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The high-pitched clank of the bell as Clint pushed ahead through the front door of the diner rasped on Phil's strung out nerves, and he had to steel himself not to jump. Barton was halfway across the room before Phil even got his coat unzipped, and probably most of the way into a relationship with the plump little waitress.
"C'mon, Phil, Suzi says we can sit anywhere we want." No kidding. The place was deserted--not even the obligatory homeless guy nursing a cup of coffee through the December night. Once they left it would probably remain that way until the early morning crowd started trickling in...in another hour or more. Phil started toward the bar stools at the counter, but allowed Clint to divert him to an overstuffed booth. The fabric was faded, and patched in a couple of places with silver duct tape, but it was comfortable enough to relax back into. Phil let his head drop against the high back, and closed his eyes.
Clint dropped into the other side causing the cushion to huff under his weight, and started flipping through the pages of the mini-jukebox that was mounted to the window, click-click-click.
"Don't even think about it," Phil warned without looking. Click-click-click. "Barton."
"Aw, you're no fun." Phil didn't have to open his eyes to see the disapproving frown. "Don't have any quarters anyway, so you're safe."
Footsteps approached, and Phil dragged his head back up, blinking open against the bright fluorescent lights. The waitress--Suzi was embroidered on her pocket--slid two mostly-unchipped mugs onto the formica table and poured in coffee that was hot enough to steam, and strong enough to wake him up with just the aroma.
"What can I get for you?" She put the coffee pot down long in exchange for an order pad, and fished a pen from somewhere in her retro, beehive hairdo.
"Well, darlin', what do you recommend?" It was a well-practiced diversion, and worked as well as ever. Under the right circumstances Clint could ooze charm like breathing, and tonight Phil was grateful. Making nice with civilians was usually his job, but he just wasn't in the mood. He listened with half an ear to her suggestions while scanning the chalkboard behind the bar. Someone with bad spelling had written yesterday's specials in a script embellished with little curlicues and flowers. He wondered if it had been Suzi, if she had a high school diploma, whether she'd be working in this place if she did, and the over/under she'd wait 'til the end of their meal to offer Clint her phone number.
"Guess I'll try the apple pancake, then. What about you, Phil?"
Phil brought his gaze back to the table, looked across at Clint's sparkling eyes, then down to his own hands, clenched hard in his lap. "Pancakes and bacon, well done."
Clint chuckled. "And here I was, thinking you might try something new and exciting." Phil had had plenty of excitement tonight, damn it.
"You want any juice with that?" Suzi offered, tucking away her pad and collecting the pot of coffee. Phil just shook his head at the idea of adding acid to his stomach and reached for the bowl of creamer packets. Maybe there was enough there to tame the coffee for drinking. Otherwise, he'd be fighting tension, exhaustion and heartburn before they made it back to the apartment.
He reached for the coffee finally, and in spite of his efforts watched the surface ripple in reaction to his tight-held tension.
"You okay, Phil?" It wasn't the first time Clint had asked. "Maybe we ought to stop into the local ER if you won't go to medical."
"I'm fine, Barton." Just because things could have gone a whole lot worse than they had was no reason to spend three hours in an ER, much less SHIELD's med wing, waiting to be cleared, then sent home to rest and relax.
Clint sighed, then reached out one large hand, brushing two fingers along Phil's tense wrist. The warmth was shocking enough that he almost dropped the coffee, and ended up setting it down, hard, sloshing over the rim of the mug. "Fuck," he muttered.
"See, if you were fine you wouldn't be wasting a damn fine cup of coffee."
Phil choked out a laugh. "I'd have to have a damn fine cup, first." He fished out a handful of cheap napkins from the dispenser and mopped up the table, then piled them in a sodden heap.
Clint glanced at his watch. "Yeah, well Starbucks won't open at least an hour, so it's this or the best that 7-11 has to offer."
Phil didn't need to look to confirm they were in that sweet spot well after the bars had closed and before decent coffee shops would be serving. He nodded, and managed to take a sip of the coffee without spilling it down the front of his shirt. It was a victory, he guessed. Clint nodded encouragingly, and Phil worked his way through half the cup before Suzi set two huge plates of food down in front of them. Phil watched the show, Clint smiling and complimenting, Suzi blushing and giggling. Something deep in his gut started to unwind. This was the world going on.
The sun would be up in a couple of hours, and Phil would be there to see it, instead of lying under a sheet in the SHIELD morgue.
His car was a smoking hulk, so thoroughly destroyed they'd had to haul it away on a flatbed.
"Out, Coulson!" Clint's voice in his ear was harsh, urgent. Without a second's thought he'd launched himself from behind the steering wheel, diving and rolling into the nearest alley. He'd felt scorching heat from the RPG detonating the gas tank, but the shrapnel hadn't made the 90-degree turn into the alley.
He'd been lucky. Lucky to have Clint on the high watch. Smart to trust him implicitly.
In a split second their quiet surveillance had become an all-out shooting war. And then it was over in under an hour. Three strike teams had beaten the NYPD to the scene. They'd left with six AIM scientists in custody and ten footsoldiers either dead or on their way to SHIELD's secure medical bay. R&D and cleanup teams were still onsite, with Maria Hill supervising. Unless they ran into a completely unknown threat, the remainder of that block of warehouses would be open for business by nine AM, with few of the city's residents even aware of the incident.
"…t up."
Phil jerked his head back.
"What?"
Clint was still there. Looking worried. It wasn't a good look on him.
"I said, your pancakes are getting cold. You better eat up."
Phil's ears weren't ringing, not anymore, and he'd passed the field standard assessment for concussion. There wasn't any reason he should have trouble tracking. A quick glance confirmed that Clint's meal was mostly gone, and his was sitting, untouched. And yes, cold now. He frowned, then poured syrup that was probably more corn than maple over the pancakes, and started eating.
Clint had the grace to stop staring at him. Not that he couldn't track Phil just as well peripherally, but it was a nice pretense, anyway. He shoveled in the last of his own food, then took out his phone and started poking it. He could be texting Natasha in Greece—the time zones would work—or playing Tetris for all Phil knew.
He ate mechanically, until he really couldn't force another bite, and then pushed it away. He picked up the cup of coffee, but it was worse cold than it had been hot. Damn it.
"You ready to go, boss?" Clint had been watching, of course he had.
"Yeah, let's get out of here." He raised a hand to wave for the waitress, but she appeared at his shoulder. He didn't flinch. Phil Coulson didn't flinch. Of course, he would have said his situational awareness wouldn't let a waitress surprise him from behind either.
She dropped the check in front of Clint, gathered up their plates, and turned back to the kitchen with a bit of a sway to her hips. On the newly cleared table, he wasn't surprised to see a second slip of paper that exhibited the same curlicue cursive as the chalkboard, and a local phone number.
Phil pulled out his wallet and dropped a twenty on the on table. "You ready? Or staying to chat?" It wouldn't be the first time they'd left a bar or a restaurant separately under very similar circumstances.
"What?" Clint was already out of the booth, zipping his tac jacket, and looked confusedly from Phil to the counter where Suzi was filling salt shakers. "No way, boss. I'm your ride, remember?"
He'd been trying not to remember actually. He felt the weight of his keychain in his coat pocket. "Okay, then. Home, James."
Clint snickered, but he held open the bell-clanking door, letting in a icy wind from the cold street, and then the passenger door of the SHIELD-issue black SUV that he'd appropriated from one of Hill's minions. Parata, Phil thought, but he honestly hadn't been paying that much attention, which wasn't like him, either.
He settled back against the smooth leather and let his eyes fall shut. The car turned, and turned again. Phil was dozing before they even crossed a bridge.
"…here, boss." It seemed that he was going to spend the rest of the night only half-hearing Clint, whether over the comms or sitting right next to him.
Phil patted the his shirt collar until he felt his comlink, then shoved it hard into his still-ringing ear. "Crackle… mobilize…west…basement….Copy?" A piercing whine burst through the signal. Phil shook his head, then tapped the earpiece.
"I don't copy. Say again." There were multiple voices on the channel, terse and urgent in tone, but he couldn’t pick out the words, and apparently they couldn't hear him, either, since no one had repeated the previous communication. On instinct alone, he swapped to the private channel.
"Barton, talk to me."
"Sorry, sir, I—" Clint's voice was tense, and suddenly drowned out by automatic weapons fire at ground level and the loud, much deeper report of Clint's customized HK from above.
"Hey." Clint's voice was sharper now. Amused, not concerned. "If you're gonna drift off on me again, I'll reevaluate that trip to medical." Phil dragged his eyes open, and was caught in Clint's penetrating gaze. "Seriously, Phil. Are you concussed? Or just exhausted?"
"Not concussed." He released his seatbelt. "I passed the SAC. Leftover adrenaline dump and maybe a bit of shock. Nothing to worry about." He opened the door carefully. It wasn't a sign in his favor that he hadn't even noticed Clint finding a miraculous parking place across the street from his apartment.
"Let me walk you up." It wasn't really a question. Barton was at his side, and clicking the remote to lock the car and set the alarm. Phil just nodded and let himself be herded up two flights of stairs, through the front door, out of his wool coat and shoulder holster, then half way down the hall to his bedroom before Clint paused. "You want shower first, or bed?"
The shower sounded amazing after his time in the alley, but far too much work. "Bed." He hadn't meant it as an instruction, exactly, but Clint eased him the rest of the way down the hall and Phil was sitting on his bed before he knew it. He watched, bemused as Clint knelt and eased off his shoes and socks.
"Strip off, and I'll—" Phil missed the last bit of that sentence, but he could follow instructions well enough. He undressed to his shorts and pulled back the covers. He was looking between the bed and the light switch by the door when Clint returned with a tall glass of water. Oh. That made sense.
"Hey, get in there." Clint nodded at the bed. "Answer a few questions, and I'll leave you alone."
"January 21, 2007. Well, actually the twenty second, now. Friday. Hell if I know what time, not yet dawn." It wasn't like they didn't both know the protocols backward and forward. Clint set the glass on the bedside table and held out both hands. Phil gripped them, carefully, noting their strength and the contrast of hard callus and soft skin. Clint nodded, approving.
"Okay, you're good. Drink that and get some sleep." Clint stood and moved to the door. "Yell if you need anything. OK?"
He waited, and Phil realized he expected a response.
"I will," he promised.
Clint nodded again and turned off the light. In the resulting dark, Phil tracked Clint's paces to the bathroom, and then the soft whine of water through the old pipes. He was asleep before the shower cut off.
---
Phil jerked awake, shocked. Unexpected sound in his apartment resolved between one pounding beat of his heart and the next: not a threat, but Barton muttering under his breath. Phil lay still, tracking backward through the drive, the diner, the busted op. It didn't seem like any memories were missing; his brain was back on line. Expensive blackout curtains made sure he had no outside cue about the time of day. He felt on the bedside table for his phone. It wasn't there, but his watch was. 11:30. Almost certainly AM. He didn't have the dragging exhaustion from sleeping more than a dozen hours. He pushed upright and shuffled into the bathroom.
Showered, shaved, and dressed in a ratty pair if sweatpants and a long-sleeved tee with a SHIELD logo on the breast pocket, Phil followed the aroma of coffee into the open-concept living area. The blinds here were wide open, letting in the noonday sun.
"Morning, boss. Coffee's on." Clint grinned up from the floor where he was twisted in some yoga stretch that looked too painful for Phil to consider trying.
Phil poured a cup and settled into one of the dining chairs. Clint shifted to sitting cross-legged and reached for his own cup.
"Where's my phone?" He had a kinesthetic memory of the weight in is pocket at the diner. He was 90% certain he hadn't lost it, which meant that Clint had pickpocketed him between the car and the bedroom.
"On the charger in your office." Clint nodded at the second bedroom. "But I already checked in with Hill. She's got your prelims, my report, and enough data from R&D to keep everyone slammed until at least tomorrow. You're off the hook."
His fingers twitched anyway. It was instinct to be connected, in the center of things.
"Gun?"
"Top of the refrigerator." Clint grimaced, frustrated. "You upgraded to a fingerprint lock."
He had, three weeks ago, and hadn't considered that Clint had picked the combination on the last gun safe, but wouldn't have access to this one. "I'll add yours."
The size of the smile Clint beamed at him was probably not normal.
"You didn't need to stay, you know." He'd been exhausted, but not concussed, and Clint had known it. Otherwise he'd have made good on his offer to cart Phil to the ER or medical, or at least woken him up every hour or two checking for a brain bleed. He had a few bruises and scrapes from his hasty roll across concrete and asphalt, and the blast had singed some of the hair at the back of his neck. Basically a normal day a the office.
"No problem." Clint's eyes flicked down. "Wasn't like I had anywhere else to be."
"I beg to differ." Clint looked up, confusion clouding his gaze. "Suzi?" Phil prompted. Now that he thought about it, Clint hadn't even picked up the paper with her number.
"Yeah, right."
Phil let that sink in into the space between them. Clint absently fastened and released the buckles along one leg of his tac pants. The hardware would stand up to more than two thousand use cycles. Phil had approved the testing.
He started again. "I could have gotten…" A cab at three in the morning? Probably. A ride from one of the junior agents? Certainly. There was no need for Clint to have held his hand, almost literally, after an op gone bad. "You could have gotten…" Laid. No better release of adrenaline. Everyone knew that.
"Boss." Clint shook his head. "Phil." He looked up, pinning Phil with his famously sharp gaze. "There was nowhere else I wanted to be." Phil felt his mouth open, the closed it. He didn't know what to say to that. "No one else I wanted to be with."
Phil nodded. They were friends. Had been for nearly a decade. It made sense to unwind with someone that you cared about.
"When I—" Clint's voice cut off, and Phil thought for a moment that he was losing track of things again. But no, he could see Clint's mouth, and it was clenched shut, like he was trying to keep something inside. "When you—" Clint rubbed both hands over his face, then back through his hair, leaving it standing out at crazy angles. "Last night—"
"Was a clusterfuck," Phil finished.
"Yeah," Clint laughed, but it was grating. "But when I saw—"
Phil tried to figure out what Clint was trying to say, but he just couldn't parse it into anything. Clint always saw more than anyone else. That's what made him Hawkeye. "Okay."
"They fragged your car, Phil! And I couldn't stop them." Clint's voice was rising. "I couldn't raise you on the comms for almost a minute." I thought you were dead, hung unsaid between them.
"Fuck, Clint." Sorry didn't cut it. He held out a hand and Clint grabbed it and held tight.
"Yeah."
"I didn't—"
"I know!" Clint sighed. "You didn't know. Wouldn't leave me hanging if you could help it." All true, and none it made a bit of difference. "But believe me when I say there's nowhere else I'd rather be. No one else I want to be with." Clint dropped his head again. Phil missed the intensity of his gaze, but it gave him a minute to try to gather his own thoughts. And to notice the slight blush that was coloring Clint's ears.
Suddenly the puzzle pieces of his life seemed shift and spin, slotting into a whole new picture. He remembered the soft brush of Clint's hand on his wrist in the diner, the absolutely matter-of-fact way Clint had taken him home and tucked him in. Like a child. Or a lover.
"But you have—" Phil could count on the fingers of both hands the men and women Clint had slept with, just last year. Keeping that file up to date was one of his least favorite job tasks. Clint's ability to share himself amazed Phil. He left most of his partners with good memories and easy, ongoing friendship. And he'd never shown any sign that he wanted anything like that with Phil.
Phil wasn't sure if he could give the same. "I—" he started, then trailed away when Clint knelt up, grabbing his other hand, and meeting Phil's eyes. Their faces were close enough he could feel Clint's quick, warm breath.
"I want you." Questions crowded to the front of his mind: for today, or this week? To erase a momentary fear? Or something more?
"Yes." Phil surprised himself with the calm certainty. He didn't know the question, but the answer to Clint Barton was always going to be yes, damn it. "Yes." He leaned forward, slightly, and Clint did too, and their lips touched, lightly, and then more firmly. "Yes," he whispered into Clint's mouth, and when had that happened? Then Clint's tongue was reaching back, mapping the inside of Phil's mouth and lighting a fire that tingled to the tips of his fingers and toes, and pooled in his groin. He pulled back to gasp, "Clint!"
"Phil!" Clint, panting, leaned his forehead into Phil's shoulder and wound one hand into the hair at the back of Phil's head, gripping tightly.
It was the easiest thing he'd ever done to slide off the chair, onto the floor, so they were pressed together from knees to chest. The hard, hot pressure of Clint's erection against his hip was shocking. And incredible. Blood and heat rushed to Phil's dick in response, and he heaved forward, wanting more: more pressure, more Clint, more of everything. He clenched one hand in the back of Clint's shirt and dropped the other to knead at his ass. Clint's ass was amazing. He'd always known that, but feeling it was a whole new world of experience.
"Please…" Clint's voice was wrecked. He panted hot, wet breaths across Phil's ear. It might be the hottest thing Phil's ever experienced.
"Yes." So easy to say to this man. "Yes."
Then Clint was leaning back, arching until his shoulders touched the floor, and Phil followed him down. Arms and legs, and wanting to be closer not further. Undressing was too hard, too far apart, because Clint's hands were strong, and now they were pulling him closer lining them up. And then the strop of Clint's dick across his, even separated by cloth was the center of his entire being. Phil surged, rocking downward to meet each thrust, and each breath was "Yes. Yes. Yes."
Arousal wound tight, and then tighter still, muscles clenched and straining. Clint fell first, from solid rhythm to stretched stillness and then a juddering release. Phil pulled back to watch the harsh grimace on Clint's face transform to a beatific smile. "Love you, Phil."
"Yes!" The wave of energy crested and broke over him then, wringing orgasm out of him for what felt like minutes. It faded slowly, little sparks still twitching along his nerves, and oh god, he was still lying on top of Clint, in the middle of his living room. He tried to pull back, but Clint's arms were wrapped tightly around him. Phil let out a questioning grunt.
Clint rolled them carefully to one side, and pulled away far enough that Phil's eyes could focus. He was still flushed, from sex, or from embarrassment? And did Phil really care?
"I'm sorry," Clint started. Phil quirked an eyebrow in question. He didn't see anything worth apologizing for. "I know it's a dick move to say 'I love you' during sex." He let go of Phil's ass to rub a hand over his face again. Both seemed like a bad move. "I just—"
"Barton." Phil interrupted. Clint stuttered to a stop. "What if I say it back?"
The expression lit Clint's face was like the one he got when he a new trick arrow worked for him: amazement, joy, and pride. If he could Phil was going to put that expression on Clint's face on a daily basis. "I love you, Clint Barton." That look. Phil smiled back, and leaned in for a kiss that might, maybe, probably, just be the start of the next round. Or the rest of his life.
Yes.