Fic: Moving In or Moving On, Part 2, by desert_neon, Hard R, Clint/Coulson
Title: Moving In or Moving On, Part 2
Author: desert_neon
Fandom: MCU, The Avengers
Summary: Phil has been invited to move into Stark Tower, and to take a position as the Avengers' liaison to SHIELD. He wants the job, but it comes with a very big personal downside. He'll have to confess his feelings to Clint, a man they both believe to be straight. Unrequited love always strains a friendship, and theirs is no exception. Clint's behavior certainly isn't helping the situation, and Phil may very well have to call an end to everything they've ever had together, breaking his heart in the process.
Rating: Hard R
Warnings: There is mention of Clint's childhood neglect and abuse. Nothing specific, but the implication is that his past has affected his relationship capabilities in the present. Please be aware of this in regards to your own well-being. If you'd like me to elaborate, please feel free to comment or contact me. My LJ and my Tumblr accounts are listed on my Ao3 profile page.
Word count:12,056
Notes: Takes place sometime in the nebulous future after Agents of SHIELD ends. Also, I have rated it Mature/Hard R. If anyone feels it needs a stronger rating, please feel free to drop me a line.
Link to Ao3: desert_neon at Ao3
Link to Part 1 on LJ: Part 1
Clint didn’t come to find him the next day. He didn’t seek Phil out the day after, either, nor at any point in the next week. After a month, Phil had to admit to himself that it wasn’t going to happen. Whatever revelations Clint may have been working towards in Paris, they’d obviously been induced by alcohol, and rooted in his abusive past. They’d also been false, his needs and fears driving him to offer something he didn’t actually want.
It was high time Phil came to terms with that. The small spark of hope that had, that night, been fanned into something larger (despite Phil’s attempts to talk himself down) died completely, and he was left with something heavy and cold in his chest.
He was just starting to get used to it, was learning to work with it and around it, when Clint suddenly started showing up for movie nights again. He’d make the popcorn, even, or hand out the sodas, sometimes trying to catch Phil’s eye and sometimes intentionally looking away. He wouldn’t deliberately switch equipment in the gym when Phil entered anymore either, instead just continuing on with his routine even if it put them in close proximity. He even challenged Phil to a shooting match once, a seventeen-round clip versus seventeen arrows.
Clint won, obviously. He didn’t gloat, though, just offered a shy kind of smile that Phil honestly didn’t know what to do with. He found himself wanting to smile back, but he tamped the impulse down, trying, for once, to protect himself. Instead, he offered a curt, “Well done, Barton,” and left the range.
“Coffee, sir?” Clint asked one morning, already reaching for an extra mug.
“I can get it, thank you, Barton.”
Clint visibly hesitated, but eventually nodded and stepped away after pouring his own mugful, leaving the space clear for Phil. Who fixed his own cup, then retreated to his office, skipping breakfast entirely.
“Hey, Coulson,” Clint said, swinging his upper body into Phil’s office a couple days later. “Me, Thor, and Bruce are getting Chinese for lunch. You want in?”
Phil’s mouth hardened into a tight line, and he forced himself to breathe before looking away from his computer. He wasn’t sure what Barton was playing at, if he was genuinely just trying to blow past what had happened, or if this was some kind of effort at sympathy that Phil couldn’t help but see as pity. “No thanks.”
“C’mon, boss. You have to eat, right?”
“I’m fine, Barton. I have to get this paperwork in order for Stark’s latest prototype. SHIELD wants it in production soon, and there’s a lot of red tape to cut through with the patent office.”
Clint straightened in the doorway, his hands hanging awkwardly at his sides. “Coulson.”
Phil cut him off, unable to deal with whatever he was going to say. The desolate lump behind his sternum had never weighed more, and he fixed Clint with his best unimpressed look. “I have work to do. It won’t be the first time I’ve skipped a meal.”
Clint clenched his hands into fists, gave a nod, and left.
It took Phil a good three minutes to look back to his screen, and another six before he was able to focus on the task in front of him.
Almost a week later, Phil entered the communal kitchen to find Natasha at the table sipping orange juice, and Clint cracking eggs into a bowl. It was early still, and he’d honestly thought the kitchen would be empty. If he’d been expecting anyone, it would have been Steve, who was up with the dawn most mornings. He hesitated for only one heartbeat, then moved to get a mug for his coffee.
“Morning, sir,” Clint said, bending to retrieve a pan from the cupboard. Phil kept his eyes averted, concentrating on pouring out his first hit of caffeine. “Want some scrambled eggs?”
Phil shook his head and added his usual amounts of cream and sugar. “No, thanks. I think I’ll just have some cereal.”
The clatter of the pan on the stove startled him, and he looked up to find Barton glaring at him. “It’s just fucking eggs, Coulson. I’m already making them for me and Nat, it isn’t going to kill me to add a couple more to the pan.”
Phil bristled. “Barton-”
“No. Enough. I’m trying, okay? It’s just breakfast, it’s not any kind of power play, it’s not fucking pity, or whatever the fuck you’re thinking. It’s just eggs. Eggs. So sit your ass down and have some breakfast. We’re doing this.”
When he risked a glance at Natasha, she raised a single eyebrow at him, and Phil sat. Clint was noisy as he cooked, slamming things around and scraping the spatula against the pan with extra force. Even the toaster seemed to be more violent than normal, popping loudly in the silence created by their lack of conversation.
His plate landed in front of him roughly and Clint slapped some silverware onto the table in a pile. Natasha calmly separated the knives and forks, handing Phil one of each without comment. Clint sat with a huff and they ate, silent and stiff, with only Natasha finding any amusement in the situation, her eyes flicking between them as if waiting to see who would break first.
It was Phil who finally gave in. He looked across the table at Clint, who sat with hunched shoulders and a wrinkle in his brow, who played with his fork and his eggs more than he actually ate. He looked at Clint, whom he still loved, and saw the anger for what it was: an attempt at hiding the pain and confusion. So Phil breathed deeply, consciously relaxed in his chair, and said, “Did you and Tony ever get the balance right on the snare net arrows?”
Clint’s gaze snapped up, landing on Phil’s own, and the brief flash of utter hope in the man’s eyes before he slid them away again made Phil glad he’d spoken. “Not yet,” he offered, his voice barely more than a mumble. “He’s supposed to work on them some more today, but you know how he gets.”
Phil nodded, and tried a small smile, hoping Clint would look at him. “Well. You’ll just have to show up and prod him along. I have no doubt you’ll be able to persuade him.”
Clint did look back to Phil then, and his own lips curled up just a touch. “It’s true. I can be very persuasive when I want to be. It’s called persistence.”
“Really?” Natasha asked, her voice skeptical. “I always thought it was called whining.”
“You’re a riot, Nat.”
“Not all by myself, though I have helped to incite a few in my time.”
Clint pointed his fork at her, almost a threat. “Funny girl.”
Phil couldn’t help but huff a laugh, and Clint rewarded him with a smile. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better.
_________
The first time it happened, Phil didn’t think anything of it. He’d offered to do the dishes after a team dinner, and Clint stayed to help. Phil started the water running, rinsing a few plates before putting them in the dishwasher. Clint, who was still clearing the table, approached with a stack of plates and silverware. He grinned at Phil, who smiled back and reached for the dishes. Clint handed them over, and their fingers brushed.
Phil put the plates in the sink, and continued on.
When Clint started humming, then quietly singing to himself, Phil grinned, refused to feel the goosebumps on his arms, and started on the pots and pans.
Clint began to pack the leftovers away. He passed by Phil on the way to the refrigerators, much closer than was necessary in the large kitchen. His arm brushed against Phil’s shoulder blade, and Phil scrubbed harder at the risotto stuck to the bottom of the pan.
Thor called for Clint from the living room, challenging him to a “mighty battle of the bowling,” and Clint went. Phil didn’t turn to watch him go, and when he finished just a few minutes later, he decided he needed to get caught up on some work in his office.
Bruce chose American Graffiti for movie night a few nights later, and everyone settled in around the couches and chairs. Clint huffed, then wormed his way between Phil and Natasha, despite the fact that there was plenty of room on Natasha’s other side. “Popcorn,” Clint said succinctly when Phil glanced at him with a raised eyebrow, then reached into the bowl on Phil’s lap and grabbed a handful.
Phil said nothing. And when Clint got up for another drink before they started The NeverEnding Story (Thor’s pick), bracing himself with a hand on Phil’s thigh, Phil very carefully kept his expression neutral and his gaze straight ahead. He didn’t dare risk looking in either Natasha’s or Tony’s direction.
He didn’t see Clint for two days after that. He honestly didn’t know if it was actual avoidance on the part of the younger man, or if they were both just genuinely busy. He didn’t know how to ask when, on the third day, Clint showed up in Phil’s office, threw himself onto the couch, and tore through a backlog of paperwork. Phil still hadn’t figured out a good way to phrase the question by the time Clint left with a jaunty salute and casual, “See you, boss.”
So. He’d probably just been busy then. Phil was simply reading too much into things, looking for reasons to hope. And, really, he knew better.
“Coulson, good,” Natasha said as she offered Clint a hand up from the mat. “Come spar. I have to meet Pepper in forty minutes, and Clint needs the practice.”
“Hey!”
Phil hesitated for just a fraction of a second, but he knew full well they both saw it. So he stepped forward before Clint could take it personally. Even if he hadn’t been flirting with Phil, he’d obviously been trying to restore their previous equilibrium, and get them back on solid footing. It was up to Phil now to do the same. “Anything giving you trouble in particular, Barton?” he asked with a flippant smirk.
“Fuck you, sir,” Clint replied cheerfully. “I’ll have you know I’m in fine form.”
Phil bit back his response and stepped onto the mat. Natasha nodded in approval, said, “Have fun, boys,” and left.
Clint grinned and shifted his weight on the balls of his feet right away. Phil didn’t even have time to feel awkward as he suddenly worked to block fists and feet, then went on the offensive, bringing a knee into Clint’s stomach forcefully, and an elbow into his lower back.
With a grunt, Clint twisted away and dropped into a roll, smoothly getting back to his feet once he was further away from Phil. They circled each other for a bit, assessing and plotting, and when Clint feinted to the left, Phil was ready for him. They both went down, but they both bounced up again just as quickly. Clint then managed to get Phil into a headlock, which Phil escaped by flipping Clint over his shoulder.
They went back and forth for a while, Clint’s strength advantage neutralized by Phil’s gift for strategy. Eventually, though, Clint brought Phil down with a sweep of the leg and a knee to his sternum. Phil landed on his back with a whuff, momentarily stunned. Clint pinned him immediately, covering Phil’s body with his own, and Phil slapped his hand to the mat twice, unwilling to stay in that position any longer than necessary.
Clint shifted against him, but otherwise didn’t move. He was warm and solid, and Phil tapped out again in an effort to keep from running his hands up Clint’s arms. He could feel Clint’s chest rising and falling, pressing down on his own with every intake of breath. Phil’s own chest was tight, the cold ball of dead hope suddenly flaring back to life as Clint licked his lips and the muscles in his arms shifted.
But instead of ducking his head and moving closer, Clint pushed up and off suddenly, scrambling to his feet. “Point to me, huh, sir?” he said, his eyes on the floor.
Phil stood slowly, trying not to let any of his conflicting emotions show in his expression. He was pretty sure his anger was evident though, especially in his voice when he spoke. “Is it a game then, Clint?”
“No!” Clint’s eyes flew to his, but just as quickly slid away again. “No, sir.”
Sir. Pushing down the physical manifestation of despair in his throat, Phil nodded. He didn’t know what Clint was doing or why he was doing it, but he refused to remain in a position where it could keep happening. “Well. When you figure out what it is, you let me know. Until then . . .” He didn’t finish the thought. Asking Clint to stay away from him was a step he’d never imagined he would have to take. A step he’d never wanted to take.
Clint bobbed his lowered head in agreement anyway. He must have understood the unspoken request, because he left the gym without another word.
The next day, Clint was assigned to a team on its way to Moldova. The mission was estimated to last nine weeks, according to Hill, and Clint had requested it specifically.
Phil took the file from her, signed off on the placement, and handed it back. Business as usual.
_________
Clint returned after three and a half weeks. He had two cracked ribs, two broken fingers on his right hand, one on his left, multiple lacerations all over his body, and a concussion. He’d been patched up in Odessa, flown home to New York, and was currently waiting for the doctors at HQ to release him.
He’d jumped off a building.
Phil was livid.
Granted, Clint had used a grappling arrow, but it had still been a sixteen story drop before he’d crashed through a window on the second floor. His bow had caught on the edge of the window frame - the sudden change in momentum had snapped several bones in his fingers - and he’d landed hard, crashing into a sturdy, industrial table. He’d heal, and his hands would be fine with some therapy, but that wasn’t the point.
“You promised me, Barton,” Phil said, his voice hard and stern, not quite a shout. “No more jumping off buildings.”
“I had a line. It was fine. I’m fine.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Clint! You promised.”
“You can’t hold me to that,” Clint retorted, his own voice rising in volume. “I was drunk. You can’t hold me to anything I said or did that night. Anyway,” Clint added, apparently not having noticed how still Phil had become, “what the hell are you yelling at me for? I did my damn job, Coulson. It’s in the report.”
“I don’t care about the report,” Phil countered, so angry and hurt he could hardly string the words together. “I care that you’re injured. Again.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not my problem, is it?” Clint asked, his tone snide. “Any other agent and that’s all you’d fucking care about. The report and the job. You want to talk promises, boss? How about your promise to keep things professional? That certain ‘attachments’ wouldn’t interfere with work? What about when you said you didn’t expect anything from me? Because I gotta tell you, that’s not how it feels sometimes.”
Setting aside the implication that Phil only cared about mission objectives, and not about the agents attempting to achieve them (which stung, because Clint knew better than that. Knew Phil better than that), Phil snapped back. “Maybe I wouldn’t expect things if you didn’t do things sometimes. If you’d keep your goddamn hands to yourself!”
“So file a fucking complaint, sir. Sexual harassment. Just so we’re on the same page. So there’s paperwork and an official file, and it’s all professional. Better yet, get the fuck over it. Six years? Isn’t that a little pathetic?”
With a deep breath of shock, Phil reeled back, his spine stiffening. But you said, he wanted to shout. You asked me not to stop! Instead he stood there, breathing heavily and desperately trying to keep himself together. Barton wasn’t looking at him, was staring at the muted television just behind him, but Phil couldn’t look anywhere else. This was it, he knew. This was the end of their friendship, the end of their partnership.
He never should have said a word. He should have stayed out of Stark Tower and away from the Avengers. At least then he’d still have his friend.
“You’re right,” he said at length, working hard to keep his voice steady and calm. “I’m not being professional. Thank you for the reminder, Barton. Believe me, it won’t be a problem again.” He turned on his heel and left, careful to keep his back straight and chin parallel to the ground, careful not to slam the door in a display of emotion.
“Agent Coulson?”
Phil wasn’t surprised to see Steve and Natasha approaching from the elevators, and he wasn’t surprised that Natasha seemed to instantly know something was wrong. “Is he okay?” she asked as Phil met them halfway.
“He’s fine. In rare form, actually. He’ll need therapy on his hands, but everything else just needs time.” He could feel each deep, deliberate breath he took, striving for poise. He switched his focus to Steve and, in his best professional voice, said, “Captain, I’m glad you’re here. As team leader, I should tell you that I plan to file a request for a new position with Director Fury today. I don’t anticipate it being denied, but if it is, I’ll hand in my resignation instead.”
“Your resig- Why?”
“I believe it isn’t in the best interest of the team, nor some of its members, for me to remain on as liaison. Naturally, I will give you time to find someone new for the position. Three weeks, I think, should be adequate. I’ll compile a list of agents with the proper clearance level and skill set, and put my personal recommendations at the top. You’ll want to interview them, of course, and perhaps run through a training scenario with a few before making a final decision.”
“Coulson,” Natasha said, but he didn’t pause.
“I’ll have the list for you by the end of business today, as well as my official notice of resignation as liaison to the Avengers. I understand that this means I’ll have to vacate the apartment afforded me by the position, but rest assured I’ll be out of the tower by the final day of my post.”
“Phil,” Steve tried, and Phil shook his head.
“Believe me, Captain, this is for the best. For everyone.” He maneuvered past them, heading for the safety of the elevators. Steve said his name again, but he ignored it, as well as Natasha’s quiet voice telling Steve to see to Clint. When footsteps hurried in his direction, quiet but deliberate, he lengthened his stride in an effort to escape.
“Coulson. What did he do?”
He whirled to face Natasha. “Besides leap off a building?” he asked, trying for caustic and knowing he’d fallen short.
“He always leaps off buildings. What did he do to you?”
“Leave it, Natasha.”
“Phil.” It was perhaps the second time in eight years she’d addressed him by his first name, and it immediately set him on edge.
“It isn’t your concern, Agent Romanoff,” he snapped.
She was too good to react to his tone. She merely looked him over for a long moment, then nodded. “It isn’t,” she agreed coolly. “Though as your friend I feel compelled to remind you that Clint often lashes out when he’s hurt or confused.”
“Then maybe he should stop jumping off buildings.”
The look she turned on him was as disdainful as any he’d ever seen. “Don’t feign stupidity, Coulson. It doesn’t suit you.” With that, she walked away, heading back towards Clint’s temporary room.
Phil managed to pull himself together enough to make it to the elevators with his usual calm facade. Once he’d pressed the button and the doors closed, however, he gave in to a moment of weakness and leaned forward against the wall, his forearm braced above the panel of buttons, his head resting heavily on his clenched fist. He allowed himself a few deep breaths in that position, then straightened, smoothing out his suit jacket and tugging on the cuffs of his sleeves. He had work to do.
_________
Phil was exhausted. And starving. It was nearly two in the morning, and he hadn’t eaten since lunch. He simply had too much to do to worry about things like sleeping and eating. The official handover to Agent Mangat of the liaison position was due to happen in three days, and Phil was running on empty. Between finding a new apartment, packing up his suite at the tower, and preparing all involved parties for the shift, he was completely spent.
His own kitchen being devoid of any real food (and most of the pans to cook it in), he was in the shared kitchen, having been assured by JARVIS that certain people were not up and about, roaming the communal spaces. He’d thought about taking the leftovers he’d heated back to his apartment, but then he’d just have to bring the dishes back, so instead he was trying to relax, sitting with his pasta and beer and going over his handwritten notes in the protocol book. He had every intention of leaving it behind for Agent Mangat, who would surely find it useful.
He only realized his mistake in not asking JARVIS to monitor movement on the floor when footsteps sounded through the living area, and then Clint stepped into the kitchen. The younger man looked tired, as if he hadn’t been able to sleep. Given that he was in pajama pants and a t-shirt, and was sporting a pretty ridiculous bed-head, Phil was pretty sure the assessment was accurate.
Phil stood, even as Clint hesitated. They eyed each other warily for a moment, and then Phil broke the stalemate by moving to the sink. He dumped the rest of his food in the trash, appetite suddenly gone, and rinsed his plate. He fully expected Clint to leave, as the archer had been doing every time they’d been within sight of each other these past few weeks. The noise of the water would surely cover his retreat, and Phil spent a few extra seconds with the scrub brush to give Clint time to do so.
But when he turned around, Clint was still in the same spot, just inside the kitchen, playing with the drawstring on his pants. Phil slowly put his plate and silverware in the dishwasher, then straightened, crossing his arms over his chest. “Is there something you want, Barton?”
Clint visibly took a breath, and his eyes darted up to meet Phil’s before sliding away again. “You stopped, didn’t you?” he asked quietly. The non-bandaged fingers of his left hand fiddled with the drawstring, then moved to catch the waistband low on his hip, snapping it up and into place. Phil conscientiously kept his eyes on Clint’s face. “I made you stop.”
Phil was done. He’d had enough of the back and forth, the bullshit, the fucking tug of war Barton was playing with his heart. “You can’t have it both ways,” he snarled. “You don’t get to tell me to stop, and then be disappointed when I do. You don’t get to flirt with me one minute, and push me away the next - you don’t get to call me pathetic - and then hope that nothing’s changed. You certainly don’t get to dictate my emotions. Not anymore.”
Clint’s lips pressed together and he gave a sort of half nod. “I knew you’d figure it out eventually. That I’m not worth . . .” He trailed off with a shrug, and Phil’s arms dropped back down to his sides, his chest tightening around a breath that couldn’t escape.
And fucking fuck fuck. There he went, losing so much of his anger just because Clint’s issues decided to come out to play. Rather than address them directly, however, Phil admitted, “I haven’t stopped, Clint. You pushed me away, so I’m going. I’m giving you what you want and trying to protect myself at the same time. This was a mistake. Living here, telling you how I felt . . . It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have done any of it, and I’m sorry.”
“You-” Clint bit his lip and shook his head more vehemently, clearly trying to get some point across. He didn’t say anything else, but he moved, quickly striding across the kitchen to stand in front of Phil. He hesitated a moment, his tongue darting out to run over his bottom lip, and Phil tensed at the gesture.
“Clint, don’t. Please don’t do this again. I’m trying to-”
Phil didn’t get to finish his sentence, because Clint kissed him. His mouth was warm and perfect, insistent against Phil’s own. He found himself opening up to it, letting Clint coax his lips apart, letting him press him back against the counter, letting him align their bodies until Phil had no choice but to bring his hands up to grip at Clint’s biceps for balance.
“It wasn’t a mistake,” Clint said eventually, his lips still brushing Phil’s. “Don’t be sorry. It was brave and it was . . .” Clint kissed him again, and this time his tongue swept along Phil’s bottom lip, instead of his own. “Don’t be sorry.”
Phil groaned. He heard himself groan, and he knew it was too much and too fast, too willfully ignorant. He was blatantly ignoring all his doubts, all the questions he had about what Clint really wanted, what Clint was doing. But he couldn’t bring himself to care. In this moment, with Clint tasting him and touching him and crowding him, Phil did not care about motives at all.
His hands slid up to Clint’s shoulders, then over and down to his back, exploring the hard muscles hidden beneath skin and cotton. Clint’s own hands were on the counter behind Phil, causing Clint to lean in, push in close, and then he shifted his stance and lifted one hand to Phil’s lower back, encouraging Phil to arch forward, and Phil gasped into Clint’s mouth at the sudden sensation of a hard, full cock pressing against his own.
Clint’s hips rocked while Phil simply kept his pressed forward, spurred on by the hand that had slipped from his back to his ass. Phil felt dizzy, in the best possible way, and he tore his mouth away from Clint’s just to get some oxygen into his lungs. He figured he might as well use the break to his advantage, and his fingers scrabbled at the cloth underneath them, bunching the fabric up in desperation. Clint seemed to get the hint, and pulled away just long enough to strip the t-shirt up and off, clumsy with his bandaged fingers. Then he surged forward again, latching his lips onto Phil’s neck and dropping the shirt onto the floor at their feet.
“Clint.” There was so much warm skin, and Phil couldn’t keep his hands from wandering. From shoulders to arms to ribs to the back again, eventually he settled one hand just below Clint’s neck, and the other at the base of his spine, not daring to go lower but still feeling the rhythm of Clint’s hips. “Is this . . .”
“Happening?” Clint suggested, even though Phil himself wasn’t sure what he’d been meaning to say. “Yes.”
“In Stark’s kitchen,” he couldn’t help but point out, though it lacked his usual dry tone what with the hitched breath and noticeable rasp.
“S’our kitchen too,” Clint protested, and that was so beyond the point that Phil had to laugh.
That seemed to get Clint’s attention, because he kissed Phil yet again, biting down on Phil’s lower lip only to soothe it with his tongue a moment later. “More,” Phil breathed between kisses, and Clint responded by taking his hand off the counter and putting it under Phil’s thigh, lifting, supporting with his palm, urging Phil to wrap his leg around Clint. His hand was large and warm through Phil’s sweats, steady and firm despite the broken fingers.
“C’mon. C’mon, sir.”
“Not s-”
“Phil,” Clint amended. “C’mon, Phil.”
Phil wanted to lick the taste of his name from Clint’s mouth, but his body had other ideas. He shuddered and gasped and flew apart, Clint’s name tripping over his lips.
When he could think again, when he came down, he realized he was gripping Clint much too tightly, his fingers digging into skin and muscle. Clint was quiet against him, still, no longer rocking, every muscle tense, coiled and awaiting use.
“Don’t run,” Phil said, and hoped it didn’t edge towards pleading. “Clint. Don’t run away.”
“M’not.” His voice was slurred, and muffled in the skin of Phil’s neck. “Waiting.”
“For what?”
“You.”
Phil kept his right hand just above Clint’s ass, and moved his left up into his hair, stroking. “What do you want me to do?”
Clint lifted his head and kissed Phil, dirty and deep and groaning with it. His hips began to thrust once more, pushing forward again and again, rhythm lost now, and he let Phil’s leg go in favor of hauling him in even closer. “Want you to watch. See how real this is. M’not faking it. Not humoring you or indulging you. Not giving you a pity fuck. I want this. Want you. I just-”
Phil twisted his hand in Clint’s hair and pulled, bringing Clint’s head back, baring his throat. He put his lips to thin skin, he kissed and licked and sucked, and then he scraped his teeth over Clint’s pulse point. Clint grunted and stuttered over a breath, and Phil felt moisture and heat spread against his hip.
After a minute or two of heavy breathing and residual body twitches, Clint started to pull away. Phil let him move a few inches, but that was all. “No running,” he whispered.
Clint inhaled sharply, and then collapsed into Phil, wrapping his arms around him and holding on. “No running,” he agreed.
_________
Phil cut open the last box, carefully unwrapped all his picture frames, and diligently placed them along the top shelf of his bookcase. His mother’s antique clock was next, holding the place of honor in the middle.
“Here,” Clint said, handing him the item that Phil hadn’t packed, that had been awaiting transport in Phil’s briefcase rather than risk damage. In the end, none of the boxes had gone anywhere, rendering the gesture moot, but Phil had still saved the knickknack for last.
Phil kissed Clint in thanks, took the Captain America clothespin doll, and leaned it up against the clock, situating it perfectly. It was still ugly and inaccurate, and held no inherent value.
Now more than ever, it was Phil’s favorite possession.
~fin~
Author: desert_neon
Fandom: MCU, The Avengers
Summary: Phil has been invited to move into Stark Tower, and to take a position as the Avengers' liaison to SHIELD. He wants the job, but it comes with a very big personal downside. He'll have to confess his feelings to Clint, a man they both believe to be straight. Unrequited love always strains a friendship, and theirs is no exception. Clint's behavior certainly isn't helping the situation, and Phil may very well have to call an end to everything they've ever had together, breaking his heart in the process.
Rating: Hard R
Warnings: There is mention of Clint's childhood neglect and abuse. Nothing specific, but the implication is that his past has affected his relationship capabilities in the present. Please be aware of this in regards to your own well-being. If you'd like me to elaborate, please feel free to comment or contact me. My LJ and my Tumblr accounts are listed on my Ao3 profile page.
Word count:12,056
Notes: Takes place sometime in the nebulous future after Agents of SHIELD ends. Also, I have rated it Mature/Hard R. If anyone feels it needs a stronger rating, please feel free to drop me a line.
Link to Ao3: desert_neon at Ao3
Link to Part 1 on LJ: Part 1
Clint didn’t come to find him the next day. He didn’t seek Phil out the day after, either, nor at any point in the next week. After a month, Phil had to admit to himself that it wasn’t going to happen. Whatever revelations Clint may have been working towards in Paris, they’d obviously been induced by alcohol, and rooted in his abusive past. They’d also been false, his needs and fears driving him to offer something he didn’t actually want.
It was high time Phil came to terms with that. The small spark of hope that had, that night, been fanned into something larger (despite Phil’s attempts to talk himself down) died completely, and he was left with something heavy and cold in his chest.
He was just starting to get used to it, was learning to work with it and around it, when Clint suddenly started showing up for movie nights again. He’d make the popcorn, even, or hand out the sodas, sometimes trying to catch Phil’s eye and sometimes intentionally looking away. He wouldn’t deliberately switch equipment in the gym when Phil entered anymore either, instead just continuing on with his routine even if it put them in close proximity. He even challenged Phil to a shooting match once, a seventeen-round clip versus seventeen arrows.
Clint won, obviously. He didn’t gloat, though, just offered a shy kind of smile that Phil honestly didn’t know what to do with. He found himself wanting to smile back, but he tamped the impulse down, trying, for once, to protect himself. Instead, he offered a curt, “Well done, Barton,” and left the range.
“Coffee, sir?” Clint asked one morning, already reaching for an extra mug.
“I can get it, thank you, Barton.”
Clint visibly hesitated, but eventually nodded and stepped away after pouring his own mugful, leaving the space clear for Phil. Who fixed his own cup, then retreated to his office, skipping breakfast entirely.
“Hey, Coulson,” Clint said, swinging his upper body into Phil’s office a couple days later. “Me, Thor, and Bruce are getting Chinese for lunch. You want in?”
Phil’s mouth hardened into a tight line, and he forced himself to breathe before looking away from his computer. He wasn’t sure what Barton was playing at, if he was genuinely just trying to blow past what had happened, or if this was some kind of effort at sympathy that Phil couldn’t help but see as pity. “No thanks.”
“C’mon, boss. You have to eat, right?”
“I’m fine, Barton. I have to get this paperwork in order for Stark’s latest prototype. SHIELD wants it in production soon, and there’s a lot of red tape to cut through with the patent office.”
Clint straightened in the doorway, his hands hanging awkwardly at his sides. “Coulson.”
Phil cut him off, unable to deal with whatever he was going to say. The desolate lump behind his sternum had never weighed more, and he fixed Clint with his best unimpressed look. “I have work to do. It won’t be the first time I’ve skipped a meal.”
Clint clenched his hands into fists, gave a nod, and left.
It took Phil a good three minutes to look back to his screen, and another six before he was able to focus on the task in front of him.
Almost a week later, Phil entered the communal kitchen to find Natasha at the table sipping orange juice, and Clint cracking eggs into a bowl. It was early still, and he’d honestly thought the kitchen would be empty. If he’d been expecting anyone, it would have been Steve, who was up with the dawn most mornings. He hesitated for only one heartbeat, then moved to get a mug for his coffee.
“Morning, sir,” Clint said, bending to retrieve a pan from the cupboard. Phil kept his eyes averted, concentrating on pouring out his first hit of caffeine. “Want some scrambled eggs?”
Phil shook his head and added his usual amounts of cream and sugar. “No, thanks. I think I’ll just have some cereal.”
The clatter of the pan on the stove startled him, and he looked up to find Barton glaring at him. “It’s just fucking eggs, Coulson. I’m already making them for me and Nat, it isn’t going to kill me to add a couple more to the pan.”
Phil bristled. “Barton-”
“No. Enough. I’m trying, okay? It’s just breakfast, it’s not any kind of power play, it’s not fucking pity, or whatever the fuck you’re thinking. It’s just eggs. Eggs. So sit your ass down and have some breakfast. We’re doing this.”
When he risked a glance at Natasha, she raised a single eyebrow at him, and Phil sat. Clint was noisy as he cooked, slamming things around and scraping the spatula against the pan with extra force. Even the toaster seemed to be more violent than normal, popping loudly in the silence created by their lack of conversation.
His plate landed in front of him roughly and Clint slapped some silverware onto the table in a pile. Natasha calmly separated the knives and forks, handing Phil one of each without comment. Clint sat with a huff and they ate, silent and stiff, with only Natasha finding any amusement in the situation, her eyes flicking between them as if waiting to see who would break first.
It was Phil who finally gave in. He looked across the table at Clint, who sat with hunched shoulders and a wrinkle in his brow, who played with his fork and his eggs more than he actually ate. He looked at Clint, whom he still loved, and saw the anger for what it was: an attempt at hiding the pain and confusion. So Phil breathed deeply, consciously relaxed in his chair, and said, “Did you and Tony ever get the balance right on the snare net arrows?”
Clint’s gaze snapped up, landing on Phil’s own, and the brief flash of utter hope in the man’s eyes before he slid them away again made Phil glad he’d spoken. “Not yet,” he offered, his voice barely more than a mumble. “He’s supposed to work on them some more today, but you know how he gets.”
Phil nodded, and tried a small smile, hoping Clint would look at him. “Well. You’ll just have to show up and prod him along. I have no doubt you’ll be able to persuade him.”
Clint did look back to Phil then, and his own lips curled up just a touch. “It’s true. I can be very persuasive when I want to be. It’s called persistence.”
“Really?” Natasha asked, her voice skeptical. “I always thought it was called whining.”
“You’re a riot, Nat.”
“Not all by myself, though I have helped to incite a few in my time.”
Clint pointed his fork at her, almost a threat. “Funny girl.”
Phil couldn’t help but huff a laugh, and Clint rewarded him with a smile. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better.
_________
The first time it happened, Phil didn’t think anything of it. He’d offered to do the dishes after a team dinner, and Clint stayed to help. Phil started the water running, rinsing a few plates before putting them in the dishwasher. Clint, who was still clearing the table, approached with a stack of plates and silverware. He grinned at Phil, who smiled back and reached for the dishes. Clint handed them over, and their fingers brushed.
Phil put the plates in the sink, and continued on.
When Clint started humming, then quietly singing to himself, Phil grinned, refused to feel the goosebumps on his arms, and started on the pots and pans.
Clint began to pack the leftovers away. He passed by Phil on the way to the refrigerators, much closer than was necessary in the large kitchen. His arm brushed against Phil’s shoulder blade, and Phil scrubbed harder at the risotto stuck to the bottom of the pan.
Thor called for Clint from the living room, challenging him to a “mighty battle of the bowling,” and Clint went. Phil didn’t turn to watch him go, and when he finished just a few minutes later, he decided he needed to get caught up on some work in his office.
Bruce chose American Graffiti for movie night a few nights later, and everyone settled in around the couches and chairs. Clint huffed, then wormed his way between Phil and Natasha, despite the fact that there was plenty of room on Natasha’s other side. “Popcorn,” Clint said succinctly when Phil glanced at him with a raised eyebrow, then reached into the bowl on Phil’s lap and grabbed a handful.
Phil said nothing. And when Clint got up for another drink before they started The NeverEnding Story (Thor’s pick), bracing himself with a hand on Phil’s thigh, Phil very carefully kept his expression neutral and his gaze straight ahead. He didn’t dare risk looking in either Natasha’s or Tony’s direction.
He didn’t see Clint for two days after that. He honestly didn’t know if it was actual avoidance on the part of the younger man, or if they were both just genuinely busy. He didn’t know how to ask when, on the third day, Clint showed up in Phil’s office, threw himself onto the couch, and tore through a backlog of paperwork. Phil still hadn’t figured out a good way to phrase the question by the time Clint left with a jaunty salute and casual, “See you, boss.”
So. He’d probably just been busy then. Phil was simply reading too much into things, looking for reasons to hope. And, really, he knew better.
“Coulson, good,” Natasha said as she offered Clint a hand up from the mat. “Come spar. I have to meet Pepper in forty minutes, and Clint needs the practice.”
“Hey!”
Phil hesitated for just a fraction of a second, but he knew full well they both saw it. So he stepped forward before Clint could take it personally. Even if he hadn’t been flirting with Phil, he’d obviously been trying to restore their previous equilibrium, and get them back on solid footing. It was up to Phil now to do the same. “Anything giving you trouble in particular, Barton?” he asked with a flippant smirk.
“Fuck you, sir,” Clint replied cheerfully. “I’ll have you know I’m in fine form.”
Phil bit back his response and stepped onto the mat. Natasha nodded in approval, said, “Have fun, boys,” and left.
Clint grinned and shifted his weight on the balls of his feet right away. Phil didn’t even have time to feel awkward as he suddenly worked to block fists and feet, then went on the offensive, bringing a knee into Clint’s stomach forcefully, and an elbow into his lower back.
With a grunt, Clint twisted away and dropped into a roll, smoothly getting back to his feet once he was further away from Phil. They circled each other for a bit, assessing and plotting, and when Clint feinted to the left, Phil was ready for him. They both went down, but they both bounced up again just as quickly. Clint then managed to get Phil into a headlock, which Phil escaped by flipping Clint over his shoulder.
They went back and forth for a while, Clint’s strength advantage neutralized by Phil’s gift for strategy. Eventually, though, Clint brought Phil down with a sweep of the leg and a knee to his sternum. Phil landed on his back with a whuff, momentarily stunned. Clint pinned him immediately, covering Phil’s body with his own, and Phil slapped his hand to the mat twice, unwilling to stay in that position any longer than necessary.
Clint shifted against him, but otherwise didn’t move. He was warm and solid, and Phil tapped out again in an effort to keep from running his hands up Clint’s arms. He could feel Clint’s chest rising and falling, pressing down on his own with every intake of breath. Phil’s own chest was tight, the cold ball of dead hope suddenly flaring back to life as Clint licked his lips and the muscles in his arms shifted.
But instead of ducking his head and moving closer, Clint pushed up and off suddenly, scrambling to his feet. “Point to me, huh, sir?” he said, his eyes on the floor.
Phil stood slowly, trying not to let any of his conflicting emotions show in his expression. He was pretty sure his anger was evident though, especially in his voice when he spoke. “Is it a game then, Clint?”
“No!” Clint’s eyes flew to his, but just as quickly slid away again. “No, sir.”
Sir. Pushing down the physical manifestation of despair in his throat, Phil nodded. He didn’t know what Clint was doing or why he was doing it, but he refused to remain in a position where it could keep happening. “Well. When you figure out what it is, you let me know. Until then . . .” He didn’t finish the thought. Asking Clint to stay away from him was a step he’d never imagined he would have to take. A step he’d never wanted to take.
Clint bobbed his lowered head in agreement anyway. He must have understood the unspoken request, because he left the gym without another word.
The next day, Clint was assigned to a team on its way to Moldova. The mission was estimated to last nine weeks, according to Hill, and Clint had requested it specifically.
Phil took the file from her, signed off on the placement, and handed it back. Business as usual.
_________
Clint returned after three and a half weeks. He had two cracked ribs, two broken fingers on his right hand, one on his left, multiple lacerations all over his body, and a concussion. He’d been patched up in Odessa, flown home to New York, and was currently waiting for the doctors at HQ to release him.
He’d jumped off a building.
Phil was livid.
Granted, Clint had used a grappling arrow, but it had still been a sixteen story drop before he’d crashed through a window on the second floor. His bow had caught on the edge of the window frame - the sudden change in momentum had snapped several bones in his fingers - and he’d landed hard, crashing into a sturdy, industrial table. He’d heal, and his hands would be fine with some therapy, but that wasn’t the point.
“You promised me, Barton,” Phil said, his voice hard and stern, not quite a shout. “No more jumping off buildings.”
“I had a line. It was fine. I’m fine.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Clint! You promised.”
“You can’t hold me to that,” Clint retorted, his own voice rising in volume. “I was drunk. You can’t hold me to anything I said or did that night. Anyway,” Clint added, apparently not having noticed how still Phil had become, “what the hell are you yelling at me for? I did my damn job, Coulson. It’s in the report.”
“I don’t care about the report,” Phil countered, so angry and hurt he could hardly string the words together. “I care that you’re injured. Again.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not my problem, is it?” Clint asked, his tone snide. “Any other agent and that’s all you’d fucking care about. The report and the job. You want to talk promises, boss? How about your promise to keep things professional? That certain ‘attachments’ wouldn’t interfere with work? What about when you said you didn’t expect anything from me? Because I gotta tell you, that’s not how it feels sometimes.”
Setting aside the implication that Phil only cared about mission objectives, and not about the agents attempting to achieve them (which stung, because Clint knew better than that. Knew Phil better than that), Phil snapped back. “Maybe I wouldn’t expect things if you didn’t do things sometimes. If you’d keep your goddamn hands to yourself!”
“So file a fucking complaint, sir. Sexual harassment. Just so we’re on the same page. So there’s paperwork and an official file, and it’s all professional. Better yet, get the fuck over it. Six years? Isn’t that a little pathetic?”
With a deep breath of shock, Phil reeled back, his spine stiffening. But you said, he wanted to shout. You asked me not to stop! Instead he stood there, breathing heavily and desperately trying to keep himself together. Barton wasn’t looking at him, was staring at the muted television just behind him, but Phil couldn’t look anywhere else. This was it, he knew. This was the end of their friendship, the end of their partnership.
He never should have said a word. He should have stayed out of Stark Tower and away from the Avengers. At least then he’d still have his friend.
“You’re right,” he said at length, working hard to keep his voice steady and calm. “I’m not being professional. Thank you for the reminder, Barton. Believe me, it won’t be a problem again.” He turned on his heel and left, careful to keep his back straight and chin parallel to the ground, careful not to slam the door in a display of emotion.
“Agent Coulson?”
Phil wasn’t surprised to see Steve and Natasha approaching from the elevators, and he wasn’t surprised that Natasha seemed to instantly know something was wrong. “Is he okay?” she asked as Phil met them halfway.
“He’s fine. In rare form, actually. He’ll need therapy on his hands, but everything else just needs time.” He could feel each deep, deliberate breath he took, striving for poise. He switched his focus to Steve and, in his best professional voice, said, “Captain, I’m glad you’re here. As team leader, I should tell you that I plan to file a request for a new position with Director Fury today. I don’t anticipate it being denied, but if it is, I’ll hand in my resignation instead.”
“Your resig- Why?”
“I believe it isn’t in the best interest of the team, nor some of its members, for me to remain on as liaison. Naturally, I will give you time to find someone new for the position. Three weeks, I think, should be adequate. I’ll compile a list of agents with the proper clearance level and skill set, and put my personal recommendations at the top. You’ll want to interview them, of course, and perhaps run through a training scenario with a few before making a final decision.”
“Coulson,” Natasha said, but he didn’t pause.
“I’ll have the list for you by the end of business today, as well as my official notice of resignation as liaison to the Avengers. I understand that this means I’ll have to vacate the apartment afforded me by the position, but rest assured I’ll be out of the tower by the final day of my post.”
“Phil,” Steve tried, and Phil shook his head.
“Believe me, Captain, this is for the best. For everyone.” He maneuvered past them, heading for the safety of the elevators. Steve said his name again, but he ignored it, as well as Natasha’s quiet voice telling Steve to see to Clint. When footsteps hurried in his direction, quiet but deliberate, he lengthened his stride in an effort to escape.
“Coulson. What did he do?”
He whirled to face Natasha. “Besides leap off a building?” he asked, trying for caustic and knowing he’d fallen short.
“He always leaps off buildings. What did he do to you?”
“Leave it, Natasha.”
“Phil.” It was perhaps the second time in eight years she’d addressed him by his first name, and it immediately set him on edge.
“It isn’t your concern, Agent Romanoff,” he snapped.
She was too good to react to his tone. She merely looked him over for a long moment, then nodded. “It isn’t,” she agreed coolly. “Though as your friend I feel compelled to remind you that Clint often lashes out when he’s hurt or confused.”
“Then maybe he should stop jumping off buildings.”
The look she turned on him was as disdainful as any he’d ever seen. “Don’t feign stupidity, Coulson. It doesn’t suit you.” With that, she walked away, heading back towards Clint’s temporary room.
Phil managed to pull himself together enough to make it to the elevators with his usual calm facade. Once he’d pressed the button and the doors closed, however, he gave in to a moment of weakness and leaned forward against the wall, his forearm braced above the panel of buttons, his head resting heavily on his clenched fist. He allowed himself a few deep breaths in that position, then straightened, smoothing out his suit jacket and tugging on the cuffs of his sleeves. He had work to do.
_________
Phil was exhausted. And starving. It was nearly two in the morning, and he hadn’t eaten since lunch. He simply had too much to do to worry about things like sleeping and eating. The official handover to Agent Mangat of the liaison position was due to happen in three days, and Phil was running on empty. Between finding a new apartment, packing up his suite at the tower, and preparing all involved parties for the shift, he was completely spent.
His own kitchen being devoid of any real food (and most of the pans to cook it in), he was in the shared kitchen, having been assured by JARVIS that certain people were not up and about, roaming the communal spaces. He’d thought about taking the leftovers he’d heated back to his apartment, but then he’d just have to bring the dishes back, so instead he was trying to relax, sitting with his pasta and beer and going over his handwritten notes in the protocol book. He had every intention of leaving it behind for Agent Mangat, who would surely find it useful.
He only realized his mistake in not asking JARVIS to monitor movement on the floor when footsteps sounded through the living area, and then Clint stepped into the kitchen. The younger man looked tired, as if he hadn’t been able to sleep. Given that he was in pajama pants and a t-shirt, and was sporting a pretty ridiculous bed-head, Phil was pretty sure the assessment was accurate.
Phil stood, even as Clint hesitated. They eyed each other warily for a moment, and then Phil broke the stalemate by moving to the sink. He dumped the rest of his food in the trash, appetite suddenly gone, and rinsed his plate. He fully expected Clint to leave, as the archer had been doing every time they’d been within sight of each other these past few weeks. The noise of the water would surely cover his retreat, and Phil spent a few extra seconds with the scrub brush to give Clint time to do so.
But when he turned around, Clint was still in the same spot, just inside the kitchen, playing with the drawstring on his pants. Phil slowly put his plate and silverware in the dishwasher, then straightened, crossing his arms over his chest. “Is there something you want, Barton?”
Clint visibly took a breath, and his eyes darted up to meet Phil’s before sliding away again. “You stopped, didn’t you?” he asked quietly. The non-bandaged fingers of his left hand fiddled with the drawstring, then moved to catch the waistband low on his hip, snapping it up and into place. Phil conscientiously kept his eyes on Clint’s face. “I made you stop.”
Phil was done. He’d had enough of the back and forth, the bullshit, the fucking tug of war Barton was playing with his heart. “You can’t have it both ways,” he snarled. “You don’t get to tell me to stop, and then be disappointed when I do. You don’t get to flirt with me one minute, and push me away the next - you don’t get to call me pathetic - and then hope that nothing’s changed. You certainly don’t get to dictate my emotions. Not anymore.”
Clint’s lips pressed together and he gave a sort of half nod. “I knew you’d figure it out eventually. That I’m not worth . . .” He trailed off with a shrug, and Phil’s arms dropped back down to his sides, his chest tightening around a breath that couldn’t escape.
And fucking fuck fuck. There he went, losing so much of his anger just because Clint’s issues decided to come out to play. Rather than address them directly, however, Phil admitted, “I haven’t stopped, Clint. You pushed me away, so I’m going. I’m giving you what you want and trying to protect myself at the same time. This was a mistake. Living here, telling you how I felt . . . It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have done any of it, and I’m sorry.”
“You-” Clint bit his lip and shook his head more vehemently, clearly trying to get some point across. He didn’t say anything else, but he moved, quickly striding across the kitchen to stand in front of Phil. He hesitated a moment, his tongue darting out to run over his bottom lip, and Phil tensed at the gesture.
“Clint, don’t. Please don’t do this again. I’m trying to-”
Phil didn’t get to finish his sentence, because Clint kissed him. His mouth was warm and perfect, insistent against Phil’s own. He found himself opening up to it, letting Clint coax his lips apart, letting him press him back against the counter, letting him align their bodies until Phil had no choice but to bring his hands up to grip at Clint’s biceps for balance.
“It wasn’t a mistake,” Clint said eventually, his lips still brushing Phil’s. “Don’t be sorry. It was brave and it was . . .” Clint kissed him again, and this time his tongue swept along Phil’s bottom lip, instead of his own. “Don’t be sorry.”
Phil groaned. He heard himself groan, and he knew it was too much and too fast, too willfully ignorant. He was blatantly ignoring all his doubts, all the questions he had about what Clint really wanted, what Clint was doing. But he couldn’t bring himself to care. In this moment, with Clint tasting him and touching him and crowding him, Phil did not care about motives at all.
His hands slid up to Clint’s shoulders, then over and down to his back, exploring the hard muscles hidden beneath skin and cotton. Clint’s own hands were on the counter behind Phil, causing Clint to lean in, push in close, and then he shifted his stance and lifted one hand to Phil’s lower back, encouraging Phil to arch forward, and Phil gasped into Clint’s mouth at the sudden sensation of a hard, full cock pressing against his own.
Clint’s hips rocked while Phil simply kept his pressed forward, spurred on by the hand that had slipped from his back to his ass. Phil felt dizzy, in the best possible way, and he tore his mouth away from Clint’s just to get some oxygen into his lungs. He figured he might as well use the break to his advantage, and his fingers scrabbled at the cloth underneath them, bunching the fabric up in desperation. Clint seemed to get the hint, and pulled away just long enough to strip the t-shirt up and off, clumsy with his bandaged fingers. Then he surged forward again, latching his lips onto Phil’s neck and dropping the shirt onto the floor at their feet.
“Clint.” There was so much warm skin, and Phil couldn’t keep his hands from wandering. From shoulders to arms to ribs to the back again, eventually he settled one hand just below Clint’s neck, and the other at the base of his spine, not daring to go lower but still feeling the rhythm of Clint’s hips. “Is this . . .”
“Happening?” Clint suggested, even though Phil himself wasn’t sure what he’d been meaning to say. “Yes.”
“In Stark’s kitchen,” he couldn’t help but point out, though it lacked his usual dry tone what with the hitched breath and noticeable rasp.
“S’our kitchen too,” Clint protested, and that was so beyond the point that Phil had to laugh.
That seemed to get Clint’s attention, because he kissed Phil yet again, biting down on Phil’s lower lip only to soothe it with his tongue a moment later. “More,” Phil breathed between kisses, and Clint responded by taking his hand off the counter and putting it under Phil’s thigh, lifting, supporting with his palm, urging Phil to wrap his leg around Clint. His hand was large and warm through Phil’s sweats, steady and firm despite the broken fingers.
“C’mon. C’mon, sir.”
“Not s-”
“Phil,” Clint amended. “C’mon, Phil.”
Phil wanted to lick the taste of his name from Clint’s mouth, but his body had other ideas. He shuddered and gasped and flew apart, Clint’s name tripping over his lips.
When he could think again, when he came down, he realized he was gripping Clint much too tightly, his fingers digging into skin and muscle. Clint was quiet against him, still, no longer rocking, every muscle tense, coiled and awaiting use.
“Don’t run,” Phil said, and hoped it didn’t edge towards pleading. “Clint. Don’t run away.”
“M’not.” His voice was slurred, and muffled in the skin of Phil’s neck. “Waiting.”
“For what?”
“You.”
Phil kept his right hand just above Clint’s ass, and moved his left up into his hair, stroking. “What do you want me to do?”
Clint lifted his head and kissed Phil, dirty and deep and groaning with it. His hips began to thrust once more, pushing forward again and again, rhythm lost now, and he let Phil’s leg go in favor of hauling him in even closer. “Want you to watch. See how real this is. M’not faking it. Not humoring you or indulging you. Not giving you a pity fuck. I want this. Want you. I just-”
Phil twisted his hand in Clint’s hair and pulled, bringing Clint’s head back, baring his throat. He put his lips to thin skin, he kissed and licked and sucked, and then he scraped his teeth over Clint’s pulse point. Clint grunted and stuttered over a breath, and Phil felt moisture and heat spread against his hip.
After a minute or two of heavy breathing and residual body twitches, Clint started to pull away. Phil let him move a few inches, but that was all. “No running,” he whispered.
Clint inhaled sharply, and then collapsed into Phil, wrapping his arms around him and holding on. “No running,” he agreed.
_________
Phil cut open the last box, carefully unwrapped all his picture frames, and diligently placed them along the top shelf of his bookcase. His mother’s antique clock was next, holding the place of honor in the middle.
“Here,” Clint said, handing him the item that Phil hadn’t packed, that had been awaiting transport in Phil’s briefcase rather than risk damage. In the end, none of the boxes had gone anywhere, rendering the gesture moot, but Phil had still saved the knickknack for last.
Phil kissed Clint in thanks, took the Captain America clothespin doll, and leaned it up against the clock, situating it perfectly. It was still ugly and inaccurate, and held no inherent value.
Now more than ever, it was Phil’s favorite possession.
~fin~