Fic Time! Flaws 1/1 - Part 1
So, I posted a lovely selection of prompts on Twitter, and this was one of the ones that seemed to interest an awful lot of people. Combine that with some insomnia and nothing better to do, and you get this! What initially started out as a porny d/s oneshot, kind of grew into this little beast. I regret nothing. Hope you all enjoy! :)
Title: Flaws 1/1
Pairing: Established Clint/Coulson
Fandom: The Avengers
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 18,502
Warnings: D/S, Dom!Phil, Sub!Clint, breathplay, blood, rough sex, consensual violence, fluff kinda thrown in there, but it's all good!
Summary: There are flaws in perfection. Flaws in appearances. Flaws in control. Every single one of Phil's flaws revolve around the insubordinate archer he can't seem to live without. Phil, however, wouldn't change a thing...
Phil was a creature of impeccable routine.
Many of the Agents around the helicarrier laughed off his overly precise ways and little distinctive habits as things that happened when you were stuck with SHIELD for as long as Phil had been, but Phil didn't mind that. Phil didn't mind the stories and legends that were borne out of his ironclad control and sophisticated style either. More than once, he'd seen the Juniors tripping over their own feet in an attempt to avoid the Agent; very few dared to breathe a word against Phil for fear of repercussions that could be made to look like accidents or improbable feats of God.
Even fewer people in SHIELD could find a single bad word to say against Phil, purely because there was, on face value to those Agents who worked with him in a professional manner only, zero flaws that could be seen in the Senior Field Agent in Charge. His contingency plans had contingency plans. He was always calm and authoritative, seemingly ten steps ahead of everything else going on in the situation surrounding him at the time. He never left a single Agent behind in the field, even if it came at the expense of personal injury. His brain worked in such incredible ways, logical yet willing to jump from the box in leaps and bounds; it was no surprise that the idea of him being an android or one of Stark's robots had come about after a mission where Phil had managed to defy every odd and challenge, taking down an entire ammunitions cartel near singlehandedly with a broken ankle and zero fatalities in an area that Fury himself had deemed "hell on earth."
Phil was a man who commanded respect. Phil liked respect. He liked respect almost as much as he liked the comfort and familiarities of the routines established around him.
Above all else though, he craved control.
Medical had remarked on multiple occasions that Phil was practically obsessive-compulsive with the quirks and actions that helped to define the man for who and what he was. It was the control he had in the field that commanded the respect of every other Agent in SHIELD. It was Phil's instincts and reactions in apparently uncontrollable situations, the inbred routines and dynamics he could access within his own mental data banks in a split second to completely reassess and re-evaluate the scenario and the mission with a snap of his fingers, that made Phil almost untouchable.
Phil revelled in it.
Routine. Respect. Control. Those may have been things that helped to identify him within the otherwise chaotic world that existed, but it was the feeling of having earned every single one of those things, having clawed his way into that position of equal amounts of awe, admiration and fear, that Phil basked in the most.
Many of the Senior Agents had believed that throwing Clint Barton to Phil's legendary hand was going to destroy half of SHIELD in the process. A very small, naïve, overly optimistic group of individuals thought that Phil would be able to influence Clint to the point of being able to mould the wayward, reckless, insubordinate archer into his own image of control and efficiency. Almost every level 7 Agent, and the vast majority of those who seemed to have even a faint idea of who and what Clint Barton was capable of, was convinced that Phil was either going to end up killing Clint, or that Phil was going to be driven to the point of insanity trying to tame the one who'd been dubbed the untameable.
Agents quickly learnt never to doubt Phillip Coulson.
It may have been an incredibly painful and slow process, hampered by Clint's own inability to trust or listen to authority and Phil's initial lack of understanding about how on earth to approach such an unorthodox, misunderstood man, but it had happened to the disbelief of everyone.
Phil had managed to tame the untameable in spectacular fashion. Clint had ended up with less than a quarter of the usual number of disciplinary strikes and suspensions that had stained his ledger. Clint was gradually being trusted in the field not to do anything reckless or unbelievably stupid for most missions, and the archer was learning to obey the orders of the organisation that had saved him from the street and given him a life.
Somewhere along the way, Phil had become very close friends with Clint. They had their own personal in jokes and style of communication that left most other Agents at SHIELD base completely baffled. Clint could quite often be found in Phil's office eating whatever food he'd managed to snatch from the canteen, talking and laughing over missions, bad coffee, and bonding experiences they'd both gone through together.
Almost simultaneously, the gossip reel amongst the Junior Agents had gone into overdrive. Phil had managed to brainwash Clint and indoctrinate him into whatever secret group Phil was part of. Phil had had Clint replaced with a robot after taking him down with one of his own arrows. Clint was completely, head over heels, in love and lust for Phil and Phil was using that to manipulate Clint into being good, blackmailing Clint with his own infamous libido.
Phil had smiled that small, hidden smile when he'd first heard the rumours. Sitwell and Hill had almost encouraged Phil to play along with the idea of Clint and himself being in some kind of fucked up, power-driven sex orgy just to keep them lined in entertainment and humour during particularly long or depressing missions.
Phil had smiled quietly then too, drinking a measured sip of his coffee as Sitwell and Hill continued their conversation, his superficially tight and pinched grin taking on a wicked, hidden undertone as he launched into their review of the new recruits with gusto.
After all, it wouldn't pay for them to know that even the infamous, legendary Phil Coulson was capable of some flaws in control himself.
~x~
The slight scratching of Phil's fountain pen as he filled in yet another assignment report was the only indication that his control was beginning to be tested.
In all outward appearances, Phil was as impeccable as usual. His suit was perfectly pressed, his tie perfectly looped into a windsor knot, his cufflinks sitting at perfect angles from each other at his wrist as he continued checking the forms in front of him. His piles of paperwork were sitting in perfectly ordered triplicate groups - based on the security clearance of the mission, objectives, success rate, concluding aims, individuals involved, contingencies in place, involvement of outside government organisations, and other detailed factors that Phil liked to analyse for patterns and trends - in neat stacks on the corners of his desk. His spare pen was sitting at a perfect ninety degree angle from the chipped, well used coffee cup - the only visible sign of imperfection that seemed to ever marr any of Phil's routines, even if the coffee was a routine in and of itself that would symbolise Phil's descent into madness if it wasn't there anyway. Even the clock was perfectly in sync with the Rolex watch around his wrist.
On the outside, everything was perfect.
But Phil knew it wasn't.
His control was very gradually starting to slip away from him, his heart beat thrumming every so slightly in anticipation of what he knew was going to happen when that control was eventually completely broken, and the frisson of heat that pooled low in Phil's stomach at even the mere thought of it was enough to make him readjust his belt before he started the next form.
The anticipation was the sweetest of tortures, but it was barely a ripple compared to what Phil knew he was going to experience by the end of the night.
A brief flare of guilt burnt brightly, making Phil's heart clench in his chest for a moment as he pressed down even harder on his pen. Clint had protested and whined so much when he'd been given the mission, his eyes blazing with anger and upset as he tried to plead his case with Phil. Phil, to his credit, hadn't been immune to Clint's ill feelings on the situation. If it wasn't for the fact that they were in Phil's office, waiting for Sitwell and another Agent to arrive regarding the mission assignment, then Phil would've let Clint know exactly how he felt, but his professionalism had won out.
Clint was being sent out on what was essentially a milk run, one that was almost insultingly easy considering Clint's status and rank, and with some wet behind the ears Agent who was essentially fulfilling Phil's role in the field. Despite how highly both Clint and he ranked in the organisation, and the fact that it was never really necessary to send out two Senior Agents on routine missions, it was exceedingly rare that Phil was not Clint's handler and Agent in charge during the archers assignments.
It was generally accepted that where one went, the other was right beside them, but this was one of those times that was going to end up being an exception to the rule. It didn't help either that Clint was caught in an almost impossible position. Since the aftermath of New York, Clint's assignments had been incredibly thin on the ground; it wasn't that Fury or Phil didn't trust him - they both knew that Clint was more than capable of doing his job to his pre-Loki standards with ease - it was that nobody at SHIELD outside of a very tiny minority trusted Clint. With barely anybody willing to give Clint a chance or wanting to work with him, his missions were majorly restricted, which meant that if he wanted to be able to carry on providing for himself, he had no choice but to take whatever SHIELD threw at him.
Unfortunately, this was one of those times when SHIELD had firmly decided to screw Clint over.
Phil knew about the mission, and he knew about the possibility of them allowing newly promoted Seniors the chance to actually lead out in the field and gain some sorely needed experience; he'd just hoped that Clint would be able to understand.
Apparently, his horrifically insubordinate archer still had one or two things that managed to throw Phil for a loop.
Clint had screamed until red in the face. He'd paced Phil's office like a caged animal, tension painfully visible in his rigid muscles. He'd taken to sulking and empty threats that Phil knew - or at least hoped - Clint would never really carry out. It was like watching a child throwing a tantrum, and Phil had just breathed in deep, trying to project a soothing, understanding tone in his words that would get Clint to calm down.
It had worked. Kind of. Clint had stopped pacing at least, even if he didn't look any less agitated than before. His eyes had locked on Phil's, and Phil could read the fear and anxiety that coloured Clint's actions so devastatingly easy that it made a lump appear in his throat. Clint looked almost as if he was losing control of everything. Phil's hand twitched from its place on his desk; it was nearly impossible to resist Clint when he was like this, silently begging Phil to give him back the routine familiarity that he so desperately needed.
Clint's knees were trembling, his face open and exposing the gamut of emotions that Phil knew more intimately than he sometimes cared to admit, and Phil's control had very nearly crumbled. Watching the door in the periphery of his vision, he'd let his moment of weakness take over as he ghosted his fingers softly up Clint's bare arm.
"Sir, please," Clint whispered, biting down on his bottom lip as he hung his head low, and Phil knew that all he had to do was say the word, and Clint would be down on his knees, ready and waiting to accept whatever Phil decided he wanted to do to him.
Having that much power over the archer sometimes was enough to make him see stars.
Before Phil had been able to do anything, the swift knocking and opening of his office door had broken the connection. Clint had taken a few steps back, his shoulders straightening as he instantly shrugged off the submissive pose he had instinctively taken in Phil's presence, and Phil leaned back into his chair as Sitwell came in.
It was startling to see the change in Clint at the appearance of the relatively unknown Senior Agent standing a few steps behind Sitwell. Clint's body language had suddenly become aggressively stand-offish, on guard and distrustful, and Phil had felt the heat surge low in his gut. Clint possessed such raw power, such strength, and to know that Phil was the only person in the world capable of controlling a beast like Clint was absolutely intoxicating.
Taking a deep breath, Phil had stood, extending his hand out towards the Agent who had finally worked up the courage to step into Phil's office.
"Agent Weir, yes?" Phil shook the young man's hand, and Sitwell laughed when he visibly struggled to speak, settling instead for nodding his head nervously as he eyed up Clint.
"Don't worry about Barton," Sitwell smirked at the clearly tense Agent, amusement underlining his words as Phil and he shared a look of understanding. "He's an absolutely pussy cat, isn't he Coulson?"
Clint glared, his tone mockingly respectful. "Get bent, Sir."
Phil had rolled his eyes, one of his hands coming up to rest on the juncture of Clint's shoulder as he talked over the mission with Sitwell and Weir. Only half of his mind was on the current task though; his fingertips were skating over the slither of skin exposed by Clint's field gear, vividly remembering the sounds that fell from the archers beautifully dirty mouth whenever Phil sucked or kissed or bit that sensitive flesh, and he could see the way that Clint's hands were clenching behind his back as he struggled not to react to Phil's gentle ministrations.
Phil had smiled briefly when Clint managed to refrain from moving obviously into his touch, barely twisting his shoulder so that he could feel more of Phil's caresses against his skin to the obliviousness of the other two Agents in the room.
Times like this, it was good to know that Clint had learnt at least a little bit of control.
As the conversation had wound down and it begun nearing the time for Clint and Weir to dispatch to their mission location, Clint was practically wound up as tight as a spring, even despite Phil's subtle attempts at getting the archer to relax. As Sitwell and Weir had left, telling Clint to meet them up on the flight deck in 15 minutes, the door had barely closed before Clint's hands had reached out to grab Phil's hips, pulling him in close to his body as he leaned in for a kiss.
Phil had pulled his head back, keeping enough distance between the two of them as he raised his eyebrow to make sure that Clint knew he wasn't going to play this game. Clint tried again, ducking his head in more insistently as he ground himself against Phil's thigh, but before he could get any closer, the hand that had been on Clint's shoulder was wrapped around his throat, Phil's free hand reaching down to cup the front of Clint's pants with a squeeze.
Clint had whimpered so desperately, his eyes blown with need and frustration that Phil very nearly felt his control unravel, but he managed to keep it contained as he raised his eyebrow at the archer before him. Clint's eyes slipped shut, but a sharp squeeze from both of Phil's hands had his eyes shooting back open as he gave a gasp, biting down on his bottom lip as Phil let his fingers trace the outline of the erection that he could feel swelling in his grip.
"Now now, Barton, that was uncalled for."
Phil's tone had been a little bit deeper, a little bit more gravelly than usual; it was the tone that he usually used in more private surroundings, the tone that gave orders that expected to be obeyed, the tone that usually made the normally insubordinate archer fall apart under his touch. Phil knew that Clint was a slave to that calm, honeyed voice, and it appeared this time was no different.
"I'm sorry, Sir," Clint had instantly responded, his words slightly strained and cracked from the firm grip of Phil's hand around his neck and the emotional weight behind them.
"I know you are, Barton," Phil had soothed back just as quickly, letting his fingers loosen to become a teasingly light caress. Clint, to his credit, didn't move again; he stood statue still, his hands behind his back as he continued looking straight into Phil's eyes. "But you know what the rules are, don't you?"
"Yes, Sir."
Phil hummed noncommitally as he dug his nails into the pulse that he could see throbbing on the side of Clint's neck. Clint had gasped, an utterly wrecked sound that was doing indescribable things to Phil's brain, and Phil had briefly closed his eyes as he tried to keep a tight leash on his control.
"And what are those rules, Barton?"
"Not to touch unless I have permission to touch, Sir."
"Good," Phil had smiled back, seeing the way that Clint had started to relax despite the hands still lingering around his throat and his groin. This was the type of control that Clint needed, the firmly defined rules and boundaries, and the way Clint had seemed almost to glow at the positive acknowledgement was enough to let Phil indulge him with a soft stroke of his fingers across the length of Clint's rapidly hardening erection.
"I'm going to let you off this one time, Barton, because I know that you're better behaved than this when you're not upset about a mission. However," Phil's voice dropped as he squeezed hard around Clint's cock, the archer giving a breathy gasp as he tried desperately to keep his eyes on Phil's despite the growing pressure around his erection. "Don't think I'm going to let you get away with such blatant disrespect again."
"No, Sir, of course not."
Phil had smiled again, pulling his hands away from Clint and running his eyes deliberately down the length of the archer's body. Clint had blushed slightly under the inspection, the outline of his cock now quite prominent against the inside of his field pants as he took a deep breath, and Phil had been unable to deny himself a quick moment of self-indulgence as he pulled Clint into the kiss he'd been searching for mere minutes before.
It had been needy and frantic and oh so sinful, Phil's tongue plundering Clint's mouth, his hands framing Clint's face as Clint ground his hips hard and fast against Phil's, but before Clint could reach the brink, Phil had suddenly pulled back. A smirk crossed his face at the state of his asset; his lips were swollen, his skin flushed and beginning to bead with sweat, his hair messy, and as Clint's hips had thrust into mid-air, the whine he failed to contain almost made Phil laugh. This time though, Clint had known better than to reach out for his handler again, and as the realisation had crossed Clint's face about the situation he now found himself in, Phil could see the frustrated irritation painted in the archers eyes.
"If I'm right, Barton, then you might be able to afford yourself five minutes of personal time before you're needed on the flight deck. If you manage to control yourself during this assignment, and I think that you've satisfactorily learnt some respect, then I will be able to afford you much more than five minutes when you come back."
The lusty hint of promise in Phil's voice was enough to have Clint almost shaking with restrained desire as the archer had set about grabbing everything he needed.
"Yes, Sir!" Clint answered enthusiastically, and Phil had almost thought his heart was going to burst out his chest at the swell of affection he felt for the younger man as Clint left.
It was a delicate line he had to walk with Clint. For someone with such inherently strong trust and self esteem issues to be willing to subject themselves to the control of someone else, it was something that Phil never dared to take lightly.
As much as it was about control when it came to Clint, Phil knew that there was so many more things powering that trust and affection and mindless submission to his words and his body, and Phil was loathed to take any of that for granted. It had taken him long enough to get it, and the knowledge that it could take mere seconds to shatter that fragile relationship was enough to make him careful.
Phil had taken a few deep breaths, making himself yet another cup of coffee before he'd settled back down in his seat to confront the pile of paperwork that he had acquired over the course of the last couple of days and missions.
That had been nearly eight hours before, and Phil was steadily losing his mind as he heard the nib of his fountain pen snap from the pressure he'd been placing on it, a little dot of blue ink and the imperfection it caused on his form reflecting the control Phil could feel breaking inside him.
The thoughts of what he was going to do to Clint when he came back from the mission were enough to make his mouth start involuntarily watering, his fingers itching with the desire to touch Clint's smooth, soft flesh and wrestle those beautifully debauched sounds from the archers lips. It was having the archer so pliant, so perfect beneath his hand that wrecked any semblance of control Phil thought he had.
Clenching his fingers into a tight fist as he counted to five in his head, Phil could feel the heat and arousal in his stomach kick up a notch as he drained the luke-warm cup of coffee sitting next to him, feeling the caffeine calm his nerves.
If it wasn't for the fact that Phil was at work, he'd almost have been slightly tempted to lock his door for a little while and bring himself off so that he could finally think clearly again. It certainly would've helped his lack of concentration that images of Clint in compromising positions was helping to destroy, but he decided against it.
Half of the fun was maintaining every ounce of his control whilst breaking Clint down. Some of the enjoyment and satisfaction for Phil came from keeping a lid on his own lust and arousal until he'd made sure that Clint was taken care of. Anticipation really was one of the sweetest tortures of the experience, and Phil cracked a smile; this was one time when he really felt that the anticipation was more than worth bearing.
Despite the self-indulgent thoughts though, Phil knew that everything he did, he did for Clint; his enjoyment was only a secondary objective.
It had taken nearly 18 months of an uneasy alliance and tentative truce between them before Clint found himself able to tell Phil anything personal about his past. Control was a scarce, precious thing in the sort of environments Clint grew up in; it wasn't a luxury or a privilege Clint could become accustomed to when he was younger. Respect was most certainly something that the archer experienced very little of either.
Control had always been a weapon used against the archer, respect used at face value as a justification for the torrent of pain and abuse that marked Clint's records. The only routine Clint had been able to rely on was trusting his own instincts enough to be able to stay alive, to ensure that whatever happened to him would be over as fast and painless as possible.
Clint was terrified of control, but it was the one thing that the archer understood. He'd been conditioned to its effects for so long that, even despite his hatred and fear of it being turned against him, he couldn't help but fall into it.
It was this complex balancing act between craving and loathing control, routine and respect that had formed the core of Clint's mistrust and dislike of anyone and everyone at SHIELD until Phil had taken him under his wing. He lashed out at the boundaries and commands given to him because he hated losing all control. At the same time though, a small part of him was desperate for that control to be further enforced, just so that he knew where he stood, so that he could gain the respect and the intrinsic glow of approval that came from following such strict rules and orders.
When Clint had finally stopped talking, his body tense and his eyes blazing with confusion and self-doubt, Phil had just taken a deep breath, trying to take in everything that Clint had told him. Seconds had passed, seconds that felt like hours, before Phil was finally able to speak.
"Do you trust me, Clint?"
Clint's eyes had been glistening - the threat of tears, the emotional impact of the conversation they were having, sheer honesty, Phil never really knew - and it had taken at least five minutes of silence before the archer had whispered his answer.
"Of course I do, Sir."
That simple admission had opened up the floodgates between the two of them, Clint finally allowing Phil to see beneath the surface and understand the way that the archer saw the world from his jaded view, and Phil letting Clint see just how much he appreciated the new found openness between them.
It shouldn't have come as any surprise to Phil that it would take less than four months after that one conversation for the two of them to cross the last boundary between them. It had been after a particularly difficult mission, one that had spurred Clint to break into Phil's apartment and finally take up residence in Phil's large, empty bed. Phil's memories of that night were hazed with the frenzied lust and longing and the bone deep possessive protectiveness he felt at having Clint in his arms.
What did surprise Phil though was just how keen and submissive Clint was in his presence, desperately craving every ounce of approval and desire as if it was as essential as the blood in his veins. What surprised Phil even further was just how much he revelled in having Clint so pliant and obedient beneath him. It was a different kind of control he had altogether, and it was one that Phil knew he was eventually going to have to taste again to keep him sane.
When it became so painfully obvious that Clint wanted more of it as well, Phil had been unable to keep the grin off his face.
He wasn't stupid enough to abuse the gift that Clint had given him though. Phil knew more intimately than anyone else just how much respect Clint deserved, and he wasn't going to allow his own feelings and wants to dictate any potential disrespect. He'd researched. They'd both discussed. He'd treated it with all the single-minded thoroughness of any major mission, except the implications of anything that happened were more important to Phil than any other assignment he'd ever completed.
It had been a learning curve. Phil quickly discovered that Clint had limits, the sorts of limits that could cause near irrevocable damage if pushed too hard or too fast. Phil also discovered Clint needed so many different things from what they did together; it wasn't the stereotypical one-dimensional idea that he'd associated with the kind of relationship they had.
It wasn't always about pain. It wasn't always about sex.
Sometimes, it could be nothing more than Phil calmly talking Clint down from a mission, his voice rich with that honeyed, gravelled tone that acted like a salve to soothe the archer. Sometimes, it could purely be Phil giving Clint gentle touches and caresses, allowing the archer to bask in the approval and knowledge that he was so very wanted and cared for. A majority of the time though, it was Phil being merciless with his archer, breaking Clint down into seemingly irretrievable pieces before piecing him back together again.
Phil had learned to read the signs, the giveaways and the triggers. He knew now from barely a split second glance at Clint exactly what it was that the archer needed from him, the level of control and respect that Clint craved from his handler, and it was the intimate, shared experiences of giving Clint exactly what it was that he needed to feel human again that Phil cherished most of all.
Of course, he briefly acknowledged as he picked up his spare fountain pen, pulling an extra copy of the mission report from his drawer and filling out the fresh form to replace the ink-splattered one he'd been working on, it wasn't just Clint who benefited from the relationship that the two of them shared.
Contrary to popular belief and legends about Phil, Phil didn't want permanent control and routine in his life. He didn't want to live up to the pristine image of himself that was held up in equal measures of awe and fear around SHIELD base. Clint gave him an opportunity to be that flawed individual that he knew lurked just beneath the perfectly composed veneer of Senior Agent Coulson. With Clint, he could just be Phil. With Clint, he could allow his control to be vented into completely different directions, breaking down in harmonious parallel with Clint until he could forget who he was and just feel.
Sometimes, he got the very distinct impression that that was one of the things that Clint personally enjoyed very much as well.
It had taken them nearly four years to reach the equilibrium in their relationship that allowed both of them the maximum gains and benefits, but Phil never lost sight of the fact that this was all for Clint.
Phil continued in this thread for another two hours, his pile of forms efficiently completed and filled with the high level of detail that Fury knew Phil would be unable to help supplying for future assessments and missions. Phil had gone through nearly half of his email inbox, swiftly typing answers and responses to the vast quantity of enquiries and questions that got sent his way before his cell phone began to ring.
Leaning back in his chair, Phil briefly glanced up at the clock on his office wall as he flipped it open; 10 hours for a milk run. Not bad at all.
"Coulson."
"Sir," Sitwell's tone, professional and respectful as always addressed him, and Phil gave a smile at the glow that ran through him. "Agents Weir and Barton have been successfully extracted from the designated departure point. Estimated time of arrival for touchdown on the flight deck should be about 15 minutes."
"Good. Any initial indication on the outcome of the mission?"
"All objectives met, couple of leads that you might be interested in exploring for debrief."
"Weir and Barton?"
Phil could almost see the shrug that he knew Sitwell was giving down the other end of the cell, but the slight pause in Sitwell's words before he started talking again was enough to peak Phil's concern.
"Definitely not getting put together again in the near future, I can tell you that much."
Phil was instantly tense, and it took an awful amount more control than he cared to admit to keep the worry out of his voice. "Why?"
"Why'd you think?" Sitwell snorted down the line. "Barton really doesn't like him. Refused to follow his orders, cut off communication with Weir. Changed his perch numerous times, only to end up with one of them getting targeted."
Phil's stomach knotted. "Is he-"
"Barton's fine, Coulson. Bit battered and bruised, few stitches in his arm. Good thing Stark upgraded his field gear; thought he'd broken a few ribs going into a rock ledge, but medical just think he's badly bruised them, maybe cracked them slightly in the worst case, but nothing major. His own fault anyway."
Phil rubbed a hand down his face roughly, feeling a little bit of the tension melt out of him at Sitwell's words.
"Doesn't surprise me in the slightest."
Sitwell openly laughed at the weary exasperation in Phil's tone. "Me neither, Sir. Glad to know that you haven't completely broken that insubordination out of Barton. The Juniors were getting worried that he was starting to go soft."
Leaning back into his chair, Phil ran the tip of one of his fingers around the rim of his coffee cup as he smirked at the wall opposite. He'd never want to break Clint completely; where would be the long-term advantage and fun in that? Phil didn't do this so that he could have some mindless, permanently subdued bed partner at his beck and call. A major part of Clint's personality was his cocky recklessness and insubordination, and Phil couldn't take that away from the archer, even when Clint sometimes asked him to. That was just too close to playing God for Phil's comfort.
"Medical want to give him a once over, make sure he isn't hiding anything. Do you want me to send him to you for debrief once they let him go, or are you going to meet them?"
Phil bit down on his bottom lip slightly as he tried to go over various scenarios in his mind. Going down to meet Clint straight away would at least allow him the chance to instantly assess the situation, but sometimes, having that delay was enough to let Clint clear his head and calm down before unleashing himself on Phil.
If Sitwell had felt fit to warn Phil about Clint's hostility and dislike of Weir on such a strong level that it had caused Clint inadvertant injury, then Phil knew better than trying to impose too soon. Clint's actions sounded like he was seriously pushing the boundaries and vying to get one-up on Weir; classic Clint power games.
Classic Clint control tactics.
The last thing Phil needed to do was to try and wrestle Clint's control from him when he was obviously so desperate to maintain it on his own terms for a while.
"Let medical have him first. If he complains, tell him it's his own fault. If he still complains, then tell him that I'll deal with him later."
Phil was going to deal with Clint later regardless of whatever route the archer went down, but at least it would be a rough way in which to gauge what sort of condition and state Clint would be in when he eventually got to Phil.
"Well," Sitwell deadpanned, his tone half wary and half amused, "I'm not sure I'd like to be you later then, Sir."
Phil just laughed, listening as the cell disconnected before placing it back on his desk, staring at it contemplatively. It vibrated a couple of minutes later, and Phil let out a soft sigh when he saw the message left for him.
Def. don't want to be you Coulson. Good luck, you're gonna need it. S.
He should've expected it really; the combination of being forced to go to medical and coming off of a mission that he'd never wanted to do in the first place was bound to lead to an argumentative, angry archer. Clint most definitely wasn't going to be easy to put up with tonight, but Phil owed to Clint, even purely as his handler, to make sure that the archer was okay in the aftermath of such a bad assignment.
Pushing himself up from his seat, Phil started to efficiently file and organise the mountain of paperwork that was still sitting on his desk. He knew he wasn't going to be able to do anything else tonight, and he didn't want to have to deal with any remote possibility that a volatile Clint would cause chaos with his records. It had taken him nearly four days to sort out all of his files and bring them back up to his expected level of bookkeeping the last time Clint had been in a bad mood. Those were four days he'd much rather have spent doing other, more productive things with his time - like bringing Clint back to an even keel in their own, unique way.
His inbox clean, and his office ordered, Phil made himself another cup of coffee as he perched himself on the edge of his desk, ensuring that every inch of his appearance was as immaculate as it was when Clint first left.
It was the small details that helped calm Clint down, Phil had initially realised. It gave Clint some sense of routine and familiarity to be able to walk into Phil's office, no matter what was happening, and smell the faint whiff of coffee in the air, to see Phil looking as unshakably reliable and flawless as ever, and if it helped his archer in even the slightest of ways, then it was worth the effort of doing it, Phil decided early on in their relationship.
Settling himself in for however long it was going to take for Clint to arrive at his door, Phil sipped at his coffee leisurely. He used the warm buzz of the caffeine in his system as a way to calm down the heat that had been building low in his stomach for the last few hours. It didn't mean that it was gone altogether, the soft simmer of arousal and lust flowing through him in pulses a reminder that it was still alive and kicking inside the Agent, but Phil was adept at ignoring it. He wasn't going to allow his base desires to control him until he knew exactly what it was Clint needed from him. He couldn't let that crack in his veneer shine through.
Phil didn't need to wait long.
He'd gotten half way through his coffee when a sharp rap of knuckles against his office door - a highly distinctive and identifiable pattern he'd heard thousands of times in the past - made his gut knot for the briefest moment before he was able to regain his composure. Phil didn't answer though. He was going to make Clint wait.
The anticipation was beginning to build, like a hunter waiting to spot its prey, but Phil was able to resist. This was all just a part of the routine that they went through.
It had been another five minutes, and another cup of coffee finished, before Clint had knocked again. The tempo was different from the last set of beats; faster, more authoritative, somewhat agitated. Phil closed his eyes as he took a deep breath to steady his nerves. This was going to be one of those nights.
"Come in."
The words had barely left Phil's lips before Clint had opened the door, letting it slam shut behind him. Phil, to his credit, didn't even flinch at the sound of the bang that echoed around his office; he needed to remain very calm and collected for every possible situation that could occur, and jumping at noises he'd heard before wouldn't help his cause.
Agitated was an understatement to describe Clint now that Phil could see him. His entire posture screamed of defiance, of challenge and an undercurrent of anger that made Phil sigh to see it. His field vest was hanging open, and Phil could see the violent purple bruises already beginning to form over the archers ribs. Clint's eyes were blown wide, his skin flushed and his hair sticking up in clumps where it was flecked with dirt and sweat.
The image before him was enough to make Phil's knees weak and his heart clench in so many different ways.
Clint stood at parade rest in the centre of Phil's office, his hands behind his back, but there was anything but respect being shown. The tight square of Clint's shoulders, and the way that the archers gaze was fixed above Phil's head, not even acknowledging his presence, emphatically reminded Phil of a stand-off. Clint was coiled, wound up and ready to strike, and Phil knew from previous experience just how deadly Clint could be when he was like this.
This side of Clint was ready to fight and take, to battle with a vengeance before finally admitting what it was that they needed. This was the side of Clint that had first reared its head back in the very early, fragile days; the side that viciously denied the control that they so painfully craved until they'd driven themselves into the ground with exhaustion and fear.
Phil knew exactly what he needed to do; this wasn't a unique side to Clint in any means, but that didn't mean that he could afford to let his guard down. Clint was intrinsically relying on him to be firm, relentless, merciless, and to show him any less than that would be tantamount to spitting in the archers face. As it was, blazing beneath the thick layer of anger and irritation that coated Clint's skin, Phil could see the need.
For a few moments, they were silent, an entire conversation passing just from the way that they were feeling each other out. It was a testament to just how close they were that they didn't need to bring themselves down to the point of openly discussing anything regarding what Clint wanted Phil to do.
Clint's eyes dropped down to the floor for less than a second before flicking back up to stare at Phil. It was unwritten consent, the simplest acknowledgement that Clint knew what he was letting himself in for, and Phil gave the faintest of smiles.
This was just another part of their routine, one that had been even longer established than their relationship, stemming from the success of their professional association. Little quirks, unspoken communications, certain sounds and body movements; it was quicker than any words they could've exchanged at a time when Phil knew Clint would either be unwilling or unable to verbalise exactly what he felt. Phil was relaxed by it. They both knew the parameters, they both knew what the objectives were, and Phil knew that if Clint was unhappy with the way that Phil was going about things, then Phil wouldn't hesitate to obey his need to stop things dead in their tracks, regardless of what state they were both in.
Clint hadn't needed to use his safeword in nearly 14 months, so Phil was pretty damn sure that he knew how to read exactly what it was that Clint was after.
Despite the intensity beginning to build in the room, the undertones of tension, anger and lust permeating the air, Phil held back, never once moving from his position on the desk. For the moment, he wasn't Clint's lover; he was his superior, and professionalism demanded that he complete his debrief with his asset before engaging in any new business.
Phil could see just how restless Clint was. The archer who was capable of holding himself statue still for hours on end kept fidgeting in his place, his breaths deliberately paced in an obvious attempt to temper the annoyance and frustration that he felt, and Phil could tell this would be one of those times when his personal and professional life were going to come into direct conflict with each other.
It was in situations like this that Phil was glad for the ironclad discipline that made him legendary.
Now was the time when Phil was going to have to tread the exceptionally fine line between the consummate SHIELD Agent and the concerned, understanding partner who just wanted to give Clint the release and self-control he needed.
He hated those kinds of balancing acts, more for Clint than for himself. It made it so much harder for the archer to dissociate himself from what he was supposed to represent, the man he felt he had to be, and that just tend to make the journey a whole lot more uncomfortable on the way to giving Clint his measure of control.
Phil gave a sigh, absent-mindedly letting his gaze linger on Clint's ribs.
"So, Agent," Clint's gaze snapped down to Phil's, the archer bristling from the commanding, disinterested tone of Phil's voice, "Would you like to tell me why you thought it was in your best interest to cut off all communication with your lead field Agent during an assignment? Or why it would be a good idea to risk your own personal health and the potential success of the mission in order to change your designated position?"
The look Phil pierced Clint with was enough to let him know that Phil demanded an answer to his question, the accusatory heat behind his words enough to make Clint glare at him indignantly. Phil could understand why; normally, he never expected Clint to explain himself or justify any decisions made in the field, but then normally, Phil was right there with him to keep an eye on the archer and act as the voice of reason. Phil couldn't rely on any other Agent having that level of precision and skill when it came to the wayward archer.
"Because with all due respect, Sir," The mocking lightness that dripped from the honorific was more than enough to let Phil know just how pissed Clint was regarding the whole debrief, "Agent Weir was completely incapable of handling the situation, and if I'd listened to him, then we would've blown the mission."
Phil just raised an eyebrow nonchalantly, folding his hands into his lap in a way that he knew would rile the archer up even further. "Well that's one question answered. And the reason for cutting off your comm was?"
"Because he was getting on my fucking nerves, Sir, and he wouldn't shut the hell up and let me concentrate."
"According to the other operatives using the open communication line who have contacted me in the interim period between extraction and arrival back at base, Agent Weir was only corresponding orders when completely necessary for the flow of the mission. I highly doubt that that would constitute any breaking of your concentration, Agent Barton."
"Oh right," Clint bit back instantly, and the sharpness of his words made Phil involuntarily wince as he struggled to keep his personal feelings aside. "So this was all my fault, then? Naughty little Agent Barton refusing to co-operate and play fair?"
"Well, why didn't you?"
"Because he's an asshole!" Clint yelled back, throwing his arms up in the air as he struggled to hold back his growing anger. "Because I wasn't even needed on the stupid fucking mission anyway, and I was sick and tired of listening to him trying to tell me what I could and couldn't do when I know myself better than he fucking does!"
Phil let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes. This was a painfully familiar argument, one that Phil had been on the receiving end of more times than he cared to count, particularly in their earlier, rockier days. Whilst many of the level 7 Agents were good at what they did, they were too restricted by an over reliance on the rules and regulations, the 'what if's' and conditionals that led to them being over cautious with the resources they possessed. Clint tended to attract an incredible level of cautiousness from others who had yet to understand the unorthodox skill and judgment Clint possessed, and the subsequent clash of ideas frequently ended in a very messy fallout between Clint and the poor, unsuspecting Agent who happened to mistake his recklessness for stupidity. Fortunately for Phil, he'd very quickly learnt never to make the same mistake twice when it came to arguing with Clint's instincts and decisions; he didn't like getting shot because he second guessed Clint's surveillance, and he'd lost count of the sheer number of times both of their lives had been saved by the archer spotting and shutting down targets before Phil had even opened his mouth.
"I understand that," Phil breathed out, his voice deliberately inflectionless so as not to betray his own personal opinion on the well worn theme, "But the point that you, during a mission which could quite easily have been compromised like so many other simple looking assignments, refused to follow orders and cut off all communication to your leading field Agent, still stands Agent Barton. You need to learn to compromise. You need to learn to control your outbursts and respec-"
"Goddamn it, Coulson, I've had enough of being lectured about respect and control!" Clint's tone was explosive, his body physically trembling with the effort of restraining himself, and Phil instantly knew that this was when that thin, fine line he'd been walking between the professional and the lover had to be crossed. "Respect the chain of command, Barton! Don't even dare to think about challenging your orders, Barton! Respect the mission, Barton! Control your mouth, Barton! Respect the other Agents, Barton, even if they fucking never have or never will respect you! I'm sick and fucking tired of being fed the same shit every time I walk into a room, or I go onto mission, or even when I'm walking down the hallway!"
Clint's voice had cracked over the last word, and Phil knew that this was no longer just about the mission and Weir rubbing the archer up the wrong way. This was about what everyone thought they saw in Clint, the mud that had stuck in the bloody aftermath of missions gone wrong. This was about what Clint saw in himself, the self doubt and loathing that lingered just below the scarred, damaged exterior he presented to the world, and it made Phil feel ill to hear it.
Even worse, it made him feel guilty to know that he was going to have to feed into that vicious circle - even for the shortest length of time - in order to break Clint down enough so that the archer could be rebuilt and able to regain the control and respect that he deserved. Phil knew though that it was ultimately a redundant exercise to feel guilty. Clint and him had both made their peace with just how fucked up their relationship seemed on the surface when either of them tried to analyse it too deeply; at the end of the day, it was something neither could function without, even with the shady areas that dimmed the overall experience, and neither of them were willing to let a little bit of guilt stop them.
Phil suddenly pushed himself up off the desk, his hands sitting on his hips as he matched Clint's glare with an equally glacial, irritated stare that emphatically told Clint that Phil refused to back down. Times like this, he didn't have to fake the anger he could feel bubbling away below the surface; it was never directed at the archer before him though. Phil knew he could never truly be angry with Clint, regardless of how much Clint felt otherwise during such emotionally intense confrontations. That didn't mean however that he couldn't allow the frustration he sometimes felt with his asset be vented in his attempts to provoke Clint into the position he was needed in for this part of their relationship to work.
"Well, Agent Barton, you wouldn't need to be told the same thing over and over again if you actually listened and did what it was that we keep repeatedly asking of you. You can't be given respect if you haven't earned it in the eyes of your peers and fellow Agents. If that means co-operating and jumping off of a cliff because that it what your lead Agent demands from you, then you will do it, no questions asked, for the good of the mission. If that means keeping quiet, then that is what you need to do. I have enough to deal with around here without having to babysit-"
That worked. Maybe judging by the sudden shock in Clint's eyes a little too well, but it was just the trigger that Phil needed to work with.
"I never fucking asked for a babysitter, Coulson," Clint spat out venomously, his hand clenching spasmodically by his side as he took a step towards Phil, his entire body radiating anger and upset from the implication of Phil's words. "I didn't want any-"
Clint was within a foot of Phil's face when Phil struck, grabbing Clint's wrist and jerking him forward. Clint lost his balance, and it was mere seconds later when Phil had managed to wrench the archers arm behind his back, slamming him down over Phil's desk. The breathy whine of pain that Clint gave as his ribs connected with the solid wood cut off any further shouting, but Phil didn't use that as an excuse to stop, knowing just how wound up the archer still was.
Phil expertly grasped both of Clint's wrists with one hand, pressing them down into the small of Clint's back for leverage as his free hand clamped down around the back of his neck, making sure that Clint's face was turned to the side so that he could still breathe reasonably easily as Phil forced the archers head down stiffly.
A fleeting moment of stillness overcame the room, but it was quickly broken when Clint began to struggle fiercely under Phil's hold, violently twisting and turning even despite the excruciating agony that Phil knew Clint's ribs would be causing him. Quashing down his own concerns, Phil merely increased the pressure of his grip, feeling Clint's pulse rapidly fluttering beneath his fingertips as he continued to fight.
"Let go of me, you fucking bastard!" Clint choked out, but the way that Clint's eyes had blown, all of the calm blue colour being sucked away by the desperate fear and need that swirled beneath the rage, completely negated the harshness of Clint's words.
"I will not let go of you, Agent Barton, until you have calmed down and I can trust you not to cause any damage to either of us. Is that understood?"
Title: Flaws 1/1
Pairing: Established Clint/Coulson
Fandom: The Avengers
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 18,502
Warnings: D/S, Dom!Phil, Sub!Clint, breathplay, blood, rough sex, consensual violence, fluff kinda thrown in there, but it's all good!
Summary: There are flaws in perfection. Flaws in appearances. Flaws in control. Every single one of Phil's flaws revolve around the insubordinate archer he can't seem to live without. Phil, however, wouldn't change a thing...
Phil was a creature of impeccable routine.
Many of the Agents around the helicarrier laughed off his overly precise ways and little distinctive habits as things that happened when you were stuck with SHIELD for as long as Phil had been, but Phil didn't mind that. Phil didn't mind the stories and legends that were borne out of his ironclad control and sophisticated style either. More than once, he'd seen the Juniors tripping over their own feet in an attempt to avoid the Agent; very few dared to breathe a word against Phil for fear of repercussions that could be made to look like accidents or improbable feats of God.
Even fewer people in SHIELD could find a single bad word to say against Phil, purely because there was, on face value to those Agents who worked with him in a professional manner only, zero flaws that could be seen in the Senior Field Agent in Charge. His contingency plans had contingency plans. He was always calm and authoritative, seemingly ten steps ahead of everything else going on in the situation surrounding him at the time. He never left a single Agent behind in the field, even if it came at the expense of personal injury. His brain worked in such incredible ways, logical yet willing to jump from the box in leaps and bounds; it was no surprise that the idea of him being an android or one of Stark's robots had come about after a mission where Phil had managed to defy every odd and challenge, taking down an entire ammunitions cartel near singlehandedly with a broken ankle and zero fatalities in an area that Fury himself had deemed "hell on earth."
Phil was a man who commanded respect. Phil liked respect. He liked respect almost as much as he liked the comfort and familiarities of the routines established around him.
Above all else though, he craved control.
Medical had remarked on multiple occasions that Phil was practically obsessive-compulsive with the quirks and actions that helped to define the man for who and what he was. It was the control he had in the field that commanded the respect of every other Agent in SHIELD. It was Phil's instincts and reactions in apparently uncontrollable situations, the inbred routines and dynamics he could access within his own mental data banks in a split second to completely reassess and re-evaluate the scenario and the mission with a snap of his fingers, that made Phil almost untouchable.
Phil revelled in it.
Routine. Respect. Control. Those may have been things that helped to identify him within the otherwise chaotic world that existed, but it was the feeling of having earned every single one of those things, having clawed his way into that position of equal amounts of awe, admiration and fear, that Phil basked in the most.
Many of the Senior Agents had believed that throwing Clint Barton to Phil's legendary hand was going to destroy half of SHIELD in the process. A very small, naïve, overly optimistic group of individuals thought that Phil would be able to influence Clint to the point of being able to mould the wayward, reckless, insubordinate archer into his own image of control and efficiency. Almost every level 7 Agent, and the vast majority of those who seemed to have even a faint idea of who and what Clint Barton was capable of, was convinced that Phil was either going to end up killing Clint, or that Phil was going to be driven to the point of insanity trying to tame the one who'd been dubbed the untameable.
Agents quickly learnt never to doubt Phillip Coulson.
It may have been an incredibly painful and slow process, hampered by Clint's own inability to trust or listen to authority and Phil's initial lack of understanding about how on earth to approach such an unorthodox, misunderstood man, but it had happened to the disbelief of everyone.
Phil had managed to tame the untameable in spectacular fashion. Clint had ended up with less than a quarter of the usual number of disciplinary strikes and suspensions that had stained his ledger. Clint was gradually being trusted in the field not to do anything reckless or unbelievably stupid for most missions, and the archer was learning to obey the orders of the organisation that had saved him from the street and given him a life.
Somewhere along the way, Phil had become very close friends with Clint. They had their own personal in jokes and style of communication that left most other Agents at SHIELD base completely baffled. Clint could quite often be found in Phil's office eating whatever food he'd managed to snatch from the canteen, talking and laughing over missions, bad coffee, and bonding experiences they'd both gone through together.
Almost simultaneously, the gossip reel amongst the Junior Agents had gone into overdrive. Phil had managed to brainwash Clint and indoctrinate him into whatever secret group Phil was part of. Phil had had Clint replaced with a robot after taking him down with one of his own arrows. Clint was completely, head over heels, in love and lust for Phil and Phil was using that to manipulate Clint into being good, blackmailing Clint with his own infamous libido.
Phil had smiled that small, hidden smile when he'd first heard the rumours. Sitwell and Hill had almost encouraged Phil to play along with the idea of Clint and himself being in some kind of fucked up, power-driven sex orgy just to keep them lined in entertainment and humour during particularly long or depressing missions.
Phil had smiled quietly then too, drinking a measured sip of his coffee as Sitwell and Hill continued their conversation, his superficially tight and pinched grin taking on a wicked, hidden undertone as he launched into their review of the new recruits with gusto.
After all, it wouldn't pay for them to know that even the infamous, legendary Phil Coulson was capable of some flaws in control himself.
~x~
The slight scratching of Phil's fountain pen as he filled in yet another assignment report was the only indication that his control was beginning to be tested.
In all outward appearances, Phil was as impeccable as usual. His suit was perfectly pressed, his tie perfectly looped into a windsor knot, his cufflinks sitting at perfect angles from each other at his wrist as he continued checking the forms in front of him. His piles of paperwork were sitting in perfectly ordered triplicate groups - based on the security clearance of the mission, objectives, success rate, concluding aims, individuals involved, contingencies in place, involvement of outside government organisations, and other detailed factors that Phil liked to analyse for patterns and trends - in neat stacks on the corners of his desk. His spare pen was sitting at a perfect ninety degree angle from the chipped, well used coffee cup - the only visible sign of imperfection that seemed to ever marr any of Phil's routines, even if the coffee was a routine in and of itself that would symbolise Phil's descent into madness if it wasn't there anyway. Even the clock was perfectly in sync with the Rolex watch around his wrist.
On the outside, everything was perfect.
But Phil knew it wasn't.
His control was very gradually starting to slip away from him, his heart beat thrumming every so slightly in anticipation of what he knew was going to happen when that control was eventually completely broken, and the frisson of heat that pooled low in Phil's stomach at even the mere thought of it was enough to make him readjust his belt before he started the next form.
The anticipation was the sweetest of tortures, but it was barely a ripple compared to what Phil knew he was going to experience by the end of the night.
A brief flare of guilt burnt brightly, making Phil's heart clench in his chest for a moment as he pressed down even harder on his pen. Clint had protested and whined so much when he'd been given the mission, his eyes blazing with anger and upset as he tried to plead his case with Phil. Phil, to his credit, hadn't been immune to Clint's ill feelings on the situation. If it wasn't for the fact that they were in Phil's office, waiting for Sitwell and another Agent to arrive regarding the mission assignment, then Phil would've let Clint know exactly how he felt, but his professionalism had won out.
Clint was being sent out on what was essentially a milk run, one that was almost insultingly easy considering Clint's status and rank, and with some wet behind the ears Agent who was essentially fulfilling Phil's role in the field. Despite how highly both Clint and he ranked in the organisation, and the fact that it was never really necessary to send out two Senior Agents on routine missions, it was exceedingly rare that Phil was not Clint's handler and Agent in charge during the archers assignments.
It was generally accepted that where one went, the other was right beside them, but this was one of those times that was going to end up being an exception to the rule. It didn't help either that Clint was caught in an almost impossible position. Since the aftermath of New York, Clint's assignments had been incredibly thin on the ground; it wasn't that Fury or Phil didn't trust him - they both knew that Clint was more than capable of doing his job to his pre-Loki standards with ease - it was that nobody at SHIELD outside of a very tiny minority trusted Clint. With barely anybody willing to give Clint a chance or wanting to work with him, his missions were majorly restricted, which meant that if he wanted to be able to carry on providing for himself, he had no choice but to take whatever SHIELD threw at him.
Unfortunately, this was one of those times when SHIELD had firmly decided to screw Clint over.
Phil knew about the mission, and he knew about the possibility of them allowing newly promoted Seniors the chance to actually lead out in the field and gain some sorely needed experience; he'd just hoped that Clint would be able to understand.
Apparently, his horrifically insubordinate archer still had one or two things that managed to throw Phil for a loop.
Clint had screamed until red in the face. He'd paced Phil's office like a caged animal, tension painfully visible in his rigid muscles. He'd taken to sulking and empty threats that Phil knew - or at least hoped - Clint would never really carry out. It was like watching a child throwing a tantrum, and Phil had just breathed in deep, trying to project a soothing, understanding tone in his words that would get Clint to calm down.
It had worked. Kind of. Clint had stopped pacing at least, even if he didn't look any less agitated than before. His eyes had locked on Phil's, and Phil could read the fear and anxiety that coloured Clint's actions so devastatingly easy that it made a lump appear in his throat. Clint looked almost as if he was losing control of everything. Phil's hand twitched from its place on his desk; it was nearly impossible to resist Clint when he was like this, silently begging Phil to give him back the routine familiarity that he so desperately needed.
Clint's knees were trembling, his face open and exposing the gamut of emotions that Phil knew more intimately than he sometimes cared to admit, and Phil's control had very nearly crumbled. Watching the door in the periphery of his vision, he'd let his moment of weakness take over as he ghosted his fingers softly up Clint's bare arm.
"Sir, please," Clint whispered, biting down on his bottom lip as he hung his head low, and Phil knew that all he had to do was say the word, and Clint would be down on his knees, ready and waiting to accept whatever Phil decided he wanted to do to him.
Having that much power over the archer sometimes was enough to make him see stars.
Before Phil had been able to do anything, the swift knocking and opening of his office door had broken the connection. Clint had taken a few steps back, his shoulders straightening as he instantly shrugged off the submissive pose he had instinctively taken in Phil's presence, and Phil leaned back into his chair as Sitwell came in.
It was startling to see the change in Clint at the appearance of the relatively unknown Senior Agent standing a few steps behind Sitwell. Clint's body language had suddenly become aggressively stand-offish, on guard and distrustful, and Phil had felt the heat surge low in his gut. Clint possessed such raw power, such strength, and to know that Phil was the only person in the world capable of controlling a beast like Clint was absolutely intoxicating.
Taking a deep breath, Phil had stood, extending his hand out towards the Agent who had finally worked up the courage to step into Phil's office.
"Agent Weir, yes?" Phil shook the young man's hand, and Sitwell laughed when he visibly struggled to speak, settling instead for nodding his head nervously as he eyed up Clint.
"Don't worry about Barton," Sitwell smirked at the clearly tense Agent, amusement underlining his words as Phil and he shared a look of understanding. "He's an absolutely pussy cat, isn't he Coulson?"
Clint glared, his tone mockingly respectful. "Get bent, Sir."
Phil had rolled his eyes, one of his hands coming up to rest on the juncture of Clint's shoulder as he talked over the mission with Sitwell and Weir. Only half of his mind was on the current task though; his fingertips were skating over the slither of skin exposed by Clint's field gear, vividly remembering the sounds that fell from the archers beautifully dirty mouth whenever Phil sucked or kissed or bit that sensitive flesh, and he could see the way that Clint's hands were clenching behind his back as he struggled not to react to Phil's gentle ministrations.
Phil had smiled briefly when Clint managed to refrain from moving obviously into his touch, barely twisting his shoulder so that he could feel more of Phil's caresses against his skin to the obliviousness of the other two Agents in the room.
Times like this, it was good to know that Clint had learnt at least a little bit of control.
As the conversation had wound down and it begun nearing the time for Clint and Weir to dispatch to their mission location, Clint was practically wound up as tight as a spring, even despite Phil's subtle attempts at getting the archer to relax. As Sitwell and Weir had left, telling Clint to meet them up on the flight deck in 15 minutes, the door had barely closed before Clint's hands had reached out to grab Phil's hips, pulling him in close to his body as he leaned in for a kiss.
Phil had pulled his head back, keeping enough distance between the two of them as he raised his eyebrow to make sure that Clint knew he wasn't going to play this game. Clint tried again, ducking his head in more insistently as he ground himself against Phil's thigh, but before he could get any closer, the hand that had been on Clint's shoulder was wrapped around his throat, Phil's free hand reaching down to cup the front of Clint's pants with a squeeze.
Clint had whimpered so desperately, his eyes blown with need and frustration that Phil very nearly felt his control unravel, but he managed to keep it contained as he raised his eyebrow at the archer before him. Clint's eyes slipped shut, but a sharp squeeze from both of Phil's hands had his eyes shooting back open as he gave a gasp, biting down on his bottom lip as Phil let his fingers trace the outline of the erection that he could feel swelling in his grip.
"Now now, Barton, that was uncalled for."
Phil's tone had been a little bit deeper, a little bit more gravelly than usual; it was the tone that he usually used in more private surroundings, the tone that gave orders that expected to be obeyed, the tone that usually made the normally insubordinate archer fall apart under his touch. Phil knew that Clint was a slave to that calm, honeyed voice, and it appeared this time was no different.
"I'm sorry, Sir," Clint had instantly responded, his words slightly strained and cracked from the firm grip of Phil's hand around his neck and the emotional weight behind them.
"I know you are, Barton," Phil had soothed back just as quickly, letting his fingers loosen to become a teasingly light caress. Clint, to his credit, didn't move again; he stood statue still, his hands behind his back as he continued looking straight into Phil's eyes. "But you know what the rules are, don't you?"
"Yes, Sir."
Phil hummed noncommitally as he dug his nails into the pulse that he could see throbbing on the side of Clint's neck. Clint had gasped, an utterly wrecked sound that was doing indescribable things to Phil's brain, and Phil had briefly closed his eyes as he tried to keep a tight leash on his control.
"And what are those rules, Barton?"
"Not to touch unless I have permission to touch, Sir."
"Good," Phil had smiled back, seeing the way that Clint had started to relax despite the hands still lingering around his throat and his groin. This was the type of control that Clint needed, the firmly defined rules and boundaries, and the way Clint had seemed almost to glow at the positive acknowledgement was enough to let Phil indulge him with a soft stroke of his fingers across the length of Clint's rapidly hardening erection.
"I'm going to let you off this one time, Barton, because I know that you're better behaved than this when you're not upset about a mission. However," Phil's voice dropped as he squeezed hard around Clint's cock, the archer giving a breathy gasp as he tried desperately to keep his eyes on Phil's despite the growing pressure around his erection. "Don't think I'm going to let you get away with such blatant disrespect again."
"No, Sir, of course not."
Phil had smiled again, pulling his hands away from Clint and running his eyes deliberately down the length of the archer's body. Clint had blushed slightly under the inspection, the outline of his cock now quite prominent against the inside of his field pants as he took a deep breath, and Phil had been unable to deny himself a quick moment of self-indulgence as he pulled Clint into the kiss he'd been searching for mere minutes before.
It had been needy and frantic and oh so sinful, Phil's tongue plundering Clint's mouth, his hands framing Clint's face as Clint ground his hips hard and fast against Phil's, but before Clint could reach the brink, Phil had suddenly pulled back. A smirk crossed his face at the state of his asset; his lips were swollen, his skin flushed and beginning to bead with sweat, his hair messy, and as Clint's hips had thrust into mid-air, the whine he failed to contain almost made Phil laugh. This time though, Clint had known better than to reach out for his handler again, and as the realisation had crossed Clint's face about the situation he now found himself in, Phil could see the frustrated irritation painted in the archers eyes.
"If I'm right, Barton, then you might be able to afford yourself five minutes of personal time before you're needed on the flight deck. If you manage to control yourself during this assignment, and I think that you've satisfactorily learnt some respect, then I will be able to afford you much more than five minutes when you come back."
The lusty hint of promise in Phil's voice was enough to have Clint almost shaking with restrained desire as the archer had set about grabbing everything he needed.
"Yes, Sir!" Clint answered enthusiastically, and Phil had almost thought his heart was going to burst out his chest at the swell of affection he felt for the younger man as Clint left.
It was a delicate line he had to walk with Clint. For someone with such inherently strong trust and self esteem issues to be willing to subject themselves to the control of someone else, it was something that Phil never dared to take lightly.
As much as it was about control when it came to Clint, Phil knew that there was so many more things powering that trust and affection and mindless submission to his words and his body, and Phil was loathed to take any of that for granted. It had taken him long enough to get it, and the knowledge that it could take mere seconds to shatter that fragile relationship was enough to make him careful.
Phil had taken a few deep breaths, making himself yet another cup of coffee before he'd settled back down in his seat to confront the pile of paperwork that he had acquired over the course of the last couple of days and missions.
That had been nearly eight hours before, and Phil was steadily losing his mind as he heard the nib of his fountain pen snap from the pressure he'd been placing on it, a little dot of blue ink and the imperfection it caused on his form reflecting the control Phil could feel breaking inside him.
The thoughts of what he was going to do to Clint when he came back from the mission were enough to make his mouth start involuntarily watering, his fingers itching with the desire to touch Clint's smooth, soft flesh and wrestle those beautifully debauched sounds from the archers lips. It was having the archer so pliant, so perfect beneath his hand that wrecked any semblance of control Phil thought he had.
Clenching his fingers into a tight fist as he counted to five in his head, Phil could feel the heat and arousal in his stomach kick up a notch as he drained the luke-warm cup of coffee sitting next to him, feeling the caffeine calm his nerves.
If it wasn't for the fact that Phil was at work, he'd almost have been slightly tempted to lock his door for a little while and bring himself off so that he could finally think clearly again. It certainly would've helped his lack of concentration that images of Clint in compromising positions was helping to destroy, but he decided against it.
Half of the fun was maintaining every ounce of his control whilst breaking Clint down. Some of the enjoyment and satisfaction for Phil came from keeping a lid on his own lust and arousal until he'd made sure that Clint was taken care of. Anticipation really was one of the sweetest tortures of the experience, and Phil cracked a smile; this was one time when he really felt that the anticipation was more than worth bearing.
Despite the self-indulgent thoughts though, Phil knew that everything he did, he did for Clint; his enjoyment was only a secondary objective.
It had taken nearly 18 months of an uneasy alliance and tentative truce between them before Clint found himself able to tell Phil anything personal about his past. Control was a scarce, precious thing in the sort of environments Clint grew up in; it wasn't a luxury or a privilege Clint could become accustomed to when he was younger. Respect was most certainly something that the archer experienced very little of either.
Control had always been a weapon used against the archer, respect used at face value as a justification for the torrent of pain and abuse that marked Clint's records. The only routine Clint had been able to rely on was trusting his own instincts enough to be able to stay alive, to ensure that whatever happened to him would be over as fast and painless as possible.
Clint was terrified of control, but it was the one thing that the archer understood. He'd been conditioned to its effects for so long that, even despite his hatred and fear of it being turned against him, he couldn't help but fall into it.
It was this complex balancing act between craving and loathing control, routine and respect that had formed the core of Clint's mistrust and dislike of anyone and everyone at SHIELD until Phil had taken him under his wing. He lashed out at the boundaries and commands given to him because he hated losing all control. At the same time though, a small part of him was desperate for that control to be further enforced, just so that he knew where he stood, so that he could gain the respect and the intrinsic glow of approval that came from following such strict rules and orders.
When Clint had finally stopped talking, his body tense and his eyes blazing with confusion and self-doubt, Phil had just taken a deep breath, trying to take in everything that Clint had told him. Seconds had passed, seconds that felt like hours, before Phil was finally able to speak.
"Do you trust me, Clint?"
Clint's eyes had been glistening - the threat of tears, the emotional impact of the conversation they were having, sheer honesty, Phil never really knew - and it had taken at least five minutes of silence before the archer had whispered his answer.
"Of course I do, Sir."
That simple admission had opened up the floodgates between the two of them, Clint finally allowing Phil to see beneath the surface and understand the way that the archer saw the world from his jaded view, and Phil letting Clint see just how much he appreciated the new found openness between them.
It shouldn't have come as any surprise to Phil that it would take less than four months after that one conversation for the two of them to cross the last boundary between them. It had been after a particularly difficult mission, one that had spurred Clint to break into Phil's apartment and finally take up residence in Phil's large, empty bed. Phil's memories of that night were hazed with the frenzied lust and longing and the bone deep possessive protectiveness he felt at having Clint in his arms.
What did surprise Phil though was just how keen and submissive Clint was in his presence, desperately craving every ounce of approval and desire as if it was as essential as the blood in his veins. What surprised Phil even further was just how much he revelled in having Clint so pliant and obedient beneath him. It was a different kind of control he had altogether, and it was one that Phil knew he was eventually going to have to taste again to keep him sane.
When it became so painfully obvious that Clint wanted more of it as well, Phil had been unable to keep the grin off his face.
He wasn't stupid enough to abuse the gift that Clint had given him though. Phil knew more intimately than anyone else just how much respect Clint deserved, and he wasn't going to allow his own feelings and wants to dictate any potential disrespect. He'd researched. They'd both discussed. He'd treated it with all the single-minded thoroughness of any major mission, except the implications of anything that happened were more important to Phil than any other assignment he'd ever completed.
It had been a learning curve. Phil quickly discovered that Clint had limits, the sorts of limits that could cause near irrevocable damage if pushed too hard or too fast. Phil also discovered Clint needed so many different things from what they did together; it wasn't the stereotypical one-dimensional idea that he'd associated with the kind of relationship they had.
It wasn't always about pain. It wasn't always about sex.
Sometimes, it could be nothing more than Phil calmly talking Clint down from a mission, his voice rich with that honeyed, gravelled tone that acted like a salve to soothe the archer. Sometimes, it could purely be Phil giving Clint gentle touches and caresses, allowing the archer to bask in the approval and knowledge that he was so very wanted and cared for. A majority of the time though, it was Phil being merciless with his archer, breaking Clint down into seemingly irretrievable pieces before piecing him back together again.
Phil had learned to read the signs, the giveaways and the triggers. He knew now from barely a split second glance at Clint exactly what it was that the archer needed from him, the level of control and respect that Clint craved from his handler, and it was the intimate, shared experiences of giving Clint exactly what it was that he needed to feel human again that Phil cherished most of all.
Of course, he briefly acknowledged as he picked up his spare fountain pen, pulling an extra copy of the mission report from his drawer and filling out the fresh form to replace the ink-splattered one he'd been working on, it wasn't just Clint who benefited from the relationship that the two of them shared.
Contrary to popular belief and legends about Phil, Phil didn't want permanent control and routine in his life. He didn't want to live up to the pristine image of himself that was held up in equal measures of awe and fear around SHIELD base. Clint gave him an opportunity to be that flawed individual that he knew lurked just beneath the perfectly composed veneer of Senior Agent Coulson. With Clint, he could just be Phil. With Clint, he could allow his control to be vented into completely different directions, breaking down in harmonious parallel with Clint until he could forget who he was and just feel.
Sometimes, he got the very distinct impression that that was one of the things that Clint personally enjoyed very much as well.
It had taken them nearly four years to reach the equilibrium in their relationship that allowed both of them the maximum gains and benefits, but Phil never lost sight of the fact that this was all for Clint.
Phil continued in this thread for another two hours, his pile of forms efficiently completed and filled with the high level of detail that Fury knew Phil would be unable to help supplying for future assessments and missions. Phil had gone through nearly half of his email inbox, swiftly typing answers and responses to the vast quantity of enquiries and questions that got sent his way before his cell phone began to ring.
Leaning back in his chair, Phil briefly glanced up at the clock on his office wall as he flipped it open; 10 hours for a milk run. Not bad at all.
"Coulson."
"Sir," Sitwell's tone, professional and respectful as always addressed him, and Phil gave a smile at the glow that ran through him. "Agents Weir and Barton have been successfully extracted from the designated departure point. Estimated time of arrival for touchdown on the flight deck should be about 15 minutes."
"Good. Any initial indication on the outcome of the mission?"
"All objectives met, couple of leads that you might be interested in exploring for debrief."
"Weir and Barton?"
Phil could almost see the shrug that he knew Sitwell was giving down the other end of the cell, but the slight pause in Sitwell's words before he started talking again was enough to peak Phil's concern.
"Definitely not getting put together again in the near future, I can tell you that much."
Phil was instantly tense, and it took an awful amount more control than he cared to admit to keep the worry out of his voice. "Why?"
"Why'd you think?" Sitwell snorted down the line. "Barton really doesn't like him. Refused to follow his orders, cut off communication with Weir. Changed his perch numerous times, only to end up with one of them getting targeted."
Phil's stomach knotted. "Is he-"
"Barton's fine, Coulson. Bit battered and bruised, few stitches in his arm. Good thing Stark upgraded his field gear; thought he'd broken a few ribs going into a rock ledge, but medical just think he's badly bruised them, maybe cracked them slightly in the worst case, but nothing major. His own fault anyway."
Phil rubbed a hand down his face roughly, feeling a little bit of the tension melt out of him at Sitwell's words.
"Doesn't surprise me in the slightest."
Sitwell openly laughed at the weary exasperation in Phil's tone. "Me neither, Sir. Glad to know that you haven't completely broken that insubordination out of Barton. The Juniors were getting worried that he was starting to go soft."
Leaning back into his chair, Phil ran the tip of one of his fingers around the rim of his coffee cup as he smirked at the wall opposite. He'd never want to break Clint completely; where would be the long-term advantage and fun in that? Phil didn't do this so that he could have some mindless, permanently subdued bed partner at his beck and call. A major part of Clint's personality was his cocky recklessness and insubordination, and Phil couldn't take that away from the archer, even when Clint sometimes asked him to. That was just too close to playing God for Phil's comfort.
"Medical want to give him a once over, make sure he isn't hiding anything. Do you want me to send him to you for debrief once they let him go, or are you going to meet them?"
Phil bit down on his bottom lip slightly as he tried to go over various scenarios in his mind. Going down to meet Clint straight away would at least allow him the chance to instantly assess the situation, but sometimes, having that delay was enough to let Clint clear his head and calm down before unleashing himself on Phil.
If Sitwell had felt fit to warn Phil about Clint's hostility and dislike of Weir on such a strong level that it had caused Clint inadvertant injury, then Phil knew better than trying to impose too soon. Clint's actions sounded like he was seriously pushing the boundaries and vying to get one-up on Weir; classic Clint power games.
Classic Clint control tactics.
The last thing Phil needed to do was to try and wrestle Clint's control from him when he was obviously so desperate to maintain it on his own terms for a while.
"Let medical have him first. If he complains, tell him it's his own fault. If he still complains, then tell him that I'll deal with him later."
Phil was going to deal with Clint later regardless of whatever route the archer went down, but at least it would be a rough way in which to gauge what sort of condition and state Clint would be in when he eventually got to Phil.
"Well," Sitwell deadpanned, his tone half wary and half amused, "I'm not sure I'd like to be you later then, Sir."
Phil just laughed, listening as the cell disconnected before placing it back on his desk, staring at it contemplatively. It vibrated a couple of minutes later, and Phil let out a soft sigh when he saw the message left for him.
Def. don't want to be you Coulson. Good luck, you're gonna need it. S.
He should've expected it really; the combination of being forced to go to medical and coming off of a mission that he'd never wanted to do in the first place was bound to lead to an argumentative, angry archer. Clint most definitely wasn't going to be easy to put up with tonight, but Phil owed to Clint, even purely as his handler, to make sure that the archer was okay in the aftermath of such a bad assignment.
Pushing himself up from his seat, Phil started to efficiently file and organise the mountain of paperwork that was still sitting on his desk. He knew he wasn't going to be able to do anything else tonight, and he didn't want to have to deal with any remote possibility that a volatile Clint would cause chaos with his records. It had taken him nearly four days to sort out all of his files and bring them back up to his expected level of bookkeeping the last time Clint had been in a bad mood. Those were four days he'd much rather have spent doing other, more productive things with his time - like bringing Clint back to an even keel in their own, unique way.
His inbox clean, and his office ordered, Phil made himself another cup of coffee as he perched himself on the edge of his desk, ensuring that every inch of his appearance was as immaculate as it was when Clint first left.
It was the small details that helped calm Clint down, Phil had initially realised. It gave Clint some sense of routine and familiarity to be able to walk into Phil's office, no matter what was happening, and smell the faint whiff of coffee in the air, to see Phil looking as unshakably reliable and flawless as ever, and if it helped his archer in even the slightest of ways, then it was worth the effort of doing it, Phil decided early on in their relationship.
Settling himself in for however long it was going to take for Clint to arrive at his door, Phil sipped at his coffee leisurely. He used the warm buzz of the caffeine in his system as a way to calm down the heat that had been building low in his stomach for the last few hours. It didn't mean that it was gone altogether, the soft simmer of arousal and lust flowing through him in pulses a reminder that it was still alive and kicking inside the Agent, but Phil was adept at ignoring it. He wasn't going to allow his base desires to control him until he knew exactly what it was Clint needed from him. He couldn't let that crack in his veneer shine through.
Phil didn't need to wait long.
He'd gotten half way through his coffee when a sharp rap of knuckles against his office door - a highly distinctive and identifiable pattern he'd heard thousands of times in the past - made his gut knot for the briefest moment before he was able to regain his composure. Phil didn't answer though. He was going to make Clint wait.
The anticipation was beginning to build, like a hunter waiting to spot its prey, but Phil was able to resist. This was all just a part of the routine that they went through.
It had been another five minutes, and another cup of coffee finished, before Clint had knocked again. The tempo was different from the last set of beats; faster, more authoritative, somewhat agitated. Phil closed his eyes as he took a deep breath to steady his nerves. This was going to be one of those nights.
"Come in."
The words had barely left Phil's lips before Clint had opened the door, letting it slam shut behind him. Phil, to his credit, didn't even flinch at the sound of the bang that echoed around his office; he needed to remain very calm and collected for every possible situation that could occur, and jumping at noises he'd heard before wouldn't help his cause.
Agitated was an understatement to describe Clint now that Phil could see him. His entire posture screamed of defiance, of challenge and an undercurrent of anger that made Phil sigh to see it. His field vest was hanging open, and Phil could see the violent purple bruises already beginning to form over the archers ribs. Clint's eyes were blown wide, his skin flushed and his hair sticking up in clumps where it was flecked with dirt and sweat.
The image before him was enough to make Phil's knees weak and his heart clench in so many different ways.
Clint stood at parade rest in the centre of Phil's office, his hands behind his back, but there was anything but respect being shown. The tight square of Clint's shoulders, and the way that the archers gaze was fixed above Phil's head, not even acknowledging his presence, emphatically reminded Phil of a stand-off. Clint was coiled, wound up and ready to strike, and Phil knew from previous experience just how deadly Clint could be when he was like this.
This side of Clint was ready to fight and take, to battle with a vengeance before finally admitting what it was that they needed. This was the side of Clint that had first reared its head back in the very early, fragile days; the side that viciously denied the control that they so painfully craved until they'd driven themselves into the ground with exhaustion and fear.
Phil knew exactly what he needed to do; this wasn't a unique side to Clint in any means, but that didn't mean that he could afford to let his guard down. Clint was intrinsically relying on him to be firm, relentless, merciless, and to show him any less than that would be tantamount to spitting in the archers face. As it was, blazing beneath the thick layer of anger and irritation that coated Clint's skin, Phil could see the need.
For a few moments, they were silent, an entire conversation passing just from the way that they were feeling each other out. It was a testament to just how close they were that they didn't need to bring themselves down to the point of openly discussing anything regarding what Clint wanted Phil to do.
Clint's eyes dropped down to the floor for less than a second before flicking back up to stare at Phil. It was unwritten consent, the simplest acknowledgement that Clint knew what he was letting himself in for, and Phil gave the faintest of smiles.
This was just another part of their routine, one that had been even longer established than their relationship, stemming from the success of their professional association. Little quirks, unspoken communications, certain sounds and body movements; it was quicker than any words they could've exchanged at a time when Phil knew Clint would either be unwilling or unable to verbalise exactly what he felt. Phil was relaxed by it. They both knew the parameters, they both knew what the objectives were, and Phil knew that if Clint was unhappy with the way that Phil was going about things, then Phil wouldn't hesitate to obey his need to stop things dead in their tracks, regardless of what state they were both in.
Clint hadn't needed to use his safeword in nearly 14 months, so Phil was pretty damn sure that he knew how to read exactly what it was that Clint was after.
Despite the intensity beginning to build in the room, the undertones of tension, anger and lust permeating the air, Phil held back, never once moving from his position on the desk. For the moment, he wasn't Clint's lover; he was his superior, and professionalism demanded that he complete his debrief with his asset before engaging in any new business.
Phil could see just how restless Clint was. The archer who was capable of holding himself statue still for hours on end kept fidgeting in his place, his breaths deliberately paced in an obvious attempt to temper the annoyance and frustration that he felt, and Phil could tell this would be one of those times when his personal and professional life were going to come into direct conflict with each other.
It was in situations like this that Phil was glad for the ironclad discipline that made him legendary.
Now was the time when Phil was going to have to tread the exceptionally fine line between the consummate SHIELD Agent and the concerned, understanding partner who just wanted to give Clint the release and self-control he needed.
He hated those kinds of balancing acts, more for Clint than for himself. It made it so much harder for the archer to dissociate himself from what he was supposed to represent, the man he felt he had to be, and that just tend to make the journey a whole lot more uncomfortable on the way to giving Clint his measure of control.
Phil gave a sigh, absent-mindedly letting his gaze linger on Clint's ribs.
"So, Agent," Clint's gaze snapped down to Phil's, the archer bristling from the commanding, disinterested tone of Phil's voice, "Would you like to tell me why you thought it was in your best interest to cut off all communication with your lead field Agent during an assignment? Or why it would be a good idea to risk your own personal health and the potential success of the mission in order to change your designated position?"
The look Phil pierced Clint with was enough to let him know that Phil demanded an answer to his question, the accusatory heat behind his words enough to make Clint glare at him indignantly. Phil could understand why; normally, he never expected Clint to explain himself or justify any decisions made in the field, but then normally, Phil was right there with him to keep an eye on the archer and act as the voice of reason. Phil couldn't rely on any other Agent having that level of precision and skill when it came to the wayward archer.
"Because with all due respect, Sir," The mocking lightness that dripped from the honorific was more than enough to let Phil know just how pissed Clint was regarding the whole debrief, "Agent Weir was completely incapable of handling the situation, and if I'd listened to him, then we would've blown the mission."
Phil just raised an eyebrow nonchalantly, folding his hands into his lap in a way that he knew would rile the archer up even further. "Well that's one question answered. And the reason for cutting off your comm was?"
"Because he was getting on my fucking nerves, Sir, and he wouldn't shut the hell up and let me concentrate."
"According to the other operatives using the open communication line who have contacted me in the interim period between extraction and arrival back at base, Agent Weir was only corresponding orders when completely necessary for the flow of the mission. I highly doubt that that would constitute any breaking of your concentration, Agent Barton."
"Oh right," Clint bit back instantly, and the sharpness of his words made Phil involuntarily wince as he struggled to keep his personal feelings aside. "So this was all my fault, then? Naughty little Agent Barton refusing to co-operate and play fair?"
"Well, why didn't you?"
"Because he's an asshole!" Clint yelled back, throwing his arms up in the air as he struggled to hold back his growing anger. "Because I wasn't even needed on the stupid fucking mission anyway, and I was sick and tired of listening to him trying to tell me what I could and couldn't do when I know myself better than he fucking does!"
Phil let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes. This was a painfully familiar argument, one that Phil had been on the receiving end of more times than he cared to count, particularly in their earlier, rockier days. Whilst many of the level 7 Agents were good at what they did, they were too restricted by an over reliance on the rules and regulations, the 'what if's' and conditionals that led to them being over cautious with the resources they possessed. Clint tended to attract an incredible level of cautiousness from others who had yet to understand the unorthodox skill and judgment Clint possessed, and the subsequent clash of ideas frequently ended in a very messy fallout between Clint and the poor, unsuspecting Agent who happened to mistake his recklessness for stupidity. Fortunately for Phil, he'd very quickly learnt never to make the same mistake twice when it came to arguing with Clint's instincts and decisions; he didn't like getting shot because he second guessed Clint's surveillance, and he'd lost count of the sheer number of times both of their lives had been saved by the archer spotting and shutting down targets before Phil had even opened his mouth.
"I understand that," Phil breathed out, his voice deliberately inflectionless so as not to betray his own personal opinion on the well worn theme, "But the point that you, during a mission which could quite easily have been compromised like so many other simple looking assignments, refused to follow orders and cut off all communication to your leading field Agent, still stands Agent Barton. You need to learn to compromise. You need to learn to control your outbursts and respec-"
"Goddamn it, Coulson, I've had enough of being lectured about respect and control!" Clint's tone was explosive, his body physically trembling with the effort of restraining himself, and Phil instantly knew that this was when that thin, fine line he'd been walking between the professional and the lover had to be crossed. "Respect the chain of command, Barton! Don't even dare to think about challenging your orders, Barton! Respect the mission, Barton! Control your mouth, Barton! Respect the other Agents, Barton, even if they fucking never have or never will respect you! I'm sick and fucking tired of being fed the same shit every time I walk into a room, or I go onto mission, or even when I'm walking down the hallway!"
Clint's voice had cracked over the last word, and Phil knew that this was no longer just about the mission and Weir rubbing the archer up the wrong way. This was about what everyone thought they saw in Clint, the mud that had stuck in the bloody aftermath of missions gone wrong. This was about what Clint saw in himself, the self doubt and loathing that lingered just below the scarred, damaged exterior he presented to the world, and it made Phil feel ill to hear it.
Even worse, it made him feel guilty to know that he was going to have to feed into that vicious circle - even for the shortest length of time - in order to break Clint down enough so that the archer could be rebuilt and able to regain the control and respect that he deserved. Phil knew though that it was ultimately a redundant exercise to feel guilty. Clint and him had both made their peace with just how fucked up their relationship seemed on the surface when either of them tried to analyse it too deeply; at the end of the day, it was something neither could function without, even with the shady areas that dimmed the overall experience, and neither of them were willing to let a little bit of guilt stop them.
Phil suddenly pushed himself up off the desk, his hands sitting on his hips as he matched Clint's glare with an equally glacial, irritated stare that emphatically told Clint that Phil refused to back down. Times like this, he didn't have to fake the anger he could feel bubbling away below the surface; it was never directed at the archer before him though. Phil knew he could never truly be angry with Clint, regardless of how much Clint felt otherwise during such emotionally intense confrontations. That didn't mean however that he couldn't allow the frustration he sometimes felt with his asset be vented in his attempts to provoke Clint into the position he was needed in for this part of their relationship to work.
"Well, Agent Barton, you wouldn't need to be told the same thing over and over again if you actually listened and did what it was that we keep repeatedly asking of you. You can't be given respect if you haven't earned it in the eyes of your peers and fellow Agents. If that means co-operating and jumping off of a cliff because that it what your lead Agent demands from you, then you will do it, no questions asked, for the good of the mission. If that means keeping quiet, then that is what you need to do. I have enough to deal with around here without having to babysit-"
That worked. Maybe judging by the sudden shock in Clint's eyes a little too well, but it was just the trigger that Phil needed to work with.
"I never fucking asked for a babysitter, Coulson," Clint spat out venomously, his hand clenching spasmodically by his side as he took a step towards Phil, his entire body radiating anger and upset from the implication of Phil's words. "I didn't want any-"
Clint was within a foot of Phil's face when Phil struck, grabbing Clint's wrist and jerking him forward. Clint lost his balance, and it was mere seconds later when Phil had managed to wrench the archers arm behind his back, slamming him down over Phil's desk. The breathy whine of pain that Clint gave as his ribs connected with the solid wood cut off any further shouting, but Phil didn't use that as an excuse to stop, knowing just how wound up the archer still was.
Phil expertly grasped both of Clint's wrists with one hand, pressing them down into the small of Clint's back for leverage as his free hand clamped down around the back of his neck, making sure that Clint's face was turned to the side so that he could still breathe reasonably easily as Phil forced the archers head down stiffly.
A fleeting moment of stillness overcame the room, but it was quickly broken when Clint began to struggle fiercely under Phil's hold, violently twisting and turning even despite the excruciating agony that Phil knew Clint's ribs would be causing him. Quashing down his own concerns, Phil merely increased the pressure of his grip, feeling Clint's pulse rapidly fluttering beneath his fingertips as he continued to fight.
"Let go of me, you fucking bastard!" Clint choked out, but the way that Clint's eyes had blown, all of the calm blue colour being sucked away by the desperate fear and need that swirled beneath the rage, completely negated the harshness of Clint's words.
"I will not let go of you, Agent Barton, until you have calmed down and I can trust you not to cause any damage to either of us. Is that understood?"