was as honed as his skill with a bow.
“Hey, you want to fuck me?” Barton asked, no intent to be tantalizing or crude, just simply an offer.
“Yes,” Phil answered without pause.
A corner of Barton’s mouth raised in a small smile and went to his duffle bag. The muscles on the sides his ass contracted as he walked and Phil had to shift his leg and cup his swelling balls while he watched.
Barton tossed his toiletry kit bag on the bed next to Phil and crawled up to him, pulling the sheet away from Phil’s lap as he came closer. He ducked to press his face to the inside of Phil’s thigh and nosed his way upward and between them. He mouthed at him, exhaling hot breath along his sensitive skin. Phil put his hand on Barton’s head, scratching through his hair because he simply couldn’t not touch him when he was so close.
“You smell so good,” Barton murmured against his stomach after inhaling at the hair around the base of his cock. “Is that strange? I’ve never liked the way a guy smelled before. But you...” He breathed deeply.
“I don’t know, but it’s the same for me. Come here.”
Barton straddled his legs, letting Phil’s cock fit along the seam of his ass and he kissed him.
Phil had, occasionally, been drawn to the smell of a lover, but he knew what Barton meant. Not having anything to do with being freshly showered, they seemed to share that cortex-pheromone connection. He was attracted to Barton, genuinely liked him and cared about him, but there was something inexplicably deeper than that. Even his cells seemed to find everything about Clint Barton agreeable.
“In the bag...” Barton said between kisses. “There’s stuff.”
Phil reached for it, turning his head and Barton continued to kiss his jaw and neck and behind his ear. Phil fumbled with the zipper and he felt the packet of a condom first and flicked it onto the bed. Blindly, he produced a small plastic bottle that proved to be shampoo.
“Nope,” Barton said, still kissing him. “That would make bubbles.”
Phil snorted and dropped the shampoo and withdrew the next item he touched which was a tube of toothpaste.
“Definitely not,” Barton said, and the absurdity of it made Phil burst into a giggle. Then the outburst turned into a laugh, and suddenly, his heart was racing and he was hit by a flood of feeling--anger at the arrogance of Obadiah Stane, the relief of remaining alive and unhurt and subsequent guilt for the same. He looked up at Barton, surprised by his own reaction and leaned up and hugged him. Just hugging, was a thing he apparently needed. He pressed his cheek to Barton’s chest and felt Barton slide his arms around him and kiss his head, making quiet soothing sounds.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Phil said, his voice constricted with emotion.
“There’s nowhere else I’d be.”
Phil held on tighter, feeling a little more manic laughter bubble out of his chest and he started to feel lighter, like he could finally expand his lungs and breathe properly again.
“You wanna just hang out?” Barton asked, taking Phil’s face into his hands and pressing a brief kiss to his lips. “Try to sleep?”
“No.” Phil shook his head. “I want you.”
“Oh, thank god.”
Barton located the lubricant, pouring it onto his fingers and then he kissed Phil, shielding his view as he kneeled up to reach behind. Phil let himself be kissed but if Barton was trying to distract him from the fact that he was fingering himself, he wasn’t going to have it. He slid his hands up Barton’s thighs, and cupped his flexing buttocks in each hand, squeezing and parting them. One fingertip glided along to the feel Barton’s fingers sliding inside, already taking two.
“Yeah. Want it,” Barton said. Whomever of them he was referring to, Phil hm-mmd his agreement. “You gonna fuck me?”
Phil nodded.
“You hard for me?”
“I am.”
“Condom.”
Phil shifted them slightly as reached for the packet, but he held Barton close so he wouldn’t move away. When he resettled he looked up at Barton, his chest, arms and thighs rippling as he knelt over Phil’s legs. He was awestruck, and reached up to touch his face, he stroked his eyebrow and cheek bone, Barton nipped at his fingers and he smoothed along his chin and down his neck, chest, and torso, and finally taking his cock in hand. His erection had flagged slightly with the effort of fingering himself but he stiffened again in Phil’s fist.
“Ngh, c’mon. Stop. Don’t want to come like this.”
“Sorry,” Phil said, but he wasn’t very much. With a last firm squeeze, he let go and had to focus on the condom, fiddly business it was. The tight squeeze of it was a relief. He applied lube, holding his cock and the condom in place, sticking obscenely upright and ready.
Barton held onto Phil’s shoulders and shifted up, letting the head of Phil’s cock slide along his ass. His blunt cockhead seated against his asshole and Barton began to push down hard but Phil exhaled a cautionary whisper and stilled him. He reached his free hand so he could gently rub at the stretched, slick skin and slowly, minutely, Barton relaxed, the stretch easing for Phil to slip inside.
Their stubbled jaws rasped as they pressed cheek to cheek. Phil could smell Barton beginning to sweat. His fingers dug into Phil’s shoulders, near painful if not for the distraction of the heated pleasure around him.
“Sl--slowly. Easy,” Phil said, one hand pressing up on his ass cheek, trying to slow him.
“M-hm.” Barton shook his head and pushed down hard and grinding. “Fuck me.”
And jesus, Phil did, shamelessly, anchoring his thumbs at the bend of Barton’s hip and thigh and pushing him hard onto his cock.
The rigid tension in Barton’s muscle mass seemed to snap and he folded against Phil, his forehead fitting against Phil’s neck and shoulder, legs going pliant, letting Phil in deeper.
It was hard, beautiful, dirty-sweaty work, the effort of fucking like this. The pleasure radiated from where they were joined but every part of him was drawn toward Barton, aching for more connection. He was so fully focused on everything Clint there was nothing else in the world. Nothing in the universe mattered but touching his body, kissing him, smelling and tasting his skin and sliding in and out of him.
“I knew we’d be good at this,” Barton said.
At some point without having really planned it, they rolled over, ending up sideways across the bed, Phil between Clint’s open legs. He held himself up enough for Barton to jerk himself off but even that was too far away. As soon as Barton grunted, striping his stomach white, Phil was on top of him again, breathing him in, sticky and wet and humping with the last tendrils of stamina he had. Barton’s hands pulled at his back and his ass, his voice telling Phil to let go; he shuddered, felt a jolt of white hot pleasure and then everything went still.
They trembled later, both of them clinging, no longer with tension but wobbly and heavy with the throbbing of their hearts. They rolled slightly to the side, Barton grumbling and hissing as his body slowly pushed against Phil’s softening cock. Phil reached haphazardly, stripping the condom off and dropping it messily somewhere on the floor and they slept.
~
He became aware that it was afternoon by the quality of the light, without even opening his eyes. He was glad to feel Barton still close to him, warm and quiet. He was also awake and looking at Phil, he realized.
“Did you always have this many freckles?” Clint asked, apparently aware that Phil had woken up, his finger skating up the bone of Phil’s forearm.
Phil momentarily lost all control over his facial muscles, smiling and embarrassed, knowing he was flushing at the mention of freckles and turned away, trying in vain to compose himself.
“We met at nighttime,” he protested, voice thick and groggy. “And I was wearing a suit,” he said, pleased that his voice at least, was steady and didn’t crack. “Variation in my complexion wouldn’t have been notable.”
“I beg to differ. Everything about you is notable.”
Phil opened his eyes then, and smiled at him, happy that doing so earned him a kiss.
“Waking up to you is good.”
Barton nodded. “Yeah, I’m liking it. Strange, huh?”
Phil yawned and stretched. “I’ve seen stranger. Hey, you okay? Not too ...sore?”
“Aw, man, I am so fucking sore. Nah, it’s awesome.” He rushed to say at Phil’s concerned reaction. “It was great.”
“Still. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.”
“Have I slept through the day and missed everything?”
“‘Fraid not, sir. Runner will be here in about fifteen minutes with your suit from the cleaners and our food. The press conference with Stark is in two hours. Your phone lights up about every thirty seconds, so probably people are looking for you. But you slept for about five hours....”
“Yeah, back to work.”
“Yep.”
He leaned up on an elbow and kissed Barton. “I’d like for there to be more of this. If you’re interested.”
Barton looked at him, grinning at what was apparently something humorous happening with his hair. He reached up and smoothed it to Phil’s head again.
“The only thing I’ve ever been consistently good at is shooting an arrow. I don’t know how good I’ll be, or for how long but I’m interested in trying.”
“I’m gonna show you just how many things you can be good at.”
~
When he looked back, Phil would be able to see that there had been a pattern of extraordinary events developing. They were already in motion when Tony Stark had defeated a maniac in an iron suit, or when he developed a new element that would change the industrialization of energy.
“He’s a real, honest to god superhero,” Clint had said. “Stark could fuck models on the beach all day long if he wanted to, but he chooses to make a difference with what he’s got.”
“You’re every bit the hero he is,” Phil said, staring down the expanse of desert twilight ahead of him.
For all of Phil’s annoyance with Tony Stark’s ego, he did respect his conscience, if not his manner. Clint, however, had been inspired.
“Right. Put a few billion bucks in my bank account and we’re exactly the same guy.”
“You’re more valuable than every last dollar Stark has.”
Clint smirked and said loudly, “Aw, you’re just sweet on me, darlin’!” He was getting restless and silly from being cooped up on the long drive.
“You’re right. I am.”
There was quiet after that, and Phil glanced away from the road to see him looking slightly taken aback.
Phil took one hand off the steering wheel and reached out and put his hand on Clint’s knee.
“I really am.”
Somewhere in the middle of the desert, Phil realized he was in love.
It was also the first time Clint had got truly angry at him.
“You shouted at the thing with a bullhorn, Phil!”
“Forgive me, but it hadn’t occurred to me that maybe it had descended from an angry god!”
“Phil! You--” Clint shouted at him. He looked pissed, filthy, and more than a little freaked out. Also royally turned on. He stomped toward him, angry and possessive in a way Phil had never felt from him before. He gripped Phil by the shoulders, glaring at him. “--are a god damned badass.” Then he kissed him, hard and swift, and then stormed off again.
Sitwell was not far off, expressionless until his face cracked into a shit-eating grin.
“Oh, so that’s how it is.”
“That’s how it is,” Phil said. “Now get back to work, Agent.”
After command had been cleared and they checked into their dingy, highway-side hotel, Clint shuffled them into the shower. He calmed under the water and sucked Phil’s cock while the New Mexico dust washed away.
“It’s all real you know,” Phil said, his voice echoed in the shower stall. “Clint, it’s all real.”
Clint look up at him from where he still knelt at Phil’s feet, kissing his softening cock and his stomach. Phil wiped his wet hair back but there were still tiny droplets in his eyelashes.
“Good thing you never stopped believing then, huh?”
Phil pulled him up and hugged him and knew he loved him desperately, even when Clint started singing Don’t Stop Believing while they dried off.
When Steve Rogers was found in the ice, Nick called Phil (who else?) and after he handed Phil a ten dollar bill, told him to prepare the revival team. Clint had been on a flight training mission but came as soon as he heard, without even being called. He found Phil standing outside the medical room, his arms full of files.
“Hey. I heard,” Clint said, standing close. Phil could sense that he was looking him over and was glad that Clint didn’t touch him. He was doing his best to maintain his Agent presence. “So it’s really him?”
“DNA matched.”
“How about that? You were right. God damn.”
“Can you imagine how awful?” Phil said, unable to keep his voice from cracking.
“What? I thought this was a good thing.”
Phil shrugged. “Just, his regeneration makes him ...what if he was he conscious? What if he was aware of slowly freezing? It might have been like drowning? It might have been like being buried alive, for seventy years, Clint! It could have driven him mad. He might have suffered untold misery. What if--?”
“Hey now. No use going down that road. If the good Captain’s super whammy was as good as all that then his mind probably protected itself. That’s what they teach us in psych, right?”
Phil nodded, wanting to believe anything that might have kept Steve Rogers from the horrors he was imagining..
“What’s all this, anyway?” Clint lifted a file at the top of the stack in Phil’s arms and peered inside.
“Case history. Suggestions for when --if --when he wakes up. Creating a non threatening, familiar environment, organic diet - do you know there’s high fructose corn syrup in everything?”
“You think Captain America can’t handle high fructose corn syrup?”
“No, I think he might hate it. He might hate everything about this time-- the food, the music ...the people. What if he hates ...me? What I am?”
Clint shifted to stand in front of him, blocking his gaze through the glass to Rogers’ medical suite and making Phil look at him.
“Hey now. You said. You said Doctor Ers-it?”
“Erskine?”
“Erskine. You said he wrote that Steve Rogers knew the value of compassion, right? He wouldn’t hate you.”
“You were listening?” Phil thought of all the nights they’d laid in bed telling the stories of their lives they’d secreted away. All the hot afternoons they’d whiled away with boring tidbits of their lives.
“I always listen when you talk.”
Phil took a deep breath.
“Do you think I’d be letting him down if I turn over his case?”
“After you’ve done all this to make him comfortable?” Clint gestured to his armful of files. “You haven’t let him down. You believed in him all along.”
Maria Hill accepted all Phil’s files on Rogers.
~
“Open your eyes, Phil. Wake up.”
He had no concept of time, how long it had been since something ...before. There was only darkness and icy blue cold.
“Aww, c’mon, sir, you can do it. You’re all patched up.”
Phil had sense memory of tangy metal in his mouth and overwhelming sadness and he wondered if--
“Clint.”
“Yes! Yes, you god damned mule. I’m right here. Open your eyes.”
He did so, unaware of having decided to do it, unaware that he had a body or even eyelids to open and Clint right there. He’d climbed right up onto his hospital bed, straddling Phil’s lap, holding his face.
Then he remembered that he’d had a life, that Avengers had been assembled and that Clint had been taken and used against them.
“You real?” he asked, throat raw and dry.
“Yes. I’m--” Clint looked furious but was smiling. “He’s gone. It’s over. We made it.”
“Thought you were gone,” he swallowed and licked his lips. “Thought I died.”
“Well you were wrong.”
Clint had tears in his eyes when he put his forehead to Phil’s. Phil was crying, too, he realized when Clint wiped his face for him.
“You were so fucking wrong,” Clint whispered. “You stopped believing in us.”
“No. I--love you.”
Clint squeezed his eyes shut, tears spilling over down his cheek. “Love you. We got a lot more to do, so you got to get up, okay?”
“Okay.” Phil closed his eyes feeling exhausted. “Brief me later.”
He heard Clint chuckle, felt Clint’s hand on his face.
“You got it, boss.”
“You’re really okay?”
“I’m getting better now.”
~
It was nearly 3am when the aircraft landed in the bay. Phil had been listening to the radio traffic for the last two hours. He hadn’t been working the op, this wasn’t even his division anymore. It wasn’t Clint’s division either, but as Hawkeye the Avenger he was always willing to provide backup for SHIELD agents, still trying to compensate somehow for how he felt he’d let them down when he was under Loki’s manipulation.
The flight crew here knew who Phil was, knew him from before. Only now there were inflated rumors surrounding his so called resurrection. He nodded acknowledgment to those who muttered hello as they passed, a few of the overzealous agents actually saluted in spite of it actually being a breach in protocol. Agents in suit were never saluted, let alone those in civilian clothing, but Phil had accepted that the events surrounding the Battle of New York were still fresh in their minds.
A haggard looking crew began to file out of the jet -- haggard, but not damaged. There were no injuries of note, objectives had been met, threats neutralized. SHIELD ops the way they’re intended to go.
Then there was Clint, bow case and gear slung over his shoulder.
Phil waited, feeling silly and young with the butterflies of anticipation in his stomach. Out of all the unearthly, unimaginable things he saw and experienced and it was still Clint that gave him a nervous squirm in his gut.
Clint was talking easily with a few agents as they debarked, nodding and laughing easily in response to their obvious admiration. Clint stilled slightly, like he sensed Phil’s presence. It made Phil’s breath catch. Clint’s eyes darted in his direction before shaking hands with the others and seeing them off.
He didn’t expect to feel so nervous. They regularly went weeks without seeing each other, only a few direct text messages or video chats here and there, if they could manage.
“Heya, sir.” Clint smiled as he approached. “Wasn’t expecting you.” Something softened in his body language, less defensive and relaxed, with a slight swagger knowing that Phil had been watching him. “You’re wearing civvies in the hangar bay. You here for pleasure or is the world ending?”
“My case brought me to the city. I thought I’d miss you entirely but I heard the comm chatter that you were coming in.”
“So you put on your boyfriend’s sweater and came to pick me up?” Clint teased, stepping into Phil’s space. It was Clint’s sweater, black ribbed knit with a zip-up turtleneck. His arms didn’t fill it out quite as impressively as Clint’s but Kate had seen him leaving the apartment and said he wore it alright. It was as close as he could get to feeling a hug from Clint, which was something he’d never-ever speak aloud.
He touched the side of Clint’s face, his fingertips curling behind his ear and Clint tipped his head into the touch. Then he tugged Phil closer by the zipper-pull and kissed him. It wasn’t a even a particularly sexy kiss, just lingering and tender. Clint shifted to press his head to Phil’s shoulder, sighing into a hug and leaning close. Phil never concerned himself about coming out at SHIELD because he’d never been particularly closeted, and he was certainly proud of Clint, who was respectable, intelligent and kind, but Phil was desperately private, both personally and professionally and 3am notwithstanding, he was very aware of their combined high profile.
“Wanna go?” he asked. “I have the car.”
“She’s here?” Clint’s head popped up.
“Mm-hm.”
“What are we waiting for, then?” Clint grabbed his hand, biting his lip and making big eyes so close to Phil’s they nearly touched noses, and then pulled him along at a fast pace. Clint was joking his enthusiasm about Lola, knowing full well that to everyone still working in the hangar it would look like they were rushing off to have sex.
“Hang on,” Phil said, tugging him back with laugh. “Give me this.” He pulled the strap of Clint’s bow case off his shoulder and swung it onto his own. Clint made faux grumbly face but let Phil have it.
He was one of the only people in the world Clint would let disarm him like that, but he’d accepted Phil’s fussing a long time ago. He often told Clint that he loved him, but sometimes Phil just needed to demonstrate I love you, I’ve missed you, please let me look after you while I can.
They walked hand in hand most of the way to the parking zone, except when they walked down a long curving hallway Clint put his arm around Phil’s shoulder, pressing a kiss to Phil’s temple.
“Oh! Hello...sirs,” a young agent said, startled as she exited a side door and nearly right into them.
“Nighty-night!” Clint called in reply as they passed, and then chuckled, nosing at Phil’s blushing cheek.
“Aw, there’s my sexy girl! Lemme look at ya, darlin!” Clint called out, loud and flirty to the car, letting his voice slip into an exaggerated amalgam of a midwestern accent.
“Your Iowa is showing,” Phil said, playing along, because Clint didn’t have any kind of an accent, Iowan or otherwise. He was actually particularly gifted with dialects when working under cover.
“I’m just a simple farm boy. My love is pure.” Clint draped himself over the car’s trunk and then slowly pumped his hips against chrome.
Phil snorted. “Yes. Pure.” He took the keys from his pocket and flung them in Clint’s direction. “You’re driving.”
Clint caught the keys without even looking. “Bet your ass I am.” He slid into the driver’s seat while Phil moved to the passenger door. “Come on, sweetheart, let me drive you home ...that’s you, by the way.” He added once Phil had shut the door, and leaned over to kiss him.
Clint took a moment to adjust the mirrors and wriggle his butt into the seat. He ran a hand over the dashboard, quietly assessing.
“Other people been in here?” Clint asked lightly, impressing Phil yet again with his ability to see the unseeable.
“Yes. I’m using her in the field. Recruit for the new team.”
“I thought so,” Clint said, starting the engine and revving just to hear the purr. “It going okay?”
Phil took a deep breath and thought about it. “They’re good people. Very smart. They’re so damn young, my god. But they’re not...” He sighed, frustrated. “They’re not a cohesive group yet. They need to do better.”
“Huh. Yeah. You’ve dealt with that before.” Clint shifted gears and then reached to put his hand on Phil’s thigh, giving a raised eyebrow. “Maybe don’t be so dramatic in your efforts for group cohesion this time around, alright?”
Clint squeezed his leg and while he was being sarcastic, there was a dark edge to the words.
Phil put his hand over Clint’s and rubbed the the back of it before Clint put it back on the wheel.
He knew it was a good thing that Clint was developing the ability to joke about what had happened to them when Loki turned their worlds blue, but Phil wasn’t quite there yet.
“You tired? When’d you sleep last?” Clint asked.
“I got a few hours after I got in this evening. Woke up just after midnight when your itinerary updated.”
“You get agency itinerary alerts on me?” Clint asked. He face was blank for a moment, light, like he was trying to decide what kind of joke to crack about it, but then his expression shadowed. “SHIELD doesn’t track everyone’s whereabouts. Is that, are they watching me? Is that because...” Clint’s voice didn’t waver exactly, but it was a near thing.
“It’s because you’re an Avenger,” Phil rushed to say. Hearing paranoia edging up in Clint’s voice. “You’re kind of a big deal. Practically a celebrity, really. SHIELD doesn’t want to be responsible for losing you, and as one of Earth’s Mightiest Heroes, it’s our job to keep tabs on you in case of planetary peril.”
Clint gave him a half smile and jerked his head in a single nod of acknowledgment but he was still clearly upset.
“Clint.” Phil reached out and touched his leg this time.
Clint took a breath and opened his mouth, but then turned to look out the driver’s side window. Phil was patient with it. Clint spoke easily with happiness, with love and joy, even with anger or righteous indignation, but words for hurt didn’t come easily for him.
Phil fussed and doted on Clint plenty, took great satisfaction in it, but he never condescended to him. He would wait until Clint was ready.
“So, there’s no tracker, then?” Clint finally said, clearing his throat. “No bug up my ass no one told me about, in case I ever go off the rails again?”
“No. SHIELD trusts you implicitly. Stark has JARVIS and SHIELD’s most secure interface sync with any notable events, appearances, or long range transport of all the Avengers. And SHIELD pilots log all occupants in flight. You do that when you’re piloting, right?” Phil reached to touch Clint’s arm. “Clint. No one tracks the casual day to day coming and going of any Avengers. On or off duty.”
Clint nodded, taking a breath, his shoulders slowly began to relax.
“Sorry,” he said, voice sheepish, giving Phil a half smile.
“No apology,” Phil said, touching the rounded cheek that had raised with the smile. “It’s okay.” He wished they weren’t in the car. Phil wanted to hug him, to kiss the frown, to will away all the bad things that had ever happened to him. He’d never be able to accomplish it, but he’d never stop trying anyway.
Clint took Phil’s hand in his, kissed the back of his knuckles and then held it over the round ball of the stick shift until he had to change gears again.
They were quiet for awhile, neither sure how to erase the sour mood that had colored the moment, but also because they just could. Both of them could be quiet for hours at a time, each in their own contemplations. It was a solid permission they’d always allowed each other. Silence, with no pressure to entertain.
They were clearly headed for Avengers Tower and not Clint’s building in Bed-Stuy.
“Is it me you’re hiding, or the car?” Phil asked.
Clint smirked and shrugged a shoulder. “Bobbi’s been around the place a couple times. Just checking in, she lives not far away, and I was on the news or whatever. Probably just standing behind Cap, but, um...”
Phil nodded and patted Clint’s hand, accepting his explanation. He didn’t want to run into or discuss Clint’s ex-wife any more than he did.
“And, uh, the Bros are kind of pissed about a few things. No reason to remind them about the car.” Phil nodded acceptance of this, too. Clint had liberated Lola from the gang in Brooklyn, saying they didn’t deserve her, and then promptly turned her over to Phil’s safe keeping. “I can’t take care of nice things, you know that,” Clint had said. Phil had absolutely protested the commentary of his self-worth, but had gladly accepted charge of the car. Aside from it being a sweet ride, and a classic beauty, she reminded him of Clint while they were apart.
“Do you want a hand with that? I can help.”
“Nah. There’s nothing supernatural about the Bros. They’re no threat to Homeland Security. They’re just dicks.”
Phil felt there was more to it than that, but he wanted to respect the space Clint was making for himself. He needed something of his own, not SHIELD, or The Avengers, or even Phil. A compartmentalized place that belonged to Clint Barton only.
They slipped quietly into the Tower and up to Clint’s suite. Phil checked in with his team and updated intel reports while Clint showered.
When Clint came to the bedroom, skin still steamy-warm and pink and Phil kissed his way down Clint’s body then sat him on the edge of the bed while he kneeled to mouth and suck at his cock.
“God damn it, oh god,” Clint swore and whimpered, alternating between clutching the back of Phil’s head and the bed sheets underneath him.
“I’m gonna come. I mean--” Clint gasped. “Not complaining if that’s what you’re going for, but.”
Phil pulled away, kissing Clint’s inner thigh. “Not yet,” he said, and stood up.
He undressed while Clint lay back on the bed, sprawled naked, legs dangling off the edge, cock still hard and wet, watching Phil with dark eyes.
Phil was unsurprised to find lube in the nearby drawer and Clint rolled over, heaving himself like his body was too heavy but he smirked at Phil over his shoulder.
Phil kneeled again, murmuring, “I am such a lucky man,” against the skin of one of Clint’s asscheeks. Phil kissed him everywhere, licking and tonguing him open until Clint was ready for fingers. He writhed and groaned, much louder with his pleasure than he’d been when they first met. He panted, letting Phil stretch him gently, knowing that he would still fuck him hard but without having to hurt him. Long term partnership had a lot of benefits.
Neither of them even tried to come right away, they just wanted to fuck and kiss and be together while they could. When one position became too tiring to maintain, they moved to something else, joking about getting old. When they were both lying across the bed, Clint’s back to Phil’s chest, the urgency had receded. Phil was still hard inside of him but they barely moved, touching each other softly and kissing where they could reach.
“And here I was afraid I’d never see you when we went off with different teams. But I could get used to this.”
“Having a bus helps.”
Clint snorted. “‘Bus,’ my ass. You can brag about your big-ass airplane, it’s okay.”
“It is pretty cool, isn’t it?” They laughed quietly together, it felt weird to do in the middle of sex but it was good.
“There’s so much for us to do,” he said softly, pulling Clint close, pushing forward and deep. There were still villains to fight. Superheroes to help. “But I’ll always return to you. I swear.”
~