![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sirona_ficsTitle: A little bit of your taste (in my mouth)
Authors:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
delicatale and sirona_gs
Pairing: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Darcy Lewis/Bucky Barnes (implied), Darcy Lewis/Steve Rogers (one-sided)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings, Summary and Notes in Part One.
Darcy is watching him. Clint tries not to fidget, but he can feel her eyes boring into the middle of his back where he's setting up today's trays of muffins. He avoids her gaze, fusses around with the displays, checks the levels of coffee grounds, looks at the door, then hustles through the flying doors and into the back, where the bakery is set up. The counters are dusty with flour, bowls of frosting standing by waiting for the batch of cupcakes in the ovens. Clint feels antsy, skittish, like his skin is too tight; he can't stay still. It's been three days since that night, since he'd first felt Phil's lips on his, Phil's hands on his face, the feverish heat of Phil's body under his palms.
Feverish. Right. He feels like the worst kind of asshole, jumping a guy who was sick, whose defences were lowered, whose reaction time was slowed; he'd seen it and ignored it, rolled right past the point where any decent guy would have stopped and pulled back, not pushed when Phil was obviously less than in control of himself.
And Phil hasn't come by. Of course he hasn't. He probably doesn't want to see Clint again, not after Clint had practically mounted him on the sofa. Jesus.
He decides that, to hell with it, it's still early enough to make some scones for tea in the afternoon. Traffic has picked up of late, and the shop is almost always full by four o'clock, business types from the dozens of law firms and government agencies occupying the district, out for a much-needed coffee break, and arty types from farther away that had started to gravitate to the shop in the past several weeks. He mixes up the ingredients and takes an inordinate amount of satisfaction in pummelling the dough to within an inch of its life, using it to release all the frustration that has been building in his shoulders with every day that Phil hadn't shown, every minute more that he's had to ponder his terrible choices.
Eventually he has to stop, dough thoroughly beaten into submission, fine sweat covering his forehead and trickling down the back of his neck. It's still much hotter than it ought to be for this time of year, and the A/C does nothing to beat back the wall of heat battering the shop from the outside in. Not to mention the miasma of simmering air rising from the ovens; all in all, the baking space is, indeed, baking.
He puts the dough away to rise, whittles away another half hour frosting the waiting cupcakes, but eventually he has to walk out into the shop again, where Darcy is lying in wait.
He's watched her get more and more curious as the days go by, and today she is practically vibrating with impatience. Still, instead of laying into him like he expects, she merely hands him a tall paper cup of coffee, still hot from when she must have poured it when he started moving the cupcakes from the tray to the glass displays.
He smiles gratefully, even if he's still understandably wary. With good cause, it seems -- he takes a sip, and the taste of coconut, hazelnut and vanilla hits his tongue, together with the mule kick of the ridiculous number of espresso shots in the cup. He barely stops himself from choking, though he can't help his flinch. He shoots Darcy a deeply betrayed look.
"I knew it," she crows, and Clint winces at the volume as well as the topic. "You never fix anyone else custom-made coffees; and really, did you think you were being subtle? 'The Agent'? Really? That's what you're calling this? Don't try to deny it, it's right there on the board. Are you going to tell me what's going on already?"
Clint glares at her stubbornly. He's not giving in to underhanded extortion.
Darcy looks gleeful. "Do you have a little crush, Clint?"
Clint can't actually help it -- he can feel the heat rising up his neck and flooding his face. Fuck.
Darcy looks thoughtful all of a sudden, which is actually worse. "Seriously, Clint. Is something wrong? You've been acting really strange lately."
Clint sighs, fingers clenching on his cup before he forces them to relax. "Nothing's wrong," he says on a sigh. "I'm just overthinking something. It's nothing, really."
Darcy crosses her arms over her ample chest and leans a hip against the counter. "Pull the other one," she drawls, raising both eyebrows. Clint sags under that look.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Darcy asks, a lot more subdued than a moment ago.
The thing is, Clint really does, because the space in his head is teeming with a million thoughts, a million doubts. He just doesn't know how. Darcy tucks a curl behind her ear, leaning closer encouragingly. And Clint knows, he does, that talking to her will help him sort things out in his mind. So he swallows his natural reluctance and starts talking -- not the details, but he blocks it out enough for her to get the drift. She listens, completely non-judgemental, which is such a comfort, and doesn't ask any questions until he's done. Then she's silent for a long moment, chewing on her plump bottom lip.
"Maybe he's really, really busy? Sounds like he's pretty high up the ladder. He might not even be in the country."
Clint hasn't really thought about that; the vise that's been strangling his breathing ever since the morning after starts to loosen slightly. That is actually a valid argument. Because he and Phil never even exchanged phone numbers, or emails, or any way to stay in touch, which in retrospect is just plain stupid -- but in their defence, they'd been plenty distracted.
Darcy, appeased, gets back to work tidying up the empties from the tables and seeing to the two suits that come in for, yes, 'The Agent'. Clint had known he was on to something from Phil's reaction, but he'd had no idea just how popular the drink would prove, despite the mix of flavors. Even Pepper Potts had ordered two, looking intrigued when she'd first seen it on the menu. Clint can only wonder what Tony Stark made of it.
The bell above the door jangles then, and his head snaps up. But it's only a really tall blond guy, with a piercing pair of pale blue eyes that peek out from behind truly ridiculous eyelashes. Clint is somewhat of an expert when it comes to recognising agility and fighting ability, and this guy is definitely a trained professional. His chest alone would, under normal circumstances, make Clint look twice -- thrice, four times, even, because it is vast. The man looks like he was manufactured by the kind of mad scientist who appreciates his/her creations looking like Greek demi-gods.
He comes to the counter, eyes running over both Clint and Darcy, carefully evaluating even though his expression is bland. Then, apparently assured that the two of them aren't an immediate threat, his gaze migrates to the board on the wall behind them. Clint sees the man's eyes widen after a moment, clearly surprised before his mouth twitches.
"Hello," he says at last. There is silence; when Clint looks, Darcy is licking her lips, eyes fixed on said chest. He kicks her ankle. She throws him a dirty look, then turns back with quite the filthy smirk on that mouth of hers.
"Hi," she drawls, eyes moving up and down his body like she's devouring it -- or would certainly like to. "Welcome to Under the Big Top. You're new, aren't you? --I mean, you haven't come in before, right? I would have remembered."
The guy smiles, and okay, yes, Clint will admit that he wouldn't mind getting to know him better, too. Seriously, he is gorgeous.
Then he thinks of Phil, and feels like a prick all over again.
"You're right, this is the first time I've been able to come in. I've heard a lot of good things about you, though," the guy tells Darcy, earnest and amiable and is he for real?
Darcy's eyes brighten and she preens a little, even though it's not actually her shop. "Oh, yes? Satisfied customers, yay!"
The guy's eyes crinkle when he smiles back at her, even wider than before.
"What can we get you?" Clint cuts in, because at this rate no one is getting any drinks ordered or made.
The guy looks over at him, and Clint can practically feel the scrutiny in his gaze. O-kay then.
"I would like one of 'The Agent', please. In fact, make that two," he says, checking his watch.
Darcy throws Clint a sly look before ringing it up. Clint busies himself with making the drinks, a bittersweet pang in his chest.
The door jangles again when it opens, but Clint is pouring in the milk and doesn't look up right away, determined not to repeat the accident from the last time he made that mistake. He fills the cups almost to the top, spoons froth to the brim and fits the caps over them. He pops two cardboard holders out and threads the cups through. Only then does he raise his head.
Phil is standing less than two steps away. Clint can see him clearly over the coffee machine; they're both tall enough that it comes to just under Phil's shoulders. He looks tired, drawn, but much better than the last time he came in -- not the last time Clint actually saw him, though, because nothing has topped that yet.
"Hi," Clint breathes, and promptly flushes, god, he sounds like a schoolboy with a crush.
"Hello, Clint," Phil says; how is it possible that Clint has missed his voice without knowing it?
They stare at each other, until there's a pointed throat-clearing to his right and he tears his eyes away from Phil's face just in time to catch the full force of Darcy's arch look. He feels abruptly mortified.
He clears his own throat, handing over the coffees and not looking back at Phil, because Jesus, he is an idiot.
The guy at the till has this curl to his mouth, amused and knowing. Clint feels an urge to go check on the dough for the scones right this instant.
"I ordered for you, Phil, I hope you don't mind," the guy says now, and oh, hang on a minute.
"Thanks," Phil says dryly, a rueful look in his eyes. The guy looks amused.
"So you two work together?" Darcy wants to know, which saves Clint from having to ask himself.
Phil nods, waving a hand at the guy. "Steve Rogers, my partner. Steve, this is Clint Barton and Darcy Lewis."
"So pleased to meet you," Darcy purrs, offering him her hand and smiling invitingly. Rogers actually flushes at that, the tips of his ears pinking. He takes her hand, shaking it and holding on a little longer than strictly polite. Clint sends Phil an amused look; Phil returns it, lips twitching. Clint thinks the awkwardness from earlier dissipates a little -- until the thought registers, and Clint feels it all over again. He can't ask why Phil hasn't come by; Phil probably can't tell him anyway (if he has, indeed, been away for work. Clint hopes rather a lot that that is the case).
"You look better," he says instead, biting at his lip before asking, "Has your cold gone?"
Phil nods a couple of times, looking away. Clint's heart sinks. He was right; Phil's obviously regretting what happened.
"It has, thanks," Phil says, eyes pointed down at the coffee cup in his hands and decidedly not at Clint. Clint is surprised by how much this pains him, but he tries his best not to let it show, even if Darcy is way too focused on Steve to notice. The awkwardness is back full force, and Clint suddenly wants them to leave, wants to be able to go back to the kitchen and bake some scones or knead more dough into submission.
“Phil, we need to get going,” Steve says, his voice soft. “The coffee’s great, by the way.”
“Yeah--yeah. Let’s get back to the office.”
Clint feels his stomach bottom out. He tries to reason with himself - Phil isn’t alone, Steve is obviously younger than him, possibly even a rookie, and Clint has no idea about rules in the NSA but he knows all too well about DADT and how deeply it has marked so many men and women. Even repealed, old habits die hard.
So maybe that's what it is.
And maybe Phil's just had time to sleep on what happened between the two of them, and this is it. Clint should have known, should have prepared himself for the eventuality; but he hadn't, he'd been recklessly hopeful, and now it hurts. He just wants to be able to talk to Phil, in private, sober and healthy.
“Well, thank you for your custom, gentlemen.” It comes out dry, level, nothing like what he feels inside. He doesn’t know what else to say, feels awkward, stupid. Darcy throws him a curious look, but he refuses to acknowledge her, swiping at the coffee machine instead.
“Bye, Clint,” Phil says in a low voice, as if he’s regretting having to leave, and Clint feels the urge to punch something again. Darcy turns to him when both Phil and Steve have gone, eyes flashing.
“What was that about?”
“He’s the one that acted like nothing happened, Darcy.”
“Oh, wow, last time I checked you were thirty-four, not fourteen.”
“I’m not going to put him on the spot in front of his partner!”
Darcy sighs, but deflates a little, looking away at the front window, like she’s hoping to see Steve walk back in and sweep her off her feet there and then.
“Fair enough. You should talk to him, though.”
“I know. Are you going to ask Steve out?” Clint goes all out on this one, hoping Darcy will just follow the change in topic without another word. And it works well enough; she sputters, throwing Clint a dark look.
“What? No!”
“Oh, come on, you were undressing him with your eyes and clenching your arms around your chest to make your tits look bigger. Which, by the way, is not necessary, babe.”
Darcy flips him off and Clint grins, going for the 'fake it till you make it' attitude he lived by while in the circus. He can do this, and he’ll be fine. He knows he has to talk to Phil, but he’s not going to make himself sick over it.
It’s not a game for Clint, but he doubts it is for Phil, either. He really can only hope it was a bad play of circumstances. At least Phil is better, and he looked sharp in yet another of his standard tailored suits, always the consummate professional. It makes Clint long for that one moment of Phil unguarded and vulnerable, clad in just a towel, and Phil in Clint’s own clothes, all soft and blurry at the edges.
Clint guesses this is a memory he can only cherish, and not expect to witness again. But until Phil comes back to Under the Big Top, alone, Clint is determined not to think about it too much. He has no idea how long he’ll manage to fake it, though.
;;;
It's really late when Phil finally manages to wrap up the case from hell and even contemplate leaving the office. He's so grateful it's Friday that he could cry; even more grateful that he's somehow finished the paperwork tonight and doesn't have to come in tomorrow to tie up loose ends. He is exhausted. The bomber from the end of last week had tied into a much larger home terrorism plot, and they've all been run ragged, no time for anything outside the office but chasing down leads. He hasn't even been able to go in to Clint's shop for coffee, and after four days of office sludge he's missing it sorely.
Thinking of Clint just starts an ache somewhere behind his sternum, a cringe of guilt for the last time he'd been in, when he'd forced himself to brush Clint off because he just hadn't had the time, damn it, to sit down and talk to him properly like he'd wanted to -- like he’d needed to badly, ever since their kiss; and he'd known that if he started talking, he might never stop. The look in Clint's eyes, though. It kept Phil up at nights, even when he was supposed to rest; the disappointment, the flash of hurt. Phil felt physically sick every time he thought about it. This was why he shouldn't get emotionally attached -- he only hurt the people around him when he had no choice but to throw himself into his job, to the exclusion of everything else.
And now that he can spare the time to go and talk to Clint, he has no idea whether he would be welcome at all. Fuck, it had been so wonderful that night, to have Clint that close, to feel his hands, his mouth on his, to know that, yeah, he wasn't alone in feeling these things. Now it feels like everything has turned to ashes before him.
He gets his stuff together and leaves the office finally, just gone nine p.m.; he's the only one still there on the floor. Steve, Natasha and Bucky are long gone, and even Peggy Carter, the new Assistant Director that had been drafted in this week for the case, had left. Phil heads down the stairs, distracting himself from the conundrum with the thought that he's not the only one in trouble where feelings are concerned -- after just two days, Steve is completely smitten with Agent Carter, who treats him like a puppy that's lost his way. It's extremely amusing to watch Steve bend over backwards to impress, and her smooth, composed rebuffs. He has an inkling she likes him, though, even if he couldn't really say what pointed to that conclusion. Poor Darcy; he's going to have to break the news to her gently.
Thoughts of Darcy naturally lead to thoughts of Clint, and Phil feels the levity drain right out of him. He trudges to his car and sits there for a long moment, debating the uselessness of going in to apologise. Still, he's going to have to sometime -- he's still got Clint's clothes, washed and folded neatly in a carrier bag in the trunk, and he's not the kind of asshole to just conveniently forget about them. And if he's going to end up going in at some point, it's probably better to get it over with as soon as possible and try to put it out of his mind. He ignores the voice in his head that tells him that it’s not going to be as easy to let Clint fade into the background as Phil thinks. For one thing, he thinks he might be addicted to the damn coffee, because he'd been feeling utterly miserable the past four days, something close to the shakes keeping him off-balance. And for another, his partner and the other team aren't actually stupid -- he knows that they know about the coffee, and he knows that Steve thinks he and Clint are an item, after Phil made the mistake of suggesting Under the Big Top as a rendezvous before the meeting. Then Steve had told Bucky, because those two are physically incapable of not telling each other every single thing that passes through their heads, and that's how Phil had found out that his tailor-made coffee was now a drink on the menu called 'The Agent'. He doesn't know if he feels more flattered or jealously possessive of his drink.
In the end, when he pulls out of the garage he turns in the direction of Under the Big Top, and tries to ignore the flutter in the pit of his belly. It's really late; there's absolutely no guarantee that Clint will still be there at all. The thought doesn't really help; instead, it only piles another layer of disappointment on top of the nervous anticipation. Jesus, but Clint is messing with his head something fierce. At this point Phil honestly doesn't know what would be better, for him and Clint to work through the situation they've found themselves in, or for them to give it up altogether, because his judgement has not been this severely compromised since he was a rookie still finding his feet.
He parks his car in the same spot as last week, when he'd given in to the urge and gone to the only place he felt truly comfortable. He makes sure to get the bag from the trunk, to use as an excuse if needs be. To his pleased surprise, when he gets there the place is still blazing with light that streams out through the high windows. Phil peeks inside, finding the shop much busier than he expected -- almost all the tables are full, a harassed-looking Darcy rushing around and picking up empties, while Clint is behind the coffee machine, face fixed in a frown and arms moving with the kind of precision that characterises the combat-trained professional -- or apparently someone with Clint's background, rare as it is. What is a true surprise, so much so that it makes him step back in shock, is the unmistakable figure of Pepper Potts behind the cash register, calmly and efficiently taking orders and payment and dispersing directions and change without the slightest pause. He's so thrown that he doesn’t move for the better part of five minutes, so long, in fact, that by the time he moves again the queue is almost gone and there are only one or two people left waiting. When he pushes in through the door, Ms. Potts is stepping out from behind the register and smiling kindly at Darcy, who is stammering her thanks, utterly star-struck. Clint, too, looks unspeakably relieved, offering Ms. Potts two huge coffees in a cardboard tray and waving away her offer to pay.
"It's the least I could do; thank you so much for your help. You saved our skins back there."
"My pleasure, Mr. Barton," Ms. Potts says, and Clint makes a face.
"Clint, please. Again, it's the least I could do. As far as I'm concerned, your money's no good here anymore, Ms. Potts, not as long as I own the place."
Pepper smiles charmingly when she replies, "That's really not necessary, Clint, but thank you. And it's Pepper."
For a timeless, charged moment, Phil feels a swooping sensation in his stomach, and his chest seizes painfully. The irrational desire to march over there and slip a proprietary arm around Clint's waist, pull him in against his side, is so powerful that the battle to wrestle it back leaves him weak, even more exhausted. What right does he have to do something like that, anyway? Clint would probably throw him out without letting him get a word in edgewise.
"I couldn't let the shop that provides myself and Mr. Stark with such excellent coffee flounder, really. Consider it an act of self-preservation," Ms. Potts adds now, giving them a last fond look and turning, eyes widening a little when she comes face to face with Phil. Phil wonders what the look on his face must be like, to put such an expression on hers.
"Agent Coulson, what a pleasant surprise," Ms. Potts covers neatly, obviously used to unexpected situations being sprung on her. Well, Stark is her boss.
Phil, with a monumental effort, pulls himself together, affecting the bland expression that gets him through the day. "Ms. Potts, good evening. Working late?"
"Yes. Tony has a project to finish, and you know how he gets."
Phil's lips twitch. Colonel Rhodes is the NSA's military liaison -- and by necessity also their Tony Stark liaison as well. Phil knows exactly what she means.
"I hope he doesn't keep you out too late," Phil says mildly, stepping away from the door. Ms. Potts wishes him a good evening with a sly, sideways look that, even though Phil will never say it out loud, she has lifted straight off her boss. Or Stark has stolen it from her, there's always that chance.
She slips past him and out the door, and Phil really has no option but to look up now, straight into Clint's shuttered eyes. Darcy is conspicuously making herself busy behind the counter, banging cups and plates slightly louder than necessary as she sets up the dishwasher.
"Hi," Phil says helplessly. Just because he's determined to see this through doesn't mean he knows what to say, what would be welcome--or not.
"Hi, Phil," Clint says, impeccably friendly yet palpably detached. Phil feels a chill take him, knows perfectly well it has nothing to do with the still-blasting A/C. "What can I do you for?"
Coffee hadn't really been at the front of Phil's mind, coming here, but if that's how Clint wants to play it...
"Actually, I came to return your--the clothes you let me borrow.” He wants to add that he’d like for them to talk, too, but he feels thrown, out of sorts. Clint had needed help, and Phil had had no idea, hadn’t been there for four days. He doesn’t want to be replaced in Clint’s life -- which is a ridiculous notion, but it makes his gut twist just thinking about it. "But I guess coffee would be nice, too."
“Oh. Thanks. What will it be?”
Phil takes a deep breath, the words coming out of his mouth before he can really think them through. He hasn’t been able to think many things through, when it comes to Clint. “Surprise me.”
Suddenly, there’s a smirk on Clint’s face, his eyes downcast, looking at his own hands, and Phil bites the inside of his lip, a heady rush of hope that maybe he hasn’t completely screwed this up. Clint gets to work, not saying anything as he mixes syrups and espresso shots together. Phil tries to follow the moves and check what Clint is putting in his coffee, but he finds himself staring at Clint’s hands, remembering the feel of them on his skin, and then he’s staring at Clint’s mouth, and - this is a train of thought he ought to stop before he embarrasses himself in front of a pretty full coffee shop.
“I thought - we need to talk, Clint.”
“Hmm.” Clint slides Phil’s coffee over the counter, finally meeting Phil’s eyes. “Bit busy.”
Phil nods. “I can see that. I’ll wait. Keep the change,” he says as he slides a five dollar bill towards Clint, turning to go sit at the only empty table. If he needs to wait until it’s time to close, he will. He’s got nowhere better to be.
It takes an hour and a half for the shop to empty. Phil spends it observing the seamless way Clint and Darcy work together, one of them always preparing the drinks while the other cleans tables. They share smiles and private jokes regularly as they work, making Phil long for a camaraderie like that--maybe even with Clint--even more than before.
It’s obvious that Clint is trying his hardest to ignore Phil’s presence, but isn’t very successful at it, stealing glances at Phil every so often, brushing past him after getting empties from a table. Darcy is better at it than Clint, going about her work like Phil isn’t there, sipping at his surprisingly bitter mocha slowly, wanting to make it last.
He still finishes it before the shop is empty, but neither Clint nor Darcy gather the empty cup. Phil toys with it, refusing to look at his phone, even when he feels it vibrating in his pocket. He’s going to have that talk with Clint, and work can wait.
“Go on, Darcy, I’ll close up.”
Darcy blinks at Clint, surprise showing on her face for just a moment.
“Are you sure? I don’t mind.”
“I’m sure. Go on.”
Darcy throws Phil a look, still hesitating, like she’s worried Phil and Clint are going to end up throwing punches. But in the end she grabs her bag, pecks a kiss to Clint's cheek, and then she’s out of the door, giving Phil the smallest nod of acknowledgement. He’ll have to wait to tell her about Steve and Peggy, then.
Clint wipes down the coffee machine for another moment before he just stops, hands on the counter. “I’m surprised you waited.”
“I said I would. Was this a test?”
Clint clenches his jaw, throwing down the tea towel he’s holding and walking around the counter, closer to Phil. “Wasn’t a test, Phil.”
“Okay. I wanted to. I apologize for last time.”
“For what? Ignoring me, or ignoring what happened between us?”
Phil refuses to fidget or look away, even though the urge is strong. “Both.”
“Do you even like me?”
It would sound childish under any other circumstances, probably, but Clint sounds so earnest, actually asking instead of just throwing it out to be an ass. Phil stands up, steps closer, feeling like any words he could say would be inadequate.
“Yes, I do.” He sighs, looking down at his own hands for a moment. He knows he’s got to let it out now, or he never will. “Look, I'm sorry it went down like it did. I never meant to make you upset, or feel like I didn't care. Because I do, Clint; I do care. And I wanted to stop and talk to you properly. I just, I couldn't.
"Listen, you've got to understand, if we're, if you even still want to be doing this thing with me, you have to know that it's not about what I want. I don't have the luxury of doing what I want. I work for the NSA; when they say 'jump', I ask how high, and what velocity I should be aiming for, and incidentally, is something going to shoot me down when I do? Because that's what my job is. Last time, I shouldn't have even stopped by, I knew it wasn't going to go down well, I should have just not come in at all. But--I wanted to see you. Even if I didn't have the time to talk properly."
Clint is quiet for a long moment, digesting this. His eyes don't stray from Phil's; they're considering, digging into him, testing his sincerity. He lets Clint look as long as he likes, lets him see it all -- his regret, his hope, the vague despair of ever finding someone who understands, who likes him enough to put up with it for his sake.
The silence stretches; Clint is just standing there, and fuck, the look in his eyes, all that warmth and affection, Phil doesn't know what to do with it. It's so foreign that he honestly has no frame of reference for a reaction.The shop is peaceful around them, lights dim, and Phil waits, because that's what he's been doing all night--all week--waits for Clint to decide what it's going to be.
"So?" he says in the end, when the quiet gets unbearable, and it's either attack or retreat. "Do you--I mean, I know I fucked up. But do you think we could--"
His voice trails off when Clint sighs, tired, head hanging down. Phil's blood turns to icicles in his veins. But then Clint's reaching for his hand, drawing him across the floor back to the table, slumps into the chair next to the one Phil had been warming. His hand is callused and strong, fingers rough against Phil's, but warm, gentle.
"I think we could. I mean, I would like it very much if we could," Clint says, raising his head to catch Phil's eyes. "But I'll need you to--look. I'm going to have to ask you for something."
"Anything," Phil says immediately. "Anything I can give you, it's yours."
Clint nods, but it's not disappointment that lingers in his eyes; from where Phil's sitting, it looks a lot more like relief.
"I'm... not very good with unspoken boundaries," Clint says slowly, hesitantly, like he's finding the words here and now. "I just, I need to know that you're with me. I don't care about your job, or what you have to do for it. I just need to know that even when you can't see me, or you can't talk about it, or you just don't have the time to drop by, I need to trust that you're with me, Phil. That you and I, we're together. And if there ever comes a time that you don't want to be with me, you'll tell me. I don't--I can't handle you just distancing yourself until I have no idea what's going on anymore. I need you to talk to me. That's all I want. I'm not asking for any guarantees, but--"
Phil puts his fingers over the softness of Clint's mouth, fights not to shudder when Clint's breath tickles his skin. "I get it," Phil says, letting the smile that's been growing helplessly as Clint spoke creep across his mouth. "I get it, Clint. And yes. I'm with you. As much as I can, I'll be with you for as long as you'll have me."
Clint's lips stretch under his fingertips, then purse to press a kiss against them before pulling back. "I just need you to talk to me," he repeats plaintively, like he thinks he's asking for more than Phil can give. "You can't come over, that's fine. You have to work late, that's fine, too; call me up and tell me, I'll get it, I promise. Just as long as I know where I stand, I'm cool with that."
Phil can hardly believe his luck; he hadn't dared to hope that he could ever, that there could be someone who gets it, him, and wants him anyway. "I can do that," he says; too eagerly, he knows, but Clint doesn't laugh, he just smiles happily, and somehow it's better than anything Phil could have said, any promises he could have made. Joy rises inside him until he's giddy with it; he pushes off his chair, crowds into Clint's space and presses his mouth to Clint's, mobile lips pliant under his, no hint of hesitation, just calm, pleased acceptance. Phil scuttles even closer, Clint's body warm against his chest as he slips his hands around Clint's waist, the back of his head and tugs gently, slanting his head until their tongues tangle together between their lips; until Clint's exhaling harshly against him and pushing him back, not hard enough to break the kiss but with obvious intent. Phil settles back into his chair and Clint follows, sliding his legs over the outside of Phil's thighs and settling snugly into his lap with a grunt of triumph. Phil's arms lock automatically around him, keeping him in place as Clint's hands frame his face, tilt it back a little so Clint can lick into his mouth, tease his way inside. Phil can't even gather the wherewithal to think, let alone resist.
Clint makes this happy little moan at the back of his throat, and fuck; Phil's hands clench in the fabric of Clint's shirt, trying to draw him closer. He can feel Clint's cock hard and heavy against his stomach, and the jolt of pure need it sends through him startles him a little, makes him want to back off, try and clear his head. Clint lets him draw back just the tiniest bit, break the kiss and pant into Clint's mouth, Clint's breath hot against his spit-slick lips.
"I think it might be a good idea if we took this somewhere else," Phil manages to say, mind a tangle of relief and affection mingling with a fog of want that clouds his thoughts. Clint's thighs clench on his hips, clearly reluctant to let him go; Phil's world actually whitens a little at the feel of it, the thought of what's coming, of what Clint's legs would feel like wrapped about his hips as Phil slides inside him. His lungs lock; he can't breathe for how fucking much he wants that, wants Clint in his bed, in his space, all the time.
"You're probably right," Clint says roughly, pulling back until there's actual space between them, painful as it is for Phil to let him. He steals another kiss, fast and hard, full of teeth and need, and then pushes off him to stand, graceful and so steady that Phil feels the immediate desire to mess up that composure of his. Clint grins sharply, like he can see what Phil's thinking, like he's daring Phil to follow through. And he wants to, how he wants to. But he knows -- or at least he hopes he knows what's coming, and yeah, it's better to get four walls and a door between them and the world before the dam breaks.
When he doesn’t grab Clint and drag him back towards him, Clint swipes up the bag at Phil’s feet and grins dangerously.
“Let’s go.”
;;;
Clint wakes up to the feel of lips against his neck, moving slowly along his shoulder, followed by a cold nose, which makes him smile, hairs rising on his arms. His body feels heavy, sated, limbs tangled with Phil’s in the middle of his bed, covers thrown haphazardly on top of them.
It’s been a long night filled with conversation and sex - more sex than Clint has had in a long time. Phil is a surprisingly enthusiastic lover, at odds with his usual reserved behavior, not that Clint would complain for a second about it. They’ve only had a couple hours of sleep, but Clint is not unhappy to be awake right now, pressing back into Phil’s body with a satisfied sigh.
“Morning.”
“Time’s it?”
“Some time past nine.”
“Hmmm.” Clint buries his face in the pillow, feeling Phil’s fingers resting on his stomach, just brushing the skin. “Think Darcy can handle the shop today. Do you have to go to work?”
Phil sighs softly, right against the top knot of Clint’s spine. “They can deal without me. Just finished a case, I can use the rest.”
Clint grins, turning in Phil’s arms to speak right against his lips, their noses brushing. “You assume there will be rest involved.”
Phil smiles, kissing Clint lightly. “How silly of me.”
Clint wiggles his eyebrows in answer, before sobering up. “Do you want coffee?”
“God, yes.”
Clint nods, kissing Phil again, just because he can, and he’s here, naked in Clint’s bed, in no rush to go anywhere. He rolls away, sheets rustling around him, and walks away from the bed naked. It’s warm enough that he doesn’t feel the need to put on anything as he pads through his apartment to the kitchen. He’s quick to put the coffee on, contemplating making some eggs and bacon as well. He decides not to as the coffee maker gurgles next to him, unwilling to spend more time outside the bedroom, or at least outside of Phil’s reach, than he has to. While the liquid drips, he gives Darcy a quick call, bringing her up to date and warning her that she's on her own today. The happy squeal from the headset near deafens him, but he grins, happy that she's happy for him. He doesn't even mind when she warns him she's gonna call if the shop turns into a madhouse later.
He just makes the one cup of coffee and walks back to the bedroom, only to stop dead in his tracks. Phil has barely moved, just pushed the covers down his legs, and he’s stroking his cock, looking straight at Clint like he’s doing it on purpose, which Clint doesn’t doubt. It’s surprising to think of Phil as a tease, but considering the charged smile on his face right now, there is no other way to describe it.
Clint very slowly puts the coffee mug down on the bedside table, flexing his fingers. “What are you doing?”
“I think it’s quite obvious,” Phil drawls, smirking.
Clint shakes his head, running his tongue over his top teeth as he considers his options; then he stalks over to the side of the bed, kneeling on the mattress and straddling Phil in one swift move, ass resting snugly against Phil’s cock, feeling the back of Phil's hand brushing his skin. Phil changes his grip, letting go of his erection to palm Clint’s ass, and Clint rocks back, licking his lips.
“Well, it’s a good thing that the coffee is way too hot to be drinkable right now.”
"Is that a fact," Phil says, voice rich with amusement and fondness, and god, Clint bends down and kisses him, hard and deep, because he can't not, after everything they've gone through to end up together in his bed, knowing that Phil is here to stay for as long as he possibly can. He wasn't lying when he told Phil that he didn't care about what his job demanded of him; knowing that Phil is his, because he wants to be, because he wants Clint in his life and he'll do anything he can to keep him there -- it's enough. More than enough. He opens his mouth and sucks Phil's tongue inside, moans a little as Phil's hands spread him open and Phil's cock rubs against his entrance, still slick and open from the night before. He tries to lower himself down onto it, wanting Phil inside so bad, wanting to feel that heat and pressure and fullness again, but Phil's hands have an iron grip on his hips and keep him in place no matter how hard he tries.
"Condom; lube," Phil gasps into his mouth, biting down on his lower lip as his hips surge up helplessly yet too shallow to breach him.
"Goddamn it," Clint complains, because he's just fine here, thanks, but Phil won't let him budge, and after a few moments of fruitless attempts to force Phil's hand Clint relents, groping blindly across the nightstand and narrowly avoiding scalding himself before his fingers close around the cool tube and one of the small packs piled on top. He sits back and shoves the condom in Phil's hand, keeping hold of the lube, wanting to see now that Phil has made him slow down. He flicks the top open and squirts a dollop into his hand while Phil rolls the condom on. Just as he goes to coat Phil again, Phil drags his fingers through the wetness and reaches between his legs, a single digit filling him easily as Clint's fingers curl around Phil's cock again. He doesn't think he'll ever get used to the gorgeous, sensuous weight of it across his palm, a little longer than his if not quite as thick. Phil lets out a needy groan, hips jerking again, shoving his cock through Clint's fist, delicious. Another finger joins the first inside, slipping in with no resistance whatsoever; they curl and press, and fuck, he'd known from the start that Phil was as competent as they come, but it still surprises him, the sheer skill Phil possesses to zero in precisely on that place inside him that makes him lose all coherent thought.
"Mngh," he manages, squeezing possibly a little harder than he'd intended, because Phil's hips jerk again, slippery and insistent. "Come on, I'm ready," Clint--all right, whines, he's not proud of it, he just fucking needs this, it's been too long since he's been with someone so damn intuitive, that makes it look easy to be this good. He feels Phil smirk against his mouth, feels the firmness of Phil's lips as they nip at his, and then yes, finally, Phil's fingers slip out and the blunt, wide head of his cock replaces them. Phil pushes a little, just enough pressure to open him up and nudge inside.
He knows Phil is trying to be careful, keep the easy pace, let Clint get used to this -- but Clint has never been especially patient, not when it comes to getting what he wants, and right now what he wants is to be spread open and taken, to feel Phil as deep inside him as he'll go. He cants his hips, shifts backwards and down, and yeah, yeah, that's what he's talking about. The drag of friction as Phil jerks up into him is fucking amazing; he tightens down onto it, and wow, yes.
"Jesus," Phil grunts, hands clenching onto his hips, fingers digging in deliciously until Clint knows they'll mark him, ten fingerprint bruises darkening his skin. The thought makes his cock jerk so hard that Phil definitely notices. Phil arches a brow but doesn't ask, merely shifts one hand to play with the head, strokes it easily, grip nowhere as firm as Clint wishes it was.
Hands splayed on Phil’s chest, Clint tips his head back, rocking onto Phil as slowly as he can, wanting the feeling to last for as long as possible. He knows perfectly well it's not gonna happen, because fuck, Phil feels way too good, and Clint already wants to move faster, go deeper. It’s almost too much of a conflict, wanting so many things at once while his head is spinning with sensations, making him growl with frustration, as Phil’s hand slips down his thigh.
“C’mere, come on,” Clint pants, pulling at Phil’s arms until he’s sitting up, grip shifting to Clint's ass, the change in position pushing him even deeper inside Clint, who can only moan his bliss into Phil’s mouth. They kiss slowly, following the rhythm of their hips, something lazy and unhurried, just like a Sunday morning with the sun filtering through the curtains, the smell of coffee and sex permeating the air. Every time they move, Clint’s cock brushes against Phil’s stomach, the barest of friction that is enough to drive Clint crazy. “Fuck, fuck fuck, Phil.”
Phil trails kisses along Clint’s jaw, wrapping a hand around Clint’s cock properly this time, enough to make his whole body jerk again, sensitive to every one of Phil’s touches. Clint digs blunt nails in Phil’s shoulder as they rock together, his other hand gripping the back of Phil’s head.
Then, suddenly -- which is not to say that Clint doesn't appreciate it, because fuck, does he ever -- Phil shifts them, tips Clint back onto the bed, settles between his legs to fuck him slow and deep, eyes roaming over Clint’s face, like he can’t get enough of watching him lose control. And fuck if Clint doesn’t; his blood is singing, boiling with desperation in his veins, sending lightning flashes of spine-melting pleasure all the way through his body. He wraps his legs around Phil’s waist to get him deeper, pushes his hips off the bed and moans wantonly; Phil’s cock inside him is stretching him wide, making him feel perfectly, blissfully full, on the verge of coming already, clenching his muscles around it.
“Fuck, Clint, you feel so good,” Phil says in a broken whisper, his eyes too intense for Clint to take. He lets his eyelids flutter shut, holding on as Phil leans up on an elbow and grabs Clint’s cock again, pulling him off in earnest now, the last of the lazy feeling melting in the heat of the sun, replaced with an urgency that makes Clint arch his back, hands fisted in the bed sheets.
"That's it," Phil rasps in his ear, voice almost gone, hitching with need. "That's it, Clint, I've got you, come on, yeah, I can feel how close you are, fuck, you feel so good around me, so slick and tight. Come for me, now," he snaps, demands, and Clint's eyes roll into the back of his head, squeezing shut as his mouth falls open and his moans rend the air, so loud, fuck, Clint has never been this loud during sex, but there's something about Phil that demands it, the loss of control, allowing Phil to see, know, exactly what he's doing to him.
Phil's teeth sink into his lip when Phil kisses him, bites into his mouth, swallows down the noise and fucks him through it, fast and deep, sparking off aftershocks up and down his spine, his thighs clenching where they curl around Phil's waist, holding him close. Then Phil's hips stutter, his rhythm fails; he shoves himself inside once, twice, and freezes. Clint wishes he could feel Phil come inside, wishes there was nothing between them but a thin layer of slick, but they're both nothing if not careful, and it's something to look forward to, getting their all-clears together and the celebration that would follow.
For now he cherishes the way Phil sags over him, spent, utterly boneless as he drapes himself all over Clint, heavy and solid on top of him, face tucked into Clint's damp neck. Clint trails his fingers over Phil's back, enjoying the minute shivers they cause in their wake, letting his thighs uncurl from around Phil and fall to the side, still cradling his body. Phil hums his contentment into his skin, pressing languid, slow kisses everywhere he can reach. His cock slips out after a moment; fuck, Clint feels that. He fights not to wince; it's been a long night. And maybe the next round he's going to suggest they switch; one, because otherwise he might not be able to sit properly for a couple of days, and two, because the thought of fucking Phil is making his cock damnably eager to perk up again in anticipation, so much so that Clint whimpers a little with the sting.
Phil's head lifts at that, which makes Clint regret it instantly.
"You okay?" Phil says, looking at him closely, studying his face.
"Perfect," Clint drawls with a rumble, because fuck, he is. He's got everything he needs right here, as long as Phil doesn't even think about leaving the bed. "You?"
Phil looks honestly surprised at that, like the thought that Clint might be concerned is a foreign concept. "Never felt better in my life," he says with this small, honest smile radiating warmth that hits Clint right in the chest, making it clench with a strange mix of tenderness and possessiveness.
They reshuffle a little after that, get rid of the condom, and Phil finally gets to have his coffee (half of which Clint steals, because, host's prerogative -- and also he can't be bothered to go fetch some for himself, considering it would mean leaving the bed-full of Phil behind, which is not a plan he is ever going to be happy with),
Phil's phone rings then, and he shoots Clint an apologetic look as he goes to answer it. Clint, feeling well-fucked and thus magnanimous, waves his permission at him. And then proceeds to sprawl all-out over the sheets and drift, listening to Phil's familiar, comforting voice get progressively more vexed. He grins at the ceiling, imagining the ass-kicking imminent in someone's future. It's a surprisingly satisfying thought, especially when it applies to the rest of his life from this moment on.
;;;
Epilogue
“You’ll see, their coffee is amazing. Also, we get a discount.”
Bucky raises an eyebrow at Steve’s words. “We do?”
“If you know Phil, you get a discount.” Steve looks entirely too pleased about that, and Phil manages to restrain himself from clocking him round the head, even though he’d definitely deserve it.
Since this whole thing with Clint started, though, Phil has mellowed out enough to smile in the office, even cracking jokes from time to time. Dry, sarcastic jokes, but still, they’d made Steve look so surprised he’d almost fallen out of his chair once.
“Why do we get a discount if we know Phil?”
“Because he gets extra favors.”
“Rogers, if you don’t shut up now, you’ll be filling paperwork for the next month.”
Thankfully, the conversation stops when they get to Under the Big Top, walking into the warm shop that smells exquisitely of chocolate and almonds today. Phil takes the lead without even thinking about it, Steve and Bucky falling in step behind him.
It’s only been a few hours since Phil saw Clint off, but he still can't get over the rush of giddiness coursing through his veins when Clint smiles at him as he walks inside the coffee shop.
“What kind of favors?”
“His favors.”
Phil is pretty sure that Steve knows perfectly well he can hear their whispers, and he can also imagine him pointing discreetly at Clint, but he only rolls his eyes and smiles at Clint, who's leaning against the counter.
“Hello, Agent Coulson. Agent Rogers,” Clint drawls, damn it, he knows what that tone does to Phil.
“Hi, Clint!” Phil grins helplessly at Steve’s enthusiastic greeting, and at Darcy suddenly stepping out of the kitchen. The girl hasn’t lost hope, even after serving Steve and Peggy during their first date. “Hey, Darcy. This is Agent Barnes. Just transferred from Quantico.”
Darcy surges forward, all smiles and bouncing breasts, making Phil want to burst out laughing. Fair enough, he works with some good-looking young men; he’s glad Clint seems to only have eyes for him.
“Usual, Agent Coulson?” Clint asks.
“Please.” They share a smile, a secret in their eyes as Darcy asks with her best flirty wink what Steve and Bucky want. While Clint and Darcy work away at the drinks, Phil listens to some more whispering under the hiss of the coffee machine.
"...All for Peggy, you know that, Rogers, but passing on that? The woman has scrambled your brains, pal!"
"God, Bucky, shut up! I give you my blessing, just stop talking so loud!"
"Jesus, all right, don't get your panties in a twist. I'm not making the same mistake as you, that's for sure. D'you think she might like to go dancing?"
Steve elbows Bucky in the ribs; Bucky play-winces, though Phil knows the strength of that elbow and he's sure Bucky's ribs will be tender for the rest of the day. Clint is watching them through narrowed eyes, especially Bucky. Phil knows how protective he is of Darcy; he'll have to talk to him about not killing Barnes before he gets to know him.
"Here y'are, gents," Darcy says, smiling saucily. Phil watches Bucky's eyes widen a little and a smirk curl his mouth. Damn, but they would make a fine-looking couple. Clint hands Phil his coffee, and he’s quick to shuffle to a table, letting the youngsters settle the bill.
He sits at his favorite spot near the window, and keeps his eyes on Steve and Bucky for just a moment before Clint joins him, what Phil knows is a cappuccino in his hands.
“Is this one going to break her heart, too?”
“I couldn’t say. He's Steve's best friend, though, and if he does, it'll never be on purpose.”
Clint makes a face. “Well, you can tell him that if he does the same thing Steve did, I’ll break his legs.”
“You cannot tell me these things, I’ll have to arrest you.”
“You know I love it when you talk dirty to me,” Clint murmurs, sliding his knee against Phil's under the table. Phil could try to stop the shiver, or the smile that Clint's low, rumbling voice sends to his face, but it's just too much effort, so he doesn't bother.
Instead, he slides a hand into the inner pocket of his jacket and takes out an envelope, handing it over to Clint without comment. Clint takes it, a question clear in his eyes, and sets down his cup so he can rip the flap open. He takes out the piece of paper inside, expression quickly flitting through shock, pleased surprise, and a quiet happiness that Phil will never, ever, even if he lives to be a hundred, get tired of putting on his face.
"Not that I'm ungrateful, because I'm not, I don't want you to think that I don't appreciate this, but what's the occasion?" Clint asks, eyes flitting quickly from the paper to Phil's face and back.
A few months ago, Phil would have deflected without answering. A year ago, he wouldn't have even bothered hearing the question.
Now, though, he looks back and lets Clint see what's in his eyes, what he's thinking -- because Clint has earned it. A whole year of sticking with Phil, through cases and threats and cancelled dinners and a visit from Phil's mother -- that is dedication.
"It'll come to you, if you think hard enough," he says, because while, yes, all of that is true, it's just not in his nature to lay his heart out on the table for others to see. Clint scowls, glaring a little -- he hates it when Phil does that. But he's also never backed down from a challenge in his life, and the fact of the matter is, Phil loves the way his eyes narrow, the way the air around him seems to crackle with energy when he gets like this. Clint stares at the paper; Phil can almost see him thinking.
“This is a pretty big deal, Phil. At least give me a clue.”
“It’s not that big a deal.”
“Excuse me, I’ll be the one to decide how much of a big deal getting a membership to an archery club is to me.”
Clint is getting aggravated, in that honestly endearing way that makes Phil smile. It’s also making Phil want to just tell Clint, but he resists, licking his lips.
“It’s for an anniversary. Do you like it?”
“If I didn’t know already just how much you hate being groped in public, I’d show you exactly how much I do.”
Phil’s smile grows even wider. If it wasn’t for Steve and Bucky, he’d almost challenge that. He wants to challenge it so much more when Clint suddenly looks up from the paper, eyes bright.
“Oh, an anniversary! Is it today, really?”
“21st of April, isn’t it?”
Clint opens his mouth, looking like he’s trying to manage too many thoughts at once.
“Darcy?”
“Boss?”
“Take out the small blackboard, we're discounting everything this week.”
“We...are? Why?”
Clint smiles. “Because Under the Big Top is a year old.”
Darcy's mouth makes an 'O' of surprise and she nods, bending down to rummage under the counter to find the board in question. Steve rolls his eyes as Bucky drapes himself over the counter and offers to help -- by the sound of it, with more than the search.
Phil sees none of that, however, because his eyes are locked on Clint's smiling ones, the feeling that shines from them bathing him in warmth.
"I didn't get you anything," Clint says, and Phil's lips twitch.
"You got me plenty," he says, which, yes, he is quite aware just how ridiculously sappy the sentiment is. Doesn't make it any less true, though. Clint grins, then, laughs at him for it, but takes his hand anyway, tangles their fingers together, keeps hold of them while he drinks his coffee, makes fun of Bucky's increasingly salacious attempts to ask Darcy out, rolls his eyes at Steve's face when Peggy comes in.
And yes, okay. This, Phil can do.
END
Authors:
delicatale and sirona_gsPairing: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Darcy Lewis/Bucky Barnes (implied), Darcy Lewis/Steve Rogers (one-sided)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings, Summary and Notes in Part One.
Darcy is watching him. Clint tries not to fidget, but he can feel her eyes boring into the middle of his back where he's setting up today's trays of muffins. He avoids her gaze, fusses around with the displays, checks the levels of coffee grounds, looks at the door, then hustles through the flying doors and into the back, where the bakery is set up. The counters are dusty with flour, bowls of frosting standing by waiting for the batch of cupcakes in the ovens. Clint feels antsy, skittish, like his skin is too tight; he can't stay still. It's been three days since that night, since he'd first felt Phil's lips on his, Phil's hands on his face, the feverish heat of Phil's body under his palms.
Feverish. Right. He feels like the worst kind of asshole, jumping a guy who was sick, whose defences were lowered, whose reaction time was slowed; he'd seen it and ignored it, rolled right past the point where any decent guy would have stopped and pulled back, not pushed when Phil was obviously less than in control of himself.
And Phil hasn't come by. Of course he hasn't. He probably doesn't want to see Clint again, not after Clint had practically mounted him on the sofa. Jesus.
He decides that, to hell with it, it's still early enough to make some scones for tea in the afternoon. Traffic has picked up of late, and the shop is almost always full by four o'clock, business types from the dozens of law firms and government agencies occupying the district, out for a much-needed coffee break, and arty types from farther away that had started to gravitate to the shop in the past several weeks. He mixes up the ingredients and takes an inordinate amount of satisfaction in pummelling the dough to within an inch of its life, using it to release all the frustration that has been building in his shoulders with every day that Phil hadn't shown, every minute more that he's had to ponder his terrible choices.
Eventually he has to stop, dough thoroughly beaten into submission, fine sweat covering his forehead and trickling down the back of his neck. It's still much hotter than it ought to be for this time of year, and the A/C does nothing to beat back the wall of heat battering the shop from the outside in. Not to mention the miasma of simmering air rising from the ovens; all in all, the baking space is, indeed, baking.
He puts the dough away to rise, whittles away another half hour frosting the waiting cupcakes, but eventually he has to walk out into the shop again, where Darcy is lying in wait.
He's watched her get more and more curious as the days go by, and today she is practically vibrating with impatience. Still, instead of laying into him like he expects, she merely hands him a tall paper cup of coffee, still hot from when she must have poured it when he started moving the cupcakes from the tray to the glass displays.
He smiles gratefully, even if he's still understandably wary. With good cause, it seems -- he takes a sip, and the taste of coconut, hazelnut and vanilla hits his tongue, together with the mule kick of the ridiculous number of espresso shots in the cup. He barely stops himself from choking, though he can't help his flinch. He shoots Darcy a deeply betrayed look.
"I knew it," she crows, and Clint winces at the volume as well as the topic. "You never fix anyone else custom-made coffees; and really, did you think you were being subtle? 'The Agent'? Really? That's what you're calling this? Don't try to deny it, it's right there on the board. Are you going to tell me what's going on already?"
Clint glares at her stubbornly. He's not giving in to underhanded extortion.
Darcy looks gleeful. "Do you have a little crush, Clint?"
Clint can't actually help it -- he can feel the heat rising up his neck and flooding his face. Fuck.
Darcy looks thoughtful all of a sudden, which is actually worse. "Seriously, Clint. Is something wrong? You've been acting really strange lately."
Clint sighs, fingers clenching on his cup before he forces them to relax. "Nothing's wrong," he says on a sigh. "I'm just overthinking something. It's nothing, really."
Darcy crosses her arms over her ample chest and leans a hip against the counter. "Pull the other one," she drawls, raising both eyebrows. Clint sags under that look.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Darcy asks, a lot more subdued than a moment ago.
The thing is, Clint really does, because the space in his head is teeming with a million thoughts, a million doubts. He just doesn't know how. Darcy tucks a curl behind her ear, leaning closer encouragingly. And Clint knows, he does, that talking to her will help him sort things out in his mind. So he swallows his natural reluctance and starts talking -- not the details, but he blocks it out enough for her to get the drift. She listens, completely non-judgemental, which is such a comfort, and doesn't ask any questions until he's done. Then she's silent for a long moment, chewing on her plump bottom lip.
"Maybe he's really, really busy? Sounds like he's pretty high up the ladder. He might not even be in the country."
Clint hasn't really thought about that; the vise that's been strangling his breathing ever since the morning after starts to loosen slightly. That is actually a valid argument. Because he and Phil never even exchanged phone numbers, or emails, or any way to stay in touch, which in retrospect is just plain stupid -- but in their defence, they'd been plenty distracted.
Darcy, appeased, gets back to work tidying up the empties from the tables and seeing to the two suits that come in for, yes, 'The Agent'. Clint had known he was on to something from Phil's reaction, but he'd had no idea just how popular the drink would prove, despite the mix of flavors. Even Pepper Potts had ordered two, looking intrigued when she'd first seen it on the menu. Clint can only wonder what Tony Stark made of it.
The bell above the door jangles then, and his head snaps up. But it's only a really tall blond guy, with a piercing pair of pale blue eyes that peek out from behind truly ridiculous eyelashes. Clint is somewhat of an expert when it comes to recognising agility and fighting ability, and this guy is definitely a trained professional. His chest alone would, under normal circumstances, make Clint look twice -- thrice, four times, even, because it is vast. The man looks like he was manufactured by the kind of mad scientist who appreciates his/her creations looking like Greek demi-gods.
He comes to the counter, eyes running over both Clint and Darcy, carefully evaluating even though his expression is bland. Then, apparently assured that the two of them aren't an immediate threat, his gaze migrates to the board on the wall behind them. Clint sees the man's eyes widen after a moment, clearly surprised before his mouth twitches.
"Hello," he says at last. There is silence; when Clint looks, Darcy is licking her lips, eyes fixed on said chest. He kicks her ankle. She throws him a dirty look, then turns back with quite the filthy smirk on that mouth of hers.
"Hi," she drawls, eyes moving up and down his body like she's devouring it -- or would certainly like to. "Welcome to Under the Big Top. You're new, aren't you? --I mean, you haven't come in before, right? I would have remembered."
The guy smiles, and okay, yes, Clint will admit that he wouldn't mind getting to know him better, too. Seriously, he is gorgeous.
Then he thinks of Phil, and feels like a prick all over again.
"You're right, this is the first time I've been able to come in. I've heard a lot of good things about you, though," the guy tells Darcy, earnest and amiable and is he for real?
Darcy's eyes brighten and she preens a little, even though it's not actually her shop. "Oh, yes? Satisfied customers, yay!"
The guy's eyes crinkle when he smiles back at her, even wider than before.
"What can we get you?" Clint cuts in, because at this rate no one is getting any drinks ordered or made.
The guy looks over at him, and Clint can practically feel the scrutiny in his gaze. O-kay then.
"I would like one of 'The Agent', please. In fact, make that two," he says, checking his watch.
Darcy throws Clint a sly look before ringing it up. Clint busies himself with making the drinks, a bittersweet pang in his chest.
The door jangles again when it opens, but Clint is pouring in the milk and doesn't look up right away, determined not to repeat the accident from the last time he made that mistake. He fills the cups almost to the top, spoons froth to the brim and fits the caps over them. He pops two cardboard holders out and threads the cups through. Only then does he raise his head.
Phil is standing less than two steps away. Clint can see him clearly over the coffee machine; they're both tall enough that it comes to just under Phil's shoulders. He looks tired, drawn, but much better than the last time he came in -- not the last time Clint actually saw him, though, because nothing has topped that yet.
"Hi," Clint breathes, and promptly flushes, god, he sounds like a schoolboy with a crush.
"Hello, Clint," Phil says; how is it possible that Clint has missed his voice without knowing it?
They stare at each other, until there's a pointed throat-clearing to his right and he tears his eyes away from Phil's face just in time to catch the full force of Darcy's arch look. He feels abruptly mortified.
He clears his own throat, handing over the coffees and not looking back at Phil, because Jesus, he is an idiot.
The guy at the till has this curl to his mouth, amused and knowing. Clint feels an urge to go check on the dough for the scones right this instant.
"I ordered for you, Phil, I hope you don't mind," the guy says now, and oh, hang on a minute.
"Thanks," Phil says dryly, a rueful look in his eyes. The guy looks amused.
"So you two work together?" Darcy wants to know, which saves Clint from having to ask himself.
Phil nods, waving a hand at the guy. "Steve Rogers, my partner. Steve, this is Clint Barton and Darcy Lewis."
"So pleased to meet you," Darcy purrs, offering him her hand and smiling invitingly. Rogers actually flushes at that, the tips of his ears pinking. He takes her hand, shaking it and holding on a little longer than strictly polite. Clint sends Phil an amused look; Phil returns it, lips twitching. Clint thinks the awkwardness from earlier dissipates a little -- until the thought registers, and Clint feels it all over again. He can't ask why Phil hasn't come by; Phil probably can't tell him anyway (if he has, indeed, been away for work. Clint hopes rather a lot that that is the case).
"You look better," he says instead, biting at his lip before asking, "Has your cold gone?"
Phil nods a couple of times, looking away. Clint's heart sinks. He was right; Phil's obviously regretting what happened.
"It has, thanks," Phil says, eyes pointed down at the coffee cup in his hands and decidedly not at Clint. Clint is surprised by how much this pains him, but he tries his best not to let it show, even if Darcy is way too focused on Steve to notice. The awkwardness is back full force, and Clint suddenly wants them to leave, wants to be able to go back to the kitchen and bake some scones or knead more dough into submission.
“Phil, we need to get going,” Steve says, his voice soft. “The coffee’s great, by the way.”
“Yeah--yeah. Let’s get back to the office.”
Clint feels his stomach bottom out. He tries to reason with himself - Phil isn’t alone, Steve is obviously younger than him, possibly even a rookie, and Clint has no idea about rules in the NSA but he knows all too well about DADT and how deeply it has marked so many men and women. Even repealed, old habits die hard.
So maybe that's what it is.
And maybe Phil's just had time to sleep on what happened between the two of them, and this is it. Clint should have known, should have prepared himself for the eventuality; but he hadn't, he'd been recklessly hopeful, and now it hurts. He just wants to be able to talk to Phil, in private, sober and healthy.
“Well, thank you for your custom, gentlemen.” It comes out dry, level, nothing like what he feels inside. He doesn’t know what else to say, feels awkward, stupid. Darcy throws him a curious look, but he refuses to acknowledge her, swiping at the coffee machine instead.
“Bye, Clint,” Phil says in a low voice, as if he’s regretting having to leave, and Clint feels the urge to punch something again. Darcy turns to him when both Phil and Steve have gone, eyes flashing.
“What was that about?”
“He’s the one that acted like nothing happened, Darcy.”
“Oh, wow, last time I checked you were thirty-four, not fourteen.”
“I’m not going to put him on the spot in front of his partner!”
Darcy sighs, but deflates a little, looking away at the front window, like she’s hoping to see Steve walk back in and sweep her off her feet there and then.
“Fair enough. You should talk to him, though.”
“I know. Are you going to ask Steve out?” Clint goes all out on this one, hoping Darcy will just follow the change in topic without another word. And it works well enough; she sputters, throwing Clint a dark look.
“What? No!”
“Oh, come on, you were undressing him with your eyes and clenching your arms around your chest to make your tits look bigger. Which, by the way, is not necessary, babe.”
Darcy flips him off and Clint grins, going for the 'fake it till you make it' attitude he lived by while in the circus. He can do this, and he’ll be fine. He knows he has to talk to Phil, but he’s not going to make himself sick over it.
It’s not a game for Clint, but he doubts it is for Phil, either. He really can only hope it was a bad play of circumstances. At least Phil is better, and he looked sharp in yet another of his standard tailored suits, always the consummate professional. It makes Clint long for that one moment of Phil unguarded and vulnerable, clad in just a towel, and Phil in Clint’s own clothes, all soft and blurry at the edges.
Clint guesses this is a memory he can only cherish, and not expect to witness again. But until Phil comes back to Under the Big Top, alone, Clint is determined not to think about it too much. He has no idea how long he’ll manage to fake it, though.
;;;
It's really late when Phil finally manages to wrap up the case from hell and even contemplate leaving the office. He's so grateful it's Friday that he could cry; even more grateful that he's somehow finished the paperwork tonight and doesn't have to come in tomorrow to tie up loose ends. He is exhausted. The bomber from the end of last week had tied into a much larger home terrorism plot, and they've all been run ragged, no time for anything outside the office but chasing down leads. He hasn't even been able to go in to Clint's shop for coffee, and after four days of office sludge he's missing it sorely.
Thinking of Clint just starts an ache somewhere behind his sternum, a cringe of guilt for the last time he'd been in, when he'd forced himself to brush Clint off because he just hadn't had the time, damn it, to sit down and talk to him properly like he'd wanted to -- like he’d needed to badly, ever since their kiss; and he'd known that if he started talking, he might never stop. The look in Clint's eyes, though. It kept Phil up at nights, even when he was supposed to rest; the disappointment, the flash of hurt. Phil felt physically sick every time he thought about it. This was why he shouldn't get emotionally attached -- he only hurt the people around him when he had no choice but to throw himself into his job, to the exclusion of everything else.
And now that he can spare the time to go and talk to Clint, he has no idea whether he would be welcome at all. Fuck, it had been so wonderful that night, to have Clint that close, to feel his hands, his mouth on his, to know that, yeah, he wasn't alone in feeling these things. Now it feels like everything has turned to ashes before him.
He gets his stuff together and leaves the office finally, just gone nine p.m.; he's the only one still there on the floor. Steve, Natasha and Bucky are long gone, and even Peggy Carter, the new Assistant Director that had been drafted in this week for the case, had left. Phil heads down the stairs, distracting himself from the conundrum with the thought that he's not the only one in trouble where feelings are concerned -- after just two days, Steve is completely smitten with Agent Carter, who treats him like a puppy that's lost his way. It's extremely amusing to watch Steve bend over backwards to impress, and her smooth, composed rebuffs. He has an inkling she likes him, though, even if he couldn't really say what pointed to that conclusion. Poor Darcy; he's going to have to break the news to her gently.
Thoughts of Darcy naturally lead to thoughts of Clint, and Phil feels the levity drain right out of him. He trudges to his car and sits there for a long moment, debating the uselessness of going in to apologise. Still, he's going to have to sometime -- he's still got Clint's clothes, washed and folded neatly in a carrier bag in the trunk, and he's not the kind of asshole to just conveniently forget about them. And if he's going to end up going in at some point, it's probably better to get it over with as soon as possible and try to put it out of his mind. He ignores the voice in his head that tells him that it’s not going to be as easy to let Clint fade into the background as Phil thinks. For one thing, he thinks he might be addicted to the damn coffee, because he'd been feeling utterly miserable the past four days, something close to the shakes keeping him off-balance. And for another, his partner and the other team aren't actually stupid -- he knows that they know about the coffee, and he knows that Steve thinks he and Clint are an item, after Phil made the mistake of suggesting Under the Big Top as a rendezvous before the meeting. Then Steve had told Bucky, because those two are physically incapable of not telling each other every single thing that passes through their heads, and that's how Phil had found out that his tailor-made coffee was now a drink on the menu called 'The Agent'. He doesn't know if he feels more flattered or jealously possessive of his drink.
In the end, when he pulls out of the garage he turns in the direction of Under the Big Top, and tries to ignore the flutter in the pit of his belly. It's really late; there's absolutely no guarantee that Clint will still be there at all. The thought doesn't really help; instead, it only piles another layer of disappointment on top of the nervous anticipation. Jesus, but Clint is messing with his head something fierce. At this point Phil honestly doesn't know what would be better, for him and Clint to work through the situation they've found themselves in, or for them to give it up altogether, because his judgement has not been this severely compromised since he was a rookie still finding his feet.
He parks his car in the same spot as last week, when he'd given in to the urge and gone to the only place he felt truly comfortable. He makes sure to get the bag from the trunk, to use as an excuse if needs be. To his pleased surprise, when he gets there the place is still blazing with light that streams out through the high windows. Phil peeks inside, finding the shop much busier than he expected -- almost all the tables are full, a harassed-looking Darcy rushing around and picking up empties, while Clint is behind the coffee machine, face fixed in a frown and arms moving with the kind of precision that characterises the combat-trained professional -- or apparently someone with Clint's background, rare as it is. What is a true surprise, so much so that it makes him step back in shock, is the unmistakable figure of Pepper Potts behind the cash register, calmly and efficiently taking orders and payment and dispersing directions and change without the slightest pause. He's so thrown that he doesn’t move for the better part of five minutes, so long, in fact, that by the time he moves again the queue is almost gone and there are only one or two people left waiting. When he pushes in through the door, Ms. Potts is stepping out from behind the register and smiling kindly at Darcy, who is stammering her thanks, utterly star-struck. Clint, too, looks unspeakably relieved, offering Ms. Potts two huge coffees in a cardboard tray and waving away her offer to pay.
"It's the least I could do; thank you so much for your help. You saved our skins back there."
"My pleasure, Mr. Barton," Ms. Potts says, and Clint makes a face.
"Clint, please. Again, it's the least I could do. As far as I'm concerned, your money's no good here anymore, Ms. Potts, not as long as I own the place."
Pepper smiles charmingly when she replies, "That's really not necessary, Clint, but thank you. And it's Pepper."
For a timeless, charged moment, Phil feels a swooping sensation in his stomach, and his chest seizes painfully. The irrational desire to march over there and slip a proprietary arm around Clint's waist, pull him in against his side, is so powerful that the battle to wrestle it back leaves him weak, even more exhausted. What right does he have to do something like that, anyway? Clint would probably throw him out without letting him get a word in edgewise.
"I couldn't let the shop that provides myself and Mr. Stark with such excellent coffee flounder, really. Consider it an act of self-preservation," Ms. Potts adds now, giving them a last fond look and turning, eyes widening a little when she comes face to face with Phil. Phil wonders what the look on his face must be like, to put such an expression on hers.
"Agent Coulson, what a pleasant surprise," Ms. Potts covers neatly, obviously used to unexpected situations being sprung on her. Well, Stark is her boss.
Phil, with a monumental effort, pulls himself together, affecting the bland expression that gets him through the day. "Ms. Potts, good evening. Working late?"
"Yes. Tony has a project to finish, and you know how he gets."
Phil's lips twitch. Colonel Rhodes is the NSA's military liaison -- and by necessity also their Tony Stark liaison as well. Phil knows exactly what she means.
"I hope he doesn't keep you out too late," Phil says mildly, stepping away from the door. Ms. Potts wishes him a good evening with a sly, sideways look that, even though Phil will never say it out loud, she has lifted straight off her boss. Or Stark has stolen it from her, there's always that chance.
She slips past him and out the door, and Phil really has no option but to look up now, straight into Clint's shuttered eyes. Darcy is conspicuously making herself busy behind the counter, banging cups and plates slightly louder than necessary as she sets up the dishwasher.
"Hi," Phil says helplessly. Just because he's determined to see this through doesn't mean he knows what to say, what would be welcome--or not.
"Hi, Phil," Clint says, impeccably friendly yet palpably detached. Phil feels a chill take him, knows perfectly well it has nothing to do with the still-blasting A/C. "What can I do you for?"
Coffee hadn't really been at the front of Phil's mind, coming here, but if that's how Clint wants to play it...
"Actually, I came to return your--the clothes you let me borrow.” He wants to add that he’d like for them to talk, too, but he feels thrown, out of sorts. Clint had needed help, and Phil had had no idea, hadn’t been there for four days. He doesn’t want to be replaced in Clint’s life -- which is a ridiculous notion, but it makes his gut twist just thinking about it. "But I guess coffee would be nice, too."
“Oh. Thanks. What will it be?”
Phil takes a deep breath, the words coming out of his mouth before he can really think them through. He hasn’t been able to think many things through, when it comes to Clint. “Surprise me.”
Suddenly, there’s a smirk on Clint’s face, his eyes downcast, looking at his own hands, and Phil bites the inside of his lip, a heady rush of hope that maybe he hasn’t completely screwed this up. Clint gets to work, not saying anything as he mixes syrups and espresso shots together. Phil tries to follow the moves and check what Clint is putting in his coffee, but he finds himself staring at Clint’s hands, remembering the feel of them on his skin, and then he’s staring at Clint’s mouth, and - this is a train of thought he ought to stop before he embarrasses himself in front of a pretty full coffee shop.
“I thought - we need to talk, Clint.”
“Hmm.” Clint slides Phil’s coffee over the counter, finally meeting Phil’s eyes. “Bit busy.”
Phil nods. “I can see that. I’ll wait. Keep the change,” he says as he slides a five dollar bill towards Clint, turning to go sit at the only empty table. If he needs to wait until it’s time to close, he will. He’s got nowhere better to be.
It takes an hour and a half for the shop to empty. Phil spends it observing the seamless way Clint and Darcy work together, one of them always preparing the drinks while the other cleans tables. They share smiles and private jokes regularly as they work, making Phil long for a camaraderie like that--maybe even with Clint--even more than before.
It’s obvious that Clint is trying his hardest to ignore Phil’s presence, but isn’t very successful at it, stealing glances at Phil every so often, brushing past him after getting empties from a table. Darcy is better at it than Clint, going about her work like Phil isn’t there, sipping at his surprisingly bitter mocha slowly, wanting to make it last.
He still finishes it before the shop is empty, but neither Clint nor Darcy gather the empty cup. Phil toys with it, refusing to look at his phone, even when he feels it vibrating in his pocket. He’s going to have that talk with Clint, and work can wait.
“Go on, Darcy, I’ll close up.”
Darcy blinks at Clint, surprise showing on her face for just a moment.
“Are you sure? I don’t mind.”
“I’m sure. Go on.”
Darcy throws Phil a look, still hesitating, like she’s worried Phil and Clint are going to end up throwing punches. But in the end she grabs her bag, pecks a kiss to Clint's cheek, and then she’s out of the door, giving Phil the smallest nod of acknowledgement. He’ll have to wait to tell her about Steve and Peggy, then.
Clint wipes down the coffee machine for another moment before he just stops, hands on the counter. “I’m surprised you waited.”
“I said I would. Was this a test?”
Clint clenches his jaw, throwing down the tea towel he’s holding and walking around the counter, closer to Phil. “Wasn’t a test, Phil.”
“Okay. I wanted to. I apologize for last time.”
“For what? Ignoring me, or ignoring what happened between us?”
Phil refuses to fidget or look away, even though the urge is strong. “Both.”
“Do you even like me?”
It would sound childish under any other circumstances, probably, but Clint sounds so earnest, actually asking instead of just throwing it out to be an ass. Phil stands up, steps closer, feeling like any words he could say would be inadequate.
“Yes, I do.” He sighs, looking down at his own hands for a moment. He knows he’s got to let it out now, or he never will. “Look, I'm sorry it went down like it did. I never meant to make you upset, or feel like I didn't care. Because I do, Clint; I do care. And I wanted to stop and talk to you properly. I just, I couldn't.
"Listen, you've got to understand, if we're, if you even still want to be doing this thing with me, you have to know that it's not about what I want. I don't have the luxury of doing what I want. I work for the NSA; when they say 'jump', I ask how high, and what velocity I should be aiming for, and incidentally, is something going to shoot me down when I do? Because that's what my job is. Last time, I shouldn't have even stopped by, I knew it wasn't going to go down well, I should have just not come in at all. But--I wanted to see you. Even if I didn't have the time to talk properly."
Clint is quiet for a long moment, digesting this. His eyes don't stray from Phil's; they're considering, digging into him, testing his sincerity. He lets Clint look as long as he likes, lets him see it all -- his regret, his hope, the vague despair of ever finding someone who understands, who likes him enough to put up with it for his sake.
The silence stretches; Clint is just standing there, and fuck, the look in his eyes, all that warmth and affection, Phil doesn't know what to do with it. It's so foreign that he honestly has no frame of reference for a reaction.The shop is peaceful around them, lights dim, and Phil waits, because that's what he's been doing all night--all week--waits for Clint to decide what it's going to be.
"So?" he says in the end, when the quiet gets unbearable, and it's either attack or retreat. "Do you--I mean, I know I fucked up. But do you think we could--"
His voice trails off when Clint sighs, tired, head hanging down. Phil's blood turns to icicles in his veins. But then Clint's reaching for his hand, drawing him across the floor back to the table, slumps into the chair next to the one Phil had been warming. His hand is callused and strong, fingers rough against Phil's, but warm, gentle.
"I think we could. I mean, I would like it very much if we could," Clint says, raising his head to catch Phil's eyes. "But I'll need you to--look. I'm going to have to ask you for something."
"Anything," Phil says immediately. "Anything I can give you, it's yours."
Clint nods, but it's not disappointment that lingers in his eyes; from where Phil's sitting, it looks a lot more like relief.
"I'm... not very good with unspoken boundaries," Clint says slowly, hesitantly, like he's finding the words here and now. "I just, I need to know that you're with me. I don't care about your job, or what you have to do for it. I just need to know that even when you can't see me, or you can't talk about it, or you just don't have the time to drop by, I need to trust that you're with me, Phil. That you and I, we're together. And if there ever comes a time that you don't want to be with me, you'll tell me. I don't--I can't handle you just distancing yourself until I have no idea what's going on anymore. I need you to talk to me. That's all I want. I'm not asking for any guarantees, but--"
Phil puts his fingers over the softness of Clint's mouth, fights not to shudder when Clint's breath tickles his skin. "I get it," Phil says, letting the smile that's been growing helplessly as Clint spoke creep across his mouth. "I get it, Clint. And yes. I'm with you. As much as I can, I'll be with you for as long as you'll have me."
Clint's lips stretch under his fingertips, then purse to press a kiss against them before pulling back. "I just need you to talk to me," he repeats plaintively, like he thinks he's asking for more than Phil can give. "You can't come over, that's fine. You have to work late, that's fine, too; call me up and tell me, I'll get it, I promise. Just as long as I know where I stand, I'm cool with that."
Phil can hardly believe his luck; he hadn't dared to hope that he could ever, that there could be someone who gets it, him, and wants him anyway. "I can do that," he says; too eagerly, he knows, but Clint doesn't laugh, he just smiles happily, and somehow it's better than anything Phil could have said, any promises he could have made. Joy rises inside him until he's giddy with it; he pushes off his chair, crowds into Clint's space and presses his mouth to Clint's, mobile lips pliant under his, no hint of hesitation, just calm, pleased acceptance. Phil scuttles even closer, Clint's body warm against his chest as he slips his hands around Clint's waist, the back of his head and tugs gently, slanting his head until their tongues tangle together between their lips; until Clint's exhaling harshly against him and pushing him back, not hard enough to break the kiss but with obvious intent. Phil settles back into his chair and Clint follows, sliding his legs over the outside of Phil's thighs and settling snugly into his lap with a grunt of triumph. Phil's arms lock automatically around him, keeping him in place as Clint's hands frame his face, tilt it back a little so Clint can lick into his mouth, tease his way inside. Phil can't even gather the wherewithal to think, let alone resist.
Clint makes this happy little moan at the back of his throat, and fuck; Phil's hands clench in the fabric of Clint's shirt, trying to draw him closer. He can feel Clint's cock hard and heavy against his stomach, and the jolt of pure need it sends through him startles him a little, makes him want to back off, try and clear his head. Clint lets him draw back just the tiniest bit, break the kiss and pant into Clint's mouth, Clint's breath hot against his spit-slick lips.
"I think it might be a good idea if we took this somewhere else," Phil manages to say, mind a tangle of relief and affection mingling with a fog of want that clouds his thoughts. Clint's thighs clench on his hips, clearly reluctant to let him go; Phil's world actually whitens a little at the feel of it, the thought of what's coming, of what Clint's legs would feel like wrapped about his hips as Phil slides inside him. His lungs lock; he can't breathe for how fucking much he wants that, wants Clint in his bed, in his space, all the time.
"You're probably right," Clint says roughly, pulling back until there's actual space between them, painful as it is for Phil to let him. He steals another kiss, fast and hard, full of teeth and need, and then pushes off him to stand, graceful and so steady that Phil feels the immediate desire to mess up that composure of his. Clint grins sharply, like he can see what Phil's thinking, like he's daring Phil to follow through. And he wants to, how he wants to. But he knows -- or at least he hopes he knows what's coming, and yeah, it's better to get four walls and a door between them and the world before the dam breaks.
When he doesn’t grab Clint and drag him back towards him, Clint swipes up the bag at Phil’s feet and grins dangerously.
“Let’s go.”
;;;
Clint wakes up to the feel of lips against his neck, moving slowly along his shoulder, followed by a cold nose, which makes him smile, hairs rising on his arms. His body feels heavy, sated, limbs tangled with Phil’s in the middle of his bed, covers thrown haphazardly on top of them.
It’s been a long night filled with conversation and sex - more sex than Clint has had in a long time. Phil is a surprisingly enthusiastic lover, at odds with his usual reserved behavior, not that Clint would complain for a second about it. They’ve only had a couple hours of sleep, but Clint is not unhappy to be awake right now, pressing back into Phil’s body with a satisfied sigh.
“Morning.”
“Time’s it?”
“Some time past nine.”
“Hmmm.” Clint buries his face in the pillow, feeling Phil’s fingers resting on his stomach, just brushing the skin. “Think Darcy can handle the shop today. Do you have to go to work?”
Phil sighs softly, right against the top knot of Clint’s spine. “They can deal without me. Just finished a case, I can use the rest.”
Clint grins, turning in Phil’s arms to speak right against his lips, their noses brushing. “You assume there will be rest involved.”
Phil smiles, kissing Clint lightly. “How silly of me.”
Clint wiggles his eyebrows in answer, before sobering up. “Do you want coffee?”
“God, yes.”
Clint nods, kissing Phil again, just because he can, and he’s here, naked in Clint’s bed, in no rush to go anywhere. He rolls away, sheets rustling around him, and walks away from the bed naked. It’s warm enough that he doesn’t feel the need to put on anything as he pads through his apartment to the kitchen. He’s quick to put the coffee on, contemplating making some eggs and bacon as well. He decides not to as the coffee maker gurgles next to him, unwilling to spend more time outside the bedroom, or at least outside of Phil’s reach, than he has to. While the liquid drips, he gives Darcy a quick call, bringing her up to date and warning her that she's on her own today. The happy squeal from the headset near deafens him, but he grins, happy that she's happy for him. He doesn't even mind when she warns him she's gonna call if the shop turns into a madhouse later.
He just makes the one cup of coffee and walks back to the bedroom, only to stop dead in his tracks. Phil has barely moved, just pushed the covers down his legs, and he’s stroking his cock, looking straight at Clint like he’s doing it on purpose, which Clint doesn’t doubt. It’s surprising to think of Phil as a tease, but considering the charged smile on his face right now, there is no other way to describe it.
Clint very slowly puts the coffee mug down on the bedside table, flexing his fingers. “What are you doing?”
“I think it’s quite obvious,” Phil drawls, smirking.
Clint shakes his head, running his tongue over his top teeth as he considers his options; then he stalks over to the side of the bed, kneeling on the mattress and straddling Phil in one swift move, ass resting snugly against Phil’s cock, feeling the back of Phil's hand brushing his skin. Phil changes his grip, letting go of his erection to palm Clint’s ass, and Clint rocks back, licking his lips.
“Well, it’s a good thing that the coffee is way too hot to be drinkable right now.”
"Is that a fact," Phil says, voice rich with amusement and fondness, and god, Clint bends down and kisses him, hard and deep, because he can't not, after everything they've gone through to end up together in his bed, knowing that Phil is here to stay for as long as he possibly can. He wasn't lying when he told Phil that he didn't care about what his job demanded of him; knowing that Phil is his, because he wants to be, because he wants Clint in his life and he'll do anything he can to keep him there -- it's enough. More than enough. He opens his mouth and sucks Phil's tongue inside, moans a little as Phil's hands spread him open and Phil's cock rubs against his entrance, still slick and open from the night before. He tries to lower himself down onto it, wanting Phil inside so bad, wanting to feel that heat and pressure and fullness again, but Phil's hands have an iron grip on his hips and keep him in place no matter how hard he tries.
"Condom; lube," Phil gasps into his mouth, biting down on his lower lip as his hips surge up helplessly yet too shallow to breach him.
"Goddamn it," Clint complains, because he's just fine here, thanks, but Phil won't let him budge, and after a few moments of fruitless attempts to force Phil's hand Clint relents, groping blindly across the nightstand and narrowly avoiding scalding himself before his fingers close around the cool tube and one of the small packs piled on top. He sits back and shoves the condom in Phil's hand, keeping hold of the lube, wanting to see now that Phil has made him slow down. He flicks the top open and squirts a dollop into his hand while Phil rolls the condom on. Just as he goes to coat Phil again, Phil drags his fingers through the wetness and reaches between his legs, a single digit filling him easily as Clint's fingers curl around Phil's cock again. He doesn't think he'll ever get used to the gorgeous, sensuous weight of it across his palm, a little longer than his if not quite as thick. Phil lets out a needy groan, hips jerking again, shoving his cock through Clint's fist, delicious. Another finger joins the first inside, slipping in with no resistance whatsoever; they curl and press, and fuck, he'd known from the start that Phil was as competent as they come, but it still surprises him, the sheer skill Phil possesses to zero in precisely on that place inside him that makes him lose all coherent thought.
"Mngh," he manages, squeezing possibly a little harder than he'd intended, because Phil's hips jerk again, slippery and insistent. "Come on, I'm ready," Clint--all right, whines, he's not proud of it, he just fucking needs this, it's been too long since he's been with someone so damn intuitive, that makes it look easy to be this good. He feels Phil smirk against his mouth, feels the firmness of Phil's lips as they nip at his, and then yes, finally, Phil's fingers slip out and the blunt, wide head of his cock replaces them. Phil pushes a little, just enough pressure to open him up and nudge inside.
He knows Phil is trying to be careful, keep the easy pace, let Clint get used to this -- but Clint has never been especially patient, not when it comes to getting what he wants, and right now what he wants is to be spread open and taken, to feel Phil as deep inside him as he'll go. He cants his hips, shifts backwards and down, and yeah, yeah, that's what he's talking about. The drag of friction as Phil jerks up into him is fucking amazing; he tightens down onto it, and wow, yes.
"Jesus," Phil grunts, hands clenching onto his hips, fingers digging in deliciously until Clint knows they'll mark him, ten fingerprint bruises darkening his skin. The thought makes his cock jerk so hard that Phil definitely notices. Phil arches a brow but doesn't ask, merely shifts one hand to play with the head, strokes it easily, grip nowhere as firm as Clint wishes it was.
Hands splayed on Phil’s chest, Clint tips his head back, rocking onto Phil as slowly as he can, wanting the feeling to last for as long as possible. He knows perfectly well it's not gonna happen, because fuck, Phil feels way too good, and Clint already wants to move faster, go deeper. It’s almost too much of a conflict, wanting so many things at once while his head is spinning with sensations, making him growl with frustration, as Phil’s hand slips down his thigh.
“C’mere, come on,” Clint pants, pulling at Phil’s arms until he’s sitting up, grip shifting to Clint's ass, the change in position pushing him even deeper inside Clint, who can only moan his bliss into Phil’s mouth. They kiss slowly, following the rhythm of their hips, something lazy and unhurried, just like a Sunday morning with the sun filtering through the curtains, the smell of coffee and sex permeating the air. Every time they move, Clint’s cock brushes against Phil’s stomach, the barest of friction that is enough to drive Clint crazy. “Fuck, fuck fuck, Phil.”
Phil trails kisses along Clint’s jaw, wrapping a hand around Clint’s cock properly this time, enough to make his whole body jerk again, sensitive to every one of Phil’s touches. Clint digs blunt nails in Phil’s shoulder as they rock together, his other hand gripping the back of Phil’s head.
Then, suddenly -- which is not to say that Clint doesn't appreciate it, because fuck, does he ever -- Phil shifts them, tips Clint back onto the bed, settles between his legs to fuck him slow and deep, eyes roaming over Clint’s face, like he can’t get enough of watching him lose control. And fuck if Clint doesn’t; his blood is singing, boiling with desperation in his veins, sending lightning flashes of spine-melting pleasure all the way through his body. He wraps his legs around Phil’s waist to get him deeper, pushes his hips off the bed and moans wantonly; Phil’s cock inside him is stretching him wide, making him feel perfectly, blissfully full, on the verge of coming already, clenching his muscles around it.
“Fuck, Clint, you feel so good,” Phil says in a broken whisper, his eyes too intense for Clint to take. He lets his eyelids flutter shut, holding on as Phil leans up on an elbow and grabs Clint’s cock again, pulling him off in earnest now, the last of the lazy feeling melting in the heat of the sun, replaced with an urgency that makes Clint arch his back, hands fisted in the bed sheets.
"That's it," Phil rasps in his ear, voice almost gone, hitching with need. "That's it, Clint, I've got you, come on, yeah, I can feel how close you are, fuck, you feel so good around me, so slick and tight. Come for me, now," he snaps, demands, and Clint's eyes roll into the back of his head, squeezing shut as his mouth falls open and his moans rend the air, so loud, fuck, Clint has never been this loud during sex, but there's something about Phil that demands it, the loss of control, allowing Phil to see, know, exactly what he's doing to him.
Phil's teeth sink into his lip when Phil kisses him, bites into his mouth, swallows down the noise and fucks him through it, fast and deep, sparking off aftershocks up and down his spine, his thighs clenching where they curl around Phil's waist, holding him close. Then Phil's hips stutter, his rhythm fails; he shoves himself inside once, twice, and freezes. Clint wishes he could feel Phil come inside, wishes there was nothing between them but a thin layer of slick, but they're both nothing if not careful, and it's something to look forward to, getting their all-clears together and the celebration that would follow.
For now he cherishes the way Phil sags over him, spent, utterly boneless as he drapes himself all over Clint, heavy and solid on top of him, face tucked into Clint's damp neck. Clint trails his fingers over Phil's back, enjoying the minute shivers they cause in their wake, letting his thighs uncurl from around Phil and fall to the side, still cradling his body. Phil hums his contentment into his skin, pressing languid, slow kisses everywhere he can reach. His cock slips out after a moment; fuck, Clint feels that. He fights not to wince; it's been a long night. And maybe the next round he's going to suggest they switch; one, because otherwise he might not be able to sit properly for a couple of days, and two, because the thought of fucking Phil is making his cock damnably eager to perk up again in anticipation, so much so that Clint whimpers a little with the sting.
Phil's head lifts at that, which makes Clint regret it instantly.
"You okay?" Phil says, looking at him closely, studying his face.
"Perfect," Clint drawls with a rumble, because fuck, he is. He's got everything he needs right here, as long as Phil doesn't even think about leaving the bed. "You?"
Phil looks honestly surprised at that, like the thought that Clint might be concerned is a foreign concept. "Never felt better in my life," he says with this small, honest smile radiating warmth that hits Clint right in the chest, making it clench with a strange mix of tenderness and possessiveness.
They reshuffle a little after that, get rid of the condom, and Phil finally gets to have his coffee (half of which Clint steals, because, host's prerogative -- and also he can't be bothered to go fetch some for himself, considering it would mean leaving the bed-full of Phil behind, which is not a plan he is ever going to be happy with),
Phil's phone rings then, and he shoots Clint an apologetic look as he goes to answer it. Clint, feeling well-fucked and thus magnanimous, waves his permission at him. And then proceeds to sprawl all-out over the sheets and drift, listening to Phil's familiar, comforting voice get progressively more vexed. He grins at the ceiling, imagining the ass-kicking imminent in someone's future. It's a surprisingly satisfying thought, especially when it applies to the rest of his life from this moment on.
;;;
Epilogue
“You’ll see, their coffee is amazing. Also, we get a discount.”
Bucky raises an eyebrow at Steve’s words. “We do?”
“If you know Phil, you get a discount.” Steve looks entirely too pleased about that, and Phil manages to restrain himself from clocking him round the head, even though he’d definitely deserve it.
Since this whole thing with Clint started, though, Phil has mellowed out enough to smile in the office, even cracking jokes from time to time. Dry, sarcastic jokes, but still, they’d made Steve look so surprised he’d almost fallen out of his chair once.
“Why do we get a discount if we know Phil?”
“Because he gets extra favors.”
“Rogers, if you don’t shut up now, you’ll be filling paperwork for the next month.”
Thankfully, the conversation stops when they get to Under the Big Top, walking into the warm shop that smells exquisitely of chocolate and almonds today. Phil takes the lead without even thinking about it, Steve and Bucky falling in step behind him.
It’s only been a few hours since Phil saw Clint off, but he still can't get over the rush of giddiness coursing through his veins when Clint smiles at him as he walks inside the coffee shop.
“What kind of favors?”
“His favors.”
Phil is pretty sure that Steve knows perfectly well he can hear their whispers, and he can also imagine him pointing discreetly at Clint, but he only rolls his eyes and smiles at Clint, who's leaning against the counter.
“Hello, Agent Coulson. Agent Rogers,” Clint drawls, damn it, he knows what that tone does to Phil.
“Hi, Clint!” Phil grins helplessly at Steve’s enthusiastic greeting, and at Darcy suddenly stepping out of the kitchen. The girl hasn’t lost hope, even after serving Steve and Peggy during their first date. “Hey, Darcy. This is Agent Barnes. Just transferred from Quantico.”
Darcy surges forward, all smiles and bouncing breasts, making Phil want to burst out laughing. Fair enough, he works with some good-looking young men; he’s glad Clint seems to only have eyes for him.
“Usual, Agent Coulson?” Clint asks.
“Please.” They share a smile, a secret in their eyes as Darcy asks with her best flirty wink what Steve and Bucky want. While Clint and Darcy work away at the drinks, Phil listens to some more whispering under the hiss of the coffee machine.
"...All for Peggy, you know that, Rogers, but passing on that? The woman has scrambled your brains, pal!"
"God, Bucky, shut up! I give you my blessing, just stop talking so loud!"
"Jesus, all right, don't get your panties in a twist. I'm not making the same mistake as you, that's for sure. D'you think she might like to go dancing?"
Steve elbows Bucky in the ribs; Bucky play-winces, though Phil knows the strength of that elbow and he's sure Bucky's ribs will be tender for the rest of the day. Clint is watching them through narrowed eyes, especially Bucky. Phil knows how protective he is of Darcy; he'll have to talk to him about not killing Barnes before he gets to know him.
"Here y'are, gents," Darcy says, smiling saucily. Phil watches Bucky's eyes widen a little and a smirk curl his mouth. Damn, but they would make a fine-looking couple. Clint hands Phil his coffee, and he’s quick to shuffle to a table, letting the youngsters settle the bill.
He sits at his favorite spot near the window, and keeps his eyes on Steve and Bucky for just a moment before Clint joins him, what Phil knows is a cappuccino in his hands.
“Is this one going to break her heart, too?”
“I couldn’t say. He's Steve's best friend, though, and if he does, it'll never be on purpose.”
Clint makes a face. “Well, you can tell him that if he does the same thing Steve did, I’ll break his legs.”
“You cannot tell me these things, I’ll have to arrest you.”
“You know I love it when you talk dirty to me,” Clint murmurs, sliding his knee against Phil's under the table. Phil could try to stop the shiver, or the smile that Clint's low, rumbling voice sends to his face, but it's just too much effort, so he doesn't bother.
Instead, he slides a hand into the inner pocket of his jacket and takes out an envelope, handing it over to Clint without comment. Clint takes it, a question clear in his eyes, and sets down his cup so he can rip the flap open. He takes out the piece of paper inside, expression quickly flitting through shock, pleased surprise, and a quiet happiness that Phil will never, ever, even if he lives to be a hundred, get tired of putting on his face.
"Not that I'm ungrateful, because I'm not, I don't want you to think that I don't appreciate this, but what's the occasion?" Clint asks, eyes flitting quickly from the paper to Phil's face and back.
A few months ago, Phil would have deflected without answering. A year ago, he wouldn't have even bothered hearing the question.
Now, though, he looks back and lets Clint see what's in his eyes, what he's thinking -- because Clint has earned it. A whole year of sticking with Phil, through cases and threats and cancelled dinners and a visit from Phil's mother -- that is dedication.
"It'll come to you, if you think hard enough," he says, because while, yes, all of that is true, it's just not in his nature to lay his heart out on the table for others to see. Clint scowls, glaring a little -- he hates it when Phil does that. But he's also never backed down from a challenge in his life, and the fact of the matter is, Phil loves the way his eyes narrow, the way the air around him seems to crackle with energy when he gets like this. Clint stares at the paper; Phil can almost see him thinking.
“This is a pretty big deal, Phil. At least give me a clue.”
“It’s not that big a deal.”
“Excuse me, I’ll be the one to decide how much of a big deal getting a membership to an archery club is to me.”
Clint is getting aggravated, in that honestly endearing way that makes Phil smile. It’s also making Phil want to just tell Clint, but he resists, licking his lips.
“It’s for an anniversary. Do you like it?”
“If I didn’t know already just how much you hate being groped in public, I’d show you exactly how much I do.”
Phil’s smile grows even wider. If it wasn’t for Steve and Bucky, he’d almost challenge that. He wants to challenge it so much more when Clint suddenly looks up from the paper, eyes bright.
“Oh, an anniversary! Is it today, really?”
“21st of April, isn’t it?”
Clint opens his mouth, looking like he’s trying to manage too many thoughts at once.
“Darcy?”
“Boss?”
“Take out the small blackboard, we're discounting everything this week.”
“We...are? Why?”
Clint smiles. “Because Under the Big Top is a year old.”
Darcy's mouth makes an 'O' of surprise and she nods, bending down to rummage under the counter to find the board in question. Steve rolls his eyes as Bucky drapes himself over the counter and offers to help -- by the sound of it, with more than the search.
Phil sees none of that, however, because his eyes are locked on Clint's smiling ones, the feeling that shines from them bathing him in warmth.
"I didn't get you anything," Clint says, and Phil's lips twitch.
"You got me plenty," he says, which, yes, he is quite aware just how ridiculously sappy the sentiment is. Doesn't make it any less true, though. Clint grins, then, laughs at him for it, but takes his hand anyway, tangles their fingers together, keeps hold of them while he drinks his coffee, makes fun of Bucky's increasingly salacious attempts to ask Darcy out, rolls his eyes at Steve's face when Peggy comes in.
And yes, okay. This, Phil can do.
END
no subject
Date: 2011-12-21 02:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-21 04:45 pm (UTC)