Fic: any way you look at it, you lose
Title: any way you look at it, you lose
Summary: Phil is getting better. Clint is getting worse.
Fandom: Avengers
Word Count: 3659
Rating/Contents: NC-17, injury, recovery, bad sex, just a lot of sad
Pairing: Clint/Coulson
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: For
kink_bingo (danger)! And then sometimes a story comes along and bites you in the ass.
They got off luckier than Clint expected, but that doesn't mean they got off particularly well. The doctors did something only doctors with limitless resources and no concerns about ethics reviews would do, saving Phil at the last second, past the last second; it sounded like a miracle while the battle was still raging, but a lot of things sounded like good ideas then. Phil says he feels alright, even though it's obvious he doesn't, even though he still goes white as a sheet sometimes when he's trying to do something that ought to be easy. He always does it anyway, whatever it is, and Clint's learned to stop helping, not so much concerned with Phil's dignity as Phil's tacit disapproval.
So they bench him. They haven't quite said that it's permanent; they definitely haven't said it isn't. Sitwell takes all his fieldwork and a promotion, and he's a good enough guy not to be excited about it. Clint doesn't know if Phil will live to be let back into the fold, and Clint's even more unsure as to whether he'll live to see if Phil does or not.
Phil hides it very, very well, but Clint knows that some days, the worst ones, Phil wishes he had died.
They live at Stark Tower now, all of them but Thor, which is more like Avengers Tower at this point than anything else. Tony can say anything he wants, but he hates privacy, hates being alone, can't deal with being by himself outside of his suit. He's got so much money that generosity doesn't even register to him anymore; he could give away a hundred thousand dollars as easily as ten. He's offended whenever anybody tries to pay for anything at all, and Clint has never, ever had a problem with that.
He wasn't thinking about that the time he almost got himself kicked out, though. Tony didn't know about him and Phil until Pepper quietly took him aside and explained why putting them on different floors wasn't exactly the most kind thing to do. Tony just smirked a lot and gave them a lavish set-up, the kind of place Clint didn't even believe actually existed until he met Tony.
It was a little after that, and Tony picked the wrong day; it was a bad one for Phil, which meant it was a bad one for Clint, and Clint was so on edge he was all but grinding his teeth. And Tony said one thing, something Clint can't even remember, something so Tony, something about something that wasn't even about a sore spot, and Clint dropped him, just like that.
Tony looked up at him; he touched his fingers to the blood running from his nose, looking at them, and he just raised his eyebrows at Clint. "Tell me how you really feel," he said, sounding a little stuffy.
"Jesus Christ," Clint said, running his hand through his hair, all the fight in him replaced with weary nervousness. "I just- Jesus Christ, let me help you with that."
Tony waved him off. "I'm gonna go take care of this before I get blood on my shirt," he said, holding his hand under his chin and walking out. Clint packed up his stuff while Phil wasn't around, but the next time he saw Tony, Tony just put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it briefly, and acted like nothing was wrong.
He couldn't decide if it was better or worse than getting his ass kicked. It hurt about the same, just different.
But three weeks have gone by. Phil is doing better, the cloud above them lifting. His color is returning, his eyes clearer; on a good day he can manage a flight of stairs, though there have been some very close calls. He's still not doing well enough for a lot of things, work included, but every day is a little closer, closer to recovery, closer to what Clint wants for him.
Clint is in bed one night, close to drifting off, when Phil comes in, wearing just his sleep pants; Clint gives him a sleepy smile, but he frowns when Phil gets into bed between his legs, pulling Clint's boxers down and wrapping his hand around Clint's dick, which takes an interest very quickly. "We can't," Clint protests. "You can't-"
"Not what I'm worried about," Phil replies, and his hand doesn't falter for a second.
"Not without you," Clint says, shaking his head, though his body does not agree at all. It's been about a billion years since Phil's touched him; Clint hasn't even been jerking off, not when it felt so unfair.
"Tell me you don't want this," Phil says, and Clint makes a noise of frustration, caught between his better judgment and his dick. Phil twists his hand just so, and Clint's dick wins by a landslide.
"Shit," Clint hisses, even as he's relaxing into the bed.
"Talk to me," Phil says, and Clint laughs breathlessly; he's probably heard him say that a hundred times or more from the other end of a comm, but never before like this.
"What do you want me to talk about?" he asks, moaning as Phil puts his lips around him and takes him down, just to pull right off.
"Tell me about your day," Phil instructs, lowering his head again.
"My day?" Clint says, as incredulous as he can be when somebody's got his cock in their mouth. "I sat in a nest for three hours, almost got stabbed, then shot a guy."
He groans in frustration when Phil takes his mouth away. "You can do better than that."
"What are you, writing a mission report?" Clint says, wishing Phil would just get over what's gotten into him and get back to business.
"Humor me," Phil says, and there's something plaintive about it, a hint of something that Clint doesn't like.
"Okay," Clint says, scratching his fingernails lightly over Phil's scalp. "Okay, so the nest wasn't ideal this time, but you take what you can get, right? I ended up behind a gargoyle on a window ledge on the twentieth fucking story of this building." Phil does something particularly inspired with his tongue, and Clint forgets what he's doing until Phil stops, looking up at him. "Yeah, yeah, okay, so I'm there for maybe two and a half hours, maybe two-forty-five, and I start to hear noises, and suddenly the window breaks next to me, and some asshole is trying to grab me. So I'm backed up against this gargoyle, two hundred feet up, two steps from fucking falling-" Phil starts sucking harder, and Clint bucks his hips up, startled. "Oh God, Phil, Phil-" Phil looks up at him again, pulling away, and Clint all but whines. "Don't do me like this, please, Phil."
"Finish the story," Phil says, his voice wavering.
"I got my hands on my bow, and I thought I was gonna slip," Clint says quickly. "But right before I did, I put one right through the motherfucker's eyes, and I swung into the window." Phil moans around him, and Clint has to grab onto the sheets for dear life. "I can't, Phil, I can't- I shot the target and got to the extraction point, the end, please don't make me wait." Phil doesn't give any sign, but he also doesn't stop, and Clint gives up, coming so hard that his eyes roll back in his head.
Clint's out of it, wrecked from coming that hard after that long, but he snaps to attention when he hears Phil groan, not in the hot way. Phil is sitting up, grimacing, his hand over his chest, and Clint instantly rolls out of bed. "Stay there," he says, going for the NTG.
"I just twisted funny," Phil says.
"Bullshit, Coulson," Clint snaps, coming back with it and holding the bottle out. Phil doesn't argue, taking it and shaking out one of the pills, putting it under his tongue. Clint doesn't breathe for a few minutes, but Phil relaxes, rubbing at his chest. "It's my fault," Clint says. "I shouldn't have let you-"
"Shut up," Phil says. He sounds weak, in a way that goes past a sudden attack of chest pain, a way that Phil Coulson should never sound, and Clint instantly feels like a huge asshole.
Clint climbs back into the bed, crawling over and urging him onto his back, kissing him; he can tell that Phil hates it when he's gentle about it, but there's nothing else to do in this situation, nothing else that fits right.
Another three weeks pass, and things are still getting better for Phil. He's up to two flights of stairs without any trouble, back on light duty part time. Clint is still worried, but cautiously optimistic, glad to watch it get better, watch the bad days get fewer and fewer.
They don't try again, don't even speak about it, not until Phil's doctors give him the rather blunt okay to actually have sex. "I took my nitro," Phil says that night, getting into bed beside him. "We should be fine."
Clint kisses him. "That is the least sexy pickup line I have ever heard."
"Only the best for you," Phil tells him; he spoons up behind Clint, kissing the back of his neck, and Clint presses back against him, just enjoying how their bodies feel together. "How was work today?"
"Same old same old," Clint says, snatching the lube off the nightstand and handing it encouragingly to Phil. "Ran backup for Natasha. Mostly recon today, though I did jump out a window, that was pretty cool." He moves his leg out of the way to give Phil better access, so he can push his cool, slick fingers in. "I'm never getting rid of those grappling arrows, I don't care how they look. Ah, yeah, right there, more of that, when did you get so good at- wait, don't answer that question."
Phil laughs against his neck; he doesn't spend a whole lot of time opening Clint up, but that's fine, because they don't really have a lot of time, shouldn't be putting that much stress on Phil's heart. This heart surgery stuff is such bullshit, and when Phil's actually better, Clint's going to rock his world.
Phil pushes slowly inside of him, all in one long thrust, and Clint turns his face, cupping the back of Phil's head and pulling him over to kiss him. "Tell me what happened," Phil says, when Clint lets him go.
"What am I telling you about?" Clint says, because he really can't be expected to keep track of things when he's getting fucked.
"The window," Phil says, taking hold of Clint's dick and stroking him. "Tell me about the window."
"It was plate glass," Clint deadpans. "C'mon, do we need to talk about work?" Phil doesn't respond, but Clint knows him well enough to sense him pulling away, going into his head, even without looking at him. He's still moving inside Clint, but he's not doing it particularly well, just going through the motions now.
"I was pretty high up, or it wouldn't have worked," Clint says, trying to get a handle on the situation. "Thirty-fifth floor, I think. You know how it is, guys with guns chasing you, one of them shoots the window out, you bail before they can figure out what the fuck."
Phil's moving faster now, harder, a lot better this time. "Tell me more," he says, his face pressed against the back of Clint's neck. "Tell me about jumping."
"You've never-" Clint breaks off at a good, deep thrust, just right. "You've never jumped out a window before?"
"Of course I have," Phil snaps, his voice different, and Clint doesn't know what to think.
"It's intense," Clint says, shutting his eyes. "The worst part is the first step, knowing that it's now or never. Then there's the wind rushing by you, but you can't pay attention when you're trying not to actually die. Then you've got one shot, one chance to hit with the grapple, or that's it, no net, no nothing."
Phil groans when he comes, grabbing Clint by his hip and holding him still. Clint has to try very hard not to ask what the fuck is going on, to just let Phil finish before anything else happens. "Fuck," Phil breathes. "Fuck, sorry." His hands fumble a little as he reaches for Clint's dick again, jerking him fast, and Clint only barely manages to come.
He doesn't enjoy it very much.
Clint has no idea what to say to that one. Phil's never done something like that before; coming first, whatever, big deal, but not like that, not when they'd barely started, not when he didn't seem to care much about Clint's pleasure at all.
Clint lets Phil kiss him, the closest he gets to an apology; when he's done, Clint puts his face in the pillow and pretends to sleep.
More weeks go by. Phil's health gets better. Clint's mood doesn't, and he feels like a bastard for it.
Clint likes lots of sex, slow sex, quiet sex, fast sex, loud sex, but Phil only wants talkative sex. He never seems to want it unless Clint has been in the field; he wants to hear every gory detail, right down to the last arrow. Then Phil fucks him and they sleep. He won't even let Clint give him a blowjob anymore, presumably because Clint can't talk with his mouth full.
It's wearing Clint down, but he doesn't know what to do. Phil's been fucked over so badly, and the very least Clint can do is let him have what he wants in bed, even if it makes Clint uncomfortable or weary. Clint owes him that much.
It goes on for too long, longer than Clint should let it, finally coming to a head one awful night. The mission is supposed to be difficult, swift and complex and requiring far too much subtlety to get the Avengers involved, but he and his team are supposed to be the best people for the job.
Turns out they aren't.
Afterwards, Clint pulls rank and drags his ass back to the tower, because he just can't handle the Helicarrier right now, can't deal with seeing the faces of all the people he let down. He wants to go home. He wants a shower. He wants to lay down somewhere dark and quiet. He wants Phil to tell him that it's going to be okay, even though that's a lie, even though Hendrickson and Matthews and Ruiz didn't come back.
He gets through one and two, and he's working on three when he finds Phil in the bed, underneath the covers. "Hey," Clint says, climbing in beside him and kissing him. Phil kisses him back, running his hands over his chest, down his stomach, palming his cock, and Clint sighs. This could be nice, some catharsis after a horrible day, human connection that he desperately needs. He pulls Phil into his arms, kissing him deeper, his hands sliding down Phil's back.
"Tell me about it," Phil says into his ear.
Clint shoves him away, disgusted, almost sending him out of the bed. "Get the fuck off me."
"What's wrong with you?" Phil asks, like he has no idea, like the warning signs aren't flashing all over.
"I'm not playing this game," Clint says. "I don't know what's wrong with you, but I'm not doing this."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Phil says, and Clint wonders how it got this far, far enough that Phil is lying to him to his face and expecting him not to realize it.
"I saw people die today," Clint says fiercely. "Not a bunch of fucking drug smugglers and arms dealers. People I know. People I knew. Then I come home and you give me this shit."
"You could have told me," Phil says; it's not what he says that pisses Clint off so badly, but how he says it, like he's put out more than worried.
"I shouldn't have to fucking tell you," Clint snaps, gritting his teeth to keep from screaming. "You're not my fucking handler anymore."
Clint doesn't even know why he says that, other than to hurt Phil, but Phil looks angry and tired more than anything else. "Thanks for the reminder," he says coldly. "Anything else you need to share?"
"Yeah," Clint says. "As a matter of fact, there is."
"Don't keep me in suspense," Phil says snidely.
"I'm fucking sick of being your goddamn fetish."
There are the words hanging between them, the words that have never been said, the words that have been coming for months. Clint looks away, not knowing what to do, only knowing how very badly he's just fucked up, even if everything he said was true.
Phil sits up, drawing his knees up against his chest and resting his elbows on them, his hands around the back of his neck, and Clint's heart hurts. He wants to reach out and touch him, say it'll be okay when it's not, it isn't, it won't be, but he keeps his hands to himself. He doesn't even know what he would do if he did reach out, doesn't know how to do anything but distract him, pull him out of the hole Clint's thrown him into, but it's far too late for that. This is happening now, and there's no going back, not ever.
"I'm sorry," Phil says, after an eternity of silence. "I'm sorry I didn't stop. I'm sorry I took advantage of you, but I can't give you anything but my apologies. I don't have anything else."
"Phil, you can't trade me for it," Clint says, trying to be gentle no matter how frustrated and angry he is.
"I'm sorry," Phil repeats, still not looking at Clint.
"It's my fault," Clint says, and those words hurt so badly, even worse than he thought they would. "I'm sorry I did this to you."
Phil looks up at him. "Did what?"
"I'm-" Clint shuts his eyes. He's never admitted this to Phil, ever, not sure anyone knows but Loki. "I'm the one who told Loki how to get out of the cage. If it hadn't been for me, he couldn't have stabbed you."
"You're seriously blaming yourself for something you did while mind controlled by an alien trickster god?" Phil says, pursing his lips. He's wearing his best 'When did you get to be such an idiot, Barton?' look, and Clint almost, almost wants to laugh; he just doesn't know whether he'd end up losing it if he did. "Now who's trying to trade who?"
"I can't ever give it back to you. You have no idea how sorry I am," Clint says. "If you just want a thrill, we'll learn to whitewater raft or hang glide or some yuppie shit, but I can't ever-" He stalls out. "I just- that's all I have."
Phil puts the heel of his hand to his forehead. "We are a fucking pair."
"I'm sorry," Clint says again, because he doesn't have anything else to say. "I am so sorry."
Phil smiles wanly. "I owe you enough apologies to last a week and a half, so let's just quit while we're behind."
"Sounds good to me," Clint says, sighing heavily. He reaches for Phil, not knowing what else to do, wrapping an arm around his waist. He puts his fingers under Phil's chin, tipping it up to kiss him.
Phil shuts his eyes as Clint moves downwards, kissing his neck. "It's not going to solve anything."
"That's for goddamn sure," Clint says. He shakes his head. "I don't want to tear everything apart tonight. I just want you."
Phil doesn't say anything; he just grabs Clint and kisses him hard, maybe harder than he's ever done it, so desperately that it breaks Clint's heart. Phil shifts, turning so he can straddle Clint's thighs, and Clint presses his face into Phil's shoulder, hugging him tightly. He's missed Phil so goddamn much these last weeks, and the very worst part of it was that Phil was next to him the entire time.
"Love you," Clint says, slipping his hand between them and unbuttoning Phil's fly, slowly stroking his cock. "Love you so much."
"You, too," Phil says. He smiles. "Now shut up."
"Yes, sir," Clint murmurs, kissing him as Phil gets his cock free. Clint's still mostly soft, but Phil takes care of that, coaxing him to full hardness. It's not like it was, not anything like it was, not when there's so much between them now. That doesn't mean it isn't good; Clint doesn't have any leverage, but that doesn't matter much when Phil is grinding down against him just right, their cocks sliding against each other, the friction perfect. It's quiet, but that doesn't mean there's any silence, soft moans and pieces of words in the air, and when Clint comes, he tilts his head back and gasps, nothing else, nothing better.
When it's done, Clint doesn't want to move, even though his legs are complaining a little. Phil gently climbs off him, pulling Clint down next to him on the mattress, kissing him again. "I'm sorry," he says quietly.
"No more apologizing tonight," Clint says firmly, wrapping his arm around Phil's waist and tugging him close. "No more thinking."
"That's a tall order," Phil tells him.
"Believe me, I know," Clint says, sighing. "But humor me."
There are so many things Phil could say at this moment, so many ways he could ruin it, so many ways Clint could ruin it, but Phil just nods, setting his chin on the top of Clint's head. From here, Clint can see the scar on his chest, the ragged line that runs over his heart.
He can never fix that scar, but tomorrow, maybe they can work on the other ones.
This entry was automagically crossposted from http://sabinetzin.dreamwidth.org/427579.html.
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Summary: Phil is getting better. Clint is getting worse.
Fandom: Avengers
Word Count: 3659
Rating/Contents: NC-17, injury, recovery, bad sex, just a lot of sad
Pairing: Clint/Coulson
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: For
kink_bingo (danger)! And then sometimes a story comes along and bites you in the ass.
They got off luckier than Clint expected, but that doesn't mean they got off particularly well. The doctors did something only doctors with limitless resources and no concerns about ethics reviews would do, saving Phil at the last second, past the last second; it sounded like a miracle while the battle was still raging, but a lot of things sounded like good ideas then. Phil says he feels alright, even though it's obvious he doesn't, even though he still goes white as a sheet sometimes when he's trying to do something that ought to be easy. He always does it anyway, whatever it is, and Clint's learned to stop helping, not so much concerned with Phil's dignity as Phil's tacit disapproval.
So they bench him. They haven't quite said that it's permanent; they definitely haven't said it isn't. Sitwell takes all his fieldwork and a promotion, and he's a good enough guy not to be excited about it. Clint doesn't know if Phil will live to be let back into the fold, and Clint's even more unsure as to whether he'll live to see if Phil does or not.
Phil hides it very, very well, but Clint knows that some days, the worst ones, Phil wishes he had died.
They live at Stark Tower now, all of them but Thor, which is more like Avengers Tower at this point than anything else. Tony can say anything he wants, but he hates privacy, hates being alone, can't deal with being by himself outside of his suit. He's got so much money that generosity doesn't even register to him anymore; he could give away a hundred thousand dollars as easily as ten. He's offended whenever anybody tries to pay for anything at all, and Clint has never, ever had a problem with that.
He wasn't thinking about that the time he almost got himself kicked out, though. Tony didn't know about him and Phil until Pepper quietly took him aside and explained why putting them on different floors wasn't exactly the most kind thing to do. Tony just smirked a lot and gave them a lavish set-up, the kind of place Clint didn't even believe actually existed until he met Tony.
It was a little after that, and Tony picked the wrong day; it was a bad one for Phil, which meant it was a bad one for Clint, and Clint was so on edge he was all but grinding his teeth. And Tony said one thing, something Clint can't even remember, something so Tony, something about something that wasn't even about a sore spot, and Clint dropped him, just like that.
Tony looked up at him; he touched his fingers to the blood running from his nose, looking at them, and he just raised his eyebrows at Clint. "Tell me how you really feel," he said, sounding a little stuffy.
"Jesus Christ," Clint said, running his hand through his hair, all the fight in him replaced with weary nervousness. "I just- Jesus Christ, let me help you with that."
Tony waved him off. "I'm gonna go take care of this before I get blood on my shirt," he said, holding his hand under his chin and walking out. Clint packed up his stuff while Phil wasn't around, but the next time he saw Tony, Tony just put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it briefly, and acted like nothing was wrong.
He couldn't decide if it was better or worse than getting his ass kicked. It hurt about the same, just different.
But three weeks have gone by. Phil is doing better, the cloud above them lifting. His color is returning, his eyes clearer; on a good day he can manage a flight of stairs, though there have been some very close calls. He's still not doing well enough for a lot of things, work included, but every day is a little closer, closer to recovery, closer to what Clint wants for him.
Clint is in bed one night, close to drifting off, when Phil comes in, wearing just his sleep pants; Clint gives him a sleepy smile, but he frowns when Phil gets into bed between his legs, pulling Clint's boxers down and wrapping his hand around Clint's dick, which takes an interest very quickly. "We can't," Clint protests. "You can't-"
"Not what I'm worried about," Phil replies, and his hand doesn't falter for a second.
"Not without you," Clint says, shaking his head, though his body does not agree at all. It's been about a billion years since Phil's touched him; Clint hasn't even been jerking off, not when it felt so unfair.
"Tell me you don't want this," Phil says, and Clint makes a noise of frustration, caught between his better judgment and his dick. Phil twists his hand just so, and Clint's dick wins by a landslide.
"Shit," Clint hisses, even as he's relaxing into the bed.
"Talk to me," Phil says, and Clint laughs breathlessly; he's probably heard him say that a hundred times or more from the other end of a comm, but never before like this.
"What do you want me to talk about?" he asks, moaning as Phil puts his lips around him and takes him down, just to pull right off.
"Tell me about your day," Phil instructs, lowering his head again.
"My day?" Clint says, as incredulous as he can be when somebody's got his cock in their mouth. "I sat in a nest for three hours, almost got stabbed, then shot a guy."
He groans in frustration when Phil takes his mouth away. "You can do better than that."
"What are you, writing a mission report?" Clint says, wishing Phil would just get over what's gotten into him and get back to business.
"Humor me," Phil says, and there's something plaintive about it, a hint of something that Clint doesn't like.
"Okay," Clint says, scratching his fingernails lightly over Phil's scalp. "Okay, so the nest wasn't ideal this time, but you take what you can get, right? I ended up behind a gargoyle on a window ledge on the twentieth fucking story of this building." Phil does something particularly inspired with his tongue, and Clint forgets what he's doing until Phil stops, looking up at him. "Yeah, yeah, okay, so I'm there for maybe two and a half hours, maybe two-forty-five, and I start to hear noises, and suddenly the window breaks next to me, and some asshole is trying to grab me. So I'm backed up against this gargoyle, two hundred feet up, two steps from fucking falling-" Phil starts sucking harder, and Clint bucks his hips up, startled. "Oh God, Phil, Phil-" Phil looks up at him again, pulling away, and Clint all but whines. "Don't do me like this, please, Phil."
"Finish the story," Phil says, his voice wavering.
"I got my hands on my bow, and I thought I was gonna slip," Clint says quickly. "But right before I did, I put one right through the motherfucker's eyes, and I swung into the window." Phil moans around him, and Clint has to grab onto the sheets for dear life. "I can't, Phil, I can't- I shot the target and got to the extraction point, the end, please don't make me wait." Phil doesn't give any sign, but he also doesn't stop, and Clint gives up, coming so hard that his eyes roll back in his head.
Clint's out of it, wrecked from coming that hard after that long, but he snaps to attention when he hears Phil groan, not in the hot way. Phil is sitting up, grimacing, his hand over his chest, and Clint instantly rolls out of bed. "Stay there," he says, going for the NTG.
"I just twisted funny," Phil says.
"Bullshit, Coulson," Clint snaps, coming back with it and holding the bottle out. Phil doesn't argue, taking it and shaking out one of the pills, putting it under his tongue. Clint doesn't breathe for a few minutes, but Phil relaxes, rubbing at his chest. "It's my fault," Clint says. "I shouldn't have let you-"
"Shut up," Phil says. He sounds weak, in a way that goes past a sudden attack of chest pain, a way that Phil Coulson should never sound, and Clint instantly feels like a huge asshole.
Clint climbs back into the bed, crawling over and urging him onto his back, kissing him; he can tell that Phil hates it when he's gentle about it, but there's nothing else to do in this situation, nothing else that fits right.
Another three weeks pass, and things are still getting better for Phil. He's up to two flights of stairs without any trouble, back on light duty part time. Clint is still worried, but cautiously optimistic, glad to watch it get better, watch the bad days get fewer and fewer.
They don't try again, don't even speak about it, not until Phil's doctors give him the rather blunt okay to actually have sex. "I took my nitro," Phil says that night, getting into bed beside him. "We should be fine."
Clint kisses him. "That is the least sexy pickup line I have ever heard."
"Only the best for you," Phil tells him; he spoons up behind Clint, kissing the back of his neck, and Clint presses back against him, just enjoying how their bodies feel together. "How was work today?"
"Same old same old," Clint says, snatching the lube off the nightstand and handing it encouragingly to Phil. "Ran backup for Natasha. Mostly recon today, though I did jump out a window, that was pretty cool." He moves his leg out of the way to give Phil better access, so he can push his cool, slick fingers in. "I'm never getting rid of those grappling arrows, I don't care how they look. Ah, yeah, right there, more of that, when did you get so good at- wait, don't answer that question."
Phil laughs against his neck; he doesn't spend a whole lot of time opening Clint up, but that's fine, because they don't really have a lot of time, shouldn't be putting that much stress on Phil's heart. This heart surgery stuff is such bullshit, and when Phil's actually better, Clint's going to rock his world.
Phil pushes slowly inside of him, all in one long thrust, and Clint turns his face, cupping the back of Phil's head and pulling him over to kiss him. "Tell me what happened," Phil says, when Clint lets him go.
"What am I telling you about?" Clint says, because he really can't be expected to keep track of things when he's getting fucked.
"The window," Phil says, taking hold of Clint's dick and stroking him. "Tell me about the window."
"It was plate glass," Clint deadpans. "C'mon, do we need to talk about work?" Phil doesn't respond, but Clint knows him well enough to sense him pulling away, going into his head, even without looking at him. He's still moving inside Clint, but he's not doing it particularly well, just going through the motions now.
"I was pretty high up, or it wouldn't have worked," Clint says, trying to get a handle on the situation. "Thirty-fifth floor, I think. You know how it is, guys with guns chasing you, one of them shoots the window out, you bail before they can figure out what the fuck."
Phil's moving faster now, harder, a lot better this time. "Tell me more," he says, his face pressed against the back of Clint's neck. "Tell me about jumping."
"You've never-" Clint breaks off at a good, deep thrust, just right. "You've never jumped out a window before?"
"Of course I have," Phil snaps, his voice different, and Clint doesn't know what to think.
"It's intense," Clint says, shutting his eyes. "The worst part is the first step, knowing that it's now or never. Then there's the wind rushing by you, but you can't pay attention when you're trying not to actually die. Then you've got one shot, one chance to hit with the grapple, or that's it, no net, no nothing."
Phil groans when he comes, grabbing Clint by his hip and holding him still. Clint has to try very hard not to ask what the fuck is going on, to just let Phil finish before anything else happens. "Fuck," Phil breathes. "Fuck, sorry." His hands fumble a little as he reaches for Clint's dick again, jerking him fast, and Clint only barely manages to come.
He doesn't enjoy it very much.
Clint has no idea what to say to that one. Phil's never done something like that before; coming first, whatever, big deal, but not like that, not when they'd barely started, not when he didn't seem to care much about Clint's pleasure at all.
Clint lets Phil kiss him, the closest he gets to an apology; when he's done, Clint puts his face in the pillow and pretends to sleep.
More weeks go by. Phil's health gets better. Clint's mood doesn't, and he feels like a bastard for it.
Clint likes lots of sex, slow sex, quiet sex, fast sex, loud sex, but Phil only wants talkative sex. He never seems to want it unless Clint has been in the field; he wants to hear every gory detail, right down to the last arrow. Then Phil fucks him and they sleep. He won't even let Clint give him a blowjob anymore, presumably because Clint can't talk with his mouth full.
It's wearing Clint down, but he doesn't know what to do. Phil's been fucked over so badly, and the very least Clint can do is let him have what he wants in bed, even if it makes Clint uncomfortable or weary. Clint owes him that much.
It goes on for too long, longer than Clint should let it, finally coming to a head one awful night. The mission is supposed to be difficult, swift and complex and requiring far too much subtlety to get the Avengers involved, but he and his team are supposed to be the best people for the job.
Turns out they aren't.
Afterwards, Clint pulls rank and drags his ass back to the tower, because he just can't handle the Helicarrier right now, can't deal with seeing the faces of all the people he let down. He wants to go home. He wants a shower. He wants to lay down somewhere dark and quiet. He wants Phil to tell him that it's going to be okay, even though that's a lie, even though Hendrickson and Matthews and Ruiz didn't come back.
He gets through one and two, and he's working on three when he finds Phil in the bed, underneath the covers. "Hey," Clint says, climbing in beside him and kissing him. Phil kisses him back, running his hands over his chest, down his stomach, palming his cock, and Clint sighs. This could be nice, some catharsis after a horrible day, human connection that he desperately needs. He pulls Phil into his arms, kissing him deeper, his hands sliding down Phil's back.
"Tell me about it," Phil says into his ear.
Clint shoves him away, disgusted, almost sending him out of the bed. "Get the fuck off me."
"What's wrong with you?" Phil asks, like he has no idea, like the warning signs aren't flashing all over.
"I'm not playing this game," Clint says. "I don't know what's wrong with you, but I'm not doing this."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Phil says, and Clint wonders how it got this far, far enough that Phil is lying to him to his face and expecting him not to realize it.
"I saw people die today," Clint says fiercely. "Not a bunch of fucking drug smugglers and arms dealers. People I know. People I knew. Then I come home and you give me this shit."
"You could have told me," Phil says; it's not what he says that pisses Clint off so badly, but how he says it, like he's put out more than worried.
"I shouldn't have to fucking tell you," Clint snaps, gritting his teeth to keep from screaming. "You're not my fucking handler anymore."
Clint doesn't even know why he says that, other than to hurt Phil, but Phil looks angry and tired more than anything else. "Thanks for the reminder," he says coldly. "Anything else you need to share?"
"Yeah," Clint says. "As a matter of fact, there is."
"Don't keep me in suspense," Phil says snidely.
"I'm fucking sick of being your goddamn fetish."
There are the words hanging between them, the words that have never been said, the words that have been coming for months. Clint looks away, not knowing what to do, only knowing how very badly he's just fucked up, even if everything he said was true.
Phil sits up, drawing his knees up against his chest and resting his elbows on them, his hands around the back of his neck, and Clint's heart hurts. He wants to reach out and touch him, say it'll be okay when it's not, it isn't, it won't be, but he keeps his hands to himself. He doesn't even know what he would do if he did reach out, doesn't know how to do anything but distract him, pull him out of the hole Clint's thrown him into, but it's far too late for that. This is happening now, and there's no going back, not ever.
"I'm sorry," Phil says, after an eternity of silence. "I'm sorry I didn't stop. I'm sorry I took advantage of you, but I can't give you anything but my apologies. I don't have anything else."
"Phil, you can't trade me for it," Clint says, trying to be gentle no matter how frustrated and angry he is.
"I'm sorry," Phil repeats, still not looking at Clint.
"It's my fault," Clint says, and those words hurt so badly, even worse than he thought they would. "I'm sorry I did this to you."
Phil looks up at him. "Did what?"
"I'm-" Clint shuts his eyes. He's never admitted this to Phil, ever, not sure anyone knows but Loki. "I'm the one who told Loki how to get out of the cage. If it hadn't been for me, he couldn't have stabbed you."
"You're seriously blaming yourself for something you did while mind controlled by an alien trickster god?" Phil says, pursing his lips. He's wearing his best 'When did you get to be such an idiot, Barton?' look, and Clint almost, almost wants to laugh; he just doesn't know whether he'd end up losing it if he did. "Now who's trying to trade who?"
"I can't ever give it back to you. You have no idea how sorry I am," Clint says. "If you just want a thrill, we'll learn to whitewater raft or hang glide or some yuppie shit, but I can't ever-" He stalls out. "I just- that's all I have."
Phil puts the heel of his hand to his forehead. "We are a fucking pair."
"I'm sorry," Clint says again, because he doesn't have anything else to say. "I am so sorry."
Phil smiles wanly. "I owe you enough apologies to last a week and a half, so let's just quit while we're behind."
"Sounds good to me," Clint says, sighing heavily. He reaches for Phil, not knowing what else to do, wrapping an arm around his waist. He puts his fingers under Phil's chin, tipping it up to kiss him.
Phil shuts his eyes as Clint moves downwards, kissing his neck. "It's not going to solve anything."
"That's for goddamn sure," Clint says. He shakes his head. "I don't want to tear everything apart tonight. I just want you."
Phil doesn't say anything; he just grabs Clint and kisses him hard, maybe harder than he's ever done it, so desperately that it breaks Clint's heart. Phil shifts, turning so he can straddle Clint's thighs, and Clint presses his face into Phil's shoulder, hugging him tightly. He's missed Phil so goddamn much these last weeks, and the very worst part of it was that Phil was next to him the entire time.
"Love you," Clint says, slipping his hand between them and unbuttoning Phil's fly, slowly stroking his cock. "Love you so much."
"You, too," Phil says. He smiles. "Now shut up."
"Yes, sir," Clint murmurs, kissing him as Phil gets his cock free. Clint's still mostly soft, but Phil takes care of that, coaxing him to full hardness. It's not like it was, not anything like it was, not when there's so much between them now. That doesn't mean it isn't good; Clint doesn't have any leverage, but that doesn't matter much when Phil is grinding down against him just right, their cocks sliding against each other, the friction perfect. It's quiet, but that doesn't mean there's any silence, soft moans and pieces of words in the air, and when Clint comes, he tilts his head back and gasps, nothing else, nothing better.
When it's done, Clint doesn't want to move, even though his legs are complaining a little. Phil gently climbs off him, pulling Clint down next to him on the mattress, kissing him again. "I'm sorry," he says quietly.
"No more apologizing tonight," Clint says firmly, wrapping his arm around Phil's waist and tugging him close. "No more thinking."
"That's a tall order," Phil tells him.
"Believe me, I know," Clint says, sighing. "But humor me."
There are so many things Phil could say at this moment, so many ways he could ruin it, so many ways Clint could ruin it, but Phil just nods, setting his chin on the top of Clint's head. From here, Clint can see the scar on his chest, the ragged line that runs over his heart.
He can never fix that scar, but tomorrow, maybe they can work on the other ones.
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