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Phil leaned back from his desk with a sigh and rubbed his dry eyes. He hadn’t made any progress in close to an hour—mostly just reading over paragraphs of data analysis he’d already part-way memorized and making frivolous edits to the dossier he was supposed to be compiling for his next op. The same five bullet points about their contact’s paramilitary background kept sticking out awkwardly and he was fairly certain he’d rewritten them the same way three times. He’d been staring at his computer screen for so long, he couldn’t remember.
He didn’t want to look at the clock; he really didn’t. Maria had made him promise he wouldn’t be pulling any excessively late nights over this op’s prep work.
The small digits in the bottom corner of his computer screen laughed at him.
At least he hadn’t bet any money on it.
Elbows on his knees, he held his head in his hands and willed his slowly building headache away. For as late as it was, he really didn’t have much to show for it.
There was one thing he could try.
Phil glanced at the clock again.
He was up and out of his office before he thought too hard about it.
It was late enough that no one was around to watch him make his way down the hall to the elevators. The VR lab in sub-level four was technically closed, but his security credentials would get him in without drawing attention. If anything, use of the elevators might, just because one was moving, but he made a late-night habit of it often enough it wouldn’t be seen as irregular.
The fact that it wasn’t irregular was a problem, but only for him. His VR profile was heavily locked down by virtue of his clearance level and the ops he was over. As far as he knew, only Maria and Nick could access his profile without prior authorization. If either of them ever pulled the data logs from his sessions in the booths, he’d be embarrassed, of course. But they were his friends, in addition to his superior officers; he was sure they’d be discreet about it when they had to fire him over his unfortunate habit. No one else, at least, would ever find out, and that was a relief.
The elevator dinged before he got too caught up in thinking about why his privacy mattered so much, and he counted himself lucky.
Phil scanned himself in, smoothly overriding all the security protocols before sliding into his favorite booth in the back corner of the room. The fiber optic gloves and headset of Booth Thirteen smelled faintly of the antiseptic wipes the VR tech team favored. It was oddly soothing after a night of lackluster work and frustratingly little progress. Once logged in, he tapped in the code to the extra layer of security he personally had asked the tech team to help him set up as his own paranoid precaution to make sure this particular private “training” simulation was only accessible to him.
The familiar virtual reality flowed to life before his eyes, each pixel falling into its perfect place and the world seamlessly taking shape around him.
“Hi, Phil,” his favorite voice greeted him. Phil tilted his head back and sighed as the tension melted away from his shoulders. He turned towards the virtual man next to him at the familiar wrought iron table, all vibrant smiles, and laughter barely hidden behind his deep, blue-gray eyes.
“Hi, Clint,” Phil said, not even attempting to hold back any of the affection he usually tried to stifle. “Got some time to spare for me tonight?”
Clint’s avatar froze mid-sentence. Phil had to pry his fingers out of the avatar’s hand, though it made the avatar flicker and fuzz out around the edges like a bad video connection. He pulled himself out of the simulation and pushed the reboot button without response. He pushed it a few more times and was about to give up when he heard a mechanical hum followed by the tell-tale, low-frequency thump of the power shorting out.
Opening the sliding doors to the VR booth was harder than normal with the power out. The room was dark except for the strand of white emergency power lights flashing along the floor. The main lights were even down in the corridor outside from what Phil could tell peeking through the small window in the door. With a sigh, Phil moved towards the main control cubicle at the front of the training room. He tried the “reset” button and a button labeled “recall VR” and even the big red button labeled “power.” Nothing seemed to jump-start the booths, not even enough that he could properly shut down the sim he’d been in. Phil didn’t have the slightest idea where the breaker for the lab was, and it was late enough that he figured he should probably take it as a sign to head home.
He rooted through a few desk drawers for a pen and a sticky note to leave on the center console’s monitor: For security purposes, please ensure that Booth Thirteen is fully reset.
The monitor itself was filthy with dust, but he tried to not be too judgemental before turning on his heel and heading out the door. Unfortunately, what Phil didn’t register was that the monitor was too dusty for the knock-off-brand post-it note to cling to properly. The whoosh of the door closing behind him whisked the note off the monitor and underneath the control panel.
Clint didn’t love target practice in the VR booths, but getting hours in actually practicing jumping off buildings with a quiver full of grappling hooks seemed to make Phil slightly more forgiving when he did it in the field.
“Hey, Nadia,” Clint knocked on the edge of the control panel as the VR lab manager glanced up at him. “You got a booth for me?”
“Sure. Thirteen? Should have everything set up. No one’s been in there today.”
Nadia was wrong, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be the messenger on that one. He’d been on the receiving end of Nadia’s lecture often enough about how to treat the VR equipment that was “more expensive than your most advanced bow, so help me God, Barton” that he knew better than to tattle on whatever rookie had left the booth in such a state. The headset was on the chair seat instead of its stand where it belonged, and the gloves had been haphazardly tossed aside—one atop the booth monitor, one on the floor.
Clint nearly doubled over with a full-on belly-aching laugh when he sat down and realized whose profile had last been signed in. Maybe he would tattle on the “rookie” after all.
“What have you been up to, Phil?” he murmured to himself, scanning over the details of the simulation Phil had last been running. It looked like Phil had been going through a sim with a sniper profile alongside him. With a grin, Clint punched in his own sign-on codes and hit the “resume” button. There was only one sniper Phil ever worked with on ops, and everyone at SHIELD knew it.
Clint knew Phil sometimes liked to practice upcoming ops in VR. He would sometimes even assign the simulations out to Clint’s or the rest of the op team’s profiles to do reps on them if plans required especially tricky maneuvers. There was no way for him to know if he was about to be dropped into the middle of a firefight, or into an enemy compound, or what to expect. Though he had to admit, he was a little surprised when he found himself sitting opposite Phil at a small wrought iron table.
They were seated in front of a quaint bistro on the edge of a bustling, but peaceful city square. It was paved with cobblestone and lined with flower pots; the buildings around them were all old, traditional architecture that made the square seem weathered, but in a warm, sturdy way.
Clint only had his standard sidearm with him, which was unusual for any of the simulation-worthy missions Phil would usually set up. If his weaponry was limited, his best guess had to be that their next assignment was discreet reconnaissance and surveillance. That, or they were just waiting for the firefight to begin, and they had more weapons stashed somewhere only Phil knew.
It wouldn’t be the first time.
“What was it you were saying, love?” Virtual-Phil asked, and Clint felt his stomach drop. He glanced down at his hands and sure enough, a shiny gold band was wrapped around his left ring finger.
Phil’s avatar grinned at him and held out his hand across the table. Clint reached back, letting Phil lace their fingers together; smoothly following Phil’s lead, just as he always did undercover. Clint smiled back at Phil, despite the groan he was fighting against internally.
Clint had thought he’d finally—finally—gotten over the last undercover op the two of them had worked together as fake husbands. It was like the powers that be at SHIELD knew they were torturing him by flaunting everything he wanted in his face, all while Phil went above and beyond proving that he was better than any husband Clint could ever dream up. It was never even the big things—just light touches, and soft smiles, and focused attention that made Clint’s skin burn like a refinery.
The look Phil’s avatar was giving him right then was a perfect example of everything he loved and hated about those kinds of ops. It was no wonder Phil always made it so convincing. He practiced.
“Nothing important,” Clint said, running his thumb over the inside of Phil’s palm. He nodded at the cup in front of Phil. “How’s your coffee?”
“Excellent. Sunrise is beautiful this morning, isn’t it?”
Clint turned his head towards the sky, but kept his eyes low, scanning the crowd in hopes that what Phil was trying to draw his attention to would be obvious. Of course, it wasn’t. Phil was preparing for espionage and subterfuge. Unless Clint had the dossier, he wouldn’t know who their mark was supposed to be even if they were wearing a pink flamingo costume.
“Clint,” Phil called his attention back, “we can relax now, remember?”
“Right, of course…” Clint tapered off as the Phil sitting across the table from him lifted his hand and brushed his lips across the back of his hand. Whatever simulation Phil was tinkering with, he was definitely programming it very thoroughly, with a very specific set of directives.
Obviously, that just meant the op would be a top priority, eyes only, high stakes, and high risk. There was always a reason it was him and Phil; always a reason why they had to play at being boyfriends or husbands or partners.
Phil’s avatar was watching Clint with soft, sweet eyes. It reminded him of the proud look Phil sometimes gave him when Phil thought he—yes, he, Hawkeye—wasn’t looking. The last time he’d gotten that look had been a week ago when he’d whooped and punched his fists in the air over breaking his own record on the sniper obstacle course. It was almost the same look, but less proud and a little more—
Clint stopped that thought with a kill shot. He swallowed hard and punched the eject button before the idea could rise again like a VR zombie.
He didn't say goodbye to Nadia. He didn't have any patience to sit and pace and wait for the elevators. He certainly wasn't in the mood to deal with other people that might be waiting on the floors above. He absolutely couldn’t risk running into Phil.
Once, just once, Clint thought as he took to the stairs, two at a time, it would be nice if they could just be brothers, or cousins, or literally anything else besides lovers.
Around the time he got to the main floor, Clint had talked himself through the worst of it enough to remind himself that Phil Coulson was thorough about milk runs. It was stupid of him to think Phil would be anything less than thorough about this serious of a mission.
He still had eight flights of stairs to scale before he reached his quarters, though, and plenty of inner monologues to rehash as to why he was stupid for always reading way too much into things. And, when he ran out of that material, he could revisit all the reasons why Phil could do so much better than slumming it with him.
Clint was breathing hard by the time he finally reached the peace of his private bunk. He pressed his sweaty brow to the back of his door and breathed in deep. It would be their thirteenth op together in a fake relationship; a nice, round baker’s dozen of Phil acting the perfect fake husband and Clint falling even more in real, not-fake love with him. He wasn’t sure how many more he could take before he cracked; he wasn’t sure he could even take this one.
Of course, there was an obvious solution. He could put in a request to not be given such intimate undercover assignments. It wouldn't even be a blip on the SHIELD gossip radar. He'd certainly taken his fair share of them.
Clint knew he wouldn’t. If he did, it would just mean someone else would be assigned to pretend to be Phil’s husband, and that sounded even worse.
Three days passed before their next mission brief. Clint spent the first day moping around the archery range, pretending he was just practicing when really he was avoiding Phil and attempting to avoid thinking about Phil. The second day, he ran into Phil in the lunchroom, and it was simultaneously the best and worst part of his day. But spending time cracking jokes with Phil over mass-produced sloppy joes and pasta salad started him thinking.
That night, he struck epiphany gold.
The briefing was scheduled for the afternoon, so Clint spent the morning preparing. He went for a haircut; bribed his way into getting his uniform laundered and pressed in under an hour; cleaned and shined his boots until they were spotless. Anything he could think of to make himself that much more presentable, or at the very least, anything that could distract him from the nerves threatening to eat his stomach from the inside out.
Clint made sure he was early enough for the brief that he’d have his pick of seats. He chose the chair exactly in the middle of the conference room table, and faced the door force-relaxed, but focused. He nodded politely to every agent as they filed in, but when Phil arrived he smiled bright and wide. Just as he expected, Phil sat in the chair directly opposite him, placing his laptop, dossiers, and who knew what else he brought into these meetings in his pile of manila folders he never opened.
“Agent Coulson, sir,” Clint greeted him. “Looking forward to this one?”
“Oh, you know me, Barton.” Phil gave him a small smile back—just for him. It made his insides twist themselves into thrilled, hesitant, victorious, anxious shapes normally foreign to him when it came to work. Clint thought Phil seemed to pause—maybe he sensed Clint’s mood, maybe he could read that Clint knew what assignment was coming, maybe he could tell Clint was even a little excited about it, if not nervous—before he started passing the mission prep work around the table.
“Alright, everyone,” Phil addressed the room, “this is a level five threat assessment of the Ten Rings’ growing footprint, specifically in the Middle East. Each of you has been selected for this mission as you have either come into direct contact with the Ten Rings organization or have indirectly worked to expose them within the last eighteen months. If I can draw your attention to page two, we’ll begin with background on our primary contact, a Mr. Anton Bolibar.”
By the time they’d reached the end of the brief, Clint was confused. He would be serving as lead sniper, backing up Agent Chen who was set to meet with Bolibar, who claimed to be working within the Ten Rings itself. Agent Chen had an extensive list of potential objectives, ranging from trying to flip the potential asset to killing him on the spot. Clint’s nest would be well positioned in relation to the cafe where the meeting was to take place. Agents Ramos and Wood would be watching at ground level from the other side of the street.
Phil wouldn’t even be directly involved. He would be watching with the support team in a van three miles away, calling the shots from a distance.
Plus, they were heading to Cairo. Clint didn’t have anything against Cairo—it was certainly a nice enough city to meet with someone of unknown loyalty and unconfirmed connections, who might or might not be trying to set SHIELD up somehow—but it didn’t match his expectations given the distinctly European architecture of the cobbled square from the simulation.
Clint made it look as if he was studying a few pages in the middle of the dossier until he and Phil were the last ones in the room.
“Any last questions, Barton?” Phil asked as he packed up.
“I um…just wasn’t expecting this one,” Clint said, aiming for nonchalant, though the way Phil pinched his eyebrows together made him think he missed the mark somehow. He wasn’t used to doing that.
Phil licked his lips, then asked, “What were you expecting?”
“Oh, nothing out of the ordinary.” Clint stood and moved around towards the door. Phil followed suit. “Just, seemed like we were…up for something else. Something more exciting?”
“Agent Barton, I know I did not just hear you suggest you’re hoping you or Chen get a kill order in the middle of this lunch, right?”
Clint smirked at Phil’s dry half-joke. He placed his hand on the door handle but then froze. He’d taken just a beat too long to pull the door open. Phil had stepped a little closer than normal, obviously expecting Clint to have opened the door, instead of stopping directly in his path. They looked at each other and the moment seemed to slow down, as if the space between his heartbeats stretched out like taffy. Clint tried not to hold his breath because Phil would notice. Phil was studying him so carefully, so close, so concerned. He felt caught between wanting to let Phil see everything and wanting to hide.
He wasn’t used to wanting to hide from Phil.
Worry flickered through Phil’s eyes, and he finally settled on asking, “What’s bothering you about it, Clint?”
Clint couldn’t tell if he felt relieved or let down. It was a little understandable, he supposed. If Phil thought he was just feeling conflicted over the op and not saying anything, it would be far out of the ordinary for him. Clint staying quiet about anything he saw wrong about an op probably would pose a legitimate cause for concern, on Phil’s part.
It was also a bittersweet reminder, though. Phil always listened to him, especially when his instincts were telling him something wasn’t quite right. It was part of why Phil had stood out to Clint as his favorite handler when he first started at SHIELD. It was one of the things that had made him trust Phil and had made him feel comfortable calling Phil his friend as they got to know each other better. Ultimately, it was what had led him to exactly where he was now—fretting, hopeful, and completely lost in Phil’s bright blue eyes.
“I don’t know if bothering is the right word, but…” Clint cut himself off, suddenly realizing what he’d done.
He felt so stupid. He wanted to slam his forehead against the wall until they checked him into Medical for good so that he’d never have to show his face again.
Of course, undercover ops usually took more planning than the average op. Just because he’d stumbled upon Phil’s planning process earlier in the week didn’t mean it was that week’s op. Clint had absolutely no reason to think their very next mission would be the very same undercover op. He was an idiot and a moron. That just proved why he shouldn’t have been excited about the prospect of being Phil’s fake husband again; why he shouldn’t have been hoping he could show Phil how he could be more and better than a fake husband, maybe. Phil deserved better than a moron.
“You know, I think I’m just antsy. Not knowing objectives right away always does that, you know?”
Phil smirked at him. “Clint, you’re always great under pressure.”
“Yeah, of course, sir.” Clint opened the door and motioned for Phil to step out first, mentally kicking himself the entire time.
The op went off without a hitch. They did discover about twenty minutes in that Mr. Bolibar was not who he’d said he was. Chen shot him from underneath the table, and despite the chaos the gunshot unleashed, the whole team was back in the air within the hour.
Of course, with that out of the way, Clint had the new unfortunate task of trying to guess when the undercover op was coming.
The image of Phil’s hand in his and a wedding band on his finger started haunting his dreams, and his waking hours, until it eventually took over both. Every new mission brief he was pulled into, Clint never knew what to expect. That part wasn’t exactly new—SHIELD always had bizarre and unexpected things for him—but now that he was anticipating something specific, the unknown was agonizing. It made Clint feel like he was constantly bouncing on the balls of his feet, ready to spring into action, but without anywhere to go.
The mission after Cairo was a quick and easy milk run to Toronto. It was probably below his and Phil’s pay grades, but he wasn’t about to turn down an op where he got such quality one-on-one time with Phil. It wasn’t the type of one-on-one time he was waiting for: time when he’d get to touch Phil, and kiss him, and sleep in the same bed. It wasn’t getting to see Phil at his adorably rumpled pre-coffee state each morning or getting to see Phil smile at him in appreciation as Clint brought him his coffee just how he liked it.
But it was time for just the two of them, with a lot of sitting around, just talking, while they waited for a couple of dead drops, and made a few of their own. It was better than nothing. Clint knew to be grateful for scraps and “better than nothing.”
The mission after that, Clint was Phil’s backup on an 0-8-4 retrieval that went sideways. Phil ended up in Medical for two solid weeks. His excuses for staying by Phil’s bedside became increasingly flimsy, even for him.
The nurses noticed, of course. The nurses always noticed. They were known affectionately and disparagingly—usually depending on how they’d impacted that person’s love life—as SHIELD’s resident matchmakers. Phil wasn’t at death’s door though, so they mostly kept their commentary to dramatic sighs and eye rolls.
But Phil was drugged out of his mind for most of the time, so at least he didn't notice when Clint gave up trying to make excuses and just stayed.
The mission after that, Clint was running point on a coup-thwarting assassination that thankfully didn’t go sideways, despite its best efforts. The only reason it didn’t was that Phil saved his ass when his exit strategy went up in literal flames.
Up until that point, Clint had never really thought of himself as someone turned on by fear and certainly not as someone who liked feeling helpless. But apparently, he was and did. At least, he definitely was if Phil Coulson was the one saving him from his near-death experiences. It was sexy as hell: the image of Phil standing with the fire raging behind him, the flex of all Phil’s normally hidden, understated muscles as he reached out to yank Clint up off the side of the building, the way Phil’s eyes bore into him as he quietly asked if Clint was alright. It was a vision that stayed at the forefront of his mind for a long time, and a feeling he revisited in the privacy of his own shower and the comfort of his own bed very frequently.
Clint knew he didn’t deserve Phil. He knew he didn’t, but he was trying. Every op, every meeting, every sparring match against each other, every unplanned meal they shared, Clint was constantly focused on being better, doing better, and showing respect, competence, and composure. Phil deserved that, and Clint was really, really trying to show he could be what Phil deserved. He was pretty sure he was failing, most days.
But, there were fleeting moments when Clint thought he was making progress. There were times it seemed like Phil might have been hoping to run into him in the gym or times Phil maybe was intentionally waiting for him so they could catch lunch together.
Then he was assigned away for three weeks as Fury’s shadow—no one dared to call him Fury’s “bodyguard”—for the WSC summit in Geneva.
Clint hadn’t been keeping track, but he realized a few hours in that it was his first mission without Phil since before he’d been permanently designated for Phil’s asset roster. He gave it two days before resigning himself to absolutely hating it. He hated it more than any assignment he’d had since he’d been a Level Two agent—and that was only because on that particular op, he’d ended up in the sewers of Madrid on no less than four separate occasions.
Of course, he’d had other shitty ops since then, literal and otherwise. But every other shitty op, Phil was always there to help make it better and commiserate with him. But in Geneva, Clint was bored, and miserable, and lonely. He never felt lonely on ops. Clint hated being lonely.
Plus, he hated the food. He hated the food, and he hated Fury’s stupid trench coat, and he hated the WSC for even daring to exist at all.
But then there was the look he got from Phil when they first saw each other on his first day back at HQ. Phil had looked so genuinely happy to see him, Clint almost couldn’t remember his own name after being on the receiving end of Phil’s smile. Clint was positive that meant the undercover op was next on the docket, and that maybe—maybe—Phil was actually looking forward to it, too.
He was wrong.
Every new op came with more spycraft, more waiting, more shooting. It was all of the things that made Clint feel useful working for SHIELD—why he loved his job so much—but it was never the assignment he could finally own up to actively wanting, even if he could only admit it to himself.
In his defense, Phil really, truly tried to only visit the simulation when he needed someone brilliant, thoughtful, and reliable to brainstorm mission plans with.
This wasn’t one of those times.
Also in his defense, Phil usually had Nurse Johnson backing his play.
Nurse Johnson was a saint. She was his biggest ally in all things “hide feelings for Clint Barton.” She seemed to understand his irrational need to see Clint with his own two eyes while he was under any sort of intensive care. And, most importantly, she had enough seniority that the other nurses and even most doctors on staff never questioned her. That meant she could help him claim clearance for parts of SHIELD Medical where most agents weren’t allowed, like the surgery viewing gallery.
However, her overarching authority apparently stopped at Nick Fury.
“You shouldn’t be watching this, Cheese,” Nick had said.
“It’s for your own good, Cheese,” Nick had said.
As if Nick knew anything about what Phil should or shouldn’t be doing when Clint was cut open on a table and the doctors were struggling to maintain his heart rate, on top of everything else that was wrong.
It was fine. He was fine, and Clint was going to be fine.
He just needed something to hold onto until then.
The simulation was helping. He felt much more grounded as he turned with Clint’s avatar in the center of the ballroom. They rocked back and forth together, in time with the string quartet playing at the front of the room. It was quiet, calm; they were among the last people at the party; definitely the last two on the dance floor.
“You terrify me,” Phil said, resting his head on Clint’s shoulder. “One of these days you’re going to jump off a building and you’re not going to come back to me.”
“I’ll always come back to you,” the avatar answered back with a light chuckle.
Phil pressed in closer, resting his forehead against the curve of Clint’s neck. “I should get back to Medical. You’re going to be out of surgery soon. I should be there when you wake up.”
“C’mon, just a few more minutes.” It was exactly what Clint would say in real life, in exactly the same teasing tone. The virtual version of Clint was so close to the real man. It made things both easier and harder.
“A few more minutes,” Phil allowed. Virtual-Clint hummed happily in his ear. Phil let himself run his thumb over the wedding band on his ring finger, and let himself pretend for a little while more.
Clint had been avoiding the VR lab in the months since what he had termed in his head as The Incident. However, R&D had somehow manipulated Medical into incorporating VR into their physical therapy programs as part of some useless “inter-departmental collaboration” project. Every single field agent knew it was bullshit, but it had been officially added as another hoop to jump through for field clearance after any sort of invasive surgery or lengthy recovery.
He hated them all.
But, he jumped through the hoops; did all the exercises to show that he was still coordinated enough to attempt the practical part of his field-ready tests or whatever it was he was supposed to be doing. Afterward, just as he was about to log out, he noticed a new menu at the side of his screen he was certain he hadn’t seen before.
Clint opened it, and immediately wished he hadn’t. It was a listing of all private simulations he’d previously logged into outside his own profile. There was only one, owned by a user “pcoulson.” It listed two dates: last accessed by user, and last reset by owner.
Phil had reset the sim four days ago, still just him and Clint.
That was bad enough as it was, but there was also a little square button that read “Access External Simulation.” As he clicked it, Clint did at least politely acknowledge to himself that he knew it was a bad idea.
They were walking on a beach at sunset. The sky was streaked with luscious, bright oranges and deep purples. The beach wasn’t overly crowded, though most people were out of the water, gathering around bonfires. The evening beach smells of smoke, hot dogs, and burnt marshmallows were starting to overtake the daytime smells of sunbaked seaweed and ocean spray.
Phil reached out his hand, and Clint took it without hesitation. Both of them looked disheveled after some sort of formal party: their top few buttons were undone, pants rolled up a little as they walked barefoot in the sand, both of them carrying their dress shoes. Clint still had his suit jacket on and his tie in his pocket, but he chanced a sideways glance at Phil. He was holding his jacket in the crook of his arm, with his sleeves rolled up. His bowtie was undone, hanging loose under his collar.
Clint was sure his heart nearly stopped. Phil didn’t wear bow ties often, and Clint wasn’t especially partial to them unless the tie was laying open across Phil’s chest, framing just a little bit of exposed neck and collar bone. He’d made that discovery about himself on one particularly memorable night, walking along the Pacific Ocean at sunset with his fake husband, halfway through a beast of an undercover op in Santa Monica.
He glanced over his shoulder and sure enough, the Santa Monica Pier jutted out into the ocean, proud and bright behind them. The electrical lights of the Ferris wheel and carnival games were already sparkling as evening began to settle in.
Clint brought their joined hands to his lips just to check his theory under the guise of a kiss across Phil’s knuckles.
On the Santa Monica op, his wedding ring had been tungsten with a blue sea glass inlay. The thought always tempted him on every op he got to pretend, but he really had almost kept that ring. He would have recognized it anywhere, and there it was: a perfect replica, on his finger, in Phil’s simulation.
His head was spinning. That night, on that op, they’d been worried their hotel room had been bugged. After a party at their target’s mansion, they’d stopped at the beach for a walk, to make plans about their next move.
Clint distinctly remembered wishing they didn’t have to talk work, though. He’d wanted to just enjoy the warm summer night with Phil, alone, just the two of them. He’d wanted to reach out, take Phil’s hand. He’d tried to come up with a million reasons they should make sure the beachgoers knew they were a couple, but in the end, he came up empty. They weren't in character; they were in planning mode. He could touch Phil almost as much as he wanted while they were in character, but not when it was them, just doing their job.
Virtual-Phil smiled at him and squeezed his hand. They just kept walking.
It was everything he’d wished for that night.
Clint ripped the headset off and leaned back in the chair, willing his heartbeat to slow down. He sat in the booth for a long time, thinking and processing. Mostly, he was just trying to breathe until he could think clearly enough for the thinking to actually do any good and for the processing to be more than what amounted to internal screaming.
He needed a plan. There was a semblance of an idea, just out of reach, but it wasn't fully formed yet.
Either way, he would need Nadia’s help. He diligently cleaned up the booth, lest he incur her wrath, and then squared his shoulders, preparing his most convincing arguments. Clint knew he might be asking for a lot. He certainly might be admitting a lot. But if he was right, and if his plan worked, he knew he’d be shouting it from the rooftops. If he was wrong, and it all blew up in his face—he was trying to not think about that. But if he was right, he’d be telling everyone within earshot, because nothing could be better than him being right.
Clint sauntered up to the control panel to where Nadia was talking with a young woman wearing a bright orange security badge labeled “intern.” Maybe he could work that to his advantage.
“Hey, Nadia,” Clint gave her his very best, friendliest, most charming smile, “I’ve got a favor I was hoping to ask. Maybe even a fun project for one of your talented interns?”
Nadia gave him a highly unimpressed look before turning to the intern. “Esther, don’t ever let the field agents fool you into thinking they don’t know anything about tech.” Then she turned back to Clint. “What do you need, Agent Barton?”
“Oh, so many things,” Clint joked back and got a laugh out of Esther, at least. “Hypothetically, if someone was using my avatar in their private simulation, what are the chances you could rig me up some sort of notification when they logged in?”
Nadia leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers together and grinning. “Hypothetically, would this someone have high enough security clearance that he thinks the VR team doesn’t know what he gets up to at night?”
Clint’s smile faltered a little. It wasn’t clear exactly what he was supposed to say back to that, but she laughed like he’d said the right thing anyway. “Oh, Jackie is going to have a field day with this one.”
Her answer caught him a little off guard; he couldn’t immediately place who Jackie might be. “Nurse Johnson?”
“Yeah, yeah,” she waved him off and turned to explain to Esther again, “Medical thinks they have all the fun. We got you, Barton. We can have your notifications up and running in an hour or two. Email or text?”
“Both?” Clint asked, still trying to piece together how Nadia and Nurse Johnson’s friendship—or rivalry, it wasn’t precisely clear—factored into his request, but he certainly wasn’t going to ask.
“You got it.”
“You’re the best, Nadia.” Clint knocked his knuckles on the desktop. He had what he needed and he was not going to stick around any longer than necessary. He certainly didn’t need to hear anything more about the relationships between the managers of SHIELD’s internal operations. He could already tell he was better off not knowing.
“Barton,” Nadia called him back just as he was about to exit the lab, “my team likes the nice donuts from Aster’s Bakery on Ninth. You know the place?”
Everyone at SHIELD knew the place. If his plan worked, overpriced donuts seemed the least he could do in thanks. He’d bring donuts in for Nadia daily if it worked. He gave her a salute, and let the door swing shut behind him.
It was an anguishing seventeen days before a notification that Phil had logged in arrived in his inbox. The message came through just a few minutes shy of three a.m., and Clint had been sound asleep. The second the alarm went off, though, Clint was up, awake, and ready for action.
In the lab, Booth Thirteen was emitting a soft glow, so he took a booth on the opposite side of the room from Phil. He wasn't sure if Phil would realize it was him, but he was somewhat banking on the fact that Phil was observant enough that he would.
The night sky was beautiful above them, the near-full moon and the stars giving Clint just enough light to see Phil by. They were on the porch of a small, but luxurious hotel suite Clint recognized immediately this time: the Cancun mission. He was resting in the hammock, one arm behind his head, soft crashing waves just a beach’s width away. Phil was leaning against the door frame of the open sliding glass door to their bedroom. He was close enough that Clint could reach out and grab his hand if he wanted.
He wanted, and Phil let him.
“I get what you’re saying: if we don’t have the right intel we shouldn’t be moving on it,” Phil sighed, swinging their joined hands a little. “But the cartel's probably got kids: hostage or running for them and all of that. I’d rather put us at risk than them.”
“Makes sense,” Clint said, hoping he would keep talking so he could get a little more context.
“We’ve worked Rio before,” Phil sounded almost petulant as he said it. “We’ve got contacts if things go south.”
If Phil was talking about contacts outside of SHIELD, he most likely meant Henrique and Angela—a retired Brazilian Intelligence agent and a retired CIA agent that Phil had worked a few different collaborative ops with when he first started with SHIELD. Officially, they were both dead, which made the couple especially helpful on certain occasions.
“How many kids do you think we’re talking, Phil?” Clint asked. “Would those contacts have room for them?”
“Maybe not. But they’d help. They’d want to help.” If Phil was talking about Henrique and Angela, that meant he was concerned about something within SHIELD. Potentially, they were just looking at having a severely limited team, maybe even just him and Phil—which they’d done before on high-stakes missions and it had always gone well enough. But that sort of restriction wasn’t likely to make Phil’s brow crease like it was, or make him grip Clint’s hand just a little too tight to qualify as casual.
Clint was a little taken aback. If this was how Phil usually used the sim—brainstorming complex ops at three a.m.—why was Phil talking to him? Of all the people Phil could have wanted to work through things with, Phil could have pulled up Jasper's avatar, or Hill's, or hell, probably even Fury's. As Clint thought it, Fury probably slept even less than Phil did—certainly Phil could have actually called Fury and had an actual conversation with him. They were supposed to be friends, right?
And, even if there were reasons for why Phil wanted to talk to a virtual version of Clint rather than call him—because really, Phil should know that Clint would always pick up for him, no matter what time it was—why on Earth would Phil keep setting the scene on ops where the two of them had been fake-married?
“Every drug cartel recruits kids. What’s really bothering you about this one?” Clint asked when Phil looked at him after the lull in their conversation stretched on noticeably long. Phil dropped his hand and started massaging his temples like he had a headache coming on.
“South America is usually Agent Ramirez’s gig. He’s been on this cartel for months and Fury won’t tell me why Ramirez backed out all of a sudden. And Ramirez isn’t answering my emails.”
Phil knocked his head back against the door jamb and twisted his wedding ring around his finger.
“Could be personal?” Clint suggested.
“Ramirez is more of a workaholic than I am.”
Clint laughed, and Phil looked at him with an adorably annoyed furrow to his brow. “Oh yes, tell me more,” Clint said, standing up so he could move closer to Phil. “Tell me all about how Phil Coulson is not the biggest workaholic in Level Seven.”
Phil glanced at his hands, then back up at Clint. His sheepish smile made Clint’s stomach flip. He had to actively remind himself that they weren’t really in Cancun and that the white gold wedding band on his finger wasn’t really his.
But, he also wasn’t not standing just inches away from Phil, who was looking up at him like he had all the answers in the world.
He knew it was a risk, but he also knew it was possibly the only time he’d get a chance when they weren’t playing characters for an op. Clint slid his hand to the back of Phil’s elbow and tugged him closer, away from the wall. He leaned in, closed his eyes, touched his nose to Phil’s, and nuzzled closer until their lips were only a breath apart from each other. Phil melted into him; slid his hands up his back and around his shoulders. Clint could feel Phil’s breath coming in faster, shorter puffs, barely ghosting over his lips. They both pressed closer until they were melded together chest to chest; hips pressed together like they couldn’t get close enough.
Clint took Phil’s face in his hands. He wanted; wanted so badly his skin felt electric with it. But he was waiting—waiting for something—he couldn’t tell what it was, but he felt something deep down telling him to wait.
Phil let out the tiniest of whimpers and brushed his lips against the corner of Clint’s mouth, lightly as he could, like he was asking a question.
That was it. That was exactly what he was waiting for.
Clint kissed Phil in a rush—fast, frantic, too needy, not needy enough. But Phil was right there with him, kissing him back just as hard, just as freely, just as desperate. Clint felt victory swelling from his chest, ready to tell Phil everything, ready to unveil his very soul to Phil if that’s what it would take—until Phil suddenly froze. Phil jerked away from Clint’s grip, nervously laughing, running his hands through his hair and over his face.
“Oh, God,” Phil moaned into his palms. He suddenly seemed like he was crashing, nearly halfway to hyperventilating. He bent over and put his hands on his knees, breathing deep, clearly trying to calm himself down. “Oh, God. Oh, no. Hell, no. You’re not doing this, Phil. You’re fucking losing it. Maybe Nick is right. Maybe you should check yourself into psych.”
“Hey, no—Phil—” Clint placed one hand on Phil’s shoulder, ready to come clean that it was really him and not just a bunch of VR code, but Phil startled—actually, genuinely startled—like he’d forgotten Clint was there. He turned up towards Clint with a wide-open, frightened expression that looked downright ridiculous on his face compared to his normal stoic, unflappable calm.
Then, he disappeared.
Clint’s heart practically seized in his chest and he punched eject in his own booth, fully expecting to see Phil standing over him, angry that Clint had seen him that vulnerable. Phil never came to his booth though. Maybe Phil hadn’t even realized Clint was there, and not his doppelganger.
Clint blew out his cheeks with a deep sigh. He absently ran his thumb over the back of his left ring finger. The weight of the ring on his hand has felt nice; he wasn’t so proud that he couldn’t admit that it always felt good on their undercover ops.
After feeling it again in the sim, multiple times now, he further had to admit: his finger felt a little naked without it.
Phil wasn’t in Booth Thirteen or any of the other VR booths, for that matter. Clint could only assume that meant he’d either gone up to his office to pack up for the night, or he’d left straight to the garage to head home. There wasn’t much he could do if Phil was already on the road, but the fresh memory of how it felt to kiss Phil—the adrenaline pushing him to do something still running through his system—drove him to at least check Phil’s office.
The door wasn’t quite shut all the way, and light was filtering through the crack around the edge of the door. Clint could hear Phil shuffling papers around his desk, muttering to himself, probably thinking he was completely alone and getting ready to get the hell out of Headquarters.
Before he gave himself enough time to think too hard, Clint pushed the door open and blurted out, “You don’t need to check yourself into psych.”
Phil was halfway to shoving a ream of paperwork into his briefcase, but he froze at Clint’s proclamation. He looked confused—as confused as Clint had ever seen him, at least—almost like he didn’t believe Clint was there, in his office. “What?”
”Well, not any more than I do.” Clint scratched the back of his neck. As far as intros to this talk had gone, he’d imagined far better ones. “I just…don’t be mad?”
Phil went incredibly, incredibly still. He was controlling his breathing so carefully, that it almost looked like he wasn’t inhaling at all. Phil opened his mouth, then shut it. He started and stopped himself from talking three more times before he settled on letting out a long sigh instead of saying anything.
Finally, Phil stood up, put one hand on his hip, and ran the other through his hair. He looked worried—and tired, but mostly worried. More unnerving than anything else, though, he was refusing to even look at Clint, as if he was ashamed, or something equally ludicrous for Philip J. Coulson, Level Seven SHIELD agent, badass among badasses, to be feeling. Instead, his eyes just kept bouncing from his desk to the floor to his vintage Captain America poster on the far wall.
“Fuck. Clint,” Phil started. His tone was definitely closer to his controlled panic mission going FUBAR voice than his normal, every day, you’re my friend and I’m comfortable with you, Clint voice. “I’m sorry. I don’t have any excuses. I know what it looks like, and I’m sorry. I don’t have anything to give you except that I’m sorry.”
“Hey. Woah. Phil? If you're thinking I’m overreacting, I’m not,” Clint tried to reassure him. “It’s fine. I get it—well, actually, maybe? I’m not sure. I mean, for the longest time I thought it was an undercover op you were prepping for, but then…” Phil’s expression was going stonier and more closed off with each word Clint was saying and he could hear the warning bells going off to change course immediately. “Anyway. The point is—”
“The point is it’s creepy as fuck, Clint!”
”Well, you know what they say: it's not creepy if the guy’s hot.” Clint said it without thinking and he snapped his mouth shut as soon as it was out. He wasn’t sure if it was the right move. From the way Phil blinked at him twice, looking as stunned as he ever looked, Phil didn’t seem like he was entirely sure what to do with it either.
After a few seconds of painful silence, Phil just scoffed at him and looked back at Captain America to say, ”I know you don’t expect me to dignify that with a response.”
His tone was warmer, though. Clint had an opening; he knew he did; he knew he could get it right in his crosshairs if he could just find the right thing to say.
“Fine, say it is creepy.” Clint grasped for whatever straw he could think of to try and convince Phil to not end things before they started. “What’s worse? That you like bouncing ideas off of someone at three a.m. or that I stalked you enough to find out it was me you were talking to? Because if you want to compare creep-factor stats, sir, I think the facts are still stacked against you, even if you are hot as hell.”
Phil wrinkled his nose in a way that Clint recognized from enough of their friendly bantering arguments that meant Phil didn’t agree with what he was saying, but that he also didn’t immediately have a witty retort either. It was close enough to a win, Clint was going to count it.
“Okay,” Clint said carefully, and took a cautious step towards Phil, “maybe not my best work, but somewhat sound logic? A little?”
He kept moving forward until he was right in front of Phil, their chests just barely not touching. Phil didn’t move away from him.
“The smallest, most infinitesimal ‘a little,’” Phil answered, if not begrudgingly.
Phil finally lifted his eyes to meet his, and that was good enough for Clint. He slid his hand to the back of Phil’s elbow. He leaned in, closed his eyes, and kissed him. Clint kept it slow and sweet, but firm, pouring everything he had into it, without an ounce of hesitation.
And Phil kissed him back.
Clint had to enlist the help of no less than seven other full-time Level Six and above agents—including strategically implemented intimidation tactics from none other than Nick Fury himself—to first, trick Phil into taking vacation time, and second, to stop Phil from turning said vacation into an unsanctioned mission. Somehow, though, they pulled it off. Two months into their official relationship, Clint successfully got him and Phil on a genuine, seven-day, completely unplugged, work-free, real-life vacation to Florence, Italy.
He wasn’t entirely certain if he’d pulled off keeping the purpose of the trip a surprise, but Phil seemed game to play along even if he had figured it out.
A lot of their time went unplanned, just wandering through the city they’d both worked multiple ops in—mostly together—but had never really seen. They took their time walking through museums instead of shooting their way through galleries, trying to not ruin priceless masterpieces while still taking down the bad guys. Where they usually stuck to obscure side streets and rooftops, they explored some of the main thoroughfares they’d never set foot on.
Clint made a point that they would enjoy all the things that they’d never have been able to spring for if they were on an op, like taking their late room service breakfast in bed and taking breaks in the afternoon for luxurious naps—among other things. Phil even admitted to enjoying it, too, on their second night, wrapped up in each other’s arms, satiated and naked in bed together. Halfway through the week, Phil surprised him with a spa day more relaxing than any of the massages or ice baths SHIELD’s physical therapists subjected them to after workouts or missions. Clint returned the favor by surprising Phil with reservations to a ten-course chef’s tasting menu at the winery that produced Phil’s absolute favorite wine.
On their last full day in the city, Clint picked out a place for lunch that was just a few blocks from their hotel. Phil had dressed in a light green button-down, top few buttons undone and sleeves rolled up just like he knew drove Clint wild. Clint had worn his very tightest black t-shirt, and a pair of jeans he knew Phil greatly appreciated. It made Clint wonder, again, if Phil knew why Clint had wanted to take this trip, but it was getting close to the time when it wouldn’t really matter anymore what Phil did or didn't know beforehand.
“You recognize this place?” Clint asked halfway through their lunch.
Phil smirked at the question, but nodded, humoring him. He gestured to the flower pots that lined the edges of the cobblestone square. “The flowers are different this time of year.”
“This was where your simulation was running the first time I happened upon it,” Clint said, feeling a little bit nostalgic. “If I’d been expecting it…I dunno. Maybe I would have recognized it sooner, and we could have figured things out faster.”
Phil reached for his hand across the wrought iron table top, and Clint laced their fingers together.
“You know what I’m going to ask you?” Clint asked.
“I’d rather not guess,” Phil answered, “but I’m pretty sure the answer’s going to be ‘yes,’ if that helps. But you should ask. Because if you don’t, I’m going to before this lunch is through.”
Clint burst out laughing and brought Phil’s knuckles to his lips for a kiss. “Marry me? For real this time?”
“I’d love nothing more, Clint.”
To Clint, there wasn’t much of a question about what they were doing once lunch was over. From the way Phil looked at him as he pressed his calf up against Phil’s leg while they finished their meal, there was even less of a question in Phil’s mind. But they took their time; they even enjoyed the complimentary champagne the bistro owner offered them in congratulations. They walked hand in hand back to the hotel directly, but slowly, taking the time to still enjoy the bright afternoon sunshine.
Once they got back to the hotel, though, Clint tugged Phil alongside him to take the stairs two at a time.
“Phil,” Clint whined against the back of Phil’s ear as he fumbled with the key to their suite. “If I’d known it would take you so long, I would have brought my lockpicks.”
“Calm down—” Phil’s breath hitched as Clint slid up behind him to press his hard cock against Phil’s ass and to run his palm back and forth over the front of Phil’s pants, glad to find his dick already plumping and filling in his hand.
“Not gonna happen,” Clint said, before kissing along the back of Phil’s neck.
"You know what I realized on our way back?" Phil asked once he finally got them inside and turned immediately around to crowd Clint against the door.
Clint wrapped his hands around Phil’s waist and pulled him closer; languishing his tongue over Phil’s neck, the curve of his ear, finally settling into kissing Phil soundly and messily as he pulled Phil even tighter against his chest.
"What's that you realized?" Clint asked in a low voice as Phil started tugging Clint’s t-shirt from his jeans.
"In all our ops undercover together, we've never been engaged."
Clint sniggered but tucked his fingers under Phil's chin to lift his lips for another kiss. "Well, we better make it a good time then."
“I’ll show you a good time,” Phil snipped, running his hands up and down Clint’s bare chest underneath the cotton of his shirt.
With a small chuckle, Clint nipped at Phil’s bottom lip lightly over the joke.
“Gonna touch every inch of you,” Clint said under his breath as he finally reached behind his head and pulled his t-shirt off. “C’mere.” He slid his fingers into the front of Phil’s pants and wrapped his hand around the buckle of Phil’s belt. He first jerked Phil forward, teasing him with a slow kiss before starting to direct him backward toward the hotel bed. He guided Phil by only his belt, tugging Phil off course every few steps, just because he knew those sorts of quiet demands drove Phil just the right kind of crazy.
When Phil’s knees hit the back of the bed, Clint only let him go about halfway before holding him in place. It made Phil groan and reach for Clint’s arms, stroking up and down his biceps as Clint held him by his belt.
“Kiss?” Clint asked. It was the very lightest request, but Phil moaned, loud and long like he was losing his mind already, before pulling himself up to kiss Clint, a little more desperate, and a little more sloppy. When Phil settled back into the forty-five-degree angle, Clint smiled down at him. “Shirt off.”
It was easy enough for Phil to unroll his shirtsleeves and unbutton his shirt. It was a little more tricky to untuck his shirt and undershirt considering how taut the back of his belt was pulled across his back as Clint held him slightly suspended, but he did it. Clint licked his lips as Phil’s muscles flexed at the strain of holding the angle.
“You’d stay right here as long as I asked, wouldn’t you?” Clint dropped his voice low again. He shifted his grip on Phil’s belt just barely, and then reached forward with his other hand. Phil was already so much harder than he’d been in the hallway trying to get them in the door. His lower abs spasmed as Clint squeezed a little; he knocked his head back with a groan of appreciation; his breath hitching deliciously as Clint reached down to fondle his balls through the fabric of his pants.
Phil swallowed hard and lifted his eyes to meet Clint’s. Bright blue, challenging, loving, happy, and turned on beyond belief—all things Clint had grown accustomed to seeing and recognizing and actually believing in the last few weeks since he’d convinced Phil to give them a shot.
It had taken them a stuttering, awkward start until they’d both realized that the only thing that was really different in their relationship was that they weren’t hiding from each other anymore. They already spent so much time together, were already so in love with each other—all they’d really had to do was admit it.
That and they started sleeping together, but the sex was definitely never the awkward part.
He didn’t know how he’d ever gotten so lucky.
“Letting you down, now,” Cint said before letting his hold on Phil slowly slacken. He kept moving forward with Phil until Phil was laying down, with his feet still on the floor, and Clint was bracing himself on either side of Phil’s shoulders. He kissed Phil lightly on his forehead, and then on the lips, then across his collarbones until Phil was pawing at his chest with a disgruntled noise.
“You want me to undress you?” Clint asked with a chuckle.
“Well one of us should be naked, at least.” Phil laughed and pushed Clint back by his shoulder. Clint stood back, arms crossed over his chest as he shamelessly watched Phil kick off his shoes, peel off his socks, removing the rest of his clothes piece by piece. He kept watching as Phil shimmied back to the center of the bed and situated himself comfortably.
“How should I fuck you, baby?” Clint asked, finally toeing off his own shoes.
“Bare,” Phil said, licking his lips.
“Obviously.”
“Hard.”
Clint finally pushed his jeans and boxers off and crawled across the bed until he was sprawled between Phil’s legs and he could lean forward to press his hard dick against Phil’s. The sound Phil made just before he leaned forward to kiss him was a shot of adrenaline straight to his cock.
“Fast?” Clint asked, his lips pressed close against the shell of Phil’s ear. “Like I’m desperate for you? Like I can’t not have you? Because I am, and I can’t resist you, darlin’, you know that.”
“God.” Phil kissed him on the temple and wrapped his arms around his shoulders. “No…not right away, at least.”
“Make you beg for it?”
Phil hummed a pleased sound and Clint tugged him down the bed, so he could stuff a pillow under Phil’s hips.
If Phil wanted things like that, there was only one place to start. Clint pushed Phil’s knees open, wide as they could go before Phil would start to feel the stretch between them, leaned forward, and started to suck at the sensitive skin just to the left of Phil’s balls. Phil’s thighs were already dotted with tender bruises and love bites from all the time they’d spent in bed that week, but Clint had been saving this spot.
He nipped and sucked as Phil’s breath turned fast and a little bit chaotic. Every so often, Clint would pause to scrape his lips over Phil’s balls or to wiggle his tongue just behind them, but when Phil said not right away, he meant it; Phil liked to feel the strain Clint put him through in the morning. Hot red marks on either side of his most sensitive parts were easy for Phil to feel and beautiful for Clint to refresh for days after.
“Clint…” Phil whispered, and Clint took it as his signal it was time to switch to the right side. He brought his hand up to palm Phil’s ass as he did, and curled his thumb around to press into the bruise already forming along Phil’s left side.
Everything told him to get lost in it; practically drowning in the scent of Phil, reveling in the moans Phil gave him as he sucked harder, across wider swaths of tender, soft skin. He sat up as Phil started panting his name more fervently, and rocked back to sit on his heels. He smiled at the work he’d done over Phil, and pulled his hands together, framing Phil’s dick in a triangle, and then sliding his thumbs down along the sides of Phil’s balls, pressing hard into the marks he’d put there.
He held Phil’s gaze as he leaned forward again, and licked a long, slow line from Phil’s balls to his tip, enjoying the flex of Phil’s abs as he did—enjoying the harsh breath Phil exhaled as he did it again and again. Phil’s cock twitched under his lips as he swiped up the dribble of precum forming at his head.
“You need anything?” Clint asked, sitting up again and pressing two fingers against the outside of his entrance, to be sure Phil understood his meaning.
Phil was already handing him the lube from the side table, though, and shaking his head furiously. “Just you, love. Just you.”
“Alright. Slow.”
Clint held his cock right up against Phil’s hole and pressed, just barely enough for the tip to make it inside if Phil twisted his body in just the right, desperate way. Phil whined, and pleaded with his eyes for Clint to move, but kept his bottom lip between his teeth, so he wouldn’t ruin the game.
“You always look so good on my cock, don’t you?” Clint said with a grin. “Feel so good on my cock, too.” Then he pushed forward, punching his dick inside Phil, breaching him hard, making Phil cry out and shout and nearly shake apart as he pulled back and slammed himself forward again.
“Said you wanted it hard,” Clint panted out the words as he fucked into Phil again, with all the controlled power he could muster. “I’ll give it to you hard as I can when you ask so politely like that.” As he canted forward, he kept a keen watch on how Phil’s face contorted in pleasure with each hard thrust. When Phil’s cry hit an extra high timbre, Clint stilled, and leaned forward, making sure to anchor his dick right there in the spot where Phil needed him.
“That it, baby? That where you want me?” Phil twisted and nodded, breathing like a wrecked man as he tried to cling to the duvet cover.
“Good,” Clint murmured and took Phil’s cock in his hand between them. He kept his touch light at first until Phil was whimpering and wiggling, trying to buck up into him despite the way Clint took hold of his hip to keep him down. Giving Phil everything he wanted was easy: the pressure of his thumb just beneath Phil’s glans, the teasing sweep of his fingers up, over his tip, and then back down, tracing the veins that lit Phil’s eyes up with intensity and devotion each time.
It just felt right and natural for Clint to make Phil shake apart in his hands. The fact that Phil was so sensitive and the fact that Phil loved being fucked into oversensitive overdrive were simply added bonuses for Clint beyond being able to give Phil what he wanted.
“Clint, I’m close,” Phil whispered.
Once wasn’t near enough for either of them. Clint hitched one of Phil’s legs up over his hip, and Phil groaned at the added pressure it put against his prostate. He adjusted his hold on Phil’s dick, starting to slide his whole hand around his shaft, holding firmly, but jerking him off a little roughly, just to keep Phil on the right side of not yet.
“I love you,” Clint blurted out, and it cracked a smile over Phil’s lips that instantly turned into a wide ‘o’ as Clint twisted his hand just right. “I love you,” he repeated. “I don’t think I’ll ever say it enough, but I do. I love you.”
“You’re going to make me fucking come with declarations like that.” Phil laughed between shaky breaths.
“‘S the idea,” Clint drawled and started moving his fist over Phil’s dick that much faster. His own cock was aching for him to move, so he curled his hips just enough to send Phil howling. He wanted to fuck, to drive into Phil, but he stayed firm and solid as he could, just applying a little extra pressure to Phil’s prostate every so often with tiny flexes of his hips until Phil demanded everything from him.
“Christ, I love you. I want you,” Phil tried to shift against Clint, but Clint just leaned closer to hold him down better. A mischievous glint took hold of Phil’s eye and he relinquished his hold on the bedding and wrapped his arms around Clint’s shoulders. “Fuck, yes. I love you, too. Love you so much.”
Phil twisted in Clint’s arms as he picked up the pace, jerking Phil off with almost abandon. It was taking every bit of control he had to keep from moving his hips—but not yet, not until Phil was shaking and babbling and begging.
“Always loved you,” Phil moaned. “Please, Clint. Please, I can’t—if you work my cock any harder I’m going to—”
Clint let go of Phil’s dick, hooked his arms behind Phil’s knees, and pushed forward to kiss Phil hard on the mouth. At the same moment, he rocked his hips back and slammed forward again into Phil’s ass. Phil shouted an endless string of profanities, begging Clint for more and more; Clint gave him everything he had in him to give. It was fast and all-consuming in a way that Clint knew he would never get enough of—Clint’s hips moving in a continuous motion, fucking into Phil, and Phil gasping for breath between shouting out Clint’s name.
When Phil came, he was the most beautiful thing Clint could ever remember seeing. Clint wasn’t far behind his fiancé.
It was getting late, and Phil was still stuck in his office. He rolled his neck from side to side as if that would shake an idea loose. The next op he’d been assigned to prep was for a small team to track down a notoriously slippery assassin. He kept getting stuck on the fact that they only had aliases, no confirmed identities. Something was niggling at the back of his mind that he needed to figure out who she really was before signing her death warrant.
A year ago, he’d have gone to the VR lab.
Instead, he went home.
When he got there, Clint was passed out in bed, a paperback book bent open on his chest and his side table lamp still on. He stirred as soon as Phil crossed the threshold into their bedroom, though, just as he always did on nights Phil worked late.
“Hey, baby,” Clint murmured as Phil stripped down to his boxers and undershirt, leaving his suit crumpled on the floor beside their bed. Clint moved his book to the side and lifted the sheets for Phil to slide in next to him. Phil breathed in deep as he settled against Clint’s chest, just letting himself be for a few minutes while he gave Clint time to wake up a little bit more.
“You’re home earlier than I thought,” Clint said through a yawn. “Got a problem for your husband to solve, hm?”
“The Black Widow. She’s been sloppy lately; we’ve caught her on camera a couple of times in the last few weeks. Nick thinks it’s time to take her out.”
Clint snorted. “The Black Widow would never get herself caught on camera unless she meant to.”
It took a beat for Clint’s statement to sink in. Phil turned his head into Clint’s shoulder and groaned in aggravation. “Someday you’re going to run out of surprises for me and I cannot wait for that day to come. Out with it: what does the Amazing Hawkeye know about the Black Widow?”
Clint laughed and kissed him on the forehead. “I know she’d make a killer agent.”
“Alright, Barton,” Phil sighed and braced himself for whatever absurd story Clint was about to share, “talk to me.”