Alula [Vertical and Forward Force] - 2
back to part 1
"His name's not Feather-bot, what the hell," Tony complains as they eat dinner around the smaller dining-table, because as anti-social as Tony claims to be, he has this thing where he likes eating with everyone, revelling in their annoyed attention. "Didn't he tell you? Didn't you tell them your name?" he directs at Feather-bot, planted at a spot between Phil and Clint's chairs, a few feet back. Feather-bot's camera clicks nervously. "Come on, tell them. I gave you voice-protocols for a reason, kiddo."
"Sir," Jarvis says, "he's actually quite shy."
"No bot of mine is ever shy," Tony claims, jabbing a finger at the ceiling. "Have you met me?"
"I have, sir," Jarvis says, patient and long-suffering.
"If he doesn't want to tell me his name, that's fine," Clint says, poking at his salad. "He's Feather-bot, and that's enough for me."
"He works really hard," Steve says, cutting through a massive slab of steak. "No more feathers all over the place," and he laughs a little at Clint's half-hearted glare. "I found feathers in the toaster, Clint, seriously. The small ones."
"Of course he works hard." Tony sniffs dismissively and then sits up, glaring over the top of the table at Feather-bot. "Hey," he demands, and Feather-bot's armature tilts up. "Name and rank, buddy."
Clint gazes back at the miniature robot, which seems to square itself under his regard.
"Icarus-One," it says in a very scratchy voice, sounding like a very young version of Jarvis. Clint feels inordinately proud of the little thing. It's too cute for its own good. "Hello, I am Icarus-One," he says, brightly. "Icarus-One!"
"Icarus." Bruce nibbles on his corn. "Surprisingly imaginative."
"I really do aim to please," Tony says, grinning, and Icarus crows his name again in his tiny, fervent voice. "Okay, that's enough."
"Icarus-One," Icarus mutters, whirls in a tight circle and then remains still.
"He'll come down to the workshop on his own to charge," Tony says, and makes grabby hands for the mashed potatoes. Nat stares at him flatly, but hands it over anyway. "Thanks. You like him, right?" He sounds offhand, but when Clint spares him a quick glance, Tony is gazing down at his plate, pushing around his food and appearing as if he couldn't care less what Clint's answer might be.
"What, you need my stamp of approval?" Clint asks, amused and incredulous until he recalls that Stark actually installed a new, bigger shower into his bathroom to create more sprays of water for the wings (even though it's still a huge hassle to get them clean). Stark did that without asking Clint... and it's a great help.
"Icarus is fantastic," Clint says now without a trace of sarcasm, and Icarus-One beeps in muted delight. "Yeah, buddy, you are."
"Good to hear." Tony rocks his head from side-to-side, couldn't-care-less and all, wriggles a little in his seat and then says, "Hey, Natasha, if you want a little bot-buddy for yourself--"
"I'll make do," Nat says, sharp even though there's a reluctant little smile shading the sides of her mouth.
"Okay." Clint gets up, taking up the plates of those obviously finished (or who didn't really eat but spent most of the time on their phones, RE: Stark), bringing them over to the sink. He lifts his shoulders, wings shuffling quietly, and Icarus-One chases happily around his feet. "Time to get these clean," he says out loud.
"Where are you going?" he hears Stark ask, because Stark. The rest of them have gone oddly silent, and Clint knows that Phil has gotten to his feet as well, probably brushing down the front of his suit with quick fastidiousness. Clint turns around to face them, and everyone is looking between the two of them with great interest.
"I've assigned myself to wing-cleaning duty," Phil says. "Or does anyone else want to volunteer for today's task?"
There is a chorus of mostly intense negation, Nat the loudest, and then Bruce in the middle of it all, going, "I mean, Phil, if you really need the help--"
Nat and Clint say, quickly and at the same time, "He doesn't."
Bruce purses his lips, but his eyes are bright.
After a few heavy beats, Phil says, "Apparently, I don't. Good to know. Clint?" He strolls out of the kitchen with those quiet steps of his, head held in a resolute fashion, gaze fixed mildly into the middle-distance. Clint tries to look nonchalant as he follows, giving them all a single careless nod as he exits, but there are too many wide eyes and raised eyebrows (and a kind of wide-eyed faux innocence from Nat, which is simultaneously endearing and annoying). Avengers might be extremely good at smashing evil objects into very small pieces, but they're also extremely smart people, and hardly miss things. Icarus-One follows behind him, and then carefully pulls the door shut on their fixed expression, before speeding after him.
"You're such a good boy," Clint tells him.
"Standard accepted," Icarus-One agrees in a low but fervent little voice. "Parameters widened: Icarus-One is the best." It tilts its armature at him in a kind of jaunty farewell, and speeds off to the elevator, presumably to charge in Stark's labs.
Clint rolls his eyes; the bot is just like Phyllis, all efficient flash and ego overlaid with a thick slab of general cute; quite like Stark, if Clint is really going to go there.
He isn't, though. He's following Phil to his own room, the tips of his wings dragging along the carpeted floor. Now and again, they flutter up in what seems to be some sort of irrepressible anticipation, especially when he notes the skin at the back of Phil's neck, or the way the tips of Phil's ears have gone pink as they reach Clint's door. Clint reaches around him, stroking his finger over the access-pad. He doesn't mean to do it in any sensual way, he's just opening his door, but Phil inhales sharply and Clint feels a little dizzy. If it had been anyone else, and they did that little quick intake of breath at the sight of Clint's fingers moving over those tiny lit buttons, Clint would have been pulling out every erotic stop he had, and he knows quite a lot: murmuring how hot the person is, putting his hand in the small of their back, guiding them into his room.
But this is Phil, and Clint can't think of any suave thing to say. His mind is completely blank. It's like he's a teenager again, faced with the bright smile of his first crush. Clint can't be suave now to save his life; if a mission comes up now, and Clint has to be suave to complete the mission, they'd be in some serious trouble, because all he can do is follow Phil inside when the door slides open, switch on the lights and look around as if he's never seen this space that's become a part of his understanding of home.
"So," Phil says, turning around, hands clasped calmly in front of himself. "Where do we begin?"
His gaze is steady, but expectantly warm. Clint clears his throat, swallows and rubs the back of his neck with one hand.
"I think we should begin with making sure you don't get that suit wet," he says, and his own voice sounds rough to his ears. Phil blinks slowly, once. So many innuendos, so little time and Clint can't even voice one right now. "I'll lend you a pair of my sweatpants."
"Sounds good." Phil's voice is so very soft, and Clint feels heat flush up his neck and his face. He turns into his room before he can combust, and pulls open the second drawer from the top, pulling out one of the neatly folded sweatpants. When he goes back out into the really nice living-area, Phil has already removed his jacket and tie, folding them neatly and placing them the back of an armchair. He's unbuttoning his shirt and, when their eyes meet, he smiles, a fleeting lift of his lips.
Clint smiles back, looking right in his face. He can't look down now. If he gets a glimpse of Phil's chest, sees him without the armour of his suit, he's not going to be accountable for his actions.
"I'll be in the bathroom. Come when you're ready," he says, and basically flees.
He strips in the bathroom, to his boxers, his wings getting in the way as he struggles with his shirt, and he turns around and around, aware where all the washing things are stored and not knowing which one he should get first. He sets out the liquid soap and the long-handled brush just in time for Phil's quick knock.
"Yeah, ready," he says, and sits on the edge of the tub. It's a wide thing, made to look like something antique with the claw-feet; it's also positioned away from the wall, so someone can stand on the other side if they're helping him. He looks up as Phil stands beside him, bending over to run the water and get a tolerable temperature.
Clint knew that Phil would have removed his shirt, but this knowledge is simply not enough to arm him for the reality of Phil's bare chest, the solid masculinity of his arms and shoulders. He looks his fill; that is totally a play on words, and Clint is unashamed to own it right now.
Phil glances down at him. His eyes seem darker than usual, more intent as they fix on Clint's face. Clint can't catch a breath for a moment, and he feels an odd mixture of disappointment and relief when Phil glances away to a point over his head. Clint looks up too, not surprised to see the wings arched up, angled almost hesitantly towards Phil. Clint doesn't stop them from stroking over Phil's chest, delicately trailing over his arms, tickling through the spattering of grey and black hair on his chest. Clint can feel his muscles through the wings, the warm texture of his skin. Phil reaches up, runs his hands through the dark feathers and Clint barely restrains a full-body shiver.
"Let's--" Phil's voice sounds hoarse, and he clears his throat. "Let's get these clean."
"Sure," Clint whispers, staring down at the cool tiles as Phil walks around to the other side of the tub. He straightens from his hunched-over position when he hears the rattling sound of the showerhead being pulled out, and the muted thumps of Phil moving the soap and brush closer to himself.
Phil is so careful. Natasha had been, too, but there had been a brisk efficiency to her movements, at least until she'd managed to touch some nerve and one of Clint's wings had snapped back quicker than she could have reacted, smacking her across the face. It had been kind of funny until she'd put him into a headlock.
Right now, though, Phil is shifting up each feather with acute gentleness, letting soapy water course over them. Every layer is getting all of his focus, it's flowing over Clint as easily as the water over his wings, and he has never felt so comfortable in his life. A finger trails down the valley of his spine and Clint arches his back, lips parted in a soundless moan of pleasure, because the wings are anchored near there and that location is ridiculously sensitive.
Phil goes back to cleaning Clint's wings, focusing on the outer feathers, the ones near the edges. Those are the ones that tend to fall out. Clint shrugs in a quick stretch and Phil touches him again, resting a big warm hand on Clint's shoulder before sliding it up to briefly cup the side of his neck.
"Good so far?" Phil murmurs and Clint nods. "How about if I..."
His lips press against Clint's neck, on the other side from his fingers and that fragile wall that's been holding back everything in Clint just breaks into small pieces, an explosion of rubble. He's turned around so fast that he's not quite sure how he's done it, and he's managed to do it without clocking Phil with one of the wet wings. Phil's face is a study in that infuriating control that Clint admires so much, but there's heat in his eyes and his lips are parted as he reaches out and cups Clint's face, pulling him close.
Clint sighs when their lips meet. Sighs, like he's taking his first sip of cool water after days and nights of a sand-bound mission. He grabs Phil's bare shoulders, they're warm and solid under his palms, and they're tumbling and turning, the wings a thick layer around them; they end up with Phil underneath him in the tub, skin and sweatpants wet. Clint can feel the hot line of Phil's cock pressing against his thigh, and he can't help but rock his hips down, and nibble the lobe of Phil's ear.
"As amazing as this is," Phil murmured and made a funny sound when Clint did that little roll with his hips again. "I didn't think the first time I had sex with you would be in your bathtub."
Clint goes completely still for a few beats, Phil's soft tone sinking into his heated brain. He finally manages to pull back, looking down at Phil's face, blinking.
"You've thought about having sex with me?" he asks, and he doesn't care how he sounds, his voice spiralling up at the end of his sentence in surprised pleasure.
There is a small smile twitching at the corner of Phil's mouth, even though the rest of his expression looks as if he's torn between disbelief at the words coming out of Clint's mouth, and an overwhelming urge to put Clint in his pocket and take him everywhere. "Of course," he says, and he sounds so matter-of-fact, even though his mouth is kiss-swollen. "Of course I have, Clint. More than is probably healthy, I would say."
Seriously, Clint wants to keep him forever.
"Let me finish this bath and get these wings dry," he says, and touches the side of Phil's face, feeling the faint rise of stubble underneath the pads of his fingers. "And then you can choose if we continue this here, or in my bed."
Not his smoothest line, and that's evidenced by the way Phil laughs up at him, his eyes sparkling.
"As nice as this bathtub is," Phil says, sitting up and pecking Clint quickly on his mouth. "The bed sounds more attractive."
"You got it, boss." Clint gets up off him, and clambers out of the tub, trying his best not to drip water all over the place. It's a failed mission, and the cleaning bots zoom out of their slots in the lower parts of the wall, hurriedly mopping up the water before trundling back to their resting places.
"Thanks, guys," Clint says as he heads towards the shower tucked into the corner. "Hey, Phil, you want to--" He turns around, and blinks at Phil standing right behind him, in a rather naked way.
"Share the shower?" His lips crook into the smile that Clint had fallen in love with the first time he saw it, and had made sure to see it again and again; Phil smiles a lot more easily than people think.
Clint murmurs, "I'm sure Stark could spare the cash if we showered separately."
Phil's smile grows a little more. "But there's no harm in helping out, right?"
Clint kisses him, not letting their lips part even as he pulls off his own loose sweatpants and then entwining himself around Phil's solid frame, revelling in the heat and warm musk, the press of their pricks together. The shower is mostly laughing and trying to push the wings out of the way, for they insist on being on Phil's body, stroking tenderly over the years of scars and muscle, a single tattoo on his upper right bicep, a few burns; they hesitate over the stretch of ruined flesh in the middle of Phil's back.
"It's okay," Phil murmurs against the side of his neck. He has his back to the cascading water, and his hair is wet under Clint's searching fingers, while the wings mourn over the immutable destruction on the beautiful landscape of Phil's skin. "It's fine, Clint."
"It wasn't." Clint shudders at the memory of shock and pain when Fury reported that Phil had died, and a kind of muted joy when the one-eyed manipulative bastard had casually added that untested Tesseract technology had revived and sustained Phil's body, helping it repair itself. Between the city-cleanup, the psych-evals and the mistrustful stares from nearly everyone except other Avengers, his refuge had been beside Phil's bed.
"It's fine now," Phil says, and his hands slip down Clint's back, grabbing handfuls of ass and squeezing, pulling the cheeks apart slightly. "Isn't it?"
Clint can feel Phil's eyelashes brushing against his neck and he says, "It's so fine right now."
It's hard to untangle himself from Phil's body, and stop kissing Phil for a moment so he can dry the wings; the wings themselves reach back for Phil when Clint heads towards the enclosed balcony, all needy and feathery, and Phil laughs a little. The balcony wraps around both the bathroom and bedroom, and Clint has access from both areas. He hits a button, and a reinforced glass panel slides open, the sound of the servos mixing with the excited chittering of the cleaning-bots, chasing the droplets of water from Clint's wings. Clint hopes that the bots don't gossip with each other; he feels that Icarus is a jealous kind of AI.
He steps out onto the balcony, with its large panels of textured glass, and hits another button on the outside panel. The roof of the balcony slides open, letting in the air and noise of the city. Clint flaps his wings over and over, and not for the first time fights against the feeling of lift that comes with that action. The wings strain to go faster, but Clint reins in that alien and yet familiar instinct to just go up.
"All good?" Phil is standing at the door to the bedroom, staring at Clint's drying operations with bright-eyed interest. "They're so beautiful."
"They're from him," Clint says, but it doesn't come out as the curt warning he'd intended. He can't be curt to Phil, especially when he's closing in on him with great intent, gaze roaming over the strong, capable body.
"They're on you," is all Phil has to say, allowing himself to be backed up towards Clint's bed and pushed into it. He spreads his legs and Clint settles in between them, rubbing against him with all the demanding suppleness of a cat. The noises Phil makes are so gratifying and such a turn-on, Clint isn't sure what he wants to experience first.
"What--" Clint swallows so hard that he hears his throat click. "What do you want, baby?"
Phil sighs at the endearment that falls so easily from Clint and rocks his hips up. "Whatever you want."
"You're giving me a lot of leeway here, sir," Clint says, ducking down to lick one brown nipple, feeling it tighten even more in his mouth. He makes his way down Phil's body, which is making these little twitches as if it wants to jerk out of control at Clint's kisses, and Phil is exerting an iron fist over the entire operation. Clint finally gets to his hard dick, and licks a wet stripe up the side of it, warm-soft and yet hard on his tongue. He glances up and finds Phil up on his elbows, gaze locked on him, lips parted. Clint's wings, those damned wings, are arched up and touching Phil's shoulders and arms and wrists and stomach with loving delicacy. Clint would have been extremely annoyed and irrationally jealous if they hadn't been transmitting the sensation of Phil's body directly to the pleasure-centres of his brain, and he forgives them a little. A lot.
Phil doesn't moan when Clint swallows him down abruptly, but he trembles and the fingers of one hand card through Clint's short hair; not forcing his head down but just there, a warm weight on Clint's head. Clint goes to town on him, nipping at the sweaty skin at the crease of leg and groin, suckling his balls and generally enjoying himself immensely. He loves doing this, and giving head to Phil is just the pinnacle of all Head Giving right now, because with every lick and muffled groan of delight that Clint lets out, layers of Phil's composure strip away, until he's writhing under Clint, and his hand is fisting in Clint's hair.
"Yes," Phil says, and his voice says. "Clint, fuck, yes," and it's the tone of voice that causes Clint to shiver, not the cursing in particular (because he's heard Phil curse over comms before, along the lines of wait til I get back to HQ and have one or two fucking words with Intel about this clusterfuck). It's low and willingly lost, as if Clint has him trapped somewhere he's glad to be. Clint is ready for him, warned by the way his body goes still and tense, silent because that's how he's trained, and Clint swallows down the rush of his come.
Phil lies there, eyes closed and breathing hard as Clint comes back up and hovers over him. Clint kisses the corner of his mouth, smiling as Phil turns his face towards Clint's lips demandingly.
"My turn," Phil says and turns them over with rapid ease. Clint's wings snap out to either side so that he doesn't land on them, and as soon as Phil kisses his stomach, the feathers are greedily touching his body again. Clint says all kind of foolishness, mainly of Phil's name and his amazing body and how amazing he is, in general, and it's going so well until Phil stops.
"Can I help you?" Phil asks and Clint raises his head and blinks at Icarus-One, who has his camera extended so he can see over the top of the bed.
"Hello, Clint Barton codename Hawkeye," Icarus-One says, twirling one damp feather in his claw-arm delicately. "Hello Phil Coulson codename Agent," and Clint can't decide whether to smile or scowl. "Is Phil Coulson assisting Icarus-One with Clint Barton's discarded feathers?"
"Yes," Clint says, just as Phil answers, "No."
"Evaluating responses," Icarus-One says and Clint is so hard he might pull a muscle. Phil is breathing on him, gentle and infuriating puffs of air. Icarus-One's camera clicks. "Accessing mainframe. Initiating comparative analysis with known data. Clint Barton, it seems as if you are being fellated by Phil Coulson. Confirm?"
"I am indeed being fellated," Clint answers from between clenched teeth. Icarus-One's camera tilts questioningly. "And I'd really love it if Phil Coulson completes this task."
Phil stifles a laugh against Clint's hip.
"Is the completion of this task necessary for optimum execution of Clint Barton's system commands?"
"Very," Clint chokes out and then says, "Can you go back to charging, Icarus? I'll call you when, uh, when we're finished."
"Icarus-One is fully charged," the little bot insists.
"Icarus-One, please stand down unto this task is complete," Phil says. There's a hint of amused command in his tone. "This task is done in private, and will keep Clint Barton codename Hawkeye happy. Do you understand the concept of happy?"
"No," Icarus-One answers, but his camera is descending and he's wheeling away, determined. "I will ask Jarvis."
"I'd love to be a fly on the wall for that conversation," Phil says as the bedroom door closes behind the little robot. Clint twitches imperiously, waggling his eyebrows as Phil peers up at him. Phil licks his lips and ducks his head back down.
Clint wants to close his eyes, lean back his head and just enjoy Phil's mouth on him, but he struggles up to his elbows, touching Phil's lips spread over his cock. His wings, his heart in feathered form, settle on Phil's shoulders, fluttering up briefly as he comes.
.:.
Breakfast isn't a complete disaster because Thor's finally come home to the Tower. As it is, Clint has to endure a wave of smug from both Nat and Stark (who is always smug by default, so this is probably a double-dose), and contemplative stares from Steve and Bruce.
"Icarus-One has been pretty curious about a few things," Stark says, eyes glittering in amusement over the top of his oversized coffee-cup. "Poor Jarvis had an attack of the vapours."
"I certainly did not, sir," Jarvis says. "I was simply unprepared for Icarus-One's line of questioning."
Stark says, "Weren't we all," and laughs in a soft way that predicts lots of friendly blackmail in the near future. Clint looks at him, thoughtfully. Stark doesn't laugh like this in public, he realises, and that's a nice enough thought.
Phil, who is dressed in a new pair of Clint's sweatpants and a t-shirt that proclaims that AGENTS DO IT SECRETLY, carries with him that shield of unflappability as he rustles up two plates of breakfast and sets one in front of Clint.
"At least I can report to Director Fury that Clint’s wings do not pose any harm to the team," Phil says, quite casually as he pours coffee. "At least, not to me."
Clint hasn't blushed in years. He's not about to start now, but he does duck his head and feels his cheeks get slightly warm. The wings wriggle on his back, shushing quietly.
"Right," Stark drawls, and slurps his coffee.
Thor blows into the room like a screaming nor'easter, hair going in every direction.
"Good morning!" he bellows, even though he seems a bit more subdued than the usual. "I hope everyone has broken their fast satisfactorily!" His gaze lands on Clint, and becomes wary, as if he expects Clint to be angry, or distant. "Hello, Friend Clint. My brother has given you an interesting... gift."
"Yeah, he did," Clint says easily, and offers a small smile. "Anyway, welcome back. We missed you, man."
Thor blinks, and then a responding smile dawns on his face, as sweet as the morning.
"I missed you too," Phil says, and Thor has the good grace to appear chagrined. "I missed you on the team, and I certainly missed your report concerning your most recent chase after your brother."
Thor adopts his Storytelling Stance. It's quite a stance, and everyone focuses on him, because he isn't bad on the telling-stories thing, not bad at all; additionally, he fills out his reports the same way he tells stories, which is all kinds of hilarious because it makes Phil sigh with aggravated affection.
"I chased my brother Loki through glen and meadow, through shade and shadow," he murmurs, and Clint feels the air grow cool. Thor is that good, seriously. "I kept at his heels through stars and the spaces between them. And yet--" he shrugs, a quick movement of those massive shoulders. "He would not tell me the secret of removing those wings, as fine as they are, from Hawkeye. I am sorry," he says, directly to Clint, and Clint blinks at him.
"You were on his case for me?"
"Yes," Thor answers, and visibly brightens as Bruce slips a massive plate of food in front of him. "Many thanks!" he cries and dives in. Clint just looks at him, and then glances at Phil, who twitches his eyebrows and goes back to a discussion he'd been having with Nat.
"Well," Clint says, dragging his way through the word, "Thor, it's... thanks, I guess. I'm getting used to the wings, in any case."
"And other things." There's a big laugh lurking beneath the calm surface of Thor's words and he glances from Clint to Phil. "I am glad," he says, quite simply, and Clint has to remind himself that as big and happy-go-lucky Thor is, he's not blind, and he can't miss the way Phil is sitting close to him, dressed in clothing Clint owns. Nor can he (or anyone else) miss how the wing nearest to Phil is draped across his back, comfortably yet alert, as if shielding him from any attack that might happen while they're all here at the table.
Clint makes no effort to move the wing. Phil glances at him out of the corner of his eye, and there's a brief flash of sly sensuality that's here and gone in a bare second. Clint presses the wing a little into his back, and the side of Phil's mouth twitches, briefly.
"It's not like they work, anyway," Clint says, reluctantly dragging his attention away from Phil. "So, in the grand scheme of things: not a big deal."
"Why would you think the wings do not work?" Thor asks, so curious that he's forgotten about the massive forkful of pancakes he was about to put in his mouth.
"Because, physics," Stark says, and both he and Bruce open their mouth to let explanations flow through like a massive waterfall of science. Thor holds up one hand and makes a chopping movement in the air. Shockingly, the waterfall of science dries up.
"I have heard of Midgardian physics from my Jane," Thor says, and his tone is long-suffering and dry. "But these wings are from Loki," and he stares at Clint intently. "They are a gift from a god. Why would they not work?"
Clint looks at the Science Conglomerate, which manages to look doubtful and intrigued at the same time. Thor has that expression on his face that means he's thinking: Tiny Midgardians and their science. So very adorable.
"Suit up, Tony," Steve says, grinning a little. "Flyboy has some wings to test, here."
.:.
"So, you'll catch me if these don't work," Clint calls down to Stark, who is hovering in the middle of the massive Atrium, repulsors flaring brightly at his feet. "I'll jump, try to fly, and if they fail, you catch me."
"That's the plan," Stark answers, voice bored through the comms. "You give it a shot, and if you fall like a rock, I'll catch you. If I miss, and I won't, but anyway Thor's the backup."
The Atrium is massive; it's an internal core in the Stark Tower that spans nearly the entire height of structure, starting from the ground floor and going up to right below the penthouses. It's wide and airy thanks to screened air-vents between the main external supports. It's lunch-time; Clint is all suited up in gear designed to accommodate the wings, something Stark had worked on in his 'spare time' (whenever that is), and he really appreciates how it fastens around where the wings connect to his back without leaving any of his skin exposed or catching on the joint.
At the ground floor, Clint can see Thor, Steve, Nat, Bruce and Phil staring up at him; Stark had asked the building security to close off the ground floor to all public movement for an hour or so. The building security, obviously used to Stark's weird requests, had simply responded with, "Sure thing, Mr. Stark," and now it's just the Avengers and this weird experiment. Clint's standing at the inner balcony of one of Stark's offices, his gaze noting important details such as hey, he's really high and while he isn't afraid of heights, he has a healthy fear of what happens at the end of such a long drop. However, he's got his team watching his back. They wouldn't let him fall, and he knows that very well.
"Okay," he says quietly to himself, although he knows everyone can hear him. He'd endured a rapid lecture from Stark and Bruce about how hinged wings are different from the fixed nature of machines like the Quinjet, and then there'd been a rapid discussion between them discussing just how different Clint's body was from that of a bird and all the ways this shouldn't even work, until Thor had laughed them into contemplative muttering. Thor's idly twirling his hammer as if he fully expects not to use it, and it's easy for Clint to see his excited grin.
"Okay," Clint repeats and then doesn't give himself a chance to second-guess. He launches himself, trying to aim for the middle of the Atrium. There's a series of confusing, terrifying beats where Clint has no idea where up is and, more importantly, where the ground is, and the wings are struggling too much, quivering and beating uselessly. I won't make it, he tells himself and then he... relaxes. It's okay. Thor or Stark will catch him, and if they miss (and they won't), then Steve or Bruce will get him. Even Nat and Phil will do something, and it's okay. They've got him.
He's in the middle of this refreshing set of thoughts when he realises that he's gliding, and the wings beat mightily, once, twice and he's going up. He can barely register Thor's triumphant whooping and Bruce's soft, "Huh. They work," and Stark's joyous cursing, because he's trying to explain to his own brain that he's flying, it's exhilarating and scary and it's like falling in love, as corny as that is.
He's flying. There's made wind in his face and tears being torn away from his eyes as he swoops and dives. The walls of the Atrium are a blur of blue glass and silver metal, but his brain and eyes are making rapid adjustments, and he itches to try shooting at targets while he's flying. He knows he can do it.
He descends in graceful spirals, wings held at a taut angle. He lands, a bit more heavily than he would have liked but hey, stuff like that takes practice. He's grinning and breathless and there are muscles in his back that are very confused right now but not overly concerned; Phil's arms are around him, squeezing him close and Nat's as well. She's shouting in Russian, something she only ever does when drugged, upset or excited and she's talking so fast that he catches one word out of ten. That one word is beautiful.
Steve pats him on the back when Phil and Nat finally release him, and there's a pride in his eyes that makes Clint stand up a little straighter, the wings shaking out once, then folding neatly at his back.
"Got my eyes back, and better than ever," Steve says, and he sounds so relieved as Stark lands beside him, face-plate sliding back to reveal that shit-eating grin. "I'm real glad."
Clint glances around his team, and he's laughing a little, Phil's hand in his.
"Yeah," he says. "So am I."
.:.
Action-figures are always cool, no matter how Nat and Bruce sneer at them. A whole new line comes out with the winged Hawkeye as part of the set, and the wings are fully articulated. Nat keeps a few in her room, for laughs, and even Phil has a Hawkeye in the bottom drawer of his desk at S.H.I.E.L.D.'s HQ. People are used to Thor and Doombots and alien monsters nowadays, so the sight of Hawkeye soaring over the city is not that much of a big deal. Undercover missions are not for him anymore, and somehow Clint is okay with that. He's less okay with the fact that he's more recognizable than ever, more distinct, and he gets irritated at that sometimes. Additionally, adults think they can just touch his wings on the tiresome meet-and-greets, yank on the feathers, and Clint hates that.
From the way they react, fluttering up menacingly, the wings hate that too. Children are far more circumspect, and for that reason, Clint will hold out a wing at the meet-and-greets and their little fingers hover over the thick blanket of feathers, barely touching. Their eyes are always wide and the wings are always calm, quiet; sweet, even.
When Phil spends the night, the wings are almost too sappy for Clint to take. They enfold Phil, they gather his sleeping body close enough for Clint to touch with his own hands. Once, Phil complained that all the feathers against his skin made him hot, and one wing spent about fifteen minutes gently flapping, moving cool air over Phil's body. It was ridiculous, seriously, and Clint could hardly believe himself.
Icarus-One continues to be the most talented cock-blocker ever built by Tony Stark. He's also incredibly bossy for such a small bot, and is often the source of great mischief in Tony's labs using Clint's feathers...mainly because Phil knows how to word very specific commands. The other bots have bigger claws, and they can't get out the feathers from the crevices where Icarus-One stuffs them. Stark spends two weeks fitting them with narrower appendages, and Icarus-One starts putting the feathers in Steve's clothing. Even Fury thinks it’s hilarious when black feathers drift out of the pockets of Steve's leather jacket during one hasty meeting. It's a fair repayment for all those cupid jokes, in Clint's humble opinion.
Loki, of course, comes back.
.:.
There was a time when Loki's movements were a source of intense frustration for the Intel division, because Loki is so unpredictable. Now, Intel has Clint, because...well, here's the thing, and Clint doesn't like it one bit but that's how life goes: Clint can feel when Loki is in this plane. It isn't something overt, like a voice giving commands in his head, but he gets a very specific tingling sensation under his skin; now, with the wings, he also feels it in the feathers, a fine tremor that can actually point in the general direction of Loki's ingress. Intel is ecstatic over this new talent, but sometimes Loki just pops into this plane to sightsee, and then he's gone again within moments.
This generally drives the Intel division up the wall.
This time around, Loki isn't here for a random jaunt; he's brought along a creature that's about forty stories tall, with slimy purple tentacles and seven sharp beaks. Loki says it's his Special Friend. Clint would love to vocalise his opinions of Loki's choice of acquaintances, but he's busy flying from one vantage point to the next, calling out patterns to Cap, and trying not to let the slime get on his wings. Thor and Hulk are right in the middle of the tentacles, ripping them off and attacking the ones that grow to take their place. Stark and Nat are planting bombs, but the creature keeps finding them and muffling the explosions with its many arms, slapping down on the concrete pavements with a thick, meaty sound.
Clint lands right next to Phil for a quick beat, pulling back the tinted flight-goggles he now wears. He just needs five seconds to catch his breath and get an eyeful of Phil to bolster himself for the rest of the fight, and because his luck is so extreme (either very good or very bad), a murder of Lokis shimmers around them, the same knife-edge of a smile on every narrow face.
"Let me see if I can get it right this time," one of the Lokis says, and the idle tone echoes all around this corner Phil is using as mission control. The sceptre is heading towards Phil's back again. Clint can't see it, but he knows, oh he knows, and he's not going to let it happen again.
His left wing strikes out, completely out of instinct and he feels the cool shaft of the staff against the feathers, knocking it away from its trajectory towards Phil's back. Loki says something in a crisp language that Clint is sure isn't of this planet, but he's not focusing on that now. Clint hustles backwards and the wing sweeps Phil back as well, cradling him against the nearest concrete wall.
"Hawkeye!" Phil shouts, and there's a blast of energy from yet another Loki. Clint's remaining wing curls up in front of his own face, the feathers splayed wide. The bright-blue crackling ball strikes and... dissipates.
"Hmm." Loki sounds casually contemplative. "That really shouldn't happen."
Phil frees his arm from the weight of Clint's feathers, cocks a harmless-looking revolver and fires a series of tiny red fireworks; it's probably Asgardian technology, for the fireworks cause about half of the Loki-clones to pop out of existence. Clint leaps towards the Lokis and tries a close-range move he's developed with Nat's help during their sparring sessions: a spin that includes the wings held out stiffly, and they're as dangerous as machete-blades. More of the Lokis fade out of sight, and Clint zeroes in on the real one, actually getting him in the face with a reverse heel kick before falling back, and grabbing onto Phil.
Loki recovers from his stagger after Clint's surprising strike. He is, quite understandably, incensed. His face contorts and the pale skin darkens around his eyes. His hand is outstretched, the sceptre an extension of his will and power. The ball is glowing and Clint presses his mouth to Phil's cheek and says, "Sir. Phil, I--" before the wings wrap around them both.
In a rather distant fashion, he feels a baleful cascade of energy around him, and the wings respond, solidifying like a wall. Phil is pressed against him, and Clint pulls him even closer.
After a few moments, he doesn't feel anything through the wings. The feathers soften and he folds his wings back, cautiously. Loki is standing there, just a few feet at them, shaking his sceptre as if its battery is running low or something.
"I tried to call them back, you know," he says, and gives the sceptre a threatening jiggle. "They refused. Freely given, freely received and all that."
"Wh--what?" Clint croaks. Loki has this way of making everything feel surreal. Loki pouts at him, almost playfully and the off-kilter sensation deepens. Beside him, Phil is a cool oasis of calm.
"The wings, Hawkeye. Try to keep up." Loki glances around, and glares in the direction of his Special Friend, which is finally collapsing under the effect of more bombs than it can handle, and repulsor blasts. "I suppose this is what Midgardians call a draw. When my own magic doesn't obey me, it's best to call it a night, I would say."
"Loki," Phil says beside Clint, very calmly, and Loki's cool gaze cuts to him briefly. There's something in the very back of those dark eyes, a flicker of what seems to be grudging admiration. Loki smiles, a show of all teeth and little else.
Softly, he says "Keep your little hawk close, Agent."
"I will," Phil says, a promise and a threat all in one, and the back of his hand brushes against Clint's. Clint spots their shadows on the pavement, created by the blaze of a nearby fire. He can see the shape of his wings, upraised and threatening: one is curved around Phil's body, not quite touching (he'd feel the material of Phil's suit) and the other is held out at a stiff angle, ready to strike out in their defence. Clint meets Loki's gaze directly, and Loki inclines his head, a bare mocking nod.
"Be very good, my dears," Loki says, and laughs as he fades out of sight like the Cheshire cat, from the feet up, grin going last. "Until we meet once more."
He's gone, like a bad dream, and his Special Friend fades away as well, leaving behind a city-wide swath of silent devastation as only Loki can. Clint pulls his wings in, folds them at his back and feels the feathers shiver.
"Hawkeye, you were about to say something before your wings protected us," Phil says, checking his fire-arm and doing whatever it is he has to do to reload those effective tiny fireworks. He looks at Clint when he's finished. His face is dirty, his tie askew and there's a deep scratch at the back of one hand. Yet, his gaze is clear and assessing, and he's the loveliest thing Clint has ever laid eyes on. "What was it?"
"I'll tell you later, sir. But I think you already know," Clint says. He dives in for a quick kiss and takes off before Phil can reprimand him for his horrible lack of protocol. After a short run, the wings beat once, twice and then he's in the air, buildings fall away around him: the taste of Phil on his lips, wings held wide.
fin
The title comes from wing-related words/phrases:
The alula, or bastard wing, is a small projection on the anterior edge of the wing of modern (and some ancient) birds. The word is Latin and means "winglet"...
When gliding, both birds and gliders obtain both a vertical and a forward force from their wings.
Yay Wikipedia!
"His name's not Feather-bot, what the hell," Tony complains as they eat dinner around the smaller dining-table, because as anti-social as Tony claims to be, he has this thing where he likes eating with everyone, revelling in their annoyed attention. "Didn't he tell you? Didn't you tell them your name?" he directs at Feather-bot, planted at a spot between Phil and Clint's chairs, a few feet back. Feather-bot's camera clicks nervously. "Come on, tell them. I gave you voice-protocols for a reason, kiddo."
"Sir," Jarvis says, "he's actually quite shy."
"No bot of mine is ever shy," Tony claims, jabbing a finger at the ceiling. "Have you met me?"
"I have, sir," Jarvis says, patient and long-suffering.
"If he doesn't want to tell me his name, that's fine," Clint says, poking at his salad. "He's Feather-bot, and that's enough for me."
"He works really hard," Steve says, cutting through a massive slab of steak. "No more feathers all over the place," and he laughs a little at Clint's half-hearted glare. "I found feathers in the toaster, Clint, seriously. The small ones."
"Of course he works hard." Tony sniffs dismissively and then sits up, glaring over the top of the table at Feather-bot. "Hey," he demands, and Feather-bot's armature tilts up. "Name and rank, buddy."
Clint gazes back at the miniature robot, which seems to square itself under his regard.
"Icarus-One," it says in a very scratchy voice, sounding like a very young version of Jarvis. Clint feels inordinately proud of the little thing. It's too cute for its own good. "Hello, I am Icarus-One," he says, brightly. "Icarus-One!"
"Icarus." Bruce nibbles on his corn. "Surprisingly imaginative."
"I really do aim to please," Tony says, grinning, and Icarus crows his name again in his tiny, fervent voice. "Okay, that's enough."
"Icarus-One," Icarus mutters, whirls in a tight circle and then remains still.
"He'll come down to the workshop on his own to charge," Tony says, and makes grabby hands for the mashed potatoes. Nat stares at him flatly, but hands it over anyway. "Thanks. You like him, right?" He sounds offhand, but when Clint spares him a quick glance, Tony is gazing down at his plate, pushing around his food and appearing as if he couldn't care less what Clint's answer might be.
"What, you need my stamp of approval?" Clint asks, amused and incredulous until he recalls that Stark actually installed a new, bigger shower into his bathroom to create more sprays of water for the wings (even though it's still a huge hassle to get them clean). Stark did that without asking Clint... and it's a great help.
"Icarus is fantastic," Clint says now without a trace of sarcasm, and Icarus-One beeps in muted delight. "Yeah, buddy, you are."
"Good to hear." Tony rocks his head from side-to-side, couldn't-care-less and all, wriggles a little in his seat and then says, "Hey, Natasha, if you want a little bot-buddy for yourself--"
"I'll make do," Nat says, sharp even though there's a reluctant little smile shading the sides of her mouth.
"Okay." Clint gets up, taking up the plates of those obviously finished (or who didn't really eat but spent most of the time on their phones, RE: Stark), bringing them over to the sink. He lifts his shoulders, wings shuffling quietly, and Icarus-One chases happily around his feet. "Time to get these clean," he says out loud.
"Where are you going?" he hears Stark ask, because Stark. The rest of them have gone oddly silent, and Clint knows that Phil has gotten to his feet as well, probably brushing down the front of his suit with quick fastidiousness. Clint turns around to face them, and everyone is looking between the two of them with great interest.
"I've assigned myself to wing-cleaning duty," Phil says. "Or does anyone else want to volunteer for today's task?"
There is a chorus of mostly intense negation, Nat the loudest, and then Bruce in the middle of it all, going, "I mean, Phil, if you really need the help--"
Nat and Clint say, quickly and at the same time, "He doesn't."
Bruce purses his lips, but his eyes are bright.
After a few heavy beats, Phil says, "Apparently, I don't. Good to know. Clint?" He strolls out of the kitchen with those quiet steps of his, head held in a resolute fashion, gaze fixed mildly into the middle-distance. Clint tries to look nonchalant as he follows, giving them all a single careless nod as he exits, but there are too many wide eyes and raised eyebrows (and a kind of wide-eyed faux innocence from Nat, which is simultaneously endearing and annoying). Avengers might be extremely good at smashing evil objects into very small pieces, but they're also extremely smart people, and hardly miss things. Icarus-One follows behind him, and then carefully pulls the door shut on their fixed expression, before speeding after him.
"You're such a good boy," Clint tells him.
"Standard accepted," Icarus-One agrees in a low but fervent little voice. "Parameters widened: Icarus-One is the best." It tilts its armature at him in a kind of jaunty farewell, and speeds off to the elevator, presumably to charge in Stark's labs.
Clint rolls his eyes; the bot is just like Phyllis, all efficient flash and ego overlaid with a thick slab of general cute; quite like Stark, if Clint is really going to go there.
He isn't, though. He's following Phil to his own room, the tips of his wings dragging along the carpeted floor. Now and again, they flutter up in what seems to be some sort of irrepressible anticipation, especially when he notes the skin at the back of Phil's neck, or the way the tips of Phil's ears have gone pink as they reach Clint's door. Clint reaches around him, stroking his finger over the access-pad. He doesn't mean to do it in any sensual way, he's just opening his door, but Phil inhales sharply and Clint feels a little dizzy. If it had been anyone else, and they did that little quick intake of breath at the sight of Clint's fingers moving over those tiny lit buttons, Clint would have been pulling out every erotic stop he had, and he knows quite a lot: murmuring how hot the person is, putting his hand in the small of their back, guiding them into his room.
But this is Phil, and Clint can't think of any suave thing to say. His mind is completely blank. It's like he's a teenager again, faced with the bright smile of his first crush. Clint can't be suave now to save his life; if a mission comes up now, and Clint has to be suave to complete the mission, they'd be in some serious trouble, because all he can do is follow Phil inside when the door slides open, switch on the lights and look around as if he's never seen this space that's become a part of his understanding of home.
"So," Phil says, turning around, hands clasped calmly in front of himself. "Where do we begin?"
His gaze is steady, but expectantly warm. Clint clears his throat, swallows and rubs the back of his neck with one hand.
"I think we should begin with making sure you don't get that suit wet," he says, and his own voice sounds rough to his ears. Phil blinks slowly, once. So many innuendos, so little time and Clint can't even voice one right now. "I'll lend you a pair of my sweatpants."
"Sounds good." Phil's voice is so very soft, and Clint feels heat flush up his neck and his face. He turns into his room before he can combust, and pulls open the second drawer from the top, pulling out one of the neatly folded sweatpants. When he goes back out into the really nice living-area, Phil has already removed his jacket and tie, folding them neatly and placing them the back of an armchair. He's unbuttoning his shirt and, when their eyes meet, he smiles, a fleeting lift of his lips.
Clint smiles back, looking right in his face. He can't look down now. If he gets a glimpse of Phil's chest, sees him without the armour of his suit, he's not going to be accountable for his actions.
"I'll be in the bathroom. Come when you're ready," he says, and basically flees.
He strips in the bathroom, to his boxers, his wings getting in the way as he struggles with his shirt, and he turns around and around, aware where all the washing things are stored and not knowing which one he should get first. He sets out the liquid soap and the long-handled brush just in time for Phil's quick knock.
"Yeah, ready," he says, and sits on the edge of the tub. It's a wide thing, made to look like something antique with the claw-feet; it's also positioned away from the wall, so someone can stand on the other side if they're helping him. He looks up as Phil stands beside him, bending over to run the water and get a tolerable temperature.
Clint knew that Phil would have removed his shirt, but this knowledge is simply not enough to arm him for the reality of Phil's bare chest, the solid masculinity of his arms and shoulders. He looks his fill; that is totally a play on words, and Clint is unashamed to own it right now.
Phil glances down at him. His eyes seem darker than usual, more intent as they fix on Clint's face. Clint can't catch a breath for a moment, and he feels an odd mixture of disappointment and relief when Phil glances away to a point over his head. Clint looks up too, not surprised to see the wings arched up, angled almost hesitantly towards Phil. Clint doesn't stop them from stroking over Phil's chest, delicately trailing over his arms, tickling through the spattering of grey and black hair on his chest. Clint can feel his muscles through the wings, the warm texture of his skin. Phil reaches up, runs his hands through the dark feathers and Clint barely restrains a full-body shiver.
"Let's--" Phil's voice sounds hoarse, and he clears his throat. "Let's get these clean."
"Sure," Clint whispers, staring down at the cool tiles as Phil walks around to the other side of the tub. He straightens from his hunched-over position when he hears the rattling sound of the showerhead being pulled out, and the muted thumps of Phil moving the soap and brush closer to himself.
Phil is so careful. Natasha had been, too, but there had been a brisk efficiency to her movements, at least until she'd managed to touch some nerve and one of Clint's wings had snapped back quicker than she could have reacted, smacking her across the face. It had been kind of funny until she'd put him into a headlock.
Right now, though, Phil is shifting up each feather with acute gentleness, letting soapy water course over them. Every layer is getting all of his focus, it's flowing over Clint as easily as the water over his wings, and he has never felt so comfortable in his life. A finger trails down the valley of his spine and Clint arches his back, lips parted in a soundless moan of pleasure, because the wings are anchored near there and that location is ridiculously sensitive.
Phil goes back to cleaning Clint's wings, focusing on the outer feathers, the ones near the edges. Those are the ones that tend to fall out. Clint shrugs in a quick stretch and Phil touches him again, resting a big warm hand on Clint's shoulder before sliding it up to briefly cup the side of his neck.
"Good so far?" Phil murmurs and Clint nods. "How about if I..."
His lips press against Clint's neck, on the other side from his fingers and that fragile wall that's been holding back everything in Clint just breaks into small pieces, an explosion of rubble. He's turned around so fast that he's not quite sure how he's done it, and he's managed to do it without clocking Phil with one of the wet wings. Phil's face is a study in that infuriating control that Clint admires so much, but there's heat in his eyes and his lips are parted as he reaches out and cups Clint's face, pulling him close.
Clint sighs when their lips meet. Sighs, like he's taking his first sip of cool water after days and nights of a sand-bound mission. He grabs Phil's bare shoulders, they're warm and solid under his palms, and they're tumbling and turning, the wings a thick layer around them; they end up with Phil underneath him in the tub, skin and sweatpants wet. Clint can feel the hot line of Phil's cock pressing against his thigh, and he can't help but rock his hips down, and nibble the lobe of Phil's ear.
"As amazing as this is," Phil murmured and made a funny sound when Clint did that little roll with his hips again. "I didn't think the first time I had sex with you would be in your bathtub."
Clint goes completely still for a few beats, Phil's soft tone sinking into his heated brain. He finally manages to pull back, looking down at Phil's face, blinking.
"You've thought about having sex with me?" he asks, and he doesn't care how he sounds, his voice spiralling up at the end of his sentence in surprised pleasure.
There is a small smile twitching at the corner of Phil's mouth, even though the rest of his expression looks as if he's torn between disbelief at the words coming out of Clint's mouth, and an overwhelming urge to put Clint in his pocket and take him everywhere. "Of course," he says, and he sounds so matter-of-fact, even though his mouth is kiss-swollen. "Of course I have, Clint. More than is probably healthy, I would say."
Seriously, Clint wants to keep him forever.
"Let me finish this bath and get these wings dry," he says, and touches the side of Phil's face, feeling the faint rise of stubble underneath the pads of his fingers. "And then you can choose if we continue this here, or in my bed."
Not his smoothest line, and that's evidenced by the way Phil laughs up at him, his eyes sparkling.
"As nice as this bathtub is," Phil says, sitting up and pecking Clint quickly on his mouth. "The bed sounds more attractive."
"You got it, boss." Clint gets up off him, and clambers out of the tub, trying his best not to drip water all over the place. It's a failed mission, and the cleaning bots zoom out of their slots in the lower parts of the wall, hurriedly mopping up the water before trundling back to their resting places.
"Thanks, guys," Clint says as he heads towards the shower tucked into the corner. "Hey, Phil, you want to--" He turns around, and blinks at Phil standing right behind him, in a rather naked way.
"Share the shower?" His lips crook into the smile that Clint had fallen in love with the first time he saw it, and had made sure to see it again and again; Phil smiles a lot more easily than people think.
Clint murmurs, "I'm sure Stark could spare the cash if we showered separately."
Phil's smile grows a little more. "But there's no harm in helping out, right?"
Clint kisses him, not letting their lips part even as he pulls off his own loose sweatpants and then entwining himself around Phil's solid frame, revelling in the heat and warm musk, the press of their pricks together. The shower is mostly laughing and trying to push the wings out of the way, for they insist on being on Phil's body, stroking tenderly over the years of scars and muscle, a single tattoo on his upper right bicep, a few burns; they hesitate over the stretch of ruined flesh in the middle of Phil's back.
"It's okay," Phil murmurs against the side of his neck. He has his back to the cascading water, and his hair is wet under Clint's searching fingers, while the wings mourn over the immutable destruction on the beautiful landscape of Phil's skin. "It's fine, Clint."
"It wasn't." Clint shudders at the memory of shock and pain when Fury reported that Phil had died, and a kind of muted joy when the one-eyed manipulative bastard had casually added that untested Tesseract technology had revived and sustained Phil's body, helping it repair itself. Between the city-cleanup, the psych-evals and the mistrustful stares from nearly everyone except other Avengers, his refuge had been beside Phil's bed.
"It's fine now," Phil says, and his hands slip down Clint's back, grabbing handfuls of ass and squeezing, pulling the cheeks apart slightly. "Isn't it?"
Clint can feel Phil's eyelashes brushing against his neck and he says, "It's so fine right now."
It's hard to untangle himself from Phil's body, and stop kissing Phil for a moment so he can dry the wings; the wings themselves reach back for Phil when Clint heads towards the enclosed balcony, all needy and feathery, and Phil laughs a little. The balcony wraps around both the bathroom and bedroom, and Clint has access from both areas. He hits a button, and a reinforced glass panel slides open, the sound of the servos mixing with the excited chittering of the cleaning-bots, chasing the droplets of water from Clint's wings. Clint hopes that the bots don't gossip with each other; he feels that Icarus is a jealous kind of AI.
He steps out onto the balcony, with its large panels of textured glass, and hits another button on the outside panel. The roof of the balcony slides open, letting in the air and noise of the city. Clint flaps his wings over and over, and not for the first time fights against the feeling of lift that comes with that action. The wings strain to go faster, but Clint reins in that alien and yet familiar instinct to just go up.
"All good?" Phil is standing at the door to the bedroom, staring at Clint's drying operations with bright-eyed interest. "They're so beautiful."
"They're from him," Clint says, but it doesn't come out as the curt warning he'd intended. He can't be curt to Phil, especially when he's closing in on him with great intent, gaze roaming over the strong, capable body.
"They're on you," is all Phil has to say, allowing himself to be backed up towards Clint's bed and pushed into it. He spreads his legs and Clint settles in between them, rubbing against him with all the demanding suppleness of a cat. The noises Phil makes are so gratifying and such a turn-on, Clint isn't sure what he wants to experience first.
"What--" Clint swallows so hard that he hears his throat click. "What do you want, baby?"
Phil sighs at the endearment that falls so easily from Clint and rocks his hips up. "Whatever you want."
"You're giving me a lot of leeway here, sir," Clint says, ducking down to lick one brown nipple, feeling it tighten even more in his mouth. He makes his way down Phil's body, which is making these little twitches as if it wants to jerk out of control at Clint's kisses, and Phil is exerting an iron fist over the entire operation. Clint finally gets to his hard dick, and licks a wet stripe up the side of it, warm-soft and yet hard on his tongue. He glances up and finds Phil up on his elbows, gaze locked on him, lips parted. Clint's wings, those damned wings, are arched up and touching Phil's shoulders and arms and wrists and stomach with loving delicacy. Clint would have been extremely annoyed and irrationally jealous if they hadn't been transmitting the sensation of Phil's body directly to the pleasure-centres of his brain, and he forgives them a little. A lot.
Phil doesn't moan when Clint swallows him down abruptly, but he trembles and the fingers of one hand card through Clint's short hair; not forcing his head down but just there, a warm weight on Clint's head. Clint goes to town on him, nipping at the sweaty skin at the crease of leg and groin, suckling his balls and generally enjoying himself immensely. He loves doing this, and giving head to Phil is just the pinnacle of all Head Giving right now, because with every lick and muffled groan of delight that Clint lets out, layers of Phil's composure strip away, until he's writhing under Clint, and his hand is fisting in Clint's hair.
"Yes," Phil says, and his voice says. "Clint, fuck, yes," and it's the tone of voice that causes Clint to shiver, not the cursing in particular (because he's heard Phil curse over comms before, along the lines of wait til I get back to HQ and have one or two fucking words with Intel about this clusterfuck). It's low and willingly lost, as if Clint has him trapped somewhere he's glad to be. Clint is ready for him, warned by the way his body goes still and tense, silent because that's how he's trained, and Clint swallows down the rush of his come.
Phil lies there, eyes closed and breathing hard as Clint comes back up and hovers over him. Clint kisses the corner of his mouth, smiling as Phil turns his face towards Clint's lips demandingly.
"My turn," Phil says and turns them over with rapid ease. Clint's wings snap out to either side so that he doesn't land on them, and as soon as Phil kisses his stomach, the feathers are greedily touching his body again. Clint says all kind of foolishness, mainly of Phil's name and his amazing body and how amazing he is, in general, and it's going so well until Phil stops.
"Can I help you?" Phil asks and Clint raises his head and blinks at Icarus-One, who has his camera extended so he can see over the top of the bed.
"Hello, Clint Barton codename Hawkeye," Icarus-One says, twirling one damp feather in his claw-arm delicately. "Hello Phil Coulson codename Agent," and Clint can't decide whether to smile or scowl. "Is Phil Coulson assisting Icarus-One with Clint Barton's discarded feathers?"
"Yes," Clint says, just as Phil answers, "No."
"Evaluating responses," Icarus-One says and Clint is so hard he might pull a muscle. Phil is breathing on him, gentle and infuriating puffs of air. Icarus-One's camera clicks. "Accessing mainframe. Initiating comparative analysis with known data. Clint Barton, it seems as if you are being fellated by Phil Coulson. Confirm?"
"I am indeed being fellated," Clint answers from between clenched teeth. Icarus-One's camera tilts questioningly. "And I'd really love it if Phil Coulson completes this task."
Phil stifles a laugh against Clint's hip.
"Is the completion of this task necessary for optimum execution of Clint Barton's system commands?"
"Very," Clint chokes out and then says, "Can you go back to charging, Icarus? I'll call you when, uh, when we're finished."
"Icarus-One is fully charged," the little bot insists.
"Icarus-One, please stand down unto this task is complete," Phil says. There's a hint of amused command in his tone. "This task is done in private, and will keep Clint Barton codename Hawkeye happy. Do you understand the concept of happy?"
"No," Icarus-One answers, but his camera is descending and he's wheeling away, determined. "I will ask Jarvis."
"I'd love to be a fly on the wall for that conversation," Phil says as the bedroom door closes behind the little robot. Clint twitches imperiously, waggling his eyebrows as Phil peers up at him. Phil licks his lips and ducks his head back down.
Clint wants to close his eyes, lean back his head and just enjoy Phil's mouth on him, but he struggles up to his elbows, touching Phil's lips spread over his cock. His wings, his heart in feathered form, settle on Phil's shoulders, fluttering up briefly as he comes.
.:.
Breakfast isn't a complete disaster because Thor's finally come home to the Tower. As it is, Clint has to endure a wave of smug from both Nat and Stark (who is always smug by default, so this is probably a double-dose), and contemplative stares from Steve and Bruce.
"Icarus-One has been pretty curious about a few things," Stark says, eyes glittering in amusement over the top of his oversized coffee-cup. "Poor Jarvis had an attack of the vapours."
"I certainly did not, sir," Jarvis says. "I was simply unprepared for Icarus-One's line of questioning."
Stark says, "Weren't we all," and laughs in a soft way that predicts lots of friendly blackmail in the near future. Clint looks at him, thoughtfully. Stark doesn't laugh like this in public, he realises, and that's a nice enough thought.
Phil, who is dressed in a new pair of Clint's sweatpants and a t-shirt that proclaims that AGENTS DO IT SECRETLY, carries with him that shield of unflappability as he rustles up two plates of breakfast and sets one in front of Clint.
"At least I can report to Director Fury that Clint’s wings do not pose any harm to the team," Phil says, quite casually as he pours coffee. "At least, not to me."
Clint hasn't blushed in years. He's not about to start now, but he does duck his head and feels his cheeks get slightly warm. The wings wriggle on his back, shushing quietly.
"Right," Stark drawls, and slurps his coffee.
Thor blows into the room like a screaming nor'easter, hair going in every direction.
"Good morning!" he bellows, even though he seems a bit more subdued than the usual. "I hope everyone has broken their fast satisfactorily!" His gaze lands on Clint, and becomes wary, as if he expects Clint to be angry, or distant. "Hello, Friend Clint. My brother has given you an interesting... gift."
"Yeah, he did," Clint says easily, and offers a small smile. "Anyway, welcome back. We missed you, man."
Thor blinks, and then a responding smile dawns on his face, as sweet as the morning.
"I missed you too," Phil says, and Thor has the good grace to appear chagrined. "I missed you on the team, and I certainly missed your report concerning your most recent chase after your brother."
Thor adopts his Storytelling Stance. It's quite a stance, and everyone focuses on him, because he isn't bad on the telling-stories thing, not bad at all; additionally, he fills out his reports the same way he tells stories, which is all kinds of hilarious because it makes Phil sigh with aggravated affection.
"I chased my brother Loki through glen and meadow, through shade and shadow," he murmurs, and Clint feels the air grow cool. Thor is that good, seriously. "I kept at his heels through stars and the spaces between them. And yet--" he shrugs, a quick movement of those massive shoulders. "He would not tell me the secret of removing those wings, as fine as they are, from Hawkeye. I am sorry," he says, directly to Clint, and Clint blinks at him.
"You were on his case for me?"
"Yes," Thor answers, and visibly brightens as Bruce slips a massive plate of food in front of him. "Many thanks!" he cries and dives in. Clint just looks at him, and then glances at Phil, who twitches his eyebrows and goes back to a discussion he'd been having with Nat.
"Well," Clint says, dragging his way through the word, "Thor, it's... thanks, I guess. I'm getting used to the wings, in any case."
"And other things." There's a big laugh lurking beneath the calm surface of Thor's words and he glances from Clint to Phil. "I am glad," he says, quite simply, and Clint has to remind himself that as big and happy-go-lucky Thor is, he's not blind, and he can't miss the way Phil is sitting close to him, dressed in clothing Clint owns. Nor can he (or anyone else) miss how the wing nearest to Phil is draped across his back, comfortably yet alert, as if shielding him from any attack that might happen while they're all here at the table.
Clint makes no effort to move the wing. Phil glances at him out of the corner of his eye, and there's a brief flash of sly sensuality that's here and gone in a bare second. Clint presses the wing a little into his back, and the side of Phil's mouth twitches, briefly.
"It's not like they work, anyway," Clint says, reluctantly dragging his attention away from Phil. "So, in the grand scheme of things: not a big deal."
"Why would you think the wings do not work?" Thor asks, so curious that he's forgotten about the massive forkful of pancakes he was about to put in his mouth.
"Because, physics," Stark says, and both he and Bruce open their mouth to let explanations flow through like a massive waterfall of science. Thor holds up one hand and makes a chopping movement in the air. Shockingly, the waterfall of science dries up.
"I have heard of Midgardian physics from my Jane," Thor says, and his tone is long-suffering and dry. "But these wings are from Loki," and he stares at Clint intently. "They are a gift from a god. Why would they not work?"
Clint looks at the Science Conglomerate, which manages to look doubtful and intrigued at the same time. Thor has that expression on his face that means he's thinking: Tiny Midgardians and their science. So very adorable.
"Suit up, Tony," Steve says, grinning a little. "Flyboy has some wings to test, here."
.:.
"So, you'll catch me if these don't work," Clint calls down to Stark, who is hovering in the middle of the massive Atrium, repulsors flaring brightly at his feet. "I'll jump, try to fly, and if they fail, you catch me."
"That's the plan," Stark answers, voice bored through the comms. "You give it a shot, and if you fall like a rock, I'll catch you. If I miss, and I won't, but anyway Thor's the backup."
The Atrium is massive; it's an internal core in the Stark Tower that spans nearly the entire height of structure, starting from the ground floor and going up to right below the penthouses. It's wide and airy thanks to screened air-vents between the main external supports. It's lunch-time; Clint is all suited up in gear designed to accommodate the wings, something Stark had worked on in his 'spare time' (whenever that is), and he really appreciates how it fastens around where the wings connect to his back without leaving any of his skin exposed or catching on the joint.
At the ground floor, Clint can see Thor, Steve, Nat, Bruce and Phil staring up at him; Stark had asked the building security to close off the ground floor to all public movement for an hour or so. The building security, obviously used to Stark's weird requests, had simply responded with, "Sure thing, Mr. Stark," and now it's just the Avengers and this weird experiment. Clint's standing at the inner balcony of one of Stark's offices, his gaze noting important details such as hey, he's really high and while he isn't afraid of heights, he has a healthy fear of what happens at the end of such a long drop. However, he's got his team watching his back. They wouldn't let him fall, and he knows that very well.
"Okay," he says quietly to himself, although he knows everyone can hear him. He'd endured a rapid lecture from Stark and Bruce about how hinged wings are different from the fixed nature of machines like the Quinjet, and then there'd been a rapid discussion between them discussing just how different Clint's body was from that of a bird and all the ways this shouldn't even work, until Thor had laughed them into contemplative muttering. Thor's idly twirling his hammer as if he fully expects not to use it, and it's easy for Clint to see his excited grin.
"Okay," Clint repeats and then doesn't give himself a chance to second-guess. He launches himself, trying to aim for the middle of the Atrium. There's a series of confusing, terrifying beats where Clint has no idea where up is and, more importantly, where the ground is, and the wings are struggling too much, quivering and beating uselessly. I won't make it, he tells himself and then he... relaxes. It's okay. Thor or Stark will catch him, and if they miss (and they won't), then Steve or Bruce will get him. Even Nat and Phil will do something, and it's okay. They've got him.
He's in the middle of this refreshing set of thoughts when he realises that he's gliding, and the wings beat mightily, once, twice and he's going up. He can barely register Thor's triumphant whooping and Bruce's soft, "Huh. They work," and Stark's joyous cursing, because he's trying to explain to his own brain that he's flying, it's exhilarating and scary and it's like falling in love, as corny as that is.
He's flying. There's made wind in his face and tears being torn away from his eyes as he swoops and dives. The walls of the Atrium are a blur of blue glass and silver metal, but his brain and eyes are making rapid adjustments, and he itches to try shooting at targets while he's flying. He knows he can do it.
He descends in graceful spirals, wings held at a taut angle. He lands, a bit more heavily than he would have liked but hey, stuff like that takes practice. He's grinning and breathless and there are muscles in his back that are very confused right now but not overly concerned; Phil's arms are around him, squeezing him close and Nat's as well. She's shouting in Russian, something she only ever does when drugged, upset or excited and she's talking so fast that he catches one word out of ten. That one word is beautiful.
Steve pats him on the back when Phil and Nat finally release him, and there's a pride in his eyes that makes Clint stand up a little straighter, the wings shaking out once, then folding neatly at his back.
"Got my eyes back, and better than ever," Steve says, and he sounds so relieved as Stark lands beside him, face-plate sliding back to reveal that shit-eating grin. "I'm real glad."
Clint glances around his team, and he's laughing a little, Phil's hand in his.
"Yeah," he says. "So am I."
.:.
Action-figures are always cool, no matter how Nat and Bruce sneer at them. A whole new line comes out with the winged Hawkeye as part of the set, and the wings are fully articulated. Nat keeps a few in her room, for laughs, and even Phil has a Hawkeye in the bottom drawer of his desk at S.H.I.E.L.D.'s HQ. People are used to Thor and Doombots and alien monsters nowadays, so the sight of Hawkeye soaring over the city is not that much of a big deal. Undercover missions are not for him anymore, and somehow Clint is okay with that. He's less okay with the fact that he's more recognizable than ever, more distinct, and he gets irritated at that sometimes. Additionally, adults think they can just touch his wings on the tiresome meet-and-greets, yank on the feathers, and Clint hates that.
From the way they react, fluttering up menacingly, the wings hate that too. Children are far more circumspect, and for that reason, Clint will hold out a wing at the meet-and-greets and their little fingers hover over the thick blanket of feathers, barely touching. Their eyes are always wide and the wings are always calm, quiet; sweet, even.
When Phil spends the night, the wings are almost too sappy for Clint to take. They enfold Phil, they gather his sleeping body close enough for Clint to touch with his own hands. Once, Phil complained that all the feathers against his skin made him hot, and one wing spent about fifteen minutes gently flapping, moving cool air over Phil's body. It was ridiculous, seriously, and Clint could hardly believe himself.
Icarus-One continues to be the most talented cock-blocker ever built by Tony Stark. He's also incredibly bossy for such a small bot, and is often the source of great mischief in Tony's labs using Clint's feathers...mainly because Phil knows how to word very specific commands. The other bots have bigger claws, and they can't get out the feathers from the crevices where Icarus-One stuffs them. Stark spends two weeks fitting them with narrower appendages, and Icarus-One starts putting the feathers in Steve's clothing. Even Fury thinks it’s hilarious when black feathers drift out of the pockets of Steve's leather jacket during one hasty meeting. It's a fair repayment for all those cupid jokes, in Clint's humble opinion.
Loki, of course, comes back.
.:.
There was a time when Loki's movements were a source of intense frustration for the Intel division, because Loki is so unpredictable. Now, Intel has Clint, because...well, here's the thing, and Clint doesn't like it one bit but that's how life goes: Clint can feel when Loki is in this plane. It isn't something overt, like a voice giving commands in his head, but he gets a very specific tingling sensation under his skin; now, with the wings, he also feels it in the feathers, a fine tremor that can actually point in the general direction of Loki's ingress. Intel is ecstatic over this new talent, but sometimes Loki just pops into this plane to sightsee, and then he's gone again within moments.
This generally drives the Intel division up the wall.
This time around, Loki isn't here for a random jaunt; he's brought along a creature that's about forty stories tall, with slimy purple tentacles and seven sharp beaks. Loki says it's his Special Friend. Clint would love to vocalise his opinions of Loki's choice of acquaintances, but he's busy flying from one vantage point to the next, calling out patterns to Cap, and trying not to let the slime get on his wings. Thor and Hulk are right in the middle of the tentacles, ripping them off and attacking the ones that grow to take their place. Stark and Nat are planting bombs, but the creature keeps finding them and muffling the explosions with its many arms, slapping down on the concrete pavements with a thick, meaty sound.
Clint lands right next to Phil for a quick beat, pulling back the tinted flight-goggles he now wears. He just needs five seconds to catch his breath and get an eyeful of Phil to bolster himself for the rest of the fight, and because his luck is so extreme (either very good or very bad), a murder of Lokis shimmers around them, the same knife-edge of a smile on every narrow face.
"Let me see if I can get it right this time," one of the Lokis says, and the idle tone echoes all around this corner Phil is using as mission control. The sceptre is heading towards Phil's back again. Clint can't see it, but he knows, oh he knows, and he's not going to let it happen again.
His left wing strikes out, completely out of instinct and he feels the cool shaft of the staff against the feathers, knocking it away from its trajectory towards Phil's back. Loki says something in a crisp language that Clint is sure isn't of this planet, but he's not focusing on that now. Clint hustles backwards and the wing sweeps Phil back as well, cradling him against the nearest concrete wall.
"Hawkeye!" Phil shouts, and there's a blast of energy from yet another Loki. Clint's remaining wing curls up in front of his own face, the feathers splayed wide. The bright-blue crackling ball strikes and... dissipates.
"Hmm." Loki sounds casually contemplative. "That really shouldn't happen."
Phil frees his arm from the weight of Clint's feathers, cocks a harmless-looking revolver and fires a series of tiny red fireworks; it's probably Asgardian technology, for the fireworks cause about half of the Loki-clones to pop out of existence. Clint leaps towards the Lokis and tries a close-range move he's developed with Nat's help during their sparring sessions: a spin that includes the wings held out stiffly, and they're as dangerous as machete-blades. More of the Lokis fade out of sight, and Clint zeroes in on the real one, actually getting him in the face with a reverse heel kick before falling back, and grabbing onto Phil.
Loki recovers from his stagger after Clint's surprising strike. He is, quite understandably, incensed. His face contorts and the pale skin darkens around his eyes. His hand is outstretched, the sceptre an extension of his will and power. The ball is glowing and Clint presses his mouth to Phil's cheek and says, "Sir. Phil, I--" before the wings wrap around them both.
In a rather distant fashion, he feels a baleful cascade of energy around him, and the wings respond, solidifying like a wall. Phil is pressed against him, and Clint pulls him even closer.
After a few moments, he doesn't feel anything through the wings. The feathers soften and he folds his wings back, cautiously. Loki is standing there, just a few feet at them, shaking his sceptre as if its battery is running low or something.
"I tried to call them back, you know," he says, and gives the sceptre a threatening jiggle. "They refused. Freely given, freely received and all that."
"Wh--what?" Clint croaks. Loki has this way of making everything feel surreal. Loki pouts at him, almost playfully and the off-kilter sensation deepens. Beside him, Phil is a cool oasis of calm.
"The wings, Hawkeye. Try to keep up." Loki glances around, and glares in the direction of his Special Friend, which is finally collapsing under the effect of more bombs than it can handle, and repulsor blasts. "I suppose this is what Midgardians call a draw. When my own magic doesn't obey me, it's best to call it a night, I would say."
"Loki," Phil says beside Clint, very calmly, and Loki's cool gaze cuts to him briefly. There's something in the very back of those dark eyes, a flicker of what seems to be grudging admiration. Loki smiles, a show of all teeth and little else.
Softly, he says "Keep your little hawk close, Agent."
"I will," Phil says, a promise and a threat all in one, and the back of his hand brushes against Clint's. Clint spots their shadows on the pavement, created by the blaze of a nearby fire. He can see the shape of his wings, upraised and threatening: one is curved around Phil's body, not quite touching (he'd feel the material of Phil's suit) and the other is held out at a stiff angle, ready to strike out in their defence. Clint meets Loki's gaze directly, and Loki inclines his head, a bare mocking nod.
"Be very good, my dears," Loki says, and laughs as he fades out of sight like the Cheshire cat, from the feet up, grin going last. "Until we meet once more."
He's gone, like a bad dream, and his Special Friend fades away as well, leaving behind a city-wide swath of silent devastation as only Loki can. Clint pulls his wings in, folds them at his back and feels the feathers shiver.
"Hawkeye, you were about to say something before your wings protected us," Phil says, checking his fire-arm and doing whatever it is he has to do to reload those effective tiny fireworks. He looks at Clint when he's finished. His face is dirty, his tie askew and there's a deep scratch at the back of one hand. Yet, his gaze is clear and assessing, and he's the loveliest thing Clint has ever laid eyes on. "What was it?"
"I'll tell you later, sir. But I think you already know," Clint says. He dives in for a quick kiss and takes off before Phil can reprimand him for his horrible lack of protocol. After a short run, the wings beat once, twice and then he's in the air, buildings fall away around him: the taste of Phil on his lips, wings held wide.
fin
The title comes from wing-related words/phrases:
The alula, or bastard wing, is a small projection on the anterior edge of the wing of modern (and some ancient) birds. The word is Latin and means "winglet"...
When gliding, both birds and gliders obtain both a vertical and a forward force from their wings.
Yay Wikipedia!