Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The bed rocked ever so slightly as weight redistributed, waking Clint Barton. He cracked an eye, just in time to see Phil Coulson, fully if sloppily dressed, slipping out the door, and no no no no no. This was not acceptable. This wasn’t a booty call, a one-time night of passion and release. Clint had experienced plenty of those, and this wasn’t that. This was supposed to be—Clint’s mind skittered over a word, forever, and settled on for real.

Clint slipped out of bed himself, the cold night air prickling his skin all over, chasing after the other man, but not quick enough. The front door latched closed just as Clint—still completely naked—made it into the main room.

He stared at the door, wondering where he had gone wrong.

Phil and Clint had been circling around this point for as long as Clint could remember, a slow dance where they spiraled towards the same center. Clint had been pulled into a terminal orbit almost from the moment the unassuming agent had stepped through Fury’s office door and into his and Nat’s life. Phil Coulson was Clint’s handler, his teammate, his colleague, and his friend, the only person in the world he trusted as much as Natasha. Enough to trust him with not just his life, but hers.

He remembered that moment, burned deep into his mind, the time Clint had looked at Phil and said, “I trust you,” and meant that he would stay outside in his sniper’s post and let Phil go in to rescue the only family he had left. And Phil had come out with her, the Black Widow, alive.

I trust you, Clint said. I love you was what he meant.

This night—this time—they had come back from their op blessedly alive, and Clint had needed, desperately, Phil Coulson under his hands. It had been so long coming, agonizingly so, and Clint found he couldn’t wait a moment longer, that he needed to inspect every inch of Phil Coulson’s body for injury. Unless he touched every freckle, every mole, every scar, he would not believe that the man was intact, whole, still here, still his.

I need you, Clint said. I love you was what he meant.

He’d thought Coulson understood. The agent understood so much without Clint needing to explain, without expecting him to fumble over words. He was the only handler who ever understood that Clint’s instincts in the field—no matter how insane or death defying they might be—were right. The only friend who ever understood that Clint and Nat were a package deal, that by adopting one you adopted both. The only man who looked at Clint and saw not a broken weapon, but a man. A whole and worthwhile man.

How could Coulson not understand that when Clint finally succumbed to the inevitability of his gravitational pull that it wasn’t just for now. He meant—forever, his mind once again helpfully supplied--full-time. He didn’t mean to be a booty-call. He wanted to be Coulson’s partner in every sense of the word.

Clint must have messed up the messaging. Somehow in his handling of Coulson—pushing him against the wall, tearing the buttons off his suit because he could not wait one second more to touch his bare chest with his hands—he must have given the impression of only lust and not the true emotion underneath.

Phil, please, Clint whined. I love you was what he meant.

It was unacceptable. And Clint was going to need to do everything in his power to alter Phil’s understanding. Next time, and there would be a next time, Phil Coulson was going to understand that this was it, that Clint was it, and Clint would kiss him in the morning despite his breathe. He would drink in the sight of Phil in a t-shirt and boxers waiting at the kitchen table while Clint made him breakfast. Because Phil was his, his, his, and Clint meant it to be, his heart sighed, forever.

#

According to policy, Phil could have taken the day off. After coming in from a hard op, agents were in fact encouraged to take a day or two. But Phil Coulson didn’t become Fury’s one good eye by taking time off. Agent Coulson slipped into the back of the staff meeting, his notebook in hand but sitting close to the door for an easy escape.

In the front Agent Blake droned on about the week’s assignments and manning. Strike Team Delta would only be mentioned in passing at some point, to say they were in down-time as they recovered from their recent operation. Thank God, because Phil’s mind was incapable of holding onto words or coherent thought.

Because now Phil Coulson knew what Clint Barton’s abs felt like. He knew the salty taste of his skin and the desperate whine he made when Phil raked his nails over his chest. And the feel of those lips, those perfect pouty lips, as the archer kissed his way down, down, down.

Phil shifted his notebook on his lap, suddenly aware of how public he was and private his thoughts. Maybe he should have taken the day off, to…what? Pine at home like a teenage boy. Phil gave himself an internal shake, tapping his pen against the blank page in his lap. He needed to get ahold of himself.

Phil knew exactly what last night had been. He’d seen it before. Agents coming down from the adrenaline high of an op combined with worry for their teammate. After all, for a brief few hours on the op, Phil had been captured. He felt foolish, then and now. One moment he’d been with the team, the next he’d realized Natasha Romanoff was no longer by his side, that he had accidentally gone down a different path.

Of course, Strike Team Delta had saved him. In the end he’d been held for no more than two hours, with nothing but a few bruises to show for his time in the enemy’s care. Clint and Natasha had made quick work of the ZODIAC cell, before bundling Phil up and bringing him back to New York, because of course it hadn’t even been some place exciting or exotic. It had been goddamn Canada, and Phil Coulson was never going to live that down.

Phil knew he was the weak link in Strike Team Delta. He hated to be reminded of it. It was flattering in the end though, that Clint Barton had been worried enough to need physical reassurance of Phil’s health and safety. But it was another foolish decision in Phil’s recent streak to allow it. He should have sensibly insisted he was fine alone for the night, that he’d been bruised not concussed. If SHIELD Medical hadn’t needed to hold him over night, then Clint Barton certainly didn’t need to.

But Clint Barton had been Phil’s weakness from the first moment the man had flashed a smile his direction. Those broad shoulders and exquisite arms, his kaleidoscope eyes and mischievous grin, as if the gods had taken Phil’s wet dreams as a teenager and given them life. When his personality was added to that—his compassion, his empathy, his loyalty, his intelligence, his humor, his charm, his ease, his good nature, his…everything. Literally everything about the man made Phil weak at the knees.

So yes, Phil should have said no to Clint, but he was only human. And when the man of his dreams offered him his body, even if it was just for a momentary release, Phil Coulson could not say no.

And now he was doomed. Because how could he ever be happy with anyone else, when he knew how Clint Barton sighed with satisfaction once well and truly spent.

Phil grimaced and looked down at his notebook. He was so fucking doomed.

#

“He just left?’ Natasha repeated, as if it was possible she had not heard Clint correctly. The two sat in a coffee shop, several blocks down from SHIELD and therefore less plagued with agents. It was Coulson’s favorite coffee shop, of course it was. His taste in coffee was superior to all others, and Natasha refused to drink from any place that Phil Coulson had not approved.

“Yes,” Clint mumbled into the table. She could barely hear him over the gentle hum of the shop since his head was cradled in the crook of his arm. His coffee cooled in its ceramic cup in front of him, even his muffin forgotten. “It wasn’t even midnight. He didn’t stay more than two hours.”

Natasha tsked her disapproval, and then took a sip of her caramel macchiato to buy time to think of her response. She could not understand why Coulson would just leave like that. It didn’t fit the profile she had built in her head of the man. For years he had been operating as not just Strike Team Delta’s handler, but a critical member of the team. Yesterday, when he had gone missing, when Natasha had turned and realized he wasn’t there—her heart climbed into her throat at the memory.

Before Coulson, SHIELD hadn’t known what to do with Clint, with her. Dangerous and deadly, previous handlers called them, but also unruly, mutinous, and liabilities in the field. Fury had been on his last leg, his last hope, when he’d brought in Phil Coulson, an unassuming mouse of a man in a finely tailored suit.

That hadn’t fooled Natasha. She’d seen the unassuming façade for the cover it was. Quickly she’d discovered the dry wit, deadly competency in both the field and office, his trustworthiness, and his unending faith in them. No one had believed in Natasha like Phil Coulson believed.

And then there was Clint, her best friend, her brother, her other half. Of course, Coulson had turned Clint’s head with his steadfastness. Natasha had watched Clint fall in love day by dependable day, as Coulson was always, constantly there for them. And she had thought Coulson felt the same. She’d seen the way Coulson’s gaze followed Clint, sometimes dipping to his admittedly perfect ass or lingering on his endless shoulders. Of course, any person who was attracted to men might very well do the same. More importantly, it was the way Coulson softened when Clint entered the room, the way his tone gentled ever so slightly. She doubted anyone else noticed, it was so subtle, but the Black Widow noticed. She saw.

She saw the love on his face.

So why would Phil Coulson just leave?

“You must not have made it clear,” Natasha said, setting down her mug with a decisive click. “Coulson would never just leave, if he knew you wanted otherwise. He must have misunderstood.”

Clint tilted his head, his eyes cresting just over his arm. “So what do I do?”

“You have to make it clear,” she said firmly.

“How?” Clint said. “How does sex not make it clear.”

Natasha waved a hand. In her experience sex was mostly meaningless, easily weaponized and misconstrued. “You have to do something to make it clear it’s not just his body you want,” she said. “But him.”

“Like what? Get him flowers or whatever?”

Natasha hummed, leaning across to grab a bit of Clint’s muffin. “I have heard that the surest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

“Oh,” Clint’s eyes widened, staring down at the muffin as if it held all the answers to the universe. “Natasha, you are brilliant.”

“I know,” she said primly, and sipped her macchiato once more.

#

When Phil Coulson sat at his desk, he was surprised to see two packs of mini-mart donuts. He studied them, puzzled. There was no note, no indication of where they had come from. Just a pack of chocolate glazed and powdered miniature donuts.

He lifted one pack and it crinkled in his hand. He studied it, as if it might secretly be a bug or weapon, something other than what it very clearly was: an innocent package of small, perfectly crafted donuts.

Well, half of SHIELD certainly knew his love of these. Anyone who had ever joined him on a road trip inevitably had to deal with the powdered sugar getting all over the rental car. But they were specifically a road trip food, meant to be purchased from gas stations in the middle of the desert, not waiting for him in his office.

The temptation to eat them was great, but Phil’s self-control asserted itself. Phil wasn’t like some of the others, naturally trim. He worked to maintain his physical form, constantly battling his sweet tooth. Which is why donuts were for road trips and not the office. He appreciated the thought of whoever had brought these, and that these donuts were full of so much preservatives that they would last until the zombie apocalypse, let alone the next op. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk, slipped them in, and then turned to his computer. He had a report to write.

#

Clint and Natasha watched the footage from the bug they had installed in the vents. “He didn’t eat them,” Clint observed.

Natasha hummed. “We have to up our game.”

“Tacos,” Clint agreed.

#

“Canada? Really Coulson?” Sitwell asked.

Phil Coulson did not sigh. He would never do something so gauche. He stayed focused on his run, on the steady rhythm of his feet on the treadmill, and did not even deign to look in the other agent’s direction. He and Sitwell always met at this time in the gym, to do their runs side-by-side and pass the time with small talk, gossip, and news. Phil just hated when he was the gossip and news.

“We were there to investigate a real threat,” Coulson said.

Sitwell chuckled as he set up his treadmill. “Sure, sure,” he said casually, and Phil could see the dismissive wave of his hand from the corner of his eye. “We wouldn’t have sent Strike Team Delta unless it’s important, but…Canada? Seriously? What did the bad guys do? Apologize and take you to Tim Horton’s?”

If had only just been Sitwell, making this joke or lightly ribbing him, Phil could have suffered through it with a prim smile and perhaps a snarky remark. But Sitwell was the fifth agent that day, not to mention Nick Fury himself. At the end of Phil’s on-on-one with him, where he delivered his quick after-action report, the Director had looked him dead in the eye and asked if Zodiac had at least had the decency to offer him some poutine for his trouble.

On some level Phil knew it was all just good-natured ribbing and maybe a little jealousy, that it spoke volumes of his status, reputation, and place in SHIELD that everyone was equally gobsmacked that this place, that fucking Canada, had been the thing to take him out. But Phil also knew how quickly it took to unravel a reputation. What took decades to build could be undone with one or two bad ops.

Phil had seen seemingly untouchable agents fall from grace. Watching a man who had once been at the top of the game slip and fumble, to see them give in to natural human fallibility or age, was a laugh when you were the man who benefited from his fall. But Phil was not ready for that to be him. He didn’t want to have peaked yet.

Then they would take Strike Team Delta from him. He clenched his jaw, his teeth gritting together. As if Sitwell could handle Hawkeye and the Black Widow. As if they would trust anyone else. And yet, if Phil slipped one or two more times, Fury would have no choice. It would be over.

Clint and Natasha would be handed over to some other agent, and Phil would be relegated behind a desk, unable to do anything for them in the field, other than send them off with equipment he had requisitioned.

Maudlin and melancholy thoughts, but they were the thoughts that haunted him. He wasn’t as young as he had once been, here on the wrong side of forty. He’d just hoped his SHIELD dotage wouldn’t start for another decade at least.

#

Clint knew Phil’s schedule by heart. Of course, he did. He’d spent the better part of the last decade studying every aspect of the man, memorizing every quirk of the lips and tilt of his head. He knew how after operations, Phil liked to spend the day dedicated to forms and bureaucracy, getting everything from the last op in order before the next one could raise its ugly head. The man would file receipts, requisition new ammunition, and ensure their gear had every necessary upgrade. Meticulous was a word often used to describe him. Clint disagreed, though never aloud, because he knew the truth that thrummed through his veins. Phil could call it diligence, call it conscientiousness, but Clint knew it was love.

Phil Coulson loved Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff, and Clint had known it since the day he’d held together Clint’s leg with his belt, his hands, and his Armani shirt, until the helicopter arrived. “Stay with me,” Phil had begged. I love you, Clint had heard.

Why had it taken them so long to get here? Why was it that when Clint offered everything, when he offered forever, Phil did not understand. Clint wasn’t sure, but he hoped the greasy bag of tacos in his hand might remedy that.

He stopped in the doorway of Phil’s office, knowing the man must have just come from his workout with Sitwell. Phil sat at his desk, squinting at the screen because he always, vainly forgot his reading glasses. The man looked ever so slightly damp, his soft hair still glistening with water. His suit however was perfect as always.

For a moment Clint just observed him, basking in Phil’s quiet calming presence. And yet, Clint’s pulse quickened with memory. Clint’s hands trailing the smooth plains of Phil’s back, the man’s soft gasps as Clint kissed his perfect jawline, the solid and sure weight of Phil on top of him. Clint could never look at Phil again and not know how beautiful he was when his unflappable façade disappeared and he for once let his hunger, his desire, his love take control. 

Mine, mine, mine, Clint’s heart thumped. It felt so loud, so obvious, that it was a wonder Phil did not hear it.

Instead, Clint lazily leaned against the doorframe, letting the greasy bag in his hand crinkle loudly to alert Phil of his presence.

The man looked up, and though he didn’t start-- he never gave away his surprise—he blinked owlishly at his unexpected visitor as his eyes readjusted. For a moment, Clint wanted to leap across the room, grab him by his perfectly pressed lapels and kiss him within an inch of his life. But Natasha had said sex wasn’t the answer. He needed to convince Phil before he took him back to his bed.

Instead, Clint offered up the greasy bag and asked, “Tacos?”

I love you was what he meant.

#

For a moment Phil couldn’t breathe. The long length of Hawkeye leaned in his doorframe, blocking the entrance with his bulk. Phil hadn’t seen him since last night, since he had looked across the bed in the darkness of the night and wished this night could even possibly begin to mean to Clint what it meant to Phil. How he wished he could have stayed, but he wanted his last memory of that night to be Clint’s satisfaction and the guilelessness of sleep. Not the disappointment that would inevitably be revealed in the morning when Clint looked across his bed and saw just him, just Phil Coulson.

But Phil remembered the hard angle of Clint’s hips under his lips, the marble smoothness of his ass under his hands, and the desperate gasp of his name—of Phil’s name!—that had escaped those perfect lips. Lips which were right now curving into a low, almost hungry smile.

Doomed. Phil Coulson was deeply and forever doomed.

“Hmm?” Phil said instead.

“Tacos?” Clint repeated, holding up a bag that dripped with grease.

“I haven’t eaten yet,” Phil admitted, unsure if he could rise to his feet or if that would give him away. The mere sight of Clint lit his whole body on fire.

“Good,” Clint said with a nod. He finally came all the way into the room, settling on the couch and spreading the contents of the bag on Phil’s coffee table. Clint sorted the tacos by type, and Phil’s heart swelled with love. Clint wasn’t by nature a sorter, but he knew that’s what Phil preferred. Yet Phil knew it wasn’t—it didn’t mean what he wanted. They had been teammates for so long, brothers in arms. This sort of rhythm between them was natural. It didn’t mean anything more.

Clint picked up a taco, started to unwrap it, and then stopped, looking up at Phil with a frown. “Don’t you want some?”

“Yes, just let me finish this form,” Phil lied, buying himself time to pull himself together. He stared at the computer screen, at the black lines of the pdf, and filled it out by rote. He hadn’t even started it. But it did need to be done, and Phil needed to do something to bring the blood back to his brain.

Eventually though, his stomach betrayed him. The smell of taco wafted through the air, and his stomach growled loudly. Clint snickered, and Phil couldn’t help himself. He chuckled softly and locked his computer. “Guess it’s time to eat.”

He moved from the desk to the couch next to Clint, careful to keep space between them as if nothing had changed. They’d never kept a great deal of space between them, Clint tended to crowd the spaces of those he cared for, but an inch or two was normal, and for now, just enough for Phil to retain his sanity. He grabbed a taco marked spicy chicken and began to unwrap it.

They ate in companionable silence for a moment, for which Phil was grateful. He was glad Clint didn’t try to apologize or explain away last night. It was what it was, the sort of thing that agents did all the time. It hadn’t been special, Phil was not special, but thank God Clint still had enough respect for him to not feel a need to apologize or excuse it. If Clint had been worried Phil thought it was something more, if Clint had felt the need to explain and condescend, well, Phil wasn’t sure he would survive it.

Eventually Clint did speak, when Phil reached out for another taco and his wrists extended beyond his cuffs, exposing the ugly purple bruises left by the manacles from his capture. “Is it getting better?” Clint asked. “Your wrists? Or are they stiff? Because Medical said we could get something stronger for the pain if you needed it and…”

“I’m fine,” Phil said, perhaps more shortly than he intended. So this was what the tacos were about. An excuse for Strike Team Delta to check on their broken handler. Of course, of course. Natasha probably suggested the idea. She would have known about last night; Clint hid nothing about her. She probably suggested the tacos as a dual means of making sure they wouldn’t be awkward and ensuring Phil was not hiding any physical wounds from them. It would be like her.

“Okay,” Clint’s response was a little lost, a little bewildered, and Phil suppressed another sigh. None of this was Clint or Natasha’s fault. It was Phil who was losing his game. It was a kindness that they cared. It was Phil who had gone and gotten feelings. Clint hadn’t asked for this.

“Thank you, Clint,” Phil said, gently this time. “I appreciate the tacos. I forgot a lunch.”

“You always do the day after an op,” Clint responded. Did he? Well, Phil supposed it made sense. He didn’t have any food in his apartment, and Clint would know how little time Phil had actually spent in his apartment last night. “But…are you sure? Your wrists look a little swollen. Did you take your ibuprofen this morning? I could run to Medical and get you some.”

“I’m fine,” Phil assured him. He tried not to remember how last night, Clint had kissed every inch of that bruise, gently and tenderly, after saying so kindly, “Don’t let me hurt you. Let me know if I hurt you.”

Such tenderness was not what Phil expected from a one-night stand, but Clint had such a gentle heart. The archer tried not to show it, but Phil knew he worried—about Natasha, about Phil. They were the only family Clint had. He would never do anything to hurt them, to risk them, which is why Phil needed to be clear that last night changed nothing. That he was still here for him, always.

“I took ibuprofen at six this morning,” Phil reported, assuring Clint he was fine. “Only 600 mg, I think the 800 the doctor suggested is a little too much. I took the next dose at noon. I’m a little stiff, but no pain. If I do have a problem, I’ll go Medical. After all, I’m not the one of us known to avoid Medical.” He gently knocked shoulders with Clint, in a manner intended to be friendly, but hit Phil like a bolt of lightning. He ignored it. The message he wanted to give Clint was that everything was fine, they were fine.

“True,” Clint responded, and he shifted ever so slightly, his knee knocking Phil’s and then resting against him. This was normal. Clint was always physical, especially when he was worried. Phil sternly instructed his blood to go back to his brain. He was going to need his wits about him if he was to survive Clint Barton.

Clint took a bite of taco and the silence came back. Phil tried to focus on his taco and not the point of contact at their knees. God, he wanted to just lean against Clint. How he wished Clint was his. Not just his asset, his partner, his friend, but his to touch whenever he wished, to lean over and kiss his jaw or hold his hand. To let Clint take his wrists and kiss them in tenderness, not because sex was on the table—even though Phil desperately wanted it to be on the table both metaphorically and literally—but because Clint was his and he was Clint’s and that is what you did when a person was yours.

They both finished three tacos, with two still leftover. “For Natasha,” Clint explained when Phil asked.

“Of course,” Phil said. He stood up, his knee going cold from the lack of contact. “You better take them to her before they congeal, and I better finish my forms. Unless you don’t want replacement arrows?”

“Don’t cheap out on my arrows!” Clint smiled--of course they both knew Phil would never--as he swept the last two tacos back into the bag.

Clint stood and for a moment neither of them moved. Phil should get back to his desk, and Clint should take the tacos away. Clint was looking at Phil like he expected something, his genial smile slowly turning puzzled. The archer was clearly waiting for Phil to say something, but Phil didn’t know what. He settled on, “Thanks for the lunch, Hawkeye.”

“You’re welcome, sir,” Clint responded, and against his will Phil felt disappointment at the honorific, instead of the use of his name. But Clint had always been respectful towards him, and it should be a relief that last night’s mistake hadn’t changed that, hadn’t changed them. Phil couldn’t expect his asset to feel comfortable using his first name regularly.

So Phil nodded with a smile and went back to his desk. Hawkeye hovered for a moment longer and then left.

Phil allowed himself to slump ever so slightly forward, to pinch the bridge of his nose and take a stabling breathe. He wasn’t going to survive this, but he must. For Strike Team Delta. For himself. For Clint.

But he was still so fucking doomed.

Chapter Text

“I think we’re going about this wrong,” Clint said to Natasha. The two sat in Fury’s office—he wasn’t using it and would never know—hovered over their laptop for this, the most top secret of conversations.

“How so?” Natasha asked, leaning back in Fury’s chair. She rested her elbows on the armrests and steepled her fingers in front of her face, in imitation of the man himself. She’d watched the footage of the lunch, and admitted that it had been perhaps more awkward than she had anticipated. Even in the grainy footage from the bug she could see the strain in Phil’s eyes, and the tenseness of his shoulders. He was doing his best to appear relaxed, yet was clearly anything but.

“I don’t think food is the answer,” he insisted. “Food is what you would do for me, what would help me. But Coulson isn’t me. He’s him.” Well of course he was, but Natasha had found that for all that men thought they were each special, a unique perfect little snowflake, their motivations tended to be very much the same.

“What then is Phil Coulson’s food?” Natasha asked. She hoped Clint wouldn’t suggest coffee. Phil was a connoisseur of coffee, but Clint and Natasha had been bringing him his drinks for years. Bringing Phil a coffee would not signal to the man that anything had changed.

Clint leaned closer to Fury’s desk, picking up a manila folder and brandishing it towards her as if it was the answer. “Forms, Nat. Forms.”

#

Phil kept himself busy that afternoon. An hour-long meeting with Maria Hill on updated policy, a mentorship session with Bobbi Morse, and some time at the range with Melinda May to ensure that his injuries had not affected his shooting. On his way back to his office, he nearly ran into Jimmy Woo, who dropped a stack of papers in shock. Phil despaired of the man and his future in SHIELD, but sometimes wondered if his befuddled disposition was just as much an act as Phil’s unassuming one. Fury would never tolerate a truly incompetent agent, and each man had his own means of convincing others to loosen their lips.

Other than that unfortunate encounter, Phil’s afternoon was mostly fine, though each of the women he met with had their own snide comment about Canada. (“Five miles from the border? Really Phil?” Maria had laughed. “Better watch out for those conniving Canadians,” Bobbi had winked. May meanwhile had simply stared at him and said flatly, “Canada.”) At this rate, Phil could not wait until the next SHIELD agent screw up. He needed desperately for the gossip to not be him.

When he got back to his office, Phil wasn’t cross exactly, but neither was his mood happy. He was just tired. He could not wait for this day to be over.

Phil closed the office door behind him as he entered, to have a moment alone, a moment of peace. He sat at his desk, let his shoulders slump, and released a sigh. He let his eyes close and he took another deep breath. He wished he could just tell them all to stop joking, to let it go, but to do so would reveal weakness, and then they would never ever let it go.

He opened his eyes, pulling his shoulders back, ready to take on whatever came next, when he saw it. A manila folder on his desk. He hadn’t put that there. Another agent must have delivered forms while he was out. He picked it up and flipped it open.

An after-action report written in a cramped yet clear hand with a purple glitter pen. Each letter was precisely formed, as if the writer had taken special care to make sure he was not misunderstood. It was neither overly concise nor overly wordy, but rather the perfect balance of information—a balance that Phil himself usually had to tease out. Beneath that report was another, this one in a more elegant black script, as perfect, beautiful, and biting as the woman who wrote it.

He flipped past the after-action reports, revealing a well-filled out travel voucher. Behind that, a requisition form for more arrows, another for more Widow’s bites. Form, after form, in purple and black, not only perfectly filled out but three days early.

Anyone at SHIELD would have said this was an impossibility. Hawkeye and the Black Widow did not do paperwork. Handlers had broken under the weight of their collective refusal. Phil had never fought this battle, choosing instead to do these forms for them, or teasing out the after action reports in meetings where Phil took notes. On the rare occasions when Phil was unavailable to help them, they filled out the forms weeks late and in hand writing so bad that no one could read them.

Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton didn’t need people for much, but they had needed Phil Coulson, for this. Until now.

They no longer needed him.

He closed the manila envelope, a pressure behind his eyes that he stoutly ignored. It was a sign, a clear signal from them. They didn’t need him anymore. He had slowed them down in the field, he’d been a liability, and now they did not need him in the office.

He should be proud of them, his once feral assets, and all they had accomplished. Instead, he felt hollow.

The forms felt like a goodbye.

#

Clint Barton normally haunted the halls of SHIELD in a t-shirt and sweats, ready to change into tac-gear at a moment’s notice. Now he stood outside of Coulson’s office in a pair of dark wash jeans and a dark purple polo shirt. He’d thought he’d surprise Phil, to see his face when he saw the forms. Instead, he found Phil’s door closed.

It wasn’t an unknown event, for Phil to close his door. He could be in there with Fury, Hill, May or any number of agents who needed closed door discussions. Once upon a time, when Nat and Clint had first come into Phil Coulson’s life, Clint would’ve barged through that door, uncaring of who was on the other side or what Phil might be doing. But in the decade since their first meeting, Clint had learned Phil’s boundaries and more importantly learned to respect them. A closed door was not an invitation; it was a clear sign. Clint Barton would just have to wait.

Fortunately, for him, Clint was excellent at waiting.

He did not pace; he did not fret. He leaned against the slim sliver of wall between the door to Phil’s office and the door to Sitwell’s, a far more comfortable position than most sniper’s nests. For Phil, Clint could have, would have waited forever.

Eventually, perhaps an hour later, the door opened. Phil Coulson was stepping through, fiddling with his phone and keys as he pulled the door back shut behind him. Perfect. He was leaving for the day.

“Sir,” Clint said softly, and saw, with his gaze that missed nothing, how Phil’s shoulders tensed. For a moment, long agonizing seconds longer than normal, Phil did not turn. He stood still, facing away from Clint. But then when the man finally did turn, his face was its usual genial politeness.

Clint loved this man, he loved every face he might ever make, but Clint knew this face, this mask. Something was wrong. His arms ached to pull Phil close, to gather him into his chest, to tell him whatever it was they would face it together.

“How can I help you, Clint?” Phil asked, his voice pleasant but maybe a little frayed, a little tired. Maybe it was just his wrists. It would be just like Phil to forget to take his ibuprofen. The man would nag Clint endlessly to do his medical checks and take his medicine, but never did look after himself with the same care.

Clint stepped away from the wall and towards Coulson, the distance between them merely a hairs breadth. It took every ounce of his self-control, every ounce of his sniper training, to not move his hand across that minute distance, to brush Phil’s hand with his own.

“Did you get our forms?” Clint asked. I love you was what he meant.

So he did not expect it when Philip J. Coulson, agent extraordinaire, flinched.

Oh, it wasn’t so obvious as a full body flinch, but it was there, a sudden stiffening and a rock back onto his heels, away from Clint.

No, no, no. This wasn’t right. Clint felt his hopes for this conversation slip through his fingers, slip away, and the worst part was he did not know why. 

#

Phil recovered himself quickly. He saw the concern, the widening of Hawkeye’s laser sharp eyes. Clint had seen, of course he had seen Phil’s flinch. Phil just hadn’t expected, hadn’t anticipated, for Clint to bring the forms up head on like that. He had expected that when Strike Team Delta broke up with him, it would be Natasha they would send, not Clint. Surely they both knew how cruel it was to have Clint deliver the final blow.

No. He shook himself internally. Now he was just being foolish. Clint and Natasha were many things, but they were never cruel. He was just letting his maudlin feelings get the best of him. He dropped Clint’s gaze for just a moment, looking past him to the wall behind his head, and took a steadying breath. “I’m sorry, Clint,” he said, looking back to the man’s concerned, beautiful, perfect, worried kaleidoscope eyes. “I’m tired. I think I pressed it a little too hard today, all things considered. Perhaps I should have worked a half day.”

“Sir, I’ve never known you to work less than eight hours unless you were on death’s door.” A tentative smile, like an olive branch, appeared on Clint’s face. He hesitated. “Did you take your ibuprofen?”

It was an easy out, so Phil took it. “No,” he lied. “And I didn’t bring enough to the office. So I’m going to head home now.” He hesitated. Clint had asked about the forms. Phil could delay it until tomorrow, but Clint deserved recognition for his beautiful work. They really had been perfect forms. “Your after-action report was perfect, Clint. I have no comments. I’m going to file it as is.”

And Clinton Francis Barton beamed like the sun. Phil Coulson wanted to melt at his feet in response.

“Excellent,” Clint said, his smile so large and so near. Phil wanted to reach up and touch it, to brush those perfect lips with his thumb. “I know you’re tired, sir, I respect that. But if you’re hungry…? Do you want to come back to my place? I could cook for you. Or we could order in at yours. Whatever you want.”

Oh and did Phil want. He wanted Clint pushed against his wall, groaning as he buried his hands in Phil’s suit. He wanted Clint in his bed, clutching Phil’s sheets as he fell apart. He wanted Clint, anywhere and everywhere, and his.

But Clint wasn’t his, and while he might be offering another night of sex, Phil knew that a second night would destroy him. Having Clint twice in a row, might make him think that Clint was his, and that was a line Phil could not cross. Because no matter what happened, he needed to be here, steadfast and dependable for this man.

Even if Strike Team Delta no longer needed him, even if this was the start of his decline, Phil had promised himself he would always, always be there for Clint and Natasha. In a world that had betrayed them time and time again, they needed at least one person they could always and forever trust. And Phil Coulson was that man. Forever.

He wasn’t sure he could be that man if he let Clint accidentally break his heart.

“I really can’t,” Phil said, and Clint’s smile faded, the concern coming back to his face. “I’m so tired, Clint. I just want to go home, take my ibuprofen, and sleep it off. I’m sure I’ll feel better in the morning.”

Clint nodded, a little slowly, his expression a little lost. Phil felt like he was failing Clint somehow, but surely if the man needed companionship—well there were always plenty of agents willing to warm Hawkeye’s bed.

Phil couldn’t leave Clint like this, looking so uncertain and concerned, so he offered up an alternative. “We could do coffee? In the morning?”

“Yes,” Clint latched onto it, with more enthusiasm than Phil expected. “Text me when you’re up and ready. We can get breakfast. But you should sleep in Phil. No one would blame you for rolling in at nine or ten.” No, they wouldn’t blame him. They would just make jokes about how Phil Coulson was so pathetic that Canada had broken him.

“I make no promises about the time, but I will text,” Phil answered, and he gave Clint a small and undoubtedly tired smile. It wasn’t even a lie. He really was tired.

“Okay, sir,” Clint said. “Want me to walk you to your car?” It stung. Did Clint think he couldn’t even make it to the parking garage? Did he really look that bad?

“I’ve got it, thank you.” He didn’t need to be babysat, no matter what Strike Team Delta thought.

#

“Anytime, sir,” Clint answered. I love you was what he meant.

Phil reached up and patted his bicep, and then turned, walking down the hall and leaving Clint behind. Clint stood there at a loss. He wasn’t sure what had happened, what this had meant. He pulled out his cell phone to text Natasha. Because something in the plan had gone wrong, and he needed a strategy before breakfast tomorrow.

They had waited so long, he and Phil. One more day wouldn’t kill them, but Clint was afraid if something didn’t change soon it would be years, or worse never. And that’s not what he wanted.

He wanted forever.

#

Phil was both frustrated and relieved to see Natasha Romanoff waiting for him at the door of his apartment, with a take-out bag in hand. Frustrated because he had just told Clint he didn't want company tonight, that he was tired. Which he knew was unfair of him, because he couldn't actually assume Natasha knew everything Clint did and vice versa. The two shared a lot but they weren't actually telepathic. She had undoubtedly been planning this since before Phil ran into Clint in the hallway of SHIELD.

Relieved because he hadn't seen Natasha since they came back from Canada and Medical had given him an all-clear. He had been worried; he had thought maybe she was avoiding him. He knew he had disappointed and worried her in Canada. If she was keeping away from him, purposefully not facing him since the incident, then it was probably because she was struggling with what to do with him: how to break it to him, her friend, that she no longer trusted him in the field.

"Evening, Natasha," Phil said approaching the door.

"Good evening, Coulson," she said. She then held up the take-out bag in one hand and a Captain America documentary in the other. The food was from the Chinese place around the corner. If Phil kept letting Strike Team Delta feed him, he was going to have a heart attack. "Dinner and a show?"

"Always with you," he said, pulling out his keys, and he meant it. He had hated turning Clint away. He did need the rest. But dinner and a pleasant documentary with Natasha? It was either going to be heartbreak or rest.

Natasha followed him in his apartment, and blew past him into the living room to set up the take-out on the coffee table and pop the documentary into the DVD player. She and Clint had spent more than enough time here—sometimes Phil wondered why they bothered to maintain separate apartments other than the idea of Clint living with him, being here all the time with not a single break of his intoxicating presence without being able to touch, would drive him to madness.

Phil shrugged off his suit jacket, hanging it up on its hanger by the door. Next to go was his tie, the top two buttons of his shirt, and then the buttons at the cuffs. He allowed himself an indulgence, a sigh of relief as he pushed the starchy fabric back from his wrists. The rubbing against his wrists was an irritant at most, but it was an irritant that went without end at SHIELD as he moved and the fabric rubbed his sensitive skin. And of course at SHIELD, he could show no sign it bothered him, no sign of weakness, in the face of those who already mocked him.

He untucked his shirt as he made his way to the couch. Then he took his seat next to Natasha, and picked up the food carton she’d placed on his side of the table—orange chicken, just as he preferred.

The documentary she’d chosen was a series, where each episode focused on a specific Howling Commando. Natasha preferred this one, and for whatever reason always chose the episode on Bucky Barnes. Phil often wondered at the appeal for her: watching a happy go-lucky sniper die. He thought maybe it was a pre-emptive catharsis for the day Clint inevitably left her, a way for her to turn over the thought of his mortality in her mind.

At least Phil didn’t have to worry about that. He knew he would die before the archer did, unless something went horribly wrong. One of the perks of age.

He started to eat his food and let the documentary wash over him, letting his mind for now let go of his troubles.

#

Natasha ate her sweet and sour shrimp, her legs tucked under herself on Phil Coulson’s couch, as she watched a documentary about the man who wore the Winter Soldier’s face. More likely the Winter Soldier wore his face—this Bucky Barnes. What better mask for Department X’s most exquisite weapon, than that of Captain America’s best friend.

She let his voice wash over him, the familiar pitch in an unfamiliar cadence. Oh, she had heard the Soldier speak English, she had heard this perfect natural accent from him, but she had never heard him laugh and joke. She had never seen him so carefree.

Like this he reminded her of Clint. What was it with her—the Black Widow—and these snipers? God save her from their mischievous smiles and infectious laughs.

But she was not actually here to study Bucky Barnes. She had seen this documentary more times than she could count—could quote the narration from memory. No, she let it play while here with Coulson to let the voice of the Soldier calm her, center her, as she tried to sort what exactly was wrong with Coulson.

Certainly, the man was tired. Natasha could see it in the slump of his shoulders and the way he listed towards the arm of the couch, as if he needed it’s structural support. Nor had he been lying to Clint when he said his wrists hurt. That was obvious in how he had shoved up his cuffs, not bothering with the patience to carefully fold them up as he normally did. He also moved the chopsticks gingerly, as if the motions strained him.

No, he had not told Clint Barton any lies.

Natasha let the documentary dominate their dinner. She poked at the shrimp and her pork fried rice, mushing it around more than she ate. She had hoped Clint would have him and Coulson sorted by now. She had hoped that her helping facilitate it would work as her apology. But it hadn’t worked. Clint said even the forms had backfired somehow. Instead, Natasha now had to struggle to find her words.

Twenty minutes went by, neither saying a word. The documentary shuffled through interviews with the living Howling Commandos about Bucky, about his bravery, and about his indefatigable loyalty to his best friend that led to his death. Natasha stared into her fried rice as if it contained all of the world’s answers.

Coulson must have sensed her unease, for he said, unexpectedly, “It’s okay, Natasha.”

She froze. Was she so easily readable? Had she been projecting her apology somehow in her manner? The Black Widow must be slipping. Or she had become too comfortable in Phil Coulson’s presence.

“What is?” She tested the waters.

Coulson continued to stare at the TV screen, as if they were discussing nothing more than the weather. “You and Clint are the best SHIELD has to offer, the best at what you do. You deserve team members who are up to the task, a handler who doesn’t just…stumble into enemies. It’s okay if you two are considering asking Fury for a new handler. I understand.”

Natasha sat up suddenly, setting down her pork fried rice with a thunk on the coffee table. She could not believe what she was hearing. How could he possibly blame himself? She turned to him, startled, and said fervently, “We would never, ever consider another handler. Never.”

Coulson froze at that, his gaze lasered in on the TV. After a moment he moved, setting down his own carton and chopsticks before turning to face her. Confusion covered his face. “What?”

How could he be confused? After all this time, ten years, did he not understand what Phil Coulson meant to Strike Team Delta? He wasn’t just their handler. He was their friend, their foundation. He was what bound them to SHIELD. Natasha wasn’t a neophyte. She had been in this business for decades. She knew organizations like SHIELD often lacked a moral compass. But Phil Coulson did not. If he sent them on a mission, then it was a mission worth doing.

There was no one else in all of SHIELD, short of Nick Fury himself, that Natasha Romanoff would trust to send them into the field.

She didn’t know how to explain that to him. She hadn’t prepped the thoughts and words, hadn’t been prepared to defend his place on his team. So she settled for the apology she had prepped for instead. “I’m sorry.”

That only increased Coulson’s confusion. She reached out and took his hand in hers, her thumb gently sweeping over the bruise. “For your capture. For this.”

“Natasha. This isn’t your fault. I went the wrong way. I—”

“No,” she said firmly, looking up into his eyes. Natasha Romanoff had examined the events of the Zodiac operation with intensity. She had played it through her mind, written in her words for the after-action report, and talked through it with Clint. Natasha Romanoff never backed down from the truth, even when the truth showed she was at fault. “Coulson, it was my fault.”

He was silent. In the background, Peggy Carter described Bucky Barnes’ flirtations and how he had tried to steal her away from Captain America at least twice.

“You didn’t go the wrong way,” she said. “It was me. You turned down the right street—you turned left and I turned right. It was me who was wrong.”

“No,” Coulson said with a small shake of his head. “I remember. Clint said told us to turn, and I went the wrong way.”

“Clint said turn left,” she said. It was the truth. He had directed them from his perch, sending them towards where he thought was safety. He hadn’t seen the ambush that laid in wait for Coulson. It was only chance that it was Coulson who was captured and not herself. “And I turned the wrong direction.” She had put her watch on the wrong wrist that morning, for a variety of reasons that were now all meaningless in face of Coulson's capture. That simple sartorial choice had messed up her directional sense. It was silly and ridiculous and the truth. And because of her mistake, Coulson had been captured. “If I had been with you, we could have fought them together, overcome them. There were too many for one of us alone.”

It had been six-on-one. Not even good odds for the Black Widow.

#

Phil stared at Natasha, not comprehending what she was saying. On the TV, Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes laughed from the much-played wartime interview footage.

He knew intellectually that the Black Widow was as human as the rest of them, capable of making mistakes, but it never had crossed his mind that it could be she who had turned the wrong direction and not him. He played over the events as he remembered them in his mind. The two of them running, Clint in his perch. Clint told them which direction to go, street after street, the Black Widow and Coulson side by side. And then, suddenly she hadn’t been there.

Honestly, Phil no longer remembered which direction Clint had shouted. He had just assumed it was himself who had been wrong. Surely it had been him.

“Natasha,” he said gently, pulling his wrist back from her hands. “You don’t have to lie to protect my pride. It’s okay. I understand. I made a mistake.”

“No,” she said it firmly, and she held his gaze. Her expression was unyielding. “It was me. You did not mess up. It was me.”

He didn’t know what to do in the face of that, in the face of Natasha Romanoff insisting she was the one who was at fault. He sorted through the files of his mind, what he knew of Natasha, of her history and their work together, and the events of the day. But his mind was not working at its best, and he kept tripping over the forms. Why had Clint and Natasha filled out the forms?

“The forms,” he said slowly. “They were an apology?”

Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Partly.”

“And the other part?” he asked.

She leaned back into the arm of the couch, pulling up her knees in front of her as she considered him. Finally, she said, “You really thought we were going to drop you?”

Her quiet voice, the question in her eyes—Phil felt ashamed. “I’m sorry.” He held up his hands helplessly. “I feel so stupid. Captured by Zodiac in Canada. I just…I am having a hard time letting go.”

“You are an idiot.” She kicked him none to gently in the thigh. “But you are my idiot. Don’t forget that, Coulson.”

“Never again,” he promised her. He felt more foolish now than he had earlier, yet somehow differently. Lighter. Clint and Natasha were not giving up on him. They were still Strike Team Delta, still them. Despite the mistakes, despite the capture, despite the feel of Clint under Phil's hands. Clint may not be his in the romantic sense, but between Clint’s tacos and Natasha’s Chinese food, it was clear that they were assuring him they were still a team. He had been an idiot not to see it.

Natasha nodded in satisfaction, clearly pleased with whatever showed on his face, and then shoved her frigid toes under his thigh. “Finish your dinner,” she said. “You need to go to bed early tonight.”

Phil picked his carton back up and hid his smile in his lo mein. Sometimes he really was an idiot. Thank God his team was patient with him. He really didn’t know what he would do without them.

#

"Words," Clint's voice was slow and tinny over the phone. "You think Coulson wants words?"

It was a bit ludicrous to Natasha too. In her experience, words were meaningless, just a puff of air easily taken back. It was actions that proved time and time again what a person meant. She didn't need Clint to tell her he loved her. She knew he did because of how he checked her gear over in addition to his before an op, how he stood watch when she was in Medical--the place he hated the most on the face of the planet, how he would never, ever leave her behind, how he made her a terrible cake every year on her birthday, and so many other tiny actions that added up to a clear and perfect sum. Clint Barton loved Natasha Romanoff.

She had thought it would be obvious to Coulson as well. Clint's love for him shown like a beacon in the dark of night, a lighthouse she could calibrate her trajectory by. But as Clint had eloquently pointed out earlier that day, Coulson was not them. Perhaps he couldn't read the love in their actions as clearly as they could. Perhaps he needed more.

"Yes," she said simply in answer to his question. Coulson needed words.

"I'm terrible at words." His tone was mournful. "I'll say something wrong."

"Be clear, be direct," she advised.

For a moment there was silence on the line. Then a hesitant, "What if...what if I'm wrong? What if he doesn't...?" He let it hang, but Natasha understood. What if Coulson didn't love him, not like Clint loved him. Not like forever.

"Don't be an idiot," she responded, but gently, kindly.

"Okay," he breathed. A hesitation. "Words? Are you sure? Just...words?"

"Words," she said firmly. And if that didn't work, well, she really didn't know. But she couldn't fix it for them. Coulson had barely believed her when she admitted something was her fault. He would never believe her if she told him Clint loved him.

This they had to fix by themselves.

God help her two idiots.

Chapter Text

When Phil woke up the next morning, he had a text from Clint waiting for him.

"You. Me. The Flying Pancake. 7:30 am."

He smiled at his phone and texted back a "yes." Despite Clint's admonishment the night before to sleep in, clearly the archer knew Phil too well. It was 6:00 am and Phil was up. To be fair, it was at least a half an hour longer than he normally slept, and he had gone to bed at nine. Nine hours of sleep was far and beyond his usual six.

His wrists already felt better, though the bruises if anything looked worse. It was the way of bruises for them to darken and blossom before they started to fade away. He downed some ibuprofen, hoping it would take the edge off the stiffness that remained and also the pain in his left knee. That one hadn't hurt yesterday, but sometimes it took a day or two for all of the aches and pains to make themselves known.

Yet despite the new pains--ah yes, a stiffness in his neck, that was lovely--he did feel better overall. Yesterday he had let SHIELD get to him. He'd let the jokes and teasing feed his own self doubt. After a good night's sleep he could see more clearly. The donuts, the tacos, the forms, Clint's dinner offer, and Natasha's Chinese food. His team cared for him. They had been worried, and they blamed themselves. So they had been trying to make his life easier.

Natasha thought she had gone the wrong way. And now, Phil could see that Clint probably thought it was his fault for not seeing the ambush. The sex, the tacos, it all made sense. Clint blamed himself.

And that was what this breakfast would be about. It would be Clint's version of last night. His apology. Even though there was no possible way for Clint to see everything, even though it was senseless to blame himself. And Phil would have to assure him of that.

Phil could do that. He'd made a career out of assuring Clint Barton. He could absolve him of this guilt and then they could get back to normal.

Or at least Phil could pretend they were normal. He would never be normal again, now that he knew that Clint Barton groaned when Phil nipped at his jawline.

Those sorts of thoughts were not going to help him at all at this breakfast meet up with Clint. Phil tried to banish them from his mind as he pulled on his shirt. Clint Barton was his asset and friend. He needed to be able to focus while they spoke, and not daydream about Clint's deft fingers or wicked tongue.

Phil hesitated before buttoning his cuffs, and then quickly checked the weather on his computer. By all accounts it was going to be a beautiful early summer day, and the temperature right now was in the seventies. He put his cufflinks back in their drawer and carefully folded the arms of his shirt up. Clint would not mind that Phil only partially suited up for him. Phil would forgo the tie and the jacket for breakfast. He had a spare of both, and cufflinks in his office at SHIELD. He could wait to suit up until then.

Feeling ten times lighter with this wrists free, Phil finished up his morning coffee and headed out the door. Breakfast was going to be great. Starting the day out with Clint Barton, casual and hopefully smiling, was already guarantying this day would be better than the day before. 

#

Clint changed outfits three different times that morning before calling Nat in desperation. "It's too warm for the sweater," she'd advised, her logic impeccable. "And the button-up says job interview. Wear that short sleeve henley I got you last Christmas. It really works for your shoulders."

Natasha's fashion advice was never to be ignored. He pulled on dark purple shirt and stared at himself in the mirror. The fit on it was impeccable, tight across his shoulders and arms without being constraining, showing off both to great affect if he did say so himself. The fit over his abs was comfy and loose but not so loose it made him look less trim than he was. A perfect fit along with his dark wash jeans, which fit his ass like a glove. Phil had never been able to look away when Clint wore these jeans.

And well, Clint wasn't really worried about the way he dressed. He knew he looked good in everything. He just wanted his look to say what he felt. Phil always took such care with how he dressed, choosing his tie to his cufflinks with purpose and meaning. Clint tended to be more haphazard. He didn't want to be haphazard, not today. He wanted to be purposeful. He wanted his mode of dress to communicate clearly what he meant.

I love you.

Forever.

Could he just say that? "I love you." He practiced with himself in the mirror, trying to impart meaning. "I love you." Phil would have heard him say that phrase so many times: to pizza, to dogs, hell even to him. But always casually, like one says I love you to the baker who saved the last chocolate croissant for you. Not in the way Clint meant.

Ugh, words were the worst. Words were meaningless. He just wanted to show Phil what he meant. But he had tried that yesterday, and it hadn't worked. And Natasha said Phil needed words. Clint was terrible at words, he was never going to remember what he needed to say.

He had thought about it all night. The closest he'd come to the right words so far was: "Phil Coulson, I love you. I want you in my bed, every single night." The forever was implied. "I think you feel the same. Please, can we just be together now?"

The words weren't as romantic as he wished, and he was sure as soon as he saw Phil they would leave his head. But they were the words he hoped to have.

This almost felt like a test. Not like Phil was testing him, but like the sort of final exam where your whole life was in the balance. Like the exam for his pilot's license. He knew he could fly a plane, but that second time he failed the written test he knew if he didn't pass it the third time SHIELD would never license him. Getting the license would determine his career options at SHIELD and he needed to pass it.

How he wished he could have snuck notes in with him. Sure, he had passed it regardless, but a cheat sheet would have helped.

Wait! A cheat sheet. This wasn't a real test. There was no actual cheating. Clint grabbed the nearest pen and started scribbling those words on his forearm. If the words left him, they would be there. He could just look and know what to say. He could do this. He would do this.

Because he meant Phil Coulson to be his. Forever.

#

Phil wasn't expecting Clint to be waiting for him outside the restaurant. The man stood lazily leaning against the building's facade, his shoulders straining against his purple Henley despite his relaxed stance. Sun glasses covered his eyes, but Phil could still tell the moment Clint saw him, because his face broke into the brightest grin.

For a moment Phil couldn't breathe. Why had he ever thought he could survive this breakfast without constantly thinking about those shoulders, those strong arms bracketing him against the wall.

He was so fucking doomed.

Clint didn't wait for him, but pushed off the wall, and started walking briskly in his direction. And when he reached Phil he still didn't stop. He just pulled Phil into a hug, pressing Phil firmly against the long length of his body, and oh God, Phil wasn't going to survive this.

"Thank you so much for meeting me, sir," Clint said, his voice more or less directly in Phil's ear, his breath hot. Phil wanted to turn his head to catch him in a kiss. Instead he mumbled something appropriate, he was sure, and resolutely patted Clint on the back twice. Then with all the self control Phil could muster, he pulled back.

Yet Clint didn't set him free. Oh he loosened and allowed Phil to pull back, but his hands settled on Phil's arms, holding him loosely near. Clint stared down at him, his smile turning soft at the edges. Clint then let one of his hands trail down Phil's arm to his hand, lifting it up to inspect the bruised wrist. The other hand disappeared from Phil's arm, and Phil missed the heat.

"It looks worse," Clint said, delicately twisting Phil's wrist this way and that so he could see it from every angle.

"It feels better," Phil managed to say.

Clint hummed skeptically. He let their joined hands fall but he didn't let go, his finger firm around Phil's hand. "Come on," he said. "I'm hungry." The man then turned and started walking, their hands still conjoined, pulling Phil along behind him.

The archer had always been touchy. He'd always been in Phil's space. But he'd never held Phil's hand before, not like this, and Phil's brain could not comprehend it. He should pull free. He shouldn't allow this. If he allowed Clint to set the precedent of hand-holding, Clint would just add it to his repertoire of touch, as something they did. Clint held Natasha's hand sometimes. Phil had seen it. But Natasha didn't want Clint, not like that. Clint didn't--couldn't--know that this was different.

This handholding, this might very well be the thing that did Coulson in.

And yet, Phil couldn't let go. He let Clint pull him along in his wake. God help him. He was so doomed.

#

Clint almost lost his mind at the sight of Coulson not in a full suit, but rather just his shirtsleeves. No tie hid his neck, the top two buttons undone, with just a hint of chest hair. And his sleeves!--folded up, revealing those perfect strong forearms. Phil couldn't have known, couldn't have guessed Clint's intent. Yet he had dressed so perfectly to make Clint want to forget breakfast and just shove Phil against the wall.

No, he couldn't. So he hugged him instead. He held his hand.

I love you was what he meant.

Thankfully, Clint had made a reservation, so they didn't have to wait long. The Flying Pancake was popular amongst the hipsters, and for once Clint couldn't fault them. The food here was delectable. It was impossible to get a table without waiting thirty minutes, but Clint had spent the better part of the year schmoozing the owner, so that whenever Clint called he could get a table for him and Strike Team Delta.

This morning they gave him the table he wanted. A small round booth, actually meant for four. So they could sit across from each other, like platonic friends might. Or Clint could crowd Phil in and sit right next to him. Clint figured he'd take his cue from how the morning went.

For now, he sat about twenty degrees apart from Phil, close enough to reach if he wanted, but far enough away to give the man space. They both studied their menus.

"Get whatever you want," Clint said, "I am paying." You are mine was what he meant.

"I really can't let you do that," Phil huffed. Clint just smiled, refusing to fight it. He would pay. Because by the end of this meal, if everything went to plan, Phil would know. They weren't just friends. Phil was Clint's everything. And paying for your person is just what people did.

But Clint didn't intend to jump into any clear words until they had their food. The last thing he needed was for his declaration of love to be interrupted by the waitress.

They ordered, the menus went away, and Phil looked at Clint. The crow's feet around his eyes crinkled and Clint wanted to kiss each and every line. "Clint," Phil's voice was gentle. "I know what this is about."

Clint sat back, surprised. Did he? Relief filled him. Yes, that would be perfect. If Phil knew, if he'd seen finally what Clint had been trying to say, then that would make everything so much easier. They could just be over the awkwardness and just be them. Be together. Forever.

"It wasn't your fault," Phil said, and well, that wasn't what Clint was expecting at all. "You can't be expected to see everything. I don't blame you for not seeing the ambush, and you shouldn't blame yourself."

"I...don't?" Clint said confused. Sure he wish he had seen the bad guys. He wish he'd told Phil to turn the other way. But he hadn't. Clint had been an agent long enough that he knew sometimes shit just happened. Hell, he'd missed far more important things in far more dangerous situations. Phil himself had bailed Clint out of several of those, whether saving Clint's ass or Natasha's. Sometimes in battle things just happened. You just had to pray to God or whoever that this wasn't the mistake that got you or your partner killed.

"Oh." Now Phil seemed confused. He motioned to the table. "Then what is this about? If not an apology breakfast."

Fuck, here it was. Earlier than Clint expected. He wanted the food to already be here. He meant the food to already be here. But a battleplan never survived first contact or whatever that quote was. He could do this. He just had to say it.

His hands went clammy and his mouth dry. Suddenly every word of the English language left his brain. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I love you was what he meant. But even Clint couldn't expect Phil Coulson to understand that.

#

Phil did not know what was happening. This wasn’t an apology breakfast. Clint seemed puzzled at the very thought. And now, the archer’s expression was constipated, as if there was something he wanted to get out, but just couldn’t. 

Ever since Canada, ever since that night with Clint (Clint under his hands! Clint groaning, Phil’s name escaping like a desperate whine from his lips), Phil’s assumptions had led him down the wrong path. First Strike Team Delta was not breaking up with him. Natasha had meant to apologize. Now, Clint was not apologizing. But hadn’t Natasha said that was what the forms been about?

No. She had said “partly” and never answered his question about what the other part was.

Think, Phil had to think. He knew Clint, better than he knew anyone. If he could just see the full picture, he was sure he could figure it out.

Clint Barton, shoving Phil up against a wall, desperately searching his body for wounds. Clint Barton, kissing Phil’s wrists asking if it hurt. Clint Barton, fully satiated, curling his body around Phil. Mini donuts from an unknown source. Clint Barton in his doorway with a bag of tacos, waiting as if expecting something. Clint Barton, filling out forms not to apologize but for some other motivation. Clint Barton, hanging outside his office door, offering to take him home and make him dinner.  To…take care of him?

Clint Barton, beaming at the very sight of Phil.

Phil looked around their favorite breakfast place, finally noting the coziness of this booth towards the back. He felt puzzle pieces fall into place, painting a picture he could not quite believe.

“Clint?” Phil asked, trying to tamp down the ridiculous hope that suddenly blossomed in his chest. “Is this a date?”

“No,” Clint blurted, and the puzzle pieces burst apart, the picture hopelessly muddled.

Phil had no damn clue what was going on.

#

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Words, fucking words. Clint needed to use his fucking words. He cast about helplessly and remembered the notes on his arm. He set his elbows on the table, clasping his hands together, so he could read the cramped writing on his arm without looking too obvious.

Of course, half of it was smeared.

He glanced over at Phil, who just looked completely at a loss and a little hurt. Shit. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. Words. What had he meant to say?

“It’s not a date,” he managed to say, “because a date means getting to know you. A date means temporary. A date doesn’t mean…” Forever, he wanted to say. But the word wouldn’t come out. “A date doesn’t mean I love you.” He needed to stop babbling. This was important, he needed Phil to get this. Clint reached out, grabbed the other man’s hand, and looked desperately into his eyes. “Sir—Coulson—Phil, I love you.”

#

For a moment time paused and the entire world ceased to exist, except Phil, Clint, and the connection of Clint’s hand grasping his. The expression on Clint’s face was so painfully genuine that Phil felt he was intruding. Like he had stumbled into a moment of time that did not belong to him.

Because a date was one thing. Phil could begin to grasp that maybe, just maybe Clint might be somewhat interested in a little romance to go with his sex. But what Clint was saying, the earnestness in his eyes, the denial of anything that was temporary, the declaration of love, the desperation with which he spoke Phil’s name. This sounded like, it was almost as if, the archer was offering him…his mind tripped over a word.

Forever.

Time started up again. “I love you,” Clint said again, those unlikely and beautiful words. “When you left me, the other night—I don’t want that again. I mean, I don’t want you to leave. I want you every night. To wake up to you, every day. Breakfast, every day. I want you. No dating. I just want us to be together.” A pause. That impossible word popped in Phil’s head again. Forever. “Please, Phil. Can we just…can we just be together?”

“You love me?” Phil’s voice came out thin and uncertain.

“Yes.” The word was more air than sound. Clint reached out with his other hand, cupping Phil’s jaw. Every cell of Phil burned from the touch. Clint’s thumb brushed delicately over Phil’s lips.

This could not be real. Phil had had this dream before. Clint Barton, the perfect beautiful Hawkeye, professing his love for him, for his unassuming, unremarkable handler. And before Phil could think the better of it, a single word escaped his lips. “Why?”

And it was of course at that moment the waitress appeared, laden with Phil’s pancakes and Clint’s meat-lover’s breakfast.

#

Clint and Phil were too good at their job, the best of SHIELD’s secret agents, to both not immediately reel back, put on genial faces, and make the appropriate small talk to confirm their meals with the waitress. The fluffy pancakes were slid in front of Phil, along with a small pitcher of pure Vermont maple syrup. Clint’s meal was eggs, bacon, sausage, cheesy hashbrowns, and a side of pancakes for good measure. Yet despite his earlier hunger, Clint could not even think to eat.

Not when Phil had looked at him with such uncertainty, as if he didn’t deserve the love of Clint Barton. Phil had never looked so helpless, so lost, even when literally in the hands of the enemy. Yet when faced with Clint’s love, his normal surety evaporated.

For a moment neither of them spoke. Phil stared at his pancakes, and Clint worried at his lip, trying to find the words. Phil needed more words. He needed a why.

Clint reached out, gently placing his hand on Phil’s knee, and then he started to speak, tried to translate the feelings in his heart to words in the English language.

#

“You are my rock.” Clint’s voice was soft. Phil kept staring at his pancakes, afraid to look in the archer’s direction. Nor could he move to eat his pancakes. He was held still by Clint’s warm, firm hand on his knee. “You see me, when no one else does. You see me, Phil. Not just a bow or a gun. You see Clint Barton.”

That rocked Phil. He turned sharply, covering the hand on his knee with his own hand. “Of course, I see you,” he said. “You are remarkable. How could I not see you?”

“Most handlers don’t.” Clint’s smile was wistful, depreciating. “But you, you are different. You are so kind, yet badass. Your competency, fuck, Phil. Forms, guns, it’s beautiful. All of it. You are beautiful. And such a dork. God, I love it. When you talk about Cap or Peggy Carter, and just the way your eyes light up. Fuck, Phil. Do you not know how sexy you are? I think I’ve wanted you from that first mission. And I loved you since the first year. I thought you knew. I thought I was obvious. I love you. I don’t want to wait any longer. I just want us to be together.” Forever. The word hung in the air, unspoken.

“And you love me too,” Clint said it firmly, with confidence, and yet there was a question in his eye.  “So what is stopping us?”

The hint of a question and doubt, no, Phil could not allow that. He could not let Clint doubt. He should never question that Phil worshipped the ground he walked on and had since almost the beginning. He interlocked his fingers with Clint’s and said, “I think I fell in love with you when I read your file.”

#

“My file?” Clint laughed. “Surely at that point it was just a rant of angry agents about my smart mouth, disobedience, and I believe the quote from Sitwell was ‘fucking death-defying escapades meant to give teammates heart attacks.’” Clint hadn’t seen his file—he actively avoided it in fact—but he had heard more than one rant from a handler.

“To be fair to him, you jumped off the roof of a ten-story building,” Phil said.

“And would again, will again,” Clint promised. “If it’s what must be done.”

“I know,” Phil said, squeezing his hand. “And I trust you, that you will never leap unless you know your fall will be safe enough.” Yes, that was what made Phil different. He trusted Clint. He knew Clint didn’t do anything half-assed. If Clint was jumping from a building, it was because he had to. For the mission, for his own life, or the safety of those he loved.

“So what was it in my file, then?” Clint said, actually curious. He scooted closer, pressing his leg from knee to foot against Phil’s. “What about that reckless sniper turned your head?”

“Your compassion,” Phil answered. Clint lifted his eyebrows at that. His file described him as compassionate? That was surprising. “You went with Fury to kill the Black Widow, and you saved her instead. Anyone who could do that, anyone who could look at the most deadly assassin in the world and see the woman underneath, that was a man worth ten of every other.”

"Well it was Nat," Clint said with an uncomfortable shrug. "What else could I do?"

"Only Clint Barton would ever," Phil said, and his eyes shown with love. Clint wanted to lean in and kiss him. And what the hell was stopping him, now that he had said all those words?

Clint closed the distance between them with a soft press of his lips against Phil's, innocent and pure. I love you was what he meant.

No, he needed to say it. He pulled back, just enough to look into Phil's kind eyes. "I love you."

"I love you too," Phil answered, but then a complicated look went across his face. Clint pulled back further, so he could observe him in his entirety, and not just the fine lines of his face. What was Phil thinking? What more could Clint say?

#

Phil studied Clint Barton, the man he loved. This close Phil could see every facet in his eye, how green and gold streaked his blue irises. Also the lines at the corner of his eyes, so feint, yet there. Neither of them were as young as they used to be, but Clint was ageing perfectly, like a fine wine. Phil could already tell that one day Clint would be a silver-fox, the sort who devastated women with his smile in the old folks home. If they lived that long, Phil wanted to be there to see it. And yet.

Clint was so beautiful, and Phil was just, well just Phil Coulson.

Phil understood Clint. He knew Clint Barton almost as well as he knew himself. Phil could understand how a life like Clint Barton's would lead a man this gorgeous to fall in love with him for his constancy, and that once you had Clint Barton's loyalty it was forever. He knew this. And yet, he couldn't believe it. That Clint Barton would love him, Phil Coulson.

"I love you," Phil repeated, his words certain and sure. He didn't want to jeopardize this. He didn't want Clint to ever question. But he also needed Clint to understand him, to understand that there were days when Phil wasn't as sure of himself, when he questioned his own worth, when he looked in the mirror and saw a middle aged man. "And I know you love me. I know. But..."

Clint's expression was quizzical yet patient, and Phil struggled to find the words. Phil tightened his grip on Clint's hand, afraid to what the man's response might be to this confession. "Clint, it might take me a while to believe it, that you love me."

"Oh," Clint laughed breezily. "Don't worry about that, sir. I'm going to spend the rest of my life proving it to you."

The breath left Phil's body at this, the truth, blatantly spoken aloud. The rest of their lives. Together. Forever.

"Yes," Phil managed to say, and Clint laughed and kissed him again.

Clint pulled away, his expression incredibly fond, and Phil could not believe he was on the receiving end of it. Or worse, that he had seen this expression directed at him before, and he hadn't known what it meant. Clint had loved him for so long, Phil could see it now. How had he been so blind? "Better eat your pancakes, sir," Clint said. "And then I thought we deserve a day off from SHIELD. Go back to my place? Or yours, if you prefer."

Phil nodded, dumbly, memories of their own night together flooding his brain. Yes, yes, he wanted more of that, but more he wanted the after he had denied himself before. Snuggled in bed, beside Clint. Clint puttering around the apartment, and if Phil was lucky stopping to kiss him as Phil went by. Clint in his space, or Phil in his, just blissfully domestic and his his his.

Impossible, and yet, the reality before him.

Clint kissed his nose--his nose!--and then turned away, picking up his fork to dig into his breakfast. Phil managed to find his fork, and looked down at his soggy pancakes, before looking back at Clint. "You know you don't have to call me 'sir,'" he said. "You can just call me, Phil."

#

Clint looked back at Phil surprised. Of course he could call him Phil. That had never been a question. "Sure," Clint said, trying to find the words. Ten years. He had been calling Phil 'sir' for ten years, and did the man really not know what he meant?

Phil was the only person Clint called sir. Fury he called Fury. Nat was always her name. Other handlers were just their last names. Sitwell. Hill. Blake. Never, sir or ma'am. Never. That was just Phil, only for Phil.

Clint said 'sir' and he meant that when Phil told him to do something in battle Clint would trust it without hesitation, that when Phil put up a boundary Clint would respect it, that when Phil asked something of him Clint would give it. 'Sir' meant I trust you. I respect you.

Sir, Clint would say. I love you was what he meant.

But the archer didn't know how to put that into words so he just said, "I like calling you, sir. Is that okay?"

"Yes," Phil answered, his expression confused and a little surprised. "But maybe not in the bedroom."

"Oh, well." Clint let his smile turn wolfish. "Can't promise you that, sir."

And Phil Coulson's blush was worth it.

#

Natasha drank her coffee in satisfaction, on the other side of the Flying Pancake. Clint was bugged, of course. She had heard everything. “Co-dependent” was what SHIELD Medical had once called Strike Team Delta. Natasha, however, knew this trust and dependency was what kept them alive.

Now she turned the bug off, satisfied they had sorted themselves out, and she certainly did not need to hear what came next. She could focus on her breakfast of deliciously fluffy chocolate chip pancakes with a side of turkey sausage. Later today she’d text Clint, and see if they were dressed enough for her to pop in with dinner. Otherwise, she would see them tomorrow, when they’d both undoubtedly be at work. “Workaholics” was another phrase Medical often used about Strike Team Delta.

First it had been just Natasha and Clint against the world. Then Phil had joined them, and sometimes it amazed Natasha they had ever survived without him. This bland, unassuming man was their foundation and their compass, and more importantly he was theirs. Their person, their family. It was about time Clint and Coulson made it more official.

Plus it would be easier to keep track of the two of them, once they inevitably moved in together.

Natasha took a bite of her pancakes, pleased. Both of these men, these idiots, were her family, and God help her, she loved them.

#

In the end, it all came to forms, it always did. A change in relationship status, filled out by Clint, before the day was even out. A cohabitation form, filled out by Phil, when he moved in with Clint after his lease ended a month later. And then one day, a marriage license signed in front of Nat and Fury, while the two men beamed.

Forms were the language of love; Clint certainly had not been wrong about that.

And now they were each other's. Forever.